Judge — March 15, 1919 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

Joun A. Stercner, President Revnes PL Stetcuen, Seeretar: Pearrron Maxwett, Editor J. AL Wannros, Lit A. BE. Rottaven, Treasurer Grant E. Hasittox, dt rary Editor Lawton Macnatt, Vanag. The Miracie or PADEREWSKI S there anything’ more extraordinary in all history than the sight of the world’s most famous pianist, Ignace Paderewski, becoming the ruler of Po- land, which rises again out of its tomb? Truth is stranger than fiction, and it is no longer necessary to read the great romantic writers to be astonished. We call some of the “mov scen- arios extravagant and improbable. But has anyone seen anything on the screen to equal the strange turn of the wheel of events that lifted this great artist from a piano-stool to the chair of state of his natal country? It reads, indeed, like a fairy-story. It seems but yesterday that Ignace Paderewski was an unsubstantial, immaterial Orpheus, who with his fiery red hair and in dimmed lights in darkened auditoriums, lured the souls of thousands of men and women to his beautiful palaces of sound. Now he stands, with the fierce white light of publicity and reality beating on his head, at the head of his people —a statesmananda democrat. Vonders never cease in these most wonderful of all wonderful times in which we live! Beau BruMMe. AT WIERINGEN HE pathos of the fall of the princes! In a little battered villa on the island of Wieringen sits in dis- consolate disgrace the Beau Brummel of be-braided bravos, lately the glass of military fashion and the mould of Teuton form—quite down and out. The little iron bed, the oil stove, Putzel, the greyhound, with chops fallen, remembering as he does the tasty morsels of the Belgian and French battlefields, and squat in the shadows William Hohenzollern, Jr., toothbrush mustache couchant, cig- | arette regnant—a picture to be {| e was this finé of slaughter who raised murder He was this rafi f slaughter wh d d to the fine arts, going Nero one better; for Nero only raised torture to the domain of sports. His quips, his jests, his high jinks in low places and his low jinks in high places—where be they now Our hearts swim out to this decline, to this débacle of Elegance. Has heall the comforts of his French chateaux? And will our over-sensitized female pacifists and our un- der-blooded males be knitting winter socksand subscribing to tobacco funds for the deposed ** Heir of the World’? Do You Kxow a Joke Wien You See Ir? N an essay on “Common Incapacities” in a recent London Spectator there was set forth as “one com- mon defect” in a large number of persons “a lack of the sense of humor.” But really is there a lack of the sense of humor in any person but a confirmed hypo- chondriac or a hopeless invalid in constant pain? The fact is humor has so many elements, so many an- gles, that it is idle to say there can be no humor—no part of humor— that will not appeal to some mind and induce laughter, a smile, or an appreciative twinkle of the ey Persons constitutionally sour in disposition, morose in habit, un- bending in manner, at times encoun- ter grotesque situations or ridiculous devices of speech which please them to the pointof recognition. Even such persons have moments of relaxation. Tastes as to humor differ as widely as the human species. What pleases the intellectual passes over the heads of the ignorant, who in turn find humor in things which the intellectual regard as pure vulgarity. And between these widely separated types of mind there are countless other mentalities essentially differ- ent, one from another, that find things individually appealing to the humorus senses. There are few per- sons, for whom there is no humor in done in oils by a Daumier or put Drare by Donan McKen into vaudeville by a Mansfield. “Tessie was to meet me here at five.” the written word or in the mishaps or eccentricities of their fellows. comicbooks.com