Baltimore Evening Sun (10 June 1912): 6.

The spectre at the butchery of Professor Boardman:

I think the teachers ought to feel free to express their views on any subject under discussion relating to the welfare of the schools.—The super-Mahon, August 24, 1911.

All of the downtown hotels have let contracts for extra bars, and by the time the first dusty Democrats arrive the drinking accommodation of Baltimore will be increased by fully 100 per cent. Even so, it is probable that there will be a good deal of pushing and crowding, at least until the bartenders, working in unfamiliar surroundings, attain to a fluent technique. The spectacle is one that will amaze and delight the connoisseur. The most eminent drinkers of the United States, pitted against one another, will be inspired to their most sublime efforts, and whole carboys of liquor will disappear like raindrops on a coke oven.

A Democratic National convention is always far more jovial and gemuethlich than a Republican convention. At the latter plug hits are much in evidence, and even the niggero delegates maintain a haughty sort of dignity. The niggeroes, indeed, are more solemn, if anything, than their white confreres. A feeling of their duty to their race seems to oppress them, and their uncomfortable Sabbath clothes keep them immobile and silent. Even when there is a genuine contest, as there will be in Chicago, they refrain from the extremes of joy. But the Democrats go in frankly for a more ardent enthusiasm, and so one thing leads to another. Not that drunkenness prevails. Far from it, indeed. A drunken man is helpless—and no Democrat at a national convention is ever helpless.

In this connection it is interesting to note that one of the convention visitors will be the aged Col. Lycurgus W. Simpson, of Baton Rouge, La., the foremost living judge of corn whisky. Colonel Simpson, who is now in his eightieth year, was born in Kentucky, and until he was well into manhood he was a rigid teetotaler and a prominent member of the Good Templars. Rheumatism contracted in the Civil War, in which he served with great distinction, led him to try the medicinal effect of corn whisky, and after his recovery he continued the use of that beverage. In 1875, discovering a rare talent for distinguishing between grades, he set up practice as an expert, and has since had as clients all of the principal clubs of the South, not to mention the leading hotels, innumerable private amateurs and the Governors of 16 States. His judgment upon a vintage of corn is accepted as final throughout Christendom. A distillery winning his testimonial has its fortune made.

During all these years, despite a plentiful temptation, Colonel Simpson’s reputation for absolute honesty has never suffered the slightest blemish. Distillers at various times have offered him fabulous sums for his imprimatur, but he has always resisted such blandishments. His uniform price for testing a barrel of corn is $1, and when he has completed his work he affixes a label under his seal stating the quality and value of the contents. He reserves the right, whenever a barrel falls below a certain standard, to empty it into the gutter forthwith. Naturally enough, the practice of his arduous and useful profession has brought him in a large income and he is now said to be a man of considerable wealth.

Colonel Simpson’s visit to Baltimore will be entirely unofficial and his secretary announces that he will not accept retainers while here. He has attended all Democratic National Conventions for 49 years, though never as a delegate. But, despite his disinclination to engage in professional labors in our midat, it is probable that he will be induced to inspect unofficially a number of the private cellars of prominent lawyers, business men and the judiciary, and the discovery of unsuspected prizes may be anticipated.

Comforting reflection by the Hon. the super-Mahon:

George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and every other great man has been villified.

But is it recorded that either George or Abe was ever caught with the goods?

Silence falls upon the Hon. William Toner, that usually voluble man—and the Hon. Jacobus Hook emerges from the controversy unscathed. A benign and welcome issue. The defeat and disappearance of the Hon. Mr. Toner inflicts a blow hard to bear, but the exitus of the Hon. Mr. Hook would have been a blow harder still. In an administration made up almost exclusive of fake martyrs and tear-squeezers, he is the one important man who keeps his humor and his head. Compare him, for example, to the Hon.—but go make the comparison yourself.

The Hon. George Stewart Brown on the corrupt practices act:

The new law is somewhat ambiguous.

One of the most soothing verdicts, it must be admitted, ever brought in by a coroner’s jury. Which suggests a new definition of ambiguity, to wit: the estate or dignity of a dachshund just discharged by a sausage machine. Meanwhile, the hob-nailed boots of the Hon. Murray Vandiver are still sticking in the corpse.

The swish of the caressing and dutiful Hot Towel:

Mayor Preston’s candidacy * * * has been highly indorsed by some of the leading statesmen of the nation.

A bottle of bay rum for each and every name of such a statesman. And, to avoid disputes, let a statesman be defined as any politician who has never been jailed for grafting and is sober more than two days a week.

Bitter complaint from a connoisseur of malt:

A lot of fake Pilsener is in this town. Even in some of the high-class downtown kaifs it is impossible to get the genuine article. Ask for a glass of Pilsener and they give you a glass of yellow stuff covered with sudsy, bubbly foam. The foam on genuine Pilsener is thick and clinging, like the foam on genuine Muenchener. This imitation, I grant freely, is fairly decent beer, but it is not genuine Pilsener—and no man likes to be swindled. Once you taste it you have to pay for it. An honor to those kaif-keepers who sell the real article!

Respectfully referred to the Hon. Frederick Pabst, author of the American Munich, for his consideration and action.

Boil your drinking water! Cover your garbage can! Wash the sand out of your eyes! Yelp for Harry!

From the estimable New York Sunpaper:

The Mayor [of New York] confessed at a dinner last night that “he is sometimes almost proud of himself.”

An excess of modesty abhorrent to the genius of certain other Mayors.