Judge — March 4, 1882 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

POSTMAN. “SIS” ESPRIT MALIN. Wuar hideous yell assails my ear? Whose shuffling feet distract my nerves? In ite demon, nothi: To clinch thy clateh! All My brain's a-whirl, my senses swim— ‘What cares the screeching imp for thxt? He's got two words, so tonguey pat, He slits the alr with vocal vim, More copyf* A saplent smirk illames his phiz— Ho feels his power, and grinnl The ink-wet pages, scissored slips, And cabled specials; rips Intense disgust hath hobbled hate, Else would I slay this vampire scorned. Though neither cloven-toed nor horned, lis devilish yawpings ne'er abate— More copy!” —m.c. By a curious coincidence the penalty which the statutes of Massachusetts inflict upon a citizen who shall engage in a prize fight out- side the State is exactly the amount of “Slugger” Sallivan’s stake money. It is to be presumed, therefore, that the distinguished shoulder-hitter will promptly and cheerfully turn over his hard-fought earnings to the good old mother Commonwealth. Free to confess (if he feels like it): The Rit- ualist. UNDOUBTEDLY TRUE. Say, sis, where's Mrs. Malley O'Dearmont?” “Id nor. She died last week and didn’t leave any directions. Tuere is hope for Niagara yet. Oscar Wilde has seen it, and partially approves. That is something worth mentioning. Truc, it did not come quite up to his too-too esthetic idea, but still it was, in a certain sense, pass- able—or, to speak more nearly by the card, impassable, except above the rapids. This is comforting, and rather more encouraging withal than the last previously recorded opin- ion of a more or less (probably less) celebrated English tourist, who, swelling with delight at beholding this some jestic and cer- tainly vigorous exhib Nature's handi- work, expressed his admiration in the charac- teristically practical remark: “Beggar my heyes! but what a rum shower bath it would make, yer know!" Ir is somewhat difficult for a man with a hole in his elbow to enjoy laughing in his sleeve. is constantly making his char- acters say ‘go to,” but never finishes by naming the destination. The modern slinger of rhetoric, of the Harte-Hay school, is a trifle more explicit. Te finishes the sentence with —well, a place popularly reported to be warm, if not over comfortable. Bewrtiovs Bismarck appears anxious to play the printer’s devil with the German press, Likewise with that harmless old Mrs. Gainp, the London Punch. Sweet are the abuses of editorial contro- versy! For example: The editor of the Com- mercial Advertiser playfully alludes to his es- teemed contemporary, the editor of the 7rib- une, as “a decoy, a procuress and a pauder;” and the esteemed contemporary of the Trib une returns the compliment by calling the ed- itor of the Commercial Advertiser ‘a ridicu- lous old blatherskite.” And yet New York is not Eatanswill, and we are supposed to have a policeman among us. It is a cold Sunday indeed when “ Bishop” Snow gets left (anything to speak of by way of the contribution-box) at his improvised ‘Temple of Zion in this city. If the thought- Jess attendant wants to raise an old-fashioned snow-storm, let him attempt to get upand get before the would-be snapper-up of unconsid- ered trifles reaches him, that's all. Diver (to waiter): This chop is very dry. Warren (to diner): Perhaps, tacn, you had better order something to drink with it. PATHETIC PARENT (to scapegrace son): Do you want to bring down your father’s gray hairs in sorrow to the grave? Scapecrack Sox: No danger of that, dad; you haven't got the hairs, you know. “Take back the heart thou gavest.” was a butcher, and she wanted liver. don't speak now. He They comicbooks.com