Baltimore Evening Sun (16 June 1913): 6.
Resolutions passed at yesterday’s conclave of the Lord’s Day Alliance:
We record our emphatic judgment of the increasing value and need of the Rest Day, alike for the social, moral and religious needs of the community.
So say we all. But rest from what? Rest from the snouting snd tale-bearing of hired bravos; rest from the intolerable slander and persecution of poor folks; rest from sectarian slugging under the cover of public service; rest from the present saturnalia of impudence, hypocrisