Life — December 2, 1897 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

Life’s “Pegasus” Contest. HE announcement of the winner will be made in Lire’s issue of December 16th. Inquisitive. HE cars were piled in fearful wreck ; The stranger roared with glee ; He pushed the Pullman off his neck ; “Which down was that?” said he. HE Cocos Island treasure still lurks reluctant in the soil of Cocos Island, but the brass band which is to accompany the next ex- pedition to get it out is already under contract and is said to be a strong and resonant organization, The Fakir and the Cow. T was Euripides—or was it the Socrates of Kansas ?—who said the American ass buried in China would stick his ears out through the earth of his native land. While the American dis- plays much sagacity in his business and jagacity in his pleasure, one never realizes the pro- fundity of his jack- assity until he sees him in the throes of mental improve- ment. The American loves everything foreign except the foreigner who travels forward of the saloon; he is never so tremulously happy as when giving up his toil-stained dollars to the foreign fakir who lands on our shore to make one-night stands under the chaperon- age of Major Pond, The fakir may be merely faintly famous, a fad notorious, or simply a well-advertised humbug; but whether he comes on two legs like Beerbung Tree, or on four like Jumbo, the American ass sprains his copious ears in his excitement to greet him. This passionate pleading to be pillaged refutes the European slander that we worship the dollar, and shows that we have not marked down the ashes of our fathers nor the altars of our gods, Milch * LIFE: Year in and year out the fakir in- vades the land and departs plunder- laden, Last year the lachrymose hoot mon of Drumtochty mesmerized our dollars without the aid of an inter- preter; this year Anthony Hope springs supernal inthe feminine breast; the pon- derous Anglican Hole rediscovered us without scrip or staff, and, fleeing, left a financial vacuum behind him; and the lean and leathery Sarah, the angular Irving, the chemically pure Kendall, and a host of unintelligible Dutch and Dago stars, worked us as they pleased. Now Pond threatens to put the brands of Hall Caine saved fromthe burning on us. The Norwegian Nansen, whose front name defied even the Boston police and drove customs officers to drink, is now on our soil, with his strong, sinewy, Viking hand in our pockets, telling us in mutilated and desiccated English how he battened on whale on toast, quaffed kerosene oil, chewed sealskin sacks and eschewed soap in the interests of science. Leagued with the Ibsen clubs, he has sacked Boston and its suburbs, the guileless Bostonian having been told that Nansen had snared the Ibsen germ beyond the Arctic circle. We have had several mere Americans who pranced round on icebergs and debauched on walrus oil in their time; but they have been very properly treated as lunatics by our refined pub- lic, and while our thoughtful govern- ment locked one up in an asylum, it did in a moment of misdirected phi- lanthropy make a sergeant of another, The fact is, these men who went fooling around the North Pole made the mis- take of their lives in getting born in the United States, and our sensitive public never forgave them. Whenever a man contemplates doing anything heroic, notorious, or even literary, with a view of breaking and entering the United States, he should arrange to be born abroad. It is true, of course, one American, forgetting all patriotic duty, did offer to star Greely's men in a dime museum, but for some occult rea- son they put away the tempting and glittering bauble of real fame, and the chance to mingle with all the most refined and expensive freaks of five continents. Nansen, having accomplished nearly as much as these Americans without spavining his health or business in- 465 stincts, published a book, negotiated with the Major, got out three-sheet posters of himself in modest costume and self-effacing language, and is now able to address large, long-eared and appreciative audiences at the rate of twenty dollarsa minute. This pittance, with a rake-off on photographs and autographs, ought to enable the heroic Viking to mect his coal-bin unflinch- ingly and keep the wolf from his door next summer. The late lamented Mr. Shakespeare— Pugnacious Donnelly and his Ham and Eggs theory and cryptogram to the contrary notwithstanding—had some idea of the value of imported fakes when he made Trinculo say to the inert form of Caliban: ‘A strange fish! Were I in England, as once I was, and had but this painted fish, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver; there would this monster make a man; when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.” There were odd fish and Ponds in those days, and a genuine Phil-Sheri- dan-like appreciation of the good Indian. We might paint Peary, and equip him with fins, scales and press agents, and see if he can lecture in England without the necessity of an arbitration treaty. Joreph Smith, STEAMERS SOR eR DIS COUNT OFF FOR CASH. comicbooks.com