Judge — December 17, 1881 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE JUDGE. “Trise to ion of privilege—a privilege which Tino you lta grant ea [A KISS AS 4 QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE. | [The Reening Star, Washtngton.) | _Arven Miss Anthony eat owna scene followed, such | ax'wan pever seen furany convention before: ad cout | Dever be witnessed In any convention except a wo- Man's coureation., Mre Morrison, a delicate footing indy, belonging to the Tndtapa convention rose ia het fat’ an as she advactced toward the pailorm said “frise fo 8 question of priviiegesa, priviege whieh Kao yoo wilt all erage’ Ascend ibe toe pation, the suf very earaestiy: "1 want ta the. preseace of] inis tag." reerriag to ibe. Stareaae Stripen seb | crery breeds loves fo Kiss fa the preacuce of this, tureo ia great man (@argeldy who in ibe proud taomene vf Sy We turned aside fo tise his tne Ris wits “to ta tbe presence’ of these tnree. women (laa tillard's mother, Mes Barton aod Mies Att represen motietbod, repeat felicta, wocun and repremsaung | Svouy.* aod sulting the acting to the word, Mire Mor riot pouacell upon Misa “AatWoay ini wan ‘aware, Ga pommel om tet Rout wrileh marten stauce™ that cool be heard alt over The chara. The action was groeruly approved. ery ti. for bo ose oljected to" tbe question of Brit tege trant—in the presence of this Pl breeze loves to kiss—" TEMPERANCE hy Le ate mes i ee i MAN THE PBETMAYER 1 which every “Twant to kuss Suscm B. Anthony.” Ho RUM, MAN THE ones [ease “(In the presence of these women, representing all that ts angelic in tcoman, and representing us—" Applause Enthusiasm—Sobs—Tears—Ourtain, “A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE.” WOMEN'S TEMPERANCE CONVENTION, WASHINGTON, D. C. A PARADOX. Srraxog things occar now in this life, So great the world’s progression— Young ladies give themselves away, Bat don't lose self-possession. By far the best way to make hours fly And ride off the devil's own foment, So the dragon of fate you may ever defy, Is to use the sharp spur of the moment. The Fate of a Boston Girl. With an Explanation. A PEW years ago the writer enjoyed the honor of conducting a humorous department on: ‘sily paper, and the amount of ‘comic copy” received from aspirants for humorous fame was almost as remarkable for its numer- osity as for its stupidity. The waste basket was filled daily with alleged comic poetry and such brain-exhausting witticisms as, “ Whom did the horse-shoe 7” ‘‘ What made Chicago, Ill. 2” ete.; and the reading of these masterly efforts was the most onerous and depressing portion of our duties, causing a deep and settled melancholy to seize hold of our vitals and threaten to drive all the sunshine and cheerfulness out of our nature. In the after- noons we would meander out to the cemetery and commune with the silent dead, in order to absorb a sufficient jstock of hilarity to enable us to wrestle with the mournful duties of the coming morrow. We have a very exalted opinion of the silent dead. They don't write jokes and puns for the newspapers. But we were obliged to relinquish our posi tion on the humorous daily, at the expiration of three months, to avoid becoming a mental wreck, with straws sticking in our hair, and a. straitjacket on our back. In our troubled slumbers at night there would come to us a a horrible phantasmagoria—hair-lifting and blood-curdling nightmares, with neither bridle nor check-reins, The entire stock in trade of the newspaper humorist would troop by in weird and exaggerated shapes. ‘The illusive procession was led by a mule of gigantic size, kicking a hole through the great wall of China; then came in quick succession the goat, with death in its eyes and ten-horse- power butting capacity in its head, chewing on a piece of boiler iron; the circus cléwn, leading a bald and decrepid joke of the Siluri- an period; the aggressive mother-in-law, ca- ressing her daughter’s husband with a broom- stick; a monster bowl of churet-fair oyster soup, with an imp sitting on the edge of the bowl, endeavoring to harpoon the solitary oyster therein with a pitchfork ; the vocal cat of monstrous size, with old boots, cracked shaving cups, razor strops, and other bric- brac hovering about its head ; the young man | in light pants, with a portion of the picnic custard-pic clinging to him closer than a brother; a hornet of frightful mien, with a murderous javelin in its arsenal ; the ‘‘oldest, inhabitant,” sawing a cord of hickory wood before breakfast ; a young lover turning a double somersault on the front stoop, and an irate father standing in the door with a thunder cloud on his brow ; and all the other paragraphic subjects, treading on each other's heels, so fast they followed. We swore off writing humor, and secured an editorial position on a semi-monthly Coun- terfeit Detector, where we soon regained our normal condition, Describing counterfeit bank notes and bogus coi, and enumerating the number of defaulting cashiers and bank suspensions “since our last issue,” is less lugubrious than manufacturing humor, but it entails more hours per day labor. Many of the ‘funny” contributions re- ceived at the ofilee of the daily paper were ad- dressed to us personally, and quite a number reached us weeks after we hel assumed our present position. One of these has just turned up, and as it would be as much out of place ina Counterfeit Detector as the hero of the “ballad” was out of his social element, it is sent to Tue JupGe, interpolated with a few running comments. The anonymous writer entitles his productiot BARON CHEVAUX DE FRISE. ‘A BALLAD. Baron Chevaux De Friso was as fino a lord As one conld wish to see; He wore mustaches and owned a sword— A relic of Twenty-three; And thousands, indeed, were the hearts he floored When he came to this countree. The fact that the baron ‘‘floored" thou- sands of hearts might lead to the supposition that he embarked in the beef-butchering busi- ness upon his arrival in this country, but such was not the case, for— The Baron went to a summer resort Along the Atlantic shore; Te dressed like a king; he was never short; Ho rode ina coach-and-four; And the ladies called him a bang-up sport,” And the other sports—they swore! Too many American ladies, we regret to