Judge — January 6, 1912 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

HARVEY W.—Harvey W. Wiley, Uncle Sam's family physician, is the most serious-looking man in Washington. If you took one glance at him you would think sure that all the residents on Pennsylvania Avenue had just nibbled at some chloride of sodium or benzoate of soda; a second glance would convince you that all the citizens this side of the Red River of the North had just dined on toad- stools with ground glass on the side. He is the government’s gastronomic - detective; he can taste a spoon of split-pea soup and tell the sort of solder used. If he gets one good look at a sardine he can tell if the fisherman washed his hands before he went to work that morning; when the roast chicken is brought on he can take one bite, put his lips to- gether and tell whether the meat has been in cold storage in New York or in Philadelphia. He himself is a wonderful performer with a carving set, and when he sits down before his plate of meat he can do a xylophone solo with his knife and fork. And he likes a glass of beer. He weighs two hundred and forty pounds and wouldn't touch a plate of ice cream in Augnst for a deed to the Sandwich Islands. He holds that by auto-suggestion you can keep your collar stiff when the thermometer is frisking around 106; when the mercury is trying to climb out of the tube if you will but go through the motions of feeding gum-drops to the Esquimaux and repeat softly with feeling the poem, ‘‘Beautiful Snow,’’ you will have to get up and close the window to keep from catching cold. Dr. Wiley is one of the directors in the Non-Smokers’ Protective League of America, and believes that anybody who pulls a brier is going straight to the dogs, and knows to a certainty that the person who inhales a cigarette is tobogganing straight to that region where smoking is the order of the day. When the rest of the gang were slipping out behind the barn, rolling corn silk into cigarettes with a news- paper for a wrapper, and lighting the combustible with a sulphur match, Har- vey was having a regular debauch by himself in the garret of his own home, swinging one leg over the arm of the rocking-chair, chewing spearmint leaves and reading a dime novel. .—Boies Penrose, the leader of the Republican Senate, is six feet three, and for five years has been trying to become a baseball fan. President Taft has taken him out and coached him through half a dozen games, but when Senator Pen- rose gets back he is sure to say, “That was a fine game; but I didn’t catch whether you said it was an American or European league.’’ He was born in aristocratic Spruce Street, Philadelphia, and has such blue blood coursing through his veins that when he cuts finger it looks as though the indigo bottle had been upset. His father was a professor in the University of Pennsylvania and could stand Boies in the corner in French, spank him in Latin, lock him up ina Greek closet, and send him Sanskritless to bed. Boies was so young when he entered Harvard that the second day he was away from home he cried all night, and when he went to the barber shop the first time to be shaved—to be groomed for his graduation oration—his brother had to go along, hold his hand, and read two chapters to him from ‘The Lives of Our Heroes." His graduation oration was on ‘*Martia Van Buren as a Politician,’’ and contained thirty-seven French phrases, seventeen Greek idioms, twenty-two abalative abso- lutes, and a peroration in polysyllables. He is a man of his word; he would rather go to a double-header with La Follette than even indent his word. His favorite sport is horseback riding and he can sit a steed like a bronze of General Franz Sigel. He has not been inside a theater for thirty y passes down the street in the theatrical section he shuts his eyes and puts his trust in the chauffeur. The Senator's “History of the City Government of Philadelphia” is a weighty addition to literature, from the standpoint of lite- rary merit as well as that of avoirdu- Senator Penrose is a Biddle and yacht named Betty. Any one who has even passed through the City of Brotherly Affection knows what it means to have an oil of a great-great Biddle on the parlor wall. A little, old Biddle is more to be prized than a brand-new, double-screw, steam Betty. ars and when he comicbooks.com