Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

“I don’t suppose it would interest the general public to know that, about sixty years ago, while at breakfast, I was blown up with dynamite, by a party of enraged subscribers of our paper. Their provocation was great, but I think they were a little too impetuous, as it were. In an unguarded moment, I printed the alleged pun, ‘What did the corn-brake?’ and thousands of our subscribers nearly lost their reason trying to discover the joke, which they naturally thought must lurk therein. About fifty of them arose in their might,--and dynamite,--and elevated things. I lost two arms and two legs. But this was not the worst. A religious weekly chromo was irreparably ruined. Perhaps I should explain that the arms and legs belonged to a chair and a table, respectively.

“This little incident effectually cured me of punning in print. I have not made a joke since.

“I invented the ‘fifteen puzzle,’ but I would rather not have this piece of imprudence made known until I get my life heavily insured.

“Since 1850 I have killed my grandmother, burned an orphan asylum, embezzled fifty thousand dollars, and committed arson. These facts came out soon after I was nominated for a political office. They came out in an opposition paper. They always do; and the only way to prevent their appearance is to buy the paper--or its editor.

“I have never been in jail or in Congress--though there may be worse people in both pla--. But, as I remarked at the outset, I am compelled to forego the pleasure of sending you a biographical sketch. I suppose my esteemed friend, Eli Perkins, would write one for me for a mere pittance, but I would rather journey through life without a biography to my back, than to have one that does not breathe the spirit of truth, in every line--truth that is neither warped nor bent--sweet, pure, undefiled truth that will wash.

“Yours, etc.,

J. H. WILLIAMS.”

JAMES M. BAILEY.

Albany, New York, claims Mr. James M. Bailey, of the Danbury News, as her offspring. The boyhood days of the Danbury News man were characterized by nothing unusual or exciting. At an early age he left school and sought a situation in a grocery store. As a grocer, James proved an utter failure, and without hesitation left his newly found occupation, and soon after took to the law, building air castles of a great and glorious future.

Not satisfied, however, with the fullness of his money coffers, Bailey deserted the law to seek a more profitable business. He gave up all professional desires and turned mechanic, serving two long years as a carpenter. But in 1862 the war of the Rebellion again changed his occupation, and Bailey, with all the patriotism of an American youth, enlisted as a private in the Seventh regiment of Connecticut volunteers. For three years he fought with a desperation only equalled by his desperate attempts at producing puns, in after years.

In the early part of 1866 Bailey, in company with T. Donovan, purchased the Danbury (Connecticut) Times. In 1870 the firm purchased the only opposition paper in the town, and named the result of the combination the Danbury News. In 1873 Bailey made a trip to California, and in April of the next year went to Europe, where he remained until 1875. During these travels he wrote constantly for his paper, and by so doing acquired the title of “the Danbury News Man.”

In 1873 Bailey issued, through the Boston house of Lee & Shepard, his first volume of humorous sketches, under the caption of Life in Danbury. The book had a tremendous sale for several years, and fully fifty thousand copies were sold. In the fall of the same year he produced an almanac, the first and last work of the kind he ever published.

As a lecturer Bailey has never been a great success. Perhaps if he had entered the lecture field in 1874, at which time he was far more popular than at any time during his life, he would have realized a small fortune from his lectures. But as a speaker he never made the name he has acquired through his writings. In 1877, They all Do It was issued and so well was the volume received that the Danbury News Man’s name again became a household word. Another work which appeared in 1879, also became quite popular. It was entitled Mr. Phillips’ Goneness.

Bailey’s first humorous paragraph appeared in the News in 1872, and, by January of the next year, his productions were being published in almost every paper in the country. About this time a special edition of the News was issued for general circulation throughout the country. It took exceedingly well for several years, but was discontinued about two years ago. Bailey has acquired his fame and fortune through his own endeavors and struggles in the world. He is a self-made man in every respect. He is quite prepossessing in his personal appearance, his manner is dignified and pleasing, his demeanor modest and unassuming, and his countenance honest and frank. In his face there is nothing to note his humor, save the merry, bright, and unmistakable twinkle of the eye.

Some time ago an entertainment was given in New York, in honor of Robert J. Burdette, of the Burlington Hawkeye. To W. A. Croffut, who gave the entertainment, the Danbury News Man wrote the following letter of request:

“MY DEAR CROFFUT:--Your invitation received, and I thank you heartily for it, while I regret that I am unable to accept it. Age and the cares of life (I have two of the puzzles) are giving me away, and prevent me from taking a journey to your city. Besides we are getting ready to move, and my wife feels that much of the symmetry of the performance would be lost, if I were not here to permeate it with my presence. One of our carpets is so worn that it could hardly be trusted in the hands of a stranger, and it will be necessary for me to shake it in person. This I cannot very well avoid, or I would. Confidentially, my desire to be here is to prevent the removal to the new house of about two tons of old rubbish that no one but a woman would think of carting around. You are married and will understand me. Give my regards to the guest of the evening, and tell him that I hope to have the pleasure some time of taking him by the hand.

“Yours sincerely,

J. M. BAILEY.”

CHARLES H. SMITH.

