Judge — September 26, 1885 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

SHEOL. | There are poets and statesmen and grey-headed of all time and the genius of ages. nad sorts of people and bad ones as well, The w There ar And this motly crowd is collected in Sheol, Here's a venerable friend once a preacher of note, Engaged ina chat (they're in the san With a man who in life was a murderer Deut) Ab, Well! One must meet with strange sights who would travel through col Come closer and notice this b: cut face, In the Pull Malt G But the sins of the There's a red-hot rece nee read his disgrace. paying for well 1 for all such in te you WHAT HO, WATCHMAN! quar Hthou doest see, lone watchman on the tower?” asks an inquisitive poet. Well, as a healthy inqwisitiveness should not be dis- couraged, I will try to set the bard at ease, To begin with the lone he man sees eating fried on- ions with his knife, who doesn’t consider the butter-knife a stuck-up innovation, Ile sees an old farmer who didn’t use to shoulder his hoe and ‘‘keep up with the men ” when he was only eleven years old. He sees a district school pupil who can gotwenty minutes by the clock without ge'ting a drink, Ie secs a navy ships than partisanship. Me sees an Israelite who isn’t just closing out his stock at fifty per cent. loss, He sees a brakeman who can talk English. He sees an advocate of early rising who can sit down without going to sleep. He sees a philosopher who can make apothems to fit himself, and wears clothes of the same description. He sees a man who can pass a looking- glass and feel quite sure that he hasn’ta boil on his nose. He sees a man who has a sharp razor and a wife with a corn. He sees a country editor who isn’t just brushing up his wood-cut of a crowing cock ona rail fence ptepatory to the November victory All this, and much more, flits before the delighted vision of the lone watchman; but, like little Bo Peep, he'll fiud it alla “ joke” when he awake: y-yard devoted to other The Truth of History. In a country house near Bosworth-field is | preserved an old oak bed on which it is claimed Richard IIL. slept the night before the fatal battle—that time when a lobster- salad made him see ghosts. In the interest of history, however, we must declare that the bed in question’ is a brown-rep lounge and was furnished by Messra, Solomon of Bowery. We read it in the play-bill, and play-bills never lie. THE JUDGE. The Prison Window. “Arrah, Honey,” said my washerwoman to her lover, ‘carry the gintleman’s note to the young lady.” as thirty-nine, and her love, marquis twenty-one. Hel rri¢ to Clara for me, but 1 so important as this, And who was Clara? was the idol of my dreams, youthful fanc youthful purit int, Only dunghier of an of ivory, ruby, sapphire she now on a visit at’ her Her father was daily expected, and despatch was of the essence of the marriage contra t night she had consented to fly with How lovely she looked on the balcony, as she sang my song on the subject of our flittin, Jupiter would have hung the Southern Cross on her neck, were he not a pagan, and afraid of Juno’s jealousy and my own, “My all was staked upon this die; every | friend had been jueezed to the last yellow drop; eversthin ad been pawned save only one suit of clothes and a solitary shirt. ‘This shirt my washerwoman was bidden on pain of death to lay upon my chair early the next morning. Her lover, the marqui: hastened away to Clara with the note t held the place and the hour, The next mornin nt lightly from happy dreams. My watch, the sun, showed me that Thad an hour to spare. On the sofa, wrapped in a newspaper, lay my shirt with Bridget’s bill tucked under the string. “Take, O Erin, thrice thy fee,” I ex- claimed merrily, as I fastened my eye upon it, and jumping into my bathing tub squeezed a sponge over my head, I was soon ready to dress and opening the newspaper that held my shirt, found that it held nothing Paralyzed, I stood a moment face to face with the void. But my courage returned. In these days of spreading neck-tie and a high-battoned coat, a shirt is as useless toa bold lover as a plume to a plummet. I snatched my coat. Horrors horrors! some one had pared both its tails to the quick. In an agony of apprehension I held up my pantaloons. Oh feithleas, foul, un- AN EYE |lovely world! A window a foot square had | been cut in the seat. ‘A rival has done this,” I cried, a gazed vacantly through my prison-win on what a scene of desolation and blighted hopes! | Me hanically I picked up Bridget’s bill, which fluttered to my feet, | AsI was about to open it, there was a noise on the stairs, and Bridget herself floated swiftly into the room on a stream of unabridged, "unsifted, unrevised and an- bolted patois, in which Bob Ingersoll’s sand Cicero's Philippies were closely and the pick of pants I was a mendin 0? Crom- well on him wid his Eyetailian blarney! to leave a respectable hard-workin’? woman like me, and to run off wid dat snip of a girl——”” Alight broke on my troubled dream, “Bridget.” I cried fiercely, “did you send the Marquis Abscondi here with my shirt? |“ Arrah, that I did, the villian! me he would take it, and letter —— I seized the these words: “Heaven, when you lack a shirt, give you brains. I have now the shirt, but you have the system. ‘The system is everything. The Marquise Clara sends you her kind re- membrances, Bridget will help you for my sake. Adiew!” “A Jew he is indade, bad luck to the fur- rin elemen!” sobbed poor Bridget. I said nothing, but lying in my bed held up my pantaloons and gazed vacantly through my prison-window. coats and the e curs Ie told he left mea apar that had lain on the opened it, It contained VISCOUNT T. DE MAILON, The golden mean—the miser. A dead beat—the muflled drum, Unrelivble pilots—bunco steerers, A falling star—Mary Anderson in the fainting Ronieo and Juliet.” TO BUSINE (Struggling bathers making signals for aid.) Prornietor or Beer Sa Loon—** Two biers?”” comicbooks.com