The So-called Human Race

“Lord, what fools these mortals be.”

Scratch a man who really enjoys zero weather, and you will find blubber.

Born in Sioux City, to Mr. and Mrs. Matt Hoss, a daughter. Who’ll contribute a buggy?

“For Sale – 1920 Mormon chummy.” – Minneapolis Journal.

Five-passenger at least.

Sir: In the Lowell (Mass.) Daily Journal and Courier, dated Feb. 4, 1853, I find the following: “What’s in a name! The name of the superintendent of the Cincinnati Hospital is Queer Absalom Death.” Thus showing that there were candidates for the Academy seventy years ago. Concord.

Some sort of jape or jingle might be chiseled from the fact that Lot Spry and Ida Smart were married t’other day in Vinton, Ia.

Proprietor of hotel in Keokuk, answering call from room: “Hello!”

Voice: “We are in Room 30 and now ready to come down.”

Prop.: “Take the elevator down.”

Voice: “Is the elevator ready?”

[Proprietor sends bellboy to Room 30 to escort newly-wedded couple to terra firma.]

“Weds 104th Veteran.” – Springfield Republican.

The first hundred veterans are the hardest.

For official announcer in the Academy, E. K. proposes James Hollerup of Endeavor, Wis.

Sir: At a party last night one of my sex read the recent buffoonery, “Heliogabalus,” by the Smart Set editors. When the reader reached the choice second act one of the women (the bobbed hair type) refused to listen to any more of the “salacious rot,” and walked over to the bookcase, from which, after careful study, she picked out Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis. I ask you, ain’t women funny?

Philardee.

No, not in this instance. We quite sympathize with the lady. We much prefer Havelock Ellis to “Jurgen,” for example. Chacun à son goût.

This peculiar and unliterary preference of ours may be due to the fact that once upon a time, in a country job-print, we were obliged to read the proofs of a great many medical works, made up largely of “Case 1, a young man of 28,” “Case 2, a woman of thirty,” etc. These things were instructive, and sometimes interesting. But when “Case 1” is expanded to a novel of three or four hundred pages, or “Case 2” expressed in the form of hectic vers libre, a feeling of lassitude comes o’er us which is more or less akin to pain.

Mr. Gompers advises labor to accomplish its desires at the polls, instead of chasing after the red gods of political theory. This is excellently gomped, and will make as deep an impression as an autumn leaf falling on a rock.

Since the so-called working classes are unable or unwilling to do so simple a sum as dividing the total wealth of a nation by the number of its inhabitants; since they cannot or will not understand that if the profits of an industry are exceeded by the wages paid, the industry must stop; since they only reason a posteriori when that is well kicked, and by themselves – it is fortunate that the United States has the opportunity to watch the progress of the experiment now making in England.

Nowadays the buying and dispatching of Christmas gifts is scientifically made. One merely selects this or that and orders it sent to So-and So. One turns in to a book store a list of titles and a list of names and addresses, and the book store does the rest.

Consequently one misses the pleasant labor of tying up the gift, of journeying to the post-office, to have it weighed and stamped, and of dropping it through the slot and wondering whether the string will break, or whether the package will go astray.

We were engaged in dropping newly-minted double-eagles into the Christmas stockings of our contributors when an auto truck got mired near our chamber window, and the roar of it woke us up.

Japanese, Chinese, Hindus, and other Orientals are disliked, not because of race or color, but because they are willing to work. Anyone who is willing to work in these times is, like the needy knife-grinder, a wretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance.

Washladies get more money for less work than any other members of the leisure class, with the exception of the persons who work on putting greens. In addition to their wage, they get car-fare and two or three meals. Why? Because it is not generally known that a mere man, with a washing machine and a bucket of solution, can do more washing in three hours than a washlady does in three days.

What do they mean “industrial unrest”? Industry never rested so frequently or for such protracted periods.

The natives of Salvador can neither read nor write, but their happy days are numbered. The Baptist church is going to spend three millions on their conversion. Their capacity for resistance is not so great as that of the Chinese. Do you remember what Henry Ward Beecher said of the Chinese? “We have clubbed them, stoned them, burned their houses, and murdered some of them, yet they refuse to be converted. I do not know any way except to blow them up with nitroglycerine, if we are ever to get them to heaven.”

