Baltimore Evening Sun (3 October 1912): 6.

First Turner, and now Emmons? Whither are we drifting?

Part of a travel map circulated throughout Europe by the Cunard Line:

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Puzzle for bright young boomers: Find Baltimore.

Standing of the clubs in the National Typhoid League for the week ended September 7:

Oh, wurra, wurra! Down go the Orioles! Off flies the pennant!

But after all, there is yet hope. The above percentages are based on the death rate. Coming to the case rate, it appears that the Orioles still have a good chance to pull out of their rut:

A tax-payer is a low comedian who never gets no applause.

Tip for the Maryland Anti-Vivisection Society, the revived, the rah-rahing:

At the Johns Hopkins Medical School yesterday afternoon Dr. Ajax Bingo cut off the tail of a Russian wolfhound with a jig-saw.

An anti-vivisectionist is one who gags at a guinea pig and swallows a baby. Old, true enough, but still good for a few more rounds.

Why not a tax on platitudes? It would raise $10,000,000 a year--and from the very men who ought to pay a license fee for the privilege of remaining alive.

Another wise and benefictent tax would be one on boomers.

Still another would be one on honorary pallbearers.

Who got the better of the Anderson-Price slugging match? The tumult and the shouting dies; the blood has been mopped up; a judicial calm succeeds the heat and frenzy of combat. Did Price win? If so, what and how did he win? He proved, let us say, that he was not afraid of Satan. True enough. But in the proving he had to make a direct and open attack upon the local option bill--and the peasants of the Wicomico bottoms are in favor of local option. Who charged absurdly that Anderson had arranged to pack the hall? Who hemmed and hawed before the gong?

But did Anderson himself get any valuable thing out of the hullabaloo? Well, he got twenty columns of first-page space. For two brief days, at least, he crowded Woodrow and Gyp the Blood over the side-lines. A rabble-rouser by trade, he indubitably roused the rabble. Also, he did it in the tin shirt and brass helmet of a hero, bravely invading the foeman’s country, valiantly baring his chest to typhoons of mythical eggs. And so, allowing all you will for a bad case and a hostile atmosphere, he undoubedly gained a draw. Price, of course, was not murdered, but neither did he murder.

The moral for Rum Demonists? Look for better boys to defend the cup. One who can stand a beating is not what is wanted. The demand is for one who can administer a beating. In other words, it is not sufficient to oblige Anderson with a series of draws. The thing necessary is to knock him out. The more draws, the better off he is. Twenty draws in succession will help him almost as much as twenty victories.

After this one he remained in Salisbury, showing himself to the populace, exhibiting his honorable scars. On Sunday he preached local option from a Salisbury pulpit. The collection was three times as large as it had ever been before. Was this defeat? Was this the deed of a corpse?

What has become, by the way, of the play censors of yesteryear? Wasn’t there a plan on foot for setting up a. board of control? Didn’t various woman’s clubs indorse it? Didn’t it have the hearty support of the vice crusaders? And yet nothing more is heard of it! Ah, woe! Ah, lamentation!

Certainly the professional moralists of this town have here neglected a very promising opportunity. Nothing in the line of moral endeavor, not even the raiding of brothels, is more sensational and satisfying than play censoring. It attracts and inflames the newspapers. It keeps the animals stirred up. It is full of surprises and thrills.

Beside, the managers like it. Nothing helps a bad play more than the charge that it is immoral. Such pieces as “The Turtle,” “The Girl in the Barracks” and “The Degenerates,” famous a dozen years ago, had no other claim to consideration. “Alma, Wo Wohnst Du?”, a second-rate German musical comedy almost identical with a hundred other such pieces, was turned into a gold mine by the moralists’ attack. “La Dame aux Camelias” was denounced in 1858--and is good for a packed house still. The absurd charge that “A Doll’s House” was indecent made Henrik Ibsen the richest man in Norway.

Again, there is the public to think of. As I have said, it likes spicy entertainment. Nothing gives it more pleasure than indelicacy. But it can’t depend on the newspapers for tips, for newspaper notices of theatrical perfornances are written by men so brutish that only the grossest indecency attracts their notice. Therefore, censors are necessary–censors sensitive to the slightest impropriety and eager to make it known. We have in Baltimore many gentlemen who are superbly fitted for the work. Why not organize them into a board and let them serve their fellow-men? Why let their great talent go to waste?