Life, 1911-01-19 · page 18 of 44
Life — January 19, 1911 — page 18: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page features an interview with **Wilbur D. Nesbit**, a humorist and poet who contributed to *Life* magazine. The text presents his biographical details: born in Xenia, Ohio (1871), worked in journalism and advertising, eventually becoming president of Chicago's Forty Club and involved with the police department. The cartoon below shows a pig at a dinner table with the caption: "Well, Piggy, this is what you git fer bein' a hog an' havin' no intelligence." This is a moralizing joke about gluttony and stupidity—the pig's lack of intelligence leads to its consumption, a common Victorian-era cautionary cartoon trope. The page also includes Nesbit's poem "Language," which satirizes human communication as merely "noise"—arguing that speeches, love declarations, and advice are all just vibrations without substance. This reflects early 20th-century cynicism about rhetoric and empty talk.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
-LIFE- Life's Family Album logues which add zest to this bright paper are the product of Mr. Nesbit’s intellect. This is only by way of in- troduction. We had to go all the way to Chicago to secure the following in- terview. We say this to show how much we really care for Mr. Nesbit. We found him standing on the steps of the Chicago Tribune. “In spite of the bald spot on the tep of your head you appear to be a young man,” we ventured, in order to make him feel at case. “Twas born in Xenia, Ohio, in 1871. A brass plate on my birthplace bears the legend ‘ Main Street,’” he replied. We have alw wanted to me man from Xenia, Ohio. We never ex- pected to have that honor and renown. ~ And to think that he should turn out Wilbur D. Nesbit You must that Mr. eshit writes a great many things for Lire which do not appear with his na You know him better, no doubt, understand by his humorous poetry, which js quoted from to the other. end of the country But many of the dia- — g 9 \ to be one of the most valuable con- tributors of Lire! “What did youth?” we pressed, “Public schools, lime kilns, a saw mill and the composing room of the Cedarville Herald. All of these af- fairs arc, by the way, running to-day, and I am welcome to come back you attend in your a—" “When did you leave?” we con- 7 MMC LEED 16 “WELL, PIGGY, THIS 18 WHAT YOU GIT PER BEIN’ A HOG AN’ HAVIN’ NO INTELLIGENCE.” tinued sternly, for our time in Chi- cago was growing short. “ Early in the ‘90s I went to Indiana. One day, in a moment of inspiration, I wrote a jingle as an advertisement for a clothing store in Indianap The rest is history. It includes a humorous column in the Baltimore- American and a removal to Chicago, where [ am president of the Forty Club, a member of the Chicago Ath- letic Association, Press Club and of the staff of the Superintendent of Po- lice of Chicago.” Language NGUAGE, when we analyze it, L Is no more nor less than noise; Howso deftly we devise it To express our woes or joys. When some of us come together, We, instead of keeping still, Make a noise about the weather Or the grocer’s latest bill. Gentlemen who wisely lecture, Judges who explain the Jaws, Sages who each day conjecture Over the Effect and Cause, Ministers each Sunday preaching, Parents training girls and boys, Grave professors staidly teaching— All are merely making noise. Aye, and lovers softly breathing Words that tell affection’s flame, Teil of ardor madly seething As each sighs the other’s name— Yea, “Truc as the stars above you”! All that lovers’ art employs, Even that intens: “I love you All of this iply noise. Agitation of the larynx, Some vibrating vocal chords, A transmission through the pharynx, Gives us what we say are words; Speeches, answers, salutations, Good advice to others dinned, Monologues and conversations— All of these are simply wind. Language—growth of grunts and growl- ings, Hisses, barks and whines and roars, Culminates in platform howlings And the parlor chat of bores. Quickly spoken, soon forgotten, Silence all our speech destroys— Soaks it like absorbent cotton— Language, after all, is noise. Wilbur D. Nesbit. comicbooks.com