Charles H. Smith (Bill Arp) is one of the oldest of living humorists. Under the _nom de plume_ of Bill Arp he has given the world some very rich things in the way of humor, and the columns of the Atlanta (Georgia) Constitution, have, during the past few years, teemed with his witty, sparkling letters. Bill Arp is known all over the South, and in many of the Gulf States his reputation is equal to that of Mark Twain.

Mr. Smith lives in a retired manner at his country-seat near Cartersville, Georgia. From this rural retreat, he writes me of his life as follows:

“Speaking as though I was another fellow, let me say that--Major Charles H. Smith was born in Lawrenceville, Georgia, June 15, 1826--that is to say, the ‘major’ part was not born then, though I suppose he was born all at once, but the title, the prefix, the dignity I mean, wasn’t born to him until June, 1861, when he was knighted by Jeff Davis, and assigned to the staff of Colonel Barton, with aspirations more sanguine than sanguinary. The Major used to be a ‘peace colonel,’ but was reduced to a war major, for you must know that these peace colonels abounded in the land. There was no harm in them, and the title signified only a patriotic devotion to the political fortunes of the governor--that is, the commander in chief.

“You must know, if you do not, that Georgia boasted of an army and navy in the good old times. The navy was altogether imaginary, picturesque, esthetic, and did not muster nor parade; but the army was a fact, and was mobilized twice a year, not in corpses, or cores, or whatever you call them, but in brigades and regiments, in each county, and as the commander in chief could not be in every county at the same time to review his ‘meelish,’ he had to attend by proxy, therefore he appointed a proxy in every county, with the rank of colonel. This honor when conferred was intended as a kind of mucilage that cemented the donee to the donor, and the donee was expected to cry ‘encore’ if the donor wanted to be re-elected to the gubernatorial chair. Parties were pretty equally balanced in Georgia, and every time we had a new governor we had a new set of colonels, say an hundred or more, on the average, every two or four years. This is how we boasted of so many peace colonels, for when a man once got the title he kept it, no matter if he didn’t keep the office. All this is to explain how Major Smith came to be a colonel under Governor Howell Cobb, and was afterwards reduced to his present rank. He says he really prefers the minor title to the major, for it is based on a war footing, and besides, the ladies have a way of saying ‘major’ with a softer and sweeter inflection than they used to say colonel.

“The Major was born and bred as usual, but his singular parentage is to be made a note of. His father was a Massachusetts man, and his mother a native of Charleston. This combination was happy enough in itself, but developed in the ‘boy’ a disposition to fits of passion, on which occasions he used to bite himself and bump his head against the door, but his good mother always said he couldn’t help it, for it was South Carolina fighting Massachusetts.

“The Major’s father was a merchant, and as the boy grew up he trained him to trade and traffic behind the counter. Later in life he sent him to a manual labor institute, where the boys were expected to pay for their board by working in the field three hours every day. Presumptuous expectation! It generally took the boys about three hours to find their tools and get ready for work. Link pins were stolen, and by the time the wagon reached the field the wheel came off. When the overseer was watching one squad another slipped off to the creek to go in bathing, and so in due time the school collapsed. The ‘boy’ was next initiated into the mysteries of riding the mail to a neighboring village. This was not considered a very elegant or aristocratic occupation. The steed was a kind of equine dromedary, and jogged along at his leisure without regard to whip or spur. The monotony of this employment became very monotonous to the boy, and gave him abundant leisure for mental exercise.

“There is nothing romantic or thrilling about riding an old-fashioned mail--nothing like the long express across the plains that Mark Twain has so bewitchingly described in Roughing It; no fleet-footed mustang, no ’ostler standing with another ready at the station, no running against time, no passing returning post-boys with a smile and a salute, no nothing but an occasional old woman coming to the fence with a pair of socks she wanted to send to town to exchange for indigo or copperas, and as she looked over her spectacles inquired ‘Are you the mail boy?’ The youth sometimes looked smilingly at her as he replied: ‘Why--yes--mam, you didn’t think I was a female boy, did you?’

“In due time the boy graduated at this business, and his father sent him to college. He had as good a time there as is usual. He made many pleasant acquaintances, some lasting friendships, and a love or two, and at the close of his career married a daughter of Judge Hutchins. He next studied law with the judge, and after his admission to the bar, removed to Rome, Georgia, and founded a partnership with Judge Underwood, a gentleman noted for his ability, both as a judge and a statesman. This partnership was pleasant and profitable. It was obliged to be profitable as a matter of necessity, for it continued until there were a score of children in the two families, and paternal ancestors knew but little of economy, or its prudence of laying up money for a rainy day.

“Prior to the war Major Smith had frequently indulged his inclinations for humorous and critical observations on men and measures, but it was not until the spring of 1861 that his peculiar genius found a field rich enough to harvest in. The famous proclamation of President Lincoln, ordering the people of the rebellious South to ‘cease their turbulent demonstrations and to disband their military companies, and disperse and retire to their homes, within thirty days, under penalty of being arrested and tried for treason,’ seemed very ludicrous and absurd to the hot bloods of the South, who really felt like they could whip all the world and the rest of mankind, and so the Major burlesqued it in his way as though he was an unlettered countryman who wanted to disperse but couldn’t. He said he ‘had done his darndest to disperse, but the boys were so hot that when you throwed water on ’em they sizzed, and that was the way they was making up their companies.’ If a boy ‘sizzed’ they took him, and if he didn’t, they didn’t, and he respectfully asked ‘Mr. Linkhorn’ for a little more time.

