Judge — August 6, 1921 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

YUM My Lady’s Chambers By GEORGE MITCHELL HEN little Robert Chambers grew sophisticated enough to lisp nursery rhymes, we venture to gamble that he fell hardest for that bedroom farce amongst them that has to do with the Gander that had a talent for wandering up and down stairs with perfect abandon and en- joyed the privilege of parking in my lady’s chamber. We do not advance this statement lightly as one who facetiously juggles with a pun, but offer it to prove that Robert was pre-natally endowed with acertain appreciation for the grand passion that to-day marks him pre- eminently as the Boudwarrier Bold of American Literature; for Cham- bers to our mind writes with a per- fumed quill on a moonlit balcony and uses a model. It s ems a pleasant occupation. One of the earliest stories we re- memt2r hearing of Chambers is his first meeting with Peter Findlay Dunne, who was then idvancing Mr. Dooley as the first president in America of the Irish N tion. Cham- bers told Mr. Dunne that he had expected to see a big Irishman in a red flannel shirt, to which Dunne replied that he, too, was mistaken for he had imagined that Chambers was a pink and white debutante in a lace boudoir cap. As a curious matter of fact, it wasn’t till Chambers had taken up Art and had thrown it (or been thrown by it) that he embraced Literature, for when he had cast aside the governing hand of the SPARKLING & REFRESHING REJUVENATES REVIVIFIES RESUSITATES FINE on THIRST! i) TAKE ITNOW!! ~ CE | Drawn by C. W. Kanes. “AH! THAT REMINDS ME! Schoolmaster and elected to go it alone, he called Fame on the Long Distance (the longest distance, to our mind) and ordered a halo to fit his head. A large halo. It was to be tattooed with a palette and a hand- ful of brushes, for Robert had deter- mined to become a “King in Yellow.” Having cast himself and set his scene, he left Brooklyn (where he had been born) for Paris, pulled up a little iron chair to the street curb and ordered an absinthe frappe. Like all art students, Robert spent most of his time at home (we don’t know whose), and in the course of human events painted his way to a hanging in the Saloon (perhaps the I HAVEN’T HAD A DRINK IN A WEEK.” word is spelled incorrectly—perhaps not), and having thus established himself as an unmortal, took to America, the land of Life, Truth, Puck an’. other weaklies (again the spelling is advised). Suddenly we learn that the halo is being revamped. The palette and brushes are gone. In their places appear a quill, a cone of purple ink and a bottle of perfume. Robert is himself again. Naturally, his first offerings as a novelist sing of the Boulevards, the Quarter (our Greenwich Village) and the Studio. It is to be regretted only that Robert hasn’t told us some of the real stories of his experience. There must be some good ones about Juliens stored away in the back of his memory. But the public must be reckoned with. Publishers must be made rich. Somebody must write the best-sellers and so the mantle falls on Robert’s shoulders and again the halo is taken down and altered; the quill, cone and bottle give way to a debutante rampant on a field of be-ribboned frillery. In sum: Robert has achieved suc- cess. He holds many records for speed and endurance and may truth- fully be called the Hundred Yard Dachshund of Romance. He writes for those who run and read. He is casily a couple of hundred novels ahead of his publishers and could, if the occasion demanded, rip off a 300,000 word novel between his tub and the breakfast table. However, we think the most re- markable fact about him is that he is the only emotional thing that ever came out of Brooklyn. comicbooks.com