Baltimore Evening Sun (1 November 1912): 6.
The Hon. William H. Anderson in his counterblast to the Hon. Bob Crain:
There are a great many things that look different to the clear white light of the day after.
Is this a confession, or can it be that ice-cream and lemonade have the same effect?
VOTE FOR THE SEWER RENTAL PLAN
I am in favor of the sewer rental plan for several reasons. One of those reasons is that I shall have the collection of the rentals, and that will mean an increase in my clerical force * * * and more places for competent Democrats of the Nineteenth ward.--The Hon. Daniel Joseph Loden.
At last the Hon. S. S. Field, LL.D., gets his rights under the lex non scripta. In all of the massmeeting advertisements printed this morning he is frankly accorded the title of Hon. No more of S. S Field, Esq.! No more of plain S. S. Field!
But the Hon. Aristides Sophocles Goldsborough is still on probation. In one advertisement, true enough, he appears as the Hon. A. S. Goldsborough, but exactly an inch and a half below he is merely A. S.. Goldsborough, Esq. Such are the trials and burdens of great statesmen! Meanwhile, the Hon. W. Cabell Bruce, who has always been Hon. in the past, is now reduced to plain W. Cabell Bruce, without even an Esq. A prophecy, no doubt, of what is going to happen to him when the time comes to distribute the jobs.
All of the local newspapers have rules against the use of black type on their first pages. In consequence, a certain great statesman appears constantly and absurdly in modest nonpariel caps, as follows:
HON. JAMES H. PRESTON.
But there is no rule against the use of circus type on this page of The Evening Sun, and so I hereby give him, as a peace offering and in common justice, the typographical prominence that is his due:
James H. Preston.
The Builders’ Exchange, after long and prayerful thought, has decided, by a majority of 3 votes, to support the sewer rental plan. This makes the score 1 to 86. And it is the ninth inning. And two men are out.
From the grease-stained Hot Towel of this morning:
With Mayor Preston and Col. Jacob W. Hook in attendance * * * 30,000 persons turned out last night * * * on North Bond street.
A dozen to see Harry and 29,989 to hear Jake.
Boil your drinking water! Cover your garbage can! Swat the few surviving palsied flies!
The betting odds in the Eutaw Street poker-rooms, as reported by the Vice Crusaders:
1 to 1,000 that Woodrow has promised to make Harry Ambassador to England. 1,000 to 1 that he hasn’t.
What has become, by the way, of the super-Mahon’s crusade against Sunday novel-reading? Crusades begin, inflate, burst and die. Six or seven months ago the police were hot after the Sunday-selling delicatessen stores of East Baltimore street. Today it is possible to buy enough servelatswurst and lachsschinken to feed an army corps any Sunday evening. All summer, the Lord’s Day Alliance hammered the county cops for permitting Sunday murders at Back River. Today the county cops sit close to the stoves, carving peach kernels and pondering upon the mutability of all things human. A crusade against moving-picture parlors inflamed us two years ago. Today no more is heard of it, and the shameless screens show such debaucheries as “Ten Nights in a Barroom” and “Camille.” Once upon a time we had theatre censors. Now they are no more.
Alas, morality would appear to be a self-limiting disease. The human system cannot stand much of it. We are incurably sinful. Let the germs of virtue but enter our arteries and at once the phagocytes of deviltry tackle them, biting their ankles, whaling them with slapsticks, planting torpedoes and cakes of soap in their path. So ist das Leben. Great moralists have raged and roared for 10,000 years, and yet in this yera of grace 1912, with an incessant whooping going on in innumerable rings, seven of the nine justices of the Supreme Court of the United States still chew tobacco.
Only four days more! And then the katzenjammer and the charges of fraud!
’Tis more blessed to give than receive, particularly wedding presents.
The Hon. James Harry Preston to the braves assembled in Weant’s Hall, as reported by the official Towel:
Of the $700,000,000 required to support the Government $315,000,000 must be collected through the custom houses, and it is needless to say that * * * in order to raise this amount of money the tariff must be high. So that a low tariff or free trade is not to be considered and cannot be thought of under our existing financial requirements.
An excellent campaign document, it would seem–for the Republicans.
Since the year 1890 Col. Jacobus Hook has given away 724,500 authentic ten-cent cigars to the Old Town Merchants--and now they show their gratitude by blowing smoke in his eyes!--Adv.
Meanwhile, it would be a good idea to take a poll of some of the Taft ward clubs. Teddy would carry four-fifths of them.
From an advertisement in yesterday’s Hot Towel:
hon. s. s. field. hon. james h. preston.
Note the batting order. Alas, this goes further than triumph: it is treason!
A novel in verse that might be worse:
“Jack ------,” by Gilbert Frankan (Doran).
The boomers! The boomers! These lovely autumn days they’re raking up the change and smearing mayonnaise!
The Concord Club is in favor of Woodrow, but more in favor of the sewer rental plan, and still more in favor of letting Dan distribute the jobs.--Adv.