“Do you not know,” writes Persephone, “that with the coming of all this water, all imagination and adventure have fled the world?” Just what we were thinking t’other evening, when we dissipated a few hours with our good gossip the Doctor. “I am,” said he, pouring out a meditative three-fingers, “in favor of prohibition; and I believe that some substitute for this stuff will be found.”

We pursued that lane of thought a while, until it debouched into a desert. The Doctor then took down the works of Byron, and read aloud – touching the high spots in “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” “Don Juan,” “Childe Harold,” “The Prisoner of Chillon” – pausing ever and anon to replenish the glasses. It was midnight ere the book was returned to its shelf.

It was a delightful evening. And we wondered whether, without the excellent bourbon and the cigars, we should not have had enough of Byron by 10:30.

An English publisher binds all his books in red because, having watched women choosing books in the libraries, he found that they looked first at the red-bound ones. Does that coincide with your experience, my dear?

Our interest in Mr. Wells’ “Outline of History” has been practically ruined by learning from a geologist that Mr. Wells’ story of creation is frightfully out of date. Should he not have given another twenty-four hours to so large an opus?

Visiting English authors have a delightful trick of diagramming their literary allusions. Only the few are irritated by it.

“And as I am in no sense a lecturer …” – Mr. Chesterton.

Seemingly the knowledge of one’s limitations as a public entertainer does not preclude one from accepting a fee five or ten times larger than one would receive in London. We are languidly curieux de savoir how far the American equivalent would get in the English capital.

You cannot “make Chicago literary” by moving the magazine market to that city. Authors lay the scenes of their stories in New York rather than in Chicago, because readers prefer to have the scene New York, just as English readers prefer London to Manchester or Liverpool. If a story is unusually interesting it is of no consequence where the scene is laid, but most stories are only so-so and have to borrow interest from geography.

Every trade has at least one classic. One in the newspaper trade concerns the reporter who was sent to do a wedding, and returned to say that there was no story, as the bridegroom failed to show up. Will a few other trades acquaint us with their classics? It should make an interesting collection.

Sir: The classic of the teaching trade: A school teacher saw a man on the car whose face was vaguely familiar. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but aren’t you the father of two of my children?” S. B.

Sir: The son of his father on a certain occasion, when the paper was overset, objected to adding two pages, but in a moment of economical inspiration agreed to permit one extra page. C. D.

Sir: Don’t forget the classic of dry stories. “An Irishman and a Scotchman stood before a bar – and the Irishman didn’t have any money.” L. A. H.

To continue, the Scotchman said: “Well, Pat, what are we going to have to-day? Rain or snow?”

Sir: “If you can’t read, ask the grocer.” But I heard it differently. An Englishman and an American read the sign. The American laughed. The Englishman did not see the humor of it. The American asked him to read it again; whereupon the Englishman laughed and said: “Oh, yes; the grocer might be out.” 3-Star.

You may know the trade classic about the exchange editor. The new owner of the newspaper asked who that man was in the corner. “The exchange editor,” he was informed. “Well, fire him,” said he. “All he seems to do is sit there and read all day.”

Divers correspondents advise us that the trade classics we have been printing are old stuff. Yes; that is the peculiar thing about a classic. Extraordinary, when you come to think of it.

“Timerio,” which is simpler than Esperanto, “will enable citizens of all nations to understand one another, provided they can read and write.” The inventor has found that 7,006 figures are enough to express any imaginable idea. But we should think that a picture book would be simpler.

“You can go to any hotel porter in the world,” says the perpetrator of Timerio, “and make yourself understood by simply handing him a slip of paper written in my new language.” But you can do as well with a picture of a trunk and a few gestures. The only universal language that is worth a hoot is the French phrase “comme ça.”

“The maddest man in Arizona,” postcards J. U. H., who has got that far, “was the one who found, after ten miles’ hard drive from his hotel, that he had picked up the Gideon Bible instead of his Blue Book.” Still, they are both guide books, and they might be interestingly compared.

To one gadder who asked for a small coffee, the waitress in the rural hotel said, “A nickel is as small as we’ve got.” Some people try to take advantage of the bucolic innkeeper.

“I have not read American literature; I know only Poe,” confesses M. Maeterlinck. Well, that is a good start. For a long time the only French author we knew was Victor Hugo. Live and learn, say we.

