Life — August 28, 1884 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

-LI BOOMLETS. I I ENRY CLAY said: dent.” Henry Clay had a cigar named after him. We merely offer this as a hint to Mr. Blaine. “I'd rather be right than Presi- * . * 66 H, Jim,” said Mulligan, “ I see you were rewarded by | the Rex Vestib——” You lie!” Yes. I was about to remark Rex Vestibuli. Very pretty piece indeed. By the way, I would like a few words with you | about Little Rock and—' Here the statesmen got beyond our hearing. . . . T HE proposition of the recently resurrected Know-' Party to nominate General Grant for the Presidency meets with our approval. ‘The developments of the past four months show that the ex-President is eminently qualified to lead such a party. . * . PLE Rev. Ball, of Buffalo, Minister of the Gospel and General Disseminator of Scandal, is about to sue a Boston paper for libel. Can it be that some esteemed contemporary of the City of Baked Beans has been rash enough to intimate that the Rev. Ball is anything but what the general public believes him to be ? . . M OREY L y We do not wonder that although acquainted with the leading politicians of the age, you never remember having seen Mr. John I, Davenport. He cannot be scen with the naked eye. . * * 66D. HANK Heaven, that's done with, If I’m ever President, I'll recommend a Constitutional Amend- ment to the effect that Presidential candidates won't h, write letters of acceptance. . * . Oh!!! If 1'd only waited a day with Wouldn't TI have had fun with BF. BL ve to G, Cleveland.” H! tha Cleveland ! Oh!! address. ““ * . * M R. A. W. TOURGEE elegantly remarks of Governor Cleveland that he wears a twenty-six inch collar and buys his trousers by the acre. his is a sample of the subtle humor of that illustrious gentleman whose name covers about every square inch of his magazine, the Weekly and Monthly Continent. Mr. Tourgee wears a small hat, and is believed to rent his principles at moderate rates. . * . HE Sua shines for all, no doubt, but when it attempts to keep one thermometer up and another one down it is a sort of double faced shine, Still, when a paper is edited by a disappointed politi consistency is hardly to be expected. othing | FE: | THE REIGN OF THE COQUETTE. NE scene of gayety slowly yields to another in the revolving kalei- doscope of events. The dust barely flecks our danc- ing pumps after a round of winter gayeties, when summer — opens her vine-clad por- tals, and amid the sheen and shimmer, the pip- ing of birds and scent of flowers, : the eye is allured by terpsichore's twinkling toes and the silken snares of the coquette. As the glass revolves, the question arises, Are we to enjoy arespite during the silly season for the dynamic* glances and the perfumed persecutions of the coquette? Or, if the hotels refuse to close their doors upon the satin-toed sirens, must every self-respecting man bent on a summer vacation procure a fowling piece and a pair of top-boots and hie to the woods? Science will ever remain a blundering old hussy if she does not enlighten the world with an analysis of the pas- sion of love. If love is electricity, so maintained by an acute German whose life was a living refutation of the axiom that lightning never strikes twice in the same spot, we might flank the beast with lightning-rods and conduct the mysterious fluid where it would be powerless to tingle the blood. But Herbert Spencer declares that it is a passion of infinite com- plexity, and this has seemed the more reasonable view since Socrates was beguiled by Theodota in a sophistical spider- web argument which his combined powers of wit and logic could not resist. The society belle, who is counting her conquests on the sticks of her fan, is aware of this, for she experiences in a single season of gayety the whole diapason of human pas- sion and has a new love for every synodical month of the year. She can beat Science at her own game, and puncture the old wind-bag Philosophy with a stiletto-stab of the eye. As trophies of her love-conquests she displays a score of bleeding hearts at her girdle, while torturing a fresh victim | as asmall boy dangles a cockchafer at the end of a string. The coquette must go. Not rudely would we eject her, for to ruffle her plumage were to bring down coals of fire on our head. But as the appalling state of society in high life, as abundantly illustrated of late by Mr. Alfred Austin and Lady | John Manners, is due to her frivolous conduct, we would | break her wand and destroy her power for mischief. * Dynamic forsooth! There is dynamite in the eye of a coquette. comicbooks.com