“The Major read his manuscript to two or three friends in his office, and at the conclusion noticed that the original Bill Arp stood at the door a listener.

“Bill’s merry eyes seemed to enjoy it, and he came forward with a query, ‘Colonel,’ said he, ‘are you gwine to print that?’

“‘I think I will, Bill,’ said he.

“‘What name are you gwine to put to it?’ said Bill.

“‘I don’t know, Bill,’ said he.

“‘Well, put mine, by golly; for them’s my sentiments,’ said Bill, and so Bill Arp’s name was put to please him, and it was thus that the _nom de plume_ was acquired. This same Bill Arp kept a ferry near Rome, and was so fond of hearing lawyers talk that he would slip off from his ferry during court week and stay all day in the court house, or he would frequent their office just to get into good company. He was wholly unlettered, could neither read nor write, but had a good mother wit of his own, and was never considered an interloper by any sociable crowd. He was wont to say that every poor man ought to be tackled on to a rich one; that he belonged to Colonel Johnston, and didn’t want a better master. He was asked one day who he was going to vote for, and says he: ‘I don’t know, till I see Colonel Johnston, and he won’t know, till he see Judge Underwood, and the Judge won’t know till he hears from Alexander Stephens, but who in the dickens tells Alec Stephens, I’ll be dogged if I know.’

“Bill Arp joined the army with the Major, in the same command, on June 8, 1861. Bill lost two sons in the conflict, but got through safe himself, and lived until 1878. Peace to his ashes.

“In 1866 Major Smith was unanimously chosen to represent his district as State Senator, and was made chairman of the financial committee. This is the only official dignity he has borne, and this was wholly unsought. In 1877 he retired from his profession to the more peaceful and congenial pursuit of tilling the soil, and seems extremely happy in his communion with nature and the quiet seclusion of his family from the follies and cares of society life. He has ten living children, and has a lot of grandchildren coming on, whose greatest delight is to go to grandpa’s and play in the branch and catch minnows, ride the colts, and hunt hens’ nests, and fish all the day long. The Major says a grandparent has no business living in town, on a half-acre lot, for it is no pleasure to the grandchildren to visit him and grandma in a pent up Utica or a Rome either. They want latitude and longitude, so let grandparents move into the country, where the little chaps can come and go, and spread out and ‘holler,’ and be happy. Solomon says that children’s children are the glory of a man, and there is nothing better to work for than glory.”

In a recent letter to the author of this volume Major Smith tells a funny story in his own peculiar style. He says:

“Speaking of children, reminds me of Dr. Johnston, and so I must tell you that I spent a few days last winter with General Loring, who was born and bred a soldier. He was in the cavalry service in the far West with Fremont and Carson all his youth, next in the confederate army as a major-general, and next as chief of the Khedive’s army in Egypt. He returned laden with glory and honors, and fine clothes. He had his servant man to dress in the Khedive’s jeweled suit for my inspection. He showed me his portfolio of splendid engravings, and photographs of all the notable things in the old world. Every few pages we would come to the photo of a beautiful woman, and he would carelessly remark: ‘Only a lady friend of mine.’ The General is a bachelor of some sixty years, and I so much admired his conversation, I ventured to say that he ought to write a book of his travels and exploits, and reminded him what Dr. Johnston said to Boswell: ‘Every man owes something to posterity, a debt that he can and ought to pay. He should do one or more of three things. Plant a tree, the shade of which, or the fruit of which would pleasure him, or write a book, the sentiments of which would benefit him, or--get a child that would be an honor to the human race.’

“‘Now, General,’ said I, ‘Have you ever written a book?’

“‘No,’ said he.

“‘Have you ever planted a tree?’

“‘Never,’ said he.

“‘Have you ever begotten a child?’

“‘None to speak of,’ said he.”

A. MINER GRISWOLD.

Alphonso Miner Griswold was born near Utica, Oneida county, New York, January 26, 1834. His youth was spent in the usual way, and in 1856 he graduated at Hamilton college, with more or less honor. It was not until November, 1857, that “Gris” entered the journalistic world by accepting a position as reporter on the Buffalo Daily Times, then owned and edited by the late Henry W. Faxen. When the Times was merged into the Republic, Griswold transferred his talents to the latter sheet.

In May, 1858, Griswold began writing under the _nom de plume_ of “The Fat Contributor.” His humor was racy and original, and he was classed among the leading fun makers of the day. He went to Detroit in the autumn of 1858, and accepted a position on the Advertiser. A year later he removed his talents to Cleveland, where he labored in the office of the Plain Dealer, published by Hon. W. W. Armstrong. He succeeded Artemus Ward as assistant editor, and during the early part of the war he wrote many patriotic and ringing editorials. After a brief season on the Cleveland Leader, “Gris” removed to Cincinnati, and in 1863 became a member of the staff of the Evening Times, which position he continued to hold for nearly ten years.

In the latter part of 1872, in company with others, he began the publication of the Cincinnati Saturday Night, a journal which now enjoys a prosperous existence. He became the sole proprietor of the paper in 1874, and was for some years assisted in his labors by his wife, a lady of numerous scholarly attainments.

Griswold resides in a quiet, out-of-the-way street, just off the busy thoroughfares of the Queen City of the West, and lives in a retired, happy manner. During later years he has occasionally made a lecture tour, delivering his famous lecture, Injun Meal, and others to delighted audiences.

Artemus Ward and Griswold were the best of friends, and the “Fat Contributor” tells many anecdotes of his experience in the world alongside of Browne. Speaking of Artemus Ward, in a humorous way, Griswold once said in a humorous article:

“When, in 1863, Ward conceived the idea of making a lecture tour through California--a great undertaking in those days--he offered me, to accompany him as agent, a salary that would cause the insignificant pay of a Cleveland local to blush with shame. Not knowing that lecturers, and especially humorists, have a way of engaging every man as agent who professes a desire to travel, I made all preparations to go, resigned my situation, and anxiously awaited my summons.

As I waited, various articles were sold to pay expenses. I ate my stove I remember, and I think I drank up my bureau. At length, when nearly everything had gone, I believe that Ward had gone, too, taking another agent. I was naturally incensed, and resolved that there would be a severe settlement when next we met. I rehearsed the anticipated scene frequently, and resolved how I would go to work and annihilate him.

“Our meeting was in New York in July, 1864. I had heard of his return from California, and prepared to empty the vials of wrath upon his head. We accidentally ran against each other on Broadway. My slumbering indignation flamed up at once. I thought of the cooking stove I had devoured, and the various articles of household furniture I drank up, and was about to go for him when Ward suddenly rushed forward, and, grasping me warmly by the hand, exclaimed:

“‘Why, Gris., old boy, how are you? _When did you get back from California?_’

“As I looked at him, speechless with amazement, he continued: ‘They told me you came home around the “horn,” but I never knew you to go around a horn yet--join me!’

“Now Ward had a very persuasive way of locking his arm in with another’s, and in a momentary fit of weakness, I went along.

“‘Ward!’ said I sternly, ‘I owe you a licking on account of the California agency business, but will put it off until we drink.’

“‘Put it off as long as you want to,’ replied Ward, in a tone of generous accommodation, as though I was speaking about returning him a loan. ‘If you owe me a licking, pay me when you get ready. I am in no hurry. Don’t care if you never pay it.’

“Numerous were the unavailing efforts that I made to bring Ward to a settlement. When I would commence: ‘Now, Artemus, how about that California business?’ he would interrupt--‘Oh, never mind that whipping. No hurry at all. Send it to me through the mail--or telegraph it. Let’s drink.’

“I have got even with Browne, however, in a measure--I have _engaged_ a number of agents myself.”

BILL NYE.

Away out in the wilds of Wyoming Territory, in the fast growing city of Laramie, dwells one of the most noted funny men of to-day. Bill Nye is a modest looking name, and at first sight looks like a _nom de plume_; yet Bill Nye is the “only and original” of that name. He is a young man, and has been in the journalistic profession only three or four years. He began work on the Laramie City Boomerang, and is at present the managing editor of that publication. The Boomerang is a newspaper of metropolitan proportions, and issues both daily and weekly editions.

Bill Nye has, during the past two years, written a larger quantity and a better quality of first-class, genuine humor, than any other funny man in America. He is widely quoted, and has issued one book entitled, Bill Nye and his Mule Boomerang. This volume was issued in Chicago in 1881, and had a tremendous sale. Like others of his class, Nye is modest, and prefers to relate to the awaiting world his own misfortunes, in his own peculiar style. He writes as follows:

“MY DEAR CLEMENS: I herein make a few brief statements, which you are at liberty to enlarge upon in such a way as to give my life that odor of holy calm and unblemished smirchlessness which will sound well in history.

“I was born on the 25th day of August, A. D., 1850, somewhere in the State of Maine. I do not remember where. It was either along the Atlantic seaboard, or on the Kennebec river, and the exact spot has escaped my memory. As soon as I could walk I left Maine and came west, where I have been for about thirty years.

“Looking over my whole eventful career, I see nothing to regret, except the fact that I was born in Maine. Probably the State of Maine regrets it as much as I do.”

“My early childhood was spent in acquiring knowledge relative to the habits and movements of the bumble-bee and the water-melon.

“There is nothing in particular, perhaps, to distinguish my youth from that of other eminent men. I did not study the Greek grammar by the light of a pine knot when I was a child. I did not think about it. Had I supposed that I would ever rise to the proud pinnacle of fame, I might have filled my system full of deceased languages, but as it was, I thought I was in luck to acquire sufficient education to last me from one meal to another.

“I did not do any smart things as a child. It remained for later years to bring out the latent genius and digestive strength which I now possess. I did not graduate first in my class. I did not rise to distinction in two weeks. I did not dazzle the civilized world with my sterling ability. I just plugged along from day to day, and when I had an afternoon to myself it did not occur to me that I might read Horace, or Cicero, or the dictionary. I fooled away those priceless moments carrying water to the elephant, so that I could acquire information at the circus.

“My journalistic career has been short, but full of interest. Though only covering a space of three or four years, it has been rich in amusement and gory personal encounter.

“The West is well known as the home of fearless and deadly journalism. It brings out all there is in a man and throws him upon his own resources. It also throws him down stairs if he is not constantly on his guard.