“He is so funny with the patisserie,” says Mme. Maeterlinck of M. Charles Chaplin. “He is an artist the way he throw the pie.” Is he not? M. Chaplin is to Americans what the Discus Thrower was to the Greeks.

Sings, in a manner of singing, Mr. Lindsay in the London Mercury:

But we prefer, as simpler and more emotional, the classic containing the lines —

You are familiar with the cryptic inscription “TAM HTAB,” which ceases to be cryptic when you turn the mat over; but did you ever hear about the woman who christened her child “Nosmo King,” having been taken by those names on two glass doors which stood open?

A Chippewa Falls advertiser offers for sale “six Leghorn roosters and one mahogany settee.” And we are requested to ascertain whether the settee is a Rhode Island Red or a Brown Leghorn.

A Rotary club is being formed in the Academy by the Rev. Rodney Roundy of the American Missionary Association.

What do you mean “prosperity”? Even the Nonquit Spinning Co. of New Bedford has shut down.

Joseph Conrad’s latest yarn is the essence of romance. But what is romance? For years we have sought a definition in ten words; but while romance is easily recognized, it is with difficulty defined. Walter Raleigh came the nearest to it in a recent essay. “Romance,” said he, “is a love affair in other than domestic surroundings.” This would seem also to be the opinion of a West Virginia editor, who, reporting a marriage, noted that “the couple were made man and wife while sitting in a buggy, and this fact rendered somewhat of a romantic aspect to the wedding.”

Mrs. Reeves requires – Cooks, £18 to £50, with Kitchenmaids, Scullerymaids, Betweenmaids, and Single-handed; Upper, Single-handed, Second, Under Parlourmaids £14 to £40; Head, Single-handed, Equal, First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth and Under Housemaids, good wages; Ladies’ Maids, Useful Maids, Maid-Attendants, Maids, Housemaids, House-Sewingmaids, £18 to £30; Chambermaids, Housemaids, Stillroom-maids, Pantry-maids, Cooks, £20 to £52; Kitchenmaids, £12 to £30; Staffmaids, Hallmaids, etc.

A yarn about a clean Turk reminded W. D. W. of a story that came straight from Gallipoli; and in running over the files of the Line we happened on it. Some British officers were arguing as to which had the stronger odor, the regimental goat or a Turk. It was agreed to submit the matter to a practical test, with the Colonel as referee. The goat was brought in, whereupon the Colonel fainted. A Turk was then brought in, whereupon the goat fainted.

As confirming that goat and Turk story, the following extract from a British soldier’s letter, explaining the retreat before Bagdad, is submitted:

“We had been pursuing the Turks for several weeks, and victory was within our grasp, when the wind changed.”

As a variant for “loophound,” may we suggest “prominent hound about town”?

“After submitting a contribution, how long must one remain in suspense?” asks E. L. W. That, sir, depends, as has been well said. But you would be safe in assuming, after, say, three months, that the contribution has been mislaid.

“Don’t get peevish about this. I have a wife and large family. More coming.”

Heard in the Fort Des Moines Hotel: “Call for Mrs. Rugg! Call for Mrs. Rugg! Is she on the floor?”

It isn’t “B. L. T.” and “F. P. A.” that makes the respective columns of these most celebrated of the “conductors” great. It is their daily mail. It comes to them in great bags. They open enough letters to fill that day’s column, and consign thousands, unopened, to the waste basket. There is a fortune to some newspaper syndicate in the unopened mail of “B.L.T.” and “F.P.A.”

A limousine delegate from the Federated Order of Line Scribes has waited on us to present the demands of the organization, among which are (1) recognition of the union; (2) appointing a time and place for meeting with a business committee to determine on a system of collective bargaining for Line material; (3) allowing the Order to have a voice in the management of the column. A prompt compliance with the demands of the Order failing, a strike vote will be ordered.

We have never limited the output of a contributor; the union will. No matter how excellent the idea, no matter how inspired the contrib may be to amplify it, he will not be permitted to do more than a certain amount of work per day. However brilliant he may be, he will be held down to the level of the most pedestrian performer. In unionizing, moreover, he will be only exchanging one tyrant for another, and perhaps not so benevolent a one. Now, then, go to it, as the emperor said to the gladiators.

