Life, 1913-01-02 · page 10 of 44
Life — January 2, 1913 — page 10: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains a poem titled "Life to His Friends" by Edward S. Martin, addressing Life magazine's readership of "hundred thousand friends." The text is entirely literary—there are **no cartoons or caricatures visible** on this page. The poem defends Life's editorial approach: its role as "jester and critic" using satire and biting humor to critique society. Martin explains that Life's apparent irreverence actually serves a purpose—it exposes folly and absurdity while maintaining underlying principles of "justice and a decent heart." The poem suggests Life's satirical method, though sometimes harsh, comes from principled conviction rather than mere mockery. It's an meta-commentary justifying the magazine's own satirical mission to its audience.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Dear hundred thousand friends to whom LIFE owes The vital force by which it lives and grows, Your prompt support its infant steps that propped And never since has ‘ered, much less stopped, Is still its best possession, its very self, Since when that ceases, LIFE goes on the shelf. For any good LIFE has availed to do, The lion's share of praise belongs to you. Let's keep on trying, without undue fuss, To make the world less gloomy, having us! O LIFE at ten years old, and so the tale Runs on, trite maybe, but in nowise stale. Dear friends, grown now to be a million strong, To faithful you the pzans still belong. Somehow you've stuck, through slender and through thick, And many a hoof have dodged, and many a brick. For fifteen hundred weeks and more, your aid The mordant forces of decay has stayed, At censure blinked and calumny ignored, And damned the fatal charge that you were bored. Something has held you, comrades ; what it was Has puzzled experts. What a mortal does Has always blemishes. Mischance, mistake, False inference and misconception, make Blots on his record, do the best he may. For this, one squad, for that, another, say “Out on him!” “Do him up!” “Not fit to live! “No more of him!” and proper orders give. But where the vital spark burns really strong, That doesn’t end it. Still he plods along: Scolded, finds balm in thought that many men Have many minds, and downed, bobs up again. Nothing on Earth’s quite right. Lots‘of it’s good, But nothing goes precisely as it should, Nor so near right but that a skilful dab Lands near some spot in it that needs a jab. -LIFE- Life to His Friends By Epwarp S. Martin Now jabs are what Lire’s office ’tis to yield ; Jester and critic, that’s his proper field; Not wantonly, nor fiercely, but polite, Good natured, with attentive skill, to bite. But, friends, this world of comfortable fotk Is full, who think a jab or bite’s no joke. Respectable and solvent, they make known Th’ existing order's good to let alone ; They like it, faults, absurdities and all, And when you bite their end of it, they bawl. To them, Lire’s obvious office is to show What other fellows think, is partly so. Perhaps, because you think they should be shown, Dear million friends, you never quite disown Your faulty, barking Lire, so bad, so bold, That never would or could do as it’s told. No, never! Do you wonder why?) Demand To know its author; then you'll understand. A sense of letters and a sense of art; A sense of justice and a decent heart; No mule to drive more obstinate than he, But on the team he drives a hand so free, So light, so sure, controlled by such a wit, The driven speed on unconscious of the bit ; Erroneous, sympathetic, ever young; Shrewd like the Pilgrim stock from which he sprung ; Not fooled by praise, by censure not unnerved, Nor yet by Vanity’s distraction swerved ; Free thinker, zealot, Pan, all rolled in one And penetrated with a sense of fun And breeze of Gaul. You have him! There's your man! Maker of Lire the only way he can. comicbooks.com