Life, 1889-12-12 · page 10 of 16
Life — December 12, 1889 — page 10: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page 334 - Life Magazine Analysis This page contains two distinct pieces: 1. **"His First Attempt"** (right): A three-panel cartoon sequence showing a bald man attempting pedestrian exercise with a trash bin. The humor derives from physical comedy—his awkward postures and apparent difficulty with basic movement, suggesting he's uncoordinated or out of shape. 2. **"The Coliseum"** (left): A poem by Frederick Peterson accompanied by a caricature of a man. The text discusses Wolf Hopper, a comedian/baseball crank, noting his baldness and physical qualities. The poem itself is sentimental verse about Rome's ruins and ancient glory, contrasting with modern American indifference (smoking cigarettes, watching cats). The satire juxtaposes Hopper's theatrical ambitions with his ungainly appearance—the point being that despite his professional pretensions, his physical comedy is unavoidable.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
- LIFE: HIS FIRST ATTEMPT, BUT THERE ARE THINGS. & WOLF HOPPER, not content with his eminence as a comedian and base- ball crank, is about to try for new glories, as a manager. He is naturally or unnaturally baldheaded, and therefore hair-pulling prima- donnas have no terrors for him. He has a length of limb which particularly fits him for pedestrian exercise, and he will doubtless distinguish him- self on the road. But Mr. Hopper has given the laughing that no one wants to see his pedestrian capabilities put to the test. THE COLISEUM. Il, monument of ancient Rome, Mute ruin of the centuries, Silence and Death have here their home Amid thy vast solemnities, Where once in purple glooms and shades The happy, laughing people went To loiter in thy dim arcades, Or throng thy cavea's gay ascent! Far down on yon arena’s sands Once was the mimic war of ships ; Once gladiators’ dying hands Strove at the tigers’ bloody lips, And once long spears and blades of steel Grew red and flashed with thrust and pass Where now the winds assail in zeal The glimmering spears and blades of grass. Seated upon thy highest stone In this Italian afternoon, I well might dream of ages gone, Of harp and flute and cymbai’s tune, Of banners, robes of costly dyes, Of eager sandals on the stairs, Of earnest faces, shouts and cries, Of lions loosened from their lairs, But I, a plain American, Look down from here without regret, Each vacant, tumbling terrace scan, And, smiling, smoke a cigarette. Not with Vespasian’s pomp and power, When round him noble Romans sat, Alone I idle here an hour And watch yon prowling modern cat. Frederick Peterson. comicbooks.com