Sir: Could you find an inconspicuous job around the Academy for a bashful man like Mr. Jess Mee, whom we had the pleasure of encountering in Toulon, Ill.?

We welcome Mr. Mark Sullivan, who fights the high cost of existence by turning his clothes inside out, to our recently established league, The Order of the Turning Worm. Mr. Sullivan, meet Mr. Facing-Both-Ways.

Mr. Mark Sullivan may be interested in this case: “My husband,” relates a reader, “did a job of turning for a man reputed to be wealthy. He removed the shingles from a roof, and turned all except those which were impossible: these few were replaced by new ones. The last I heard about this man he was said to have refused Liberty loan salesmen to solicit in his factory.”

Five years ago a neighbor told us that he had his clothes turned after a season or two of wear, but we neglected to ask him how he shifted the buttonholes to the proper side. Left-handed buttoning would be rather awkward, especially if one were in a hurry.

Miss Forsythe of the Trades Union league explains that young women in domestic service feel there is a social stigma attached to the work. It is this stigmatism, no doubt, that causes them to break so many dishes. Anyway, Stigma is a lovely name for a maid, just as pretty as Hilda.

“Why care for grammar as long as we are good?” inquired Artemus Ward. A question to be matched by that of the superintendent of Cook county’s schools, “Why shouldn’t a man say ‘It’s me’ and ‘It don’t’?” Why not, indeed! How absurd was Prof. McCoosh of Princeton, who, having answered “It’s me” to a student inquiry, “Who’s there?” retreated because of his mortification for not having said “It’s I.” Silly old duffer! He would not have enjoyed Joseph Conrad, who uses unblushingly the locution, “except you and I.”

No, let the school children, like them (or like they) of Rheims, cry out, “That’s him!” Usus loquendi has made that as mellifluous as “that’s me.” It don’t make you writhe, do it? Besides, we are all sinners, like McCoosh. And as a gentleman writes to the Scott County, Ind., Journal, “Let he that is without fault cast the first stone.”

“I want to use the ‘lightning-bug’ verse,” writes Ursus. “Please reprint it and say to whom credit should be given.”

It is easier to reprint the lines than to locate the credit, but we have always associated them with Eugene Ware. They go —

The Harmony Cafeteria advertises, “Eat the Harmony Way.” A gentleman who lunched there yesterday counted eighteen sword-swallowers.

Remindful of the bow-legged floorwalker who said, “Walk this way, madam.”

Watching the play, “At the Villa Rose,” our thoughts wandered back to “Prince Otto,” in which piece we first saw Otis Skinner. And we wondered precisely what George Moore means when he says that Stevenson is all right except when he tries to tell a story. According to Moore, a story is not a story if it keeps you up half the night; “it is only the insignificant book that cannot be laid down,” he once maintained.

What is a story? To us it is drama first, operating on character. To Conrad it is character first, being operated on by drama. That may be why we prefer “The Wrecker” to “The Rescue.”

Writes M. G. M. from Denver: “Madame Pompadour, late of Chicago, opened a beauty shop here, and one of our up-to-date young ladies asked her if she was doing the hair in the crime wave so popular in Chicago.”

Sir: After I had entertained a saleslady all evening and had said good-night at her abode, she murmured, “Thanks! Will that be all?” C. H. S.

According to Dr. Kumm of the Royal British Geographical Society, the natives of Uganda are happier than we. So are the camels of Sahara. But hoonel, as Orpheus asked Eurydice, wants to be a camel?

Adventures of Robinson Crusoe

In this, the seven and twentieth year of my captivity, I have been much distressed by the monotony of my existence. My habitation is as complete as I can wish; I have all the clothing to my need; and my subjects – my man Friday and his father, and the Spaniard – keep me abundantly supplied with food. When I was alone the necessity of husbandry gave me plenty to do, but now I am oppressed by a great lack of matter for occupation, both physical and mental. Questioning myself, I put the blame upon an evil state of mind into which I have fallen, in no longer finding profit in reading my bible and other books, or in meditating on this life and that which is to come.

I am rich in that I want for no material thing; and I am idle, in that I do naught to profit myself or my companions; so that, although practically a solitary, I am, as you might say, an idle rich class, and were I multiplied by thousands I should be a grievous burden on society.