Life, 1888-10-11 · page 7 of 14
Life — October 11, 1888 — page 7: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page Analysis: Life Magazine, Page 203 This page contains three distinct sections: **"Stuck Fast"** presents a brief dialogue between Charley and Fred about romantic entanglement, accompanied by observations on procrastination and weather vanes. **The main story, "True Kindness of Heart,"** describes an 1888 winter incident in Washington where Senator James G. Blaine of Maine encounters a impoverished boy outside the Senate Chamber. The boy's mother is freezing without fuel. Rather than give charity directly, Blaine identifies the boy as the son of a former political rival (Judge William B—), then provides a match—forcing the boy to seek help himself. The satire criticizes performative charity and political posturing disguised as kindness. The accompanying illustrations show poverty and social hardship typical of Gilded Age commentary. Blaine was a prominent late-19th-century Republican politician, making this a pointed critique of wealthy politicians' selective benevolence.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
STUCK FAST. HARLEY (fo friend): Fwed, do you know, I weally think that the pwetty little Robinson is stuck on me. FRED: I think so myself, Charley. I noticed last evening that she tried her best to get away from you. T sometimes takes a good deal of “maiden meditation ” to obviate the infelicity of being “fancy free.” T is probably the attention paid it which makes the weather-vane, SIXTEEN OUNCES TO THE POUND, TOO LARGE FOR PHILADELPHIA. No, KIND READER, THIS IS NOT A MEMBER OF THE THEATRICAL PROFESSION, IT 18 ONLY A NEW YORK DRUMMER WHO CARE- LESSLY ALLOWED HIMSELF TO BE CAUGHT IN PHILADELPHIA WITH NOTHING SMALLER THAN A FIFTY DOLLAR BILL: OF COURSE, HE COULDN'T BREAK IT THERE, AND HAD TO WALK HOME. Harry: Wy, Tom, WHAT IN GOODNESS NAME HAVE YOU GOT IN YOUR TROUSERS? Tom: DEAR ME! I WAS IN HOPES IT WOULDN'T BE NOTICED. Yo! E, I'VE BEEN OUT TO THE BALL GROUND ALL DAY, AND THAT MEANS A THRASHIN' WHEN I GET HOME ; SO I JUST PUT A TIN SAUCEPAN WHERE I FANCIED IT WOULD BE OF SOME USE, BUT I'M AFRAID DAD'S EYES 'IL BE AS SHARP AS YOUR'N. TRUE KINDNESS OF HEART. NE afternoon, in the winter of 188-, which will long be remembered in the annals of the poor for its rigor and the destitution it occasioned, a party of distinguished gentlemen left the Senate Chamber of the United States and hurried along Pennsylvania Avenue as rapidly as the sleet-covered pavements would permit, They were discussing a question of Finance that had been under consideration just before adjournment. A remark which was made by one of the gentlemen—a remark of rare acuteness—would have acquainted a back-woodsman with the fact that its author was the Hon. James G. Blaine, of Maine, whose well-known feat of saving a colossal fortune out of his small political stipends has not only demonstrated to thousands of our youths what economy can accomplish, but has also established his own reputa- tion for financial acumen. The increasing keenness of the blast impelled the Party to seek temporary shelter in the nearest hotel at the door of which a small ragged boy, who had just been rudely ejected from the building by the gentlemanly clerk, and whose face was blue with cold, intercepted the gentle- men with a feeble but pathetic petition for alms. They gave him nothing but a glance of curiosity and passed to the inner warmth, No, not all went in. One lingered outside—one great-souled man, who did not regard the despairing face of the boy with the nonchalant air of the others. His features, which had often hardened in the aspenities of debate and struck a chill to the enthusiasm of an opponent, now relaxed into an expression of tender solicitude. “What can I do for you, my little man?” he asked of the boy. “Oh, sir,” replied the child incoherently, “my mother is freezing and she has nothing to make a fire with.” “And where is your father, my boy?" continued his interrogator. “He is dead,” sobbed the boy, “And what was his name?" asked Mr. Blaine; for it was no other than he. In a few words the little fellow told his pitiful tale and then answered the query. : “What!” ejaculated the Senator. “Is it possible that you are the son of William B—, who was Judge of Election at Bunco Precinct when I was first returned to the Maine Legislature, and to whom I owed so much? And your mother has nothing to make a fire with? Here, my poor lad, take this.” And he handed him a match, Eureka Bendall, comicbooks.com