We have printed a small edition on Japan Vellum of this exquisite Essay and are illuminating the copies by hand. Bound in classic limp vellum, tied with tapes; price, $5.00 per copy. _Twelve copies, no two alike, illumined by Mr. W. W. Denslow_; also, _Ten copies specially illumined by Mr. William B. Faville. Price, $25.00 each._ VOLS. II and III of the Philistine. Handsomely bound in Buckram and Antique Boards, One Dollar per volume. VOLUME ONE of the Philistine. Bound in Antique Boards, price $2.00 each. OUT OF PRINT: The Song of Songs, The Journal of Koheleth. THE LEGACY. Mr. Hubbard’s new two-volume novel, entitled THE LEGACY, is now ready for delivery. The book has 450 pages of text on Dickinson’s rough Dekel Edge paper; photogravure portrait of author and illustrations on Japan paper. Bound in bottle green chamois, silk lined. Price $3.00, for the two volumes, express paid. THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP, EAST AURORA, N. Y. Philistine Readers will be interested in a monthly illustrated magazine that is devoted exclusively to literature and its progress in America and England. No person who lays claims to culture and wide reading can afford to be without The Bookman. To any reader mentioning The Philistine we will send a sample copy free of all charge. ADDRESS THE BOOKMAN 151 Fifth Ave New York City THE PHILISTINE. NO. 6. November, 1896. VOL. 3. KARMA. Into his eyes there flashed a fire, Out of its scabbard leaped the blade; Three strides across the room he made— His heart beat hot with fierce desire. Cold is the wreck his steel has wrought, While living horror takes its stead:— Have all these years of calmness sped To miss at last, the prize he sought? _O, blossom of that long-past life!_ _O, venom of forgotten sin!_ _So nearly won—again begin_ _The long, long round of weary strife!_ GELETT BURGESS. POWERS AT PLAY. We caught for a moment the powers at play.—_Browning._ The smell of kerosene in the pantry sickened the woman who was pouring it into lamps. Through the window and side-door the quintessence of the July noonday palpitated in. Twinkling black flies buzzed on the ceiling. The woman pulled out the spice-drawer and sat down on it. It slanted uncomfortably forward, and she smelled with loathing the warm fragrance of spilled cinnamon. The kitchen clock whirred and struck eleven. She went to the side-door and called to a man forking hay somewhere in the blinding distance. “Abel! Abel! when do you want”—— “Can’t hear a word you say,” he called back impatiently. He leaned on his pitchfork, a blur of blue clothes back of dazzling hay and steel. “What time do you want—I should have—dinner?”