Baltimore Evening Sun (20 August 1912): 6.

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Court Circular
Padgette Palace, Aug. 20.
Birthday Honours.
In honor of the birthday of H. R. R. Prince John of Westport, his Majesty has been graciously pleased to bestow the following honours:
The Hon. Daniel Joseph Loden, Master of the Jobhounds, to be Grand Commander of the Most Noble Order of the Feather.
The Hon. Jacobus Hook, K. T., his Majesty’s Ambassador to Bavaria, to be Vice-President of the Privy Council.
The Hon. Trauty Trautfelter, K. T, to be Honorary Colonel of the Yoemen of the Guard.
The Right Hon. the Earl of Padgette, K. T., to be Comptroller of the Royal Household.
Harry S. Cummings, Esq., to be a Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Feather, fourth class.

HOW FAMILIAR!
[The Hon. Rudolph Blankenburg, reform Mayor of Philadelphia, in The Sun of Monday.]
For 30 years they said I was “the worst enemy of Philadelphia.” They called me “the defamer of the city” and charged me with befouling my own nest. The papers controlled by the ring used all of the politicians’ old stock arguments against me. They said I was a crank and that I was injuring the city’s fair name. They even sent to Germany, to the town where I was born, and asked at police headquarters if they had anything against me.

Thinking it over, the Hon. Dan Loden sometimes wishes that he didn’t have so darn many uncles.—Adv.

Once more all connoisseurs of rhetorical slugging, of the higher chicane of the dialectic, are forced to admire the suave technique of the Hon. Satan Anderson, that ingenious and humorous fellow. Hast noticed, beloved, how he jockeyed the Hon. Kid Price into the embarrassing position of a gladiator afraid of the fight, and how he now makes embarrassment doubly painful by “generously” granting the Kid all conceivable concessions? Rid your mind of the merits of the combat, and consider only its tricks. So far, the Hon. Mr. Anderson has taken them all.

What moral? Briefly this: that we Rum Demonists, if we would dispose of him in fair fight, must send better boys against him. The Right Hon. Jim Trippe, endeavoring to bring him down, was put through a devil’s dance, sprained both ankles, and had to be helped out of the ring by the Red Cross. The Hon. the super-Mahon, tackling him with a length of lead pipe, was seized by the heels and heaved through a skylight. He was floored at least, true enough, but only by mixing ground glass with his condition powders. In fair fight he remains undefeated, and not only undefeated, but also unscratched.

Today, of course. the oblique manner of his butchery at Annapolis is his chief solace and testimonial. Imagine how he will wring the tears of the peasantry with that awful tale! Consider how it puts every bold rural statesman on the defensive, makes him a prisoner on trial, enmeshes him in apologies and explanations! Figure out its probable effect on the Tuesday following the first Monday in November, 1913. The issue, remember, is no longer whether Local Option is sound, but whether its foes are on the level. And a man who tries to prove that he is on the level has a hard job ahead of him, for the very fact that the matter is in debate is testimony against him.

The one remedy for this lamentable condition of affairs is a vigorous counter-reformation. In other words, we Rum Demonists must find some spellbinder as clever as Anderson and set him on Anderson’s trail. Only thus can we hope to bring the discussion back to the merits of Local Option, that pious balderdash. Only thus can we prevent Anderson running away with the situation. Is such a virtuoso to be had? I think so. But obviously he is not to be sought among the political hacks and charlatans. For that job we need a man who has sense, and above all, a man who is not on trial.

From the court report of the estimable Daily Record:

Ex parte in the matter of the Baltimore Butchers’ Hide and Tallow Asso., No. 1, of Baltimore City, a corporation; petition for dissolution.

And no wonder! What chance have mere butchers got against the Hot Towel, with its enormous tallowing machines, its witch hazel pumps, its talcum blasts? Tallowing in Baltimore tends more and more to become a monopoly. A few private practitioners, true enough, still survive—Hook, McCay McCoy, Geheimrat Turner, an odd Prominent Baltimorean or two. But the Towel gradually conquers the trade. It has the facilities; it has the tallow; it has the divine frenzy, the insatiable lust to grease. What is more, it has the exclusive patronage of the one sublime customer who never gets enough.

Contributions to the Harry monument fund:

A bit slow, true enough, but the weather is still depressingly warm—and the Democratic Telegram has not yet begun to work its “letter of introduction.”

Col. Jacobus Hook, K. T., has promised a postcard -shower to every tax bailiff canned by the Camorra.—Adv.

When Bob Padgett thinks of Harry he is satisfied, and when he thinks of the courts he is even more satisfied.

Boil your drinking water! Engulf the typhoid vaccine! Send in your pennies for the Harry monument!

Say what you will ag’in the Hon. Dan Loden, you can’t say he don’t attend strictly to business. Dan is a politician first, last and all the time. Politics is his business and politics is his fun. He eats politics and uses politics to stuff his pillow. His very socks are political. Dan don’t waste no time teachlng Sunday-school on the one hand, nor he don’t waste no time running poolrooms on the other hand. He don’t wear so false whiskers to disguise his politics, nor he don’t use his politics to hide something else.—Adv.