“I am an attorney by profession and a newspaper man by force of circumstances. I am married and have been for five years. I do not regret this step.

“I am six feet high, of commanding appearance, and would be selected in any audience as a man who would not rob an overland train while there was anyone looking.

“I am in robust health, with the exception of a corn, which I inherited from the old stock of Nyes, who first invaded the free lunch counters of Skouhegan, Maine.

“To any one who is curious to investigate my career while in the West, I would say that I cheerfully refer them to any vigilance committee of this section.

“If I can throw any more light on this delicate topic, or should the public care for a fuller diagnosis, I am always at your service.

BILL NYE.

“LARAMIE CITY, Wyoming, January 27, 1882.”

There is no doubt that during later years Bill Nye has been more extensively copied than any other humorist of the day. Among the hundreds of good things he has produced, I select a few of the most touching and pathetic:

THE ENGLISH JOKE.

The average English joke has its peculiarities. A sort of mellow distance, a kind of chastened reluctance, a coy and timid, yet trusting, though evanescent intangibility which softly lingers in the troubled air, and lulls the tired senses to dreamy rest, like the subdued murmur of a hoarse jackass about nine miles up the gulch. He must be a hardened wretch indeed, who has not felt his bosom heave and the scalding tears steal down his furrowed cheek after he has read an English joke. There can be no hope for the man who has not been touched by the gentle, pleading, yet all potent, sadness embodied in the humorous paragraph of the true Englishman. One may fritter away his existence in chasing follies of our day and generation, and have naught to look back upon but a choice assortment of robust regrets, but if he will stop in his mad career to read an English pun, his attention will be called to the solemn thought that life is, after all, but a tearful journey to the tomb. Death and disaster on every hand may fail to turn the minds of a thoughtless world to serious matters, but when the London funny man grapples with a particularly skittish and evasive joke, with its weeping willow attachment, and hurls it at a giddy and reckless humanity, a prolonged wail of anguish goes up from broken hearts and a sombre pall hangs in the gladsome sky like a pair of soldier pants with only one suspender.

MR. NYE EMBARRASSED.

There was an entertainment at Laramie a few evenings ago, at which the guests appeared in such costumes as their taste suggested. The following will give some idea of the occasion:

Mr. Nye wore a Prince Albert coat with tails caught back with red jeans, and home made sunflowers. He also wore a pair of velvet knee breeches, which, during the evening, in an unguarded moment, split up the side about nine feet. This, together with the fact that one of his long black stockings got caught on the top of a window cornice, tearing a small hole in it, letting out the saw-dust and baled hay with which he was made up, seemed to cast a gloom over the countenance of this particular guest. With one large voluptuous calf, and the other considerably attenuated, Mr. Nye seemed more or less embarrassed.

JOSEPH C. NEAL.

A series of humorous descriptive articles, known as Charcoal Sketches, appeared in 1837 in a Philadelphia newspaper. They became famous, and for years their author was noted as a leading American humorist. Joseph C. Neal, the author of the Charcoal Sketches, was born on the third day of February, 1807, in the town of Greenland, New Hampshire. His father had for many years been the principal of a popular academy in Philadelphia, but his health failing him, he was compelled to retire to a country residence at Greenland, where, along with his other duties, he officiated as pastor in the Congregational church of the village.

When the subject of this sketch was two years old his father died, and the family soon after removed to Philadelphia, and thence to Pottsville, in the same State. Mr. Neal resided here until 1831, when he settled in Philadelphia, and assumed the duties of editor of the Pennsylvanian, a journal which became very popular, and conspicuous for its influence on the political character of the State. It was in the office of this journal that the elder James Gordon Bennett passed a portion of his early years in journalism.

For nearly ten years Mr. Neal devoted his talents to the Pennsylvanian, but at length his health failed him, and in 1841 he went abroad, traveling in Europe and Africa for nearly two years. In 1844 he retired from the editorial chair of the Pennsylvanian, and established in the autumn of the same year a weekly literary miscellany, under the title of Neal’s Saturday Gazette. Neal’s reputation as a writer secured for the Gazette an immediate and continued success.

Joseph C. Neal’s humorous sketches of that character for which he afterwards became distinguished, first appeared in the Pennsylvanian under the title of “City Worthies.” These sketches were reprinted and praised in hundreds of American newspapers. In 1837 he published Charcoal Sketches, or Scenes in a Metropolis. In these sketches he drew from life a class of characters peculiar to the lower classes and disreputable haunts in large cities. The appearance of the sketches in book form was hailed with delight, and several large editions were readily disposed of. The work was also republished in London under the auspices of Charles Dickens, who took a great interest in the American humorist and his works.

In 1844 Mr. Neal issued his second book, Peter Ploddy and Other Oddities, and soon after, another and newer series of Charcoal Sketches. Both of these books commanded a large and ready sale. Neal continued to edit the Saturday Gazette until July 3, 1848, when he died very suddenly at his home in Philadelphia, of a complication of diseases. His widow published a second and revised edition of his works some years after his death.

