Judge — October 30, 1920 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by Heawax Patwen A Cynical Polonius, Louis, and the Turks By BeNyaMin Dr Casseres Our First Grave Digger O country is now complete without its own Bernard Shaw. It would be like the “movies” without a Charlie Chaplin. Or Hamlet without the First Grave Digger. America is fortunate in the possession of H. L. Mencken. He is our Bernard Shaw, our Charlie Chaplin, our First Grave Digger. He comes to bury Cesar, not to praise him. Sometimes the Casar he is burying is Puritanism. Sometimes Woman. Sometimes the “ Boobery."’ Sometimes Harold Bell Wright. If there is no monthly Cwsar who needs burial. he rigs up one with the assistance of his First Corpse Dresser, George Jean Nathan. The Hard Set comes out, and a pleasant forum-scer is had by all What saves Mr. Mencken from being a fanatical moralist is his sense of humor. If it wasn’t for his irony he would be the Billy Sunday of immorality, the John Wesley’ of paganism, the Judge Jeffreys of Nietzscheanism; for Mr. Mencken is at bottom a preacher, an exhorter, with the real camp-meeting fervor. This is a rattling good citizen to have around the national house nowadays. ‘ery morning after reading the headlines in the paper L cry, “Get the hook, Menck!"’ Now, I'ma three hundred per cent. Americano, like Mr. Mencken hiriself—but s’help me! some of the things that are happening in this My Country “Tis of Thee make me sick. And what we need right here in this country now are more Americans like Mencken, myself and Teddy Edwards, of New Jersey So I am reporting to the General Public my great pleasure in reading “The American Credo,” by H. L. Mencken and the First Corpse Dresser (Knopf) There is a serious hundred-page introduction in prose. [t is an attempt to analyze, de-complex and unshuffle the American soul, Itis about the best thing I have ever read about you and me. Dr. Wilson, the Knights of Pythias and Summer Block Parties are all torn asunder in a ripping fashion. The foreigners in our midst do not escape. They are branded as the real dollar worshippers. And Mr. Mencken never repeats that old wheeze that we are the most provincial of people. Provincial! Why, we haven't even a culture of our own! The American Credo is just Good Nature, cither at a lynch- ing, a poker party or an eviction festival The Temptation of Anthor [sas dark, dank, rank June night in the Croatian Moun- tains. The katydids were all ordered indoors by the Boss The wild boars were muzzled. The larks did a tailspin rth. The hardy annuals didn’t annual. The cactus he barometer was going down to plants quit stroking the air. A fresh north wind died out. The vicinity was ominous. The portcullis of an old stone castle lifted. A silver car shot across the bridge. It disappeared. The vicinity resumed its ominousness. A well-wrapt, tight-wadded figure sat in the silver car. It was Anthony Trent, the original Trent Affair. Where was he bound? Was he bound? Who could say? Not a movie di- rector stirred. The megaphones were stilled. Was the occu pant Tom Mix or Dustin Farnum? Ab! hat’s the opening of “The Secret of the Silver Car,” by Wyndham Martyn (Moffat, Yard & Co.). What will the harvest be? What would Chapter Fifteen disclose? You sce what a story this is? It's about a Raffles. Anthony wore a suit of blackmail. High Political Personages in England and America are involved. This gives it an Entente Cordiale cocktail flavor, as you sce Anthony in the silver car specds over the Croatian Belgian blocks. The moon throws her tender beams on the spark- plug. The castle recedes over the lowbrow of the hill. Suddenly the air is rent and increases fifty per cent. over the same rent of the previous year in the same place. Two figures mutfled in wood alcohol leap out on a Belgian block in front of the silver kyar. Anthony pulls down his pompadour over his eyes and skids toward the North Star. Too late! It is Heliogabalus Hammerschlacht and the Lama-Yama of Thibet, the famous Inner Seal spies. They lasso Anthony and drag him into the funereal furze. They did not shoot him be- cause they knew Anthony had on his suit of blackmail. They dragged him to the cave, where the camera men were lunching. At this Very Moment a figure lay flat on its belly waiting for rio to pass. It was Louis Bergdoll. The rest of the story is in the book. Some Ghost Laying I Sa pity Mark Twain is dead. What a satire he might have done on the Spook Spoof! But Mark got serious in his ave taken the Finn talking like lonesome, latter years, and maybe he would whole thing seriously. To think of Huck” old Doc Lodge! But here's a rip-roaring travesty on Ghost- meup all night. At twelve o'clock, when graveyards yawn and parquet floors give up their dead, I wasn’t a bit afra Scared the ghosts right out of our flat. If one had showed while I was reading this book (“The Road to En-Dor,” by jones; John Lane Company) I would have handed him the book to read. If he didn’t crack a smile it would have proved what I always suspected—that ghosts have no sense of humor. Here are a couple of British officers stuck in a Turkish prison camp who invent a ghost. The Turks believe it is a genuine thing. The Thing runs the camp, plays at diplomacy, intrigue and engincers escapes. The ouija-board is brought in to lift along the fun. The Spook and Madame Ouija talk Buried Treasure. If there is one thing that will make a Turk sit up and take notice it’s a Buried Treasure. The wise Tommies become great heroes. After the armistice the Turkish officials tried to get on the trail of these British officers and their pet Spook to continue the treasure hunt. Do you want to get cleaned up, scoured and manicured men- tally after the great ghost sousc?—here is the book to do it. oobing. It kept comicbooks.com