Baltimore Evening Sun (27 January 1913): 6.


A play called “The Painted Woman” is to have its premier in Baltimore on February 10. Can it be that the self-appointed guardians of our virtue are to let this opportunity go to waste? Where is Alice Hackett? Where are the Levering brothers? Where is Jane Snookems? Where is the incomparable Pentz, that toreador of purity? True enough, my moral snouters bring me news that the piece is entirely harmless, and even edifying. But what has that to do with it? Must a moralist wait for evidence? Have things come to such a pass that the truth halts the cause? I hope not.

How the esteemed Towel refers to the honorary pallbearers of the Merchants and Manufacturers’ Association:

Men who make the wheels go round in Baltimore.

A characterization subtly apt, humorous and merciless.

Meanwhile, let us all hope that the Hon. the super-Mahon will begin his attack upon the consciences of the rural editors by advertising the city bank statement. Next he might print the history of his unsuccessful effort to put over the two-year paving clause and so help Paving Bob. Then he might print the curriculum pursued by city paving inspectors in Bob’s college. And finally, he might describe the process of “improving” the Health Department with selectod strains of ward heelers.

From the Maryland Suffrage News of this week:

General Bonaparte

A new proof of the growing militancy of the suffragettes. In the past they were content with doctors and professors, but now they run to generals and admirals, hussars and bombardiers. Even we advocates of the suffrage who are men of peace must submit to this sinister epauletting. Dr. O. Edward Janney, with the dews of Lake Mohonk still upon him, becomes a sergeant-major, and I myself enroll as a vivandiere. As for Dr. Hooker, once a simple shochet, he is now surgeon-general, with the pay and allowances of a brigadier. Let the steam calliope play “The Charge of the Uhlans.”

My spies bring me news that the Hon. Satan Anderson gave me a flick or two of pomade at yesterday’s muster of the kaifhounds. Not to be outdone in courteous lubrication, I hereby nominate him for the Nobel prize “for works of the imagination,” and for the Richard K. Fox Police Gazette diamond belt for rabble-rousing and harricide. The Hon. Mr. Anderson’s one defect is a lack of gemuethlichkeit, a chronic biliousness, an irresistable impulse to currycomb the nerves of such genii as the Archangel Harry. A single seidel of genuine Pilsner would make him perfect.

The estimable Evening Serviette, spurred on, no doubt, by the pathetic bellowing of the Archangel Harry, that prince of martyrs, has gone to the brave length of printing an editorial against the licentious Sunpaper. The specifications in that editorial are somew vague, but the spirit it reveals is commendable. It is refreshing, in brief, to see such a journal as the Serviette adopting even temporarily the methods of open and honorable controversy. Time was when it chiefly devoted itself to printing bogus “letters” from mythical “subscribers,” thus seeking to do its fighting anonymously and in safety. These letters, of course, were written in the Serviette office. I made a public accusation to that effect at the time, and called upon any member of the Serviette staff to deny it upon his word of honor, but no volunteer came forward. Now, however, the Serviette stands out in the open and has its say. That say, true enough, may be donkeyish--as, in fact, it is--but at all events it gives earnest of a growing and gratifying decency.

I am informed on good authority, by the way, that the Serviette is putting in a new goose-grease machine against the heavy demands and emergencies of the Archangel’s Senatorial campaign. That campaign. I have no doubt, will be the most oleaginous ever seen in Christendom. Though it has yet to start, the hon. gent. Is already leaking oceans of virtuous tears and exposing his artificial wounds to the shocked gaze of passersby. Once the cannonading actually begins, he will need greasing daily. And the Serviette, like its mother, the Hot Towel, is there to oblige. It is skillful with the cocoa butter. It has talent with the vaseline. Its lard technique is little short of magnificent. When it lays on the talcum and pockets the tip, there is music as of æolian harps.

A list of the national banks holding inactive city deposits, showing the relation between those deposits and their total resources:

Ratio Between Resources City and Resources. Deposits. Deposits. National Exchange $1,600,000 $45,000 2.81% Farmers and Merchants’ 875,000 45,000 5.14% Citizens’ 2,500,000 45,000 1.80% First 1,350,000 45,000 3.33% Bank of Baltimore 1,460,700 45,000 3.08% National Union 1,500,000 45,000 3.00% National City 625,000 45,000 8.00% Drovers and Mechanics’ 1,000,000 45,000 4.50% Old Town 240,000 65,000 27.08%

By which it appears that the Old Town National, the smallest, by long odds, of all these banks, has the largest city deposit, not only relatively but also actually. It has 44 per cent. more hard cash on deposit than the Citizens’, which has just four times its resources. And, relatively speaking, it has just 15 times as much. It has nine or ten times as much as such big banks as the National Exchange, the Bank of Baltimore and the National Union. It has three and a third times as much as the National City, the next most favored depository.

The president and wiskinski of the old Town National is the Hon. Jacobus Hook, K. T., of whom you have probably heard tell. The Hon. Mr. Hook is a suave and ingratiating gentleman. Whenever the super-Mahon has had a new scheme on the mat he has made a gallant fight for it before the Old Town Merchants and Manufacturers’ Association. When the super-Mahon desired to juggle jobs in the Tax Department, he politely departed for Europe and so left the way clear. And at all times and everywhere he is the super-Mahon’s admirer and friend, defending him at synods of the improvement associations, greasing him rapturously at public banquets, yielding delightedly to his thirsts and whims.

The other bank presidents, I daresay, are less oleaginous. They do not sing the official hymn. They do not lay on the goose grease. They do not dust the grateful talcum. And they do not got the tip.