Soon after his death, R. W. Griswold, in his Prose Writers of America, said of Mr. Neal: “He writes as if he had little or no sympathy with his creations, and as if he were a calm spectator of acts and actors, whimsical or comical,--an observer rather by accident than from desire.... His style is compact and pointed, abounding in droll combinations and peculiar phrases, which have the ease and naturalness of transcripts of real conversations. He had too much good nature to be caustic, and too much refinement to be coarse. In some of his sketches he exhibits not only a happy faculty for the burlesque, and singular skill in depicting character, but a generality and heartiness of appreciation which carry the reader’s feelings along with his fancy.”

The following selection from Peter Ploddy will tend to show Mr. Neal’s peculiar style of writing:

“‘Common people, Billy--low, common people, can’t make it out when nature raised a gentleman in the family--a gentleman all complete, only the money’s been forgot. If a man won’t work all the time--day in and day out--if he smokes by the fire, or whistles out of the winder, the very gals bump agin him, and say, “Git out of the way, loaf!”

“‘But, Billy, my son, never mind, and keep not a lettin’ on,” continued Nollikens, and a beam of hope irradiated his otherwise Saturnine countenance; “the world’s a railroad, and the cars is comin’--all we’ll have to do is to jump in, chalked free. There will be a time--something must happen. Rich widders are about yet, though they are snapped up so fast. Rich widders, Billy, are “special providences,” as my old boss used to say when I broke my nose in the entry, sent here like rafts to pick up deservin’ chaps when they can’t swim no longer. When you’ve bin down twy’st, Billy, and are jist off agin, then comes the widder afloatin’ along. Why, splatter docks is nothin’ to it, and a widder is the best of all life-preservers, when a man is most a case, like you and me.’

“‘Wall, I’m not perticklar, not I, nor never was. I’ll take a widder, for my part, if she’s got the mint drops, and never ask no questions. I’m not proud--never was harrystocratic--I drinks with anybody, and smokes all the cigars they give me. What’s the use of bein’ stuck up, stiffy? It’s my principle that other folks are nearly as good as me, if they’re not constables nor aldermen. I can’t stand them sort.’

“‘No, Billy,’ said Nollikens, with an encouraging smile, ‘no, Billy, such indiwidooals as them don’t know human natur’--but, as I was agoin to say, if there happens to be a short crop of widders, why can’t somebody leave us a fortin?--that will do as well if not better. Now look here--what’s easier than this? I’m standin’ on the wharf--the rich man tries to go aboard of the steamboat--the niggers push him off the plank--in I jumps, ca-splash! The old gentleman isn’t drowned; but he might have been drowned but for me, and if he had a bin, where’s the use of his money then? So he gives me as much as I want now, and a great deal more when he defuncts riggler, accordin’ to law and the practice of civilized nations. You see--that’s the way the thing works. I’m at the wharf every day--can’t afford to lose a chance, and I begin to wish the old chap would hurry about comin’ along. What can keep him?’

“‘If it ’ud come to the same thing in the end,’ remarked Billy Bunkers, ‘I’d rather the niggers would push the old man’s little boy into the water, if it’s all the same to him. Them fat old fellers are so heavy when they’re skeered, and hang on so--why I might get drowned before I had time to go to the bank with the check! But what’s the use of waitin’? Couldn’t we shove ’em in some warm afternoon ourselves? Who’d know in the crowd?’

“‘I’ve thought of that, Bunkers, when a man was before me who looked the right sort,--but, Billy, there might be mistakes--perhaps, when you got him out, he couldn’t pay. What then?’

“‘Why, keep puttin new ones to soak every day, till you fish up the right one.’

“‘It won’t do,--my friend--they’d smoke the joke--all the riffraff in town would be pushin’ old gentlemen into the river, and the elderly folks would have to give up travelin’ by the steamboat. We must wait till the real thing happens. The right person will be sure to come along.’

“‘I hope so; and so it happens quick, I don’t much care whether the old man, his little boy, or the rich widder gets the ducking. I’m not proud.’

“‘Then you’ll see me come the nonsense over the old folks--who’s loafer now?--and my dog will bite their cat--who’s ginger pop, and jam spruce beer, at this present writin’, I’d like to know?’

“Thus, wrapped in present dreams and future anticipations--a king that is to be--lives Nicholas Nollikens--the grand exemplar of the corner loungers. Nicholas and his tribe exist but for to-morrow, and rely firmly on that poetic justice, which should reward those who wait patiently until the wheel of fortune turns up a prize.”

GEORGE H. DERBY.

“Before ‘John Phoenix’ there was scarcely any American humorist--not of the distinctly literary sort--with whom one could smile and keep one’s self respect,” says William Dean Howells, the novelist, in a recent magazine article. This may indeed be true, but there were others in the time of George H. Derby, better known by his _nom de plume_ of John Phoenix, who were of the same school of humorists, yet they were far inferior as wits. Derby, had he lived, would have become perhaps one of the leading humorists of the country. As it was, he was known to the public as a humorous writer for only a few years before his death.

George H. Derby was born of poor but well educated parents in Norfolk county, Massachusetts, in 1823. Little is known of his boyhood or early life. He entered the West Point military academy while yet a youth, and graduated from that institution in 1846. The same year he became engaged in the war with Mexico and continued in the field during the larger part of the year following. He was present at the battle of Vera Cruz and Cerro Gordo, and was made brevet first lieutenant at the former place. He received a severe wound during the latter engagement. He remained with the regular army at the close of the war, and was sent upon various surveys and expeditions from 1847 to 1852. During the two years following the last named date, Derby was engaged on the improvement of San Diego, California, harbor, and the next year he was on the staff of the commanding general and had charge of the military roads, department of the Pacific. In 1856 he was on the coast survey, and in the two years following was light-house engineer.

While sojourning on the Pacific coast Derby first began writing for the San Francisco papers and magazines. His contributions consisted mainly of humorous sketches written under the signature of John Phoenix. These sketches attracted general attention among the Pacific States, and in 1855 were published in book form under the title of Phoenixiana, or Sketches and Burlesques. The book was well received, and ten or twelve editions were exhausted. Four years later a second volume was issued under the title of Squibob Papers. This volume also met with a large and ready sale. Early in 1861 Derby took up his residence in New York, and produced a number of humorous sketches which were never published in book form. He died suddenly on the 15th of May, 1861, at the age of thirty-eight. Although young in years and not having reached the acme of his fame, his work still lives and is recognized as one of the most prominent species of American humor.

Derby’s humor is something like that of Artemus Ward, yet it is peculiarly original and is vastly different from the writings of the so-called funny men of the present day. Among the many good things from Derby’s pen are the following:

LATE.

Passing by one of our doggeries about 3 A. M. the other morning, from which proceeded “a sound of revelry by night,” a hapless stranger on his homeward way paused to obtain a slight refreshment, and to the host he said: “It appears to me your visitors are rather late to-night.” “Oh, no,” replied the worthy landlord, “the boys of San Diego generally run for forty-eight hours, stranger; _it’s a little late for night before last_, but for to-night! why, it’s just in the shank of the evening.” Volumes could not have said more.

FOR SALE.

A valuable law library, lately the property of a distinguished legal gentleman of San Francisco, who has given up practice and removed to the Farralone Islands. It consists of one volume of “Hoyle’s Games,” complete and may be seen at this office.

WANTED.

Back numbers of the Democratic Review, speeches and writings of Jefferson, Coffroth, Calhoun, Bigler, Van Buren and others. Copies of the San Joaquin Republican, files of the Times and Transcript (a few at a time), and a diagram representing the construction of the old United States bank, for the use of a young man desirous of turning Democrat. Apply at this office (by firing a gun, or punching on the ceiling, he being deeply engaged in study in the garret), to

J. PHOENIX.

AN EPITAPH.

This is all, but I writ at the time a epitaff which I think is short, and would do to go over his grave:

Here lies the body of James Hambrick
Who was accidentally shot
On the banks of the Peacus river
By a young man.

He was accidentally shot with one of the large sized Colt’s revolvers with no stopper for the cock to rest on it was one of the old fashion kind brass mounted and of such is the kingdom of Heaven.

GEORGE W. PECK.

A common-sized-mustache-and-goatee young man is George W. Peck, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He is rather a handsome chap, and just after he has left the barber’s chair he looks for all the world like a military officer. However, he looks like a common citizen when Saturday night comes around, and he has not been shaved for several days. Peck has attained quite a reputation as a humorist, through the columns of his paper, Peck’s Sun. Though only established, as a weekly journal with a humorous foundation, something over two years, the Sun has already a circulation of twenty thousand copies, and is rapidly increasing.

George W. Peck is a ready writer, and takes more to the narrative style than paragraphing. His paper is well liked among his fellow humorists, and is widely quoted. Peck is still a comparatively young man, and is “fair, fat, and _thirty_.” He is one of the few newspaper men who are bashful by nature, as the following letter plainly shows:

“I do not believe the time has arrived when the American people are consumed with a desire to know where I was born, how old I am, or any of the particulars of an uneventful life. If I should ever become of so much importance, which is hardly liable to be the case, while you and I live, I will resurrect the necessary data from the orphan asylum, the reform farm, the State prison, and other places of that kind, too numerous to mention. At the present time I think it is a charity to spare the people. Whatever you do, please do not call me funny. If you do, it is very evident that you do not know me.

“Yours truly,

GEORGE W. PECK.”

Here is one of Mr. Peck’s recent paragraphs:

“Those who take the Sun take it for the fun there is in it, and we feel a confounded sight funnier if we are making something than if we are losing. We are too old to work for glory, and too lazy to work for fun.”

In a recent article in the Sun, Mr. Peck discourses as follows on the

PECULIARITIES OF THEATRICAL SUPES.

About the most laughable thing around a theatre is the “supes.” However funny a play may be, the actions of the supes are funnier than the comedians. Men may act as supes for twenty years, and they can never come on the stage without appearing awkward and falling all over themselves. The actors tell them where to stand, and they get into another place. They act as if they expected to be stabbed and they cannot appear natural to save them. Take a far western scene, where they want a lot of miners in a bar-room to take a drink. One would think fellows who are in bar-rooms a dozen times a day would know how to act, but they don’t. They all go up to the bar in a crowd, and fall around, and then take tin cups of alleged whiskey and stare at vacancy until told to sit down, and then they all try to sit down on the same chair. When they are wanted for a scene in the Roman forum, they get on the red night-gowns and walk around toeing in, and walking knock-kneed, making the sickest lot of Roman citizens that ever robbed a hen roost. It is a singular coincidence that a supe always has a black patch on the seat of a pair of gray pants. Where in the world they all get gray pants, and why they don’t have gray patches on them, is more than anybody can find out. Let a couple of supes come on the stage to remove a table, and they will have those patches dead sure, and they will arrange to stand with the patches to the audience. They probably reason that their faces are liable to betray emotion, or that they may blush, but that the patches can maintain a stern and dignified demeanor under the most trying circumstances of guying and cat-calls on the part of the gallery boys. Female supes are even worse than men in stubbing their toes on the carpet, or backing against the wings. They are hired to come on to fill up a scene at half a dollar a night, and they usually wear octagon shaped tights, with more bran than legs, and it is painful to see them stand around. But they get confidence in themselves quicker than men, and they want to star after appearing one or two times. The supe business has lots of fun in it.

ALEXANDER EDWIN SWEET.

Texas is known to be the largest State in the Union, yet in all the vast territory there resides but one genuine humorist. Alexander Edwin Sweet is the proud possessor of that title. During the last few years the Texas Siftings has been universally quoted and ranked “A 1” among the funny papers of this country. It is needless to state in this connection that Alexander E. Sweet is one of the editors of Siftings.

Mr. Sweet is a Canadian by birth, an American by adoption, and a paragrapher and funny man by instinct. He was born in St. Johns, New Brunswick, March 28, 1841. His father was James R. Sweet, a well-known and prosperous merchant of that city. As early as 1849 young Sweet removed with his parents to San Antonio, Texas. His education was obtained at College Hill, Poughkeepsie, New York, in 1857 and 1858. The next year he went to Europe and entered the Polytechnic institute at Carlsruhe, Baden, Germany. Here he studied for several years, and in 1861 he fell in love with a handsome German girl, and led Miss Marie Zittel to the altar.

Returning to America and to Texas in 1862, he served two years in the war as a private in company A, Thirty-third regiment of Texas cavalry, Confederate army, principally on the Rio Grande, and in the Indian nation. At the close of the war he studied law in the office of Thomas I. Devine. From the law Mr. Sweet drifted into journalism, and in 1869 became editor of the San Antonio Express. In 1871, he was appointed city attorney of San Antonio by Governor Davis. Mr. Sweet had as yet written nothing of note, but with the Herald his work became widely known. Some years ago the Herald sprang into sudden fame on account of the funny articles that appeared in it, descriptive of the ludicrous side of life in Texas. The articles were copied far and wide, and then they suddenly ceased.

Mr. Sweet transferred his labors to the Galveston News and consequently that journal sprang into popularity all over the country. He possesses that peculiar journalistic trait of carrying an entire newspaper at the end of his pen. His column of Siftings in the News were widely copied, and a New York journal in commenting upon them had this to say of the author: “Mr. Sweet’s sketches, paragraphs and _bon mots_ are second to no living writer in freshness, originality, sparkling wit, and refined humor. Mr. Sweet is far more than a humorous writer, as his brilliant editorials in the News from time to time will show.”

A year or two ago, Mr. Sweet sought a partner in the person of Mr. J. Amroy Knox, and began the publication of Texas Siftings. Mr. Knox is also well known as an author, having written for several prominent newspapers and magazines. In conjunction with Mr. Knox, Alexander E. Sweet wrote an interesting volume, which was but recently issued from the press. It is entitled Through Texas, or from the Gulf to the Rio Grande on the back of a Mexican Mustang. The book is a narrative, descriptive and humorous, and has commanded a ready sale.

Since the establishment of Texas Siftings that journal has risen rapidly into public favor, and is sold and read in every State in the union. Mr. Sweet does the larger portion of the humorous writing for the paper. The Graphic of New York published a portrait of the rollicking humorist in 1877, but time and a heavy beard have changed him so that the picture does not now resemble him. He has a pleasant home, and surrounded by his wife and five bright children, his life is a most happy one.

Many clever articles have appeared in Texas Siftings, but none more clever than the following:

DOMESTIC LIFE IN TEXAS.

“It wasn’t that!” exclaimed Mr. Sanders, indignantly. “You see, I didn’t say a word at all.”

“How’d she find out, then?” asked one of the party.

“Why, I went home, and she asked if it was me. I told her it was. Took the chances on that, you know. Then she asked me if I’d been drinking. I told her no. And there I stopped. Never said another word.”

“But you say she caught on somewhere. How was it?”

“Just a blunder I made. When I told her I hadn’t drank anything she was satisfied, but when I come to go to bed, I put on my overcoat instead of my night-shirt. That excited suspicion.”

DISGUSTING GREED.

Fitznoodle is an Austin nimrod who goes out every Sunday and brings in a jack-rabbit or so. Fitznoodle is an enormous eater, and nobody else gets much of a taste of the rabbit.

“I wonder why nobody gets any of the shot except me,” said Fitznoodle, taking a shot out of his mouth.

Because nobody else gets any of the rabbit, I suppose,” responded Mrs. Fitznoodle, with telling sarcasm.

SAMUEL W. SMALL.

The humorous writings in the Atlanta (Georgia) Constitution have made that paper famous. It has been quoted, perhaps, as much as any other daily newspaper in this country. Among those bright journalists employed upon its editorial staff, none have added more to the popularity of the Constitution than Samuel W. Small, better known to his admirers as “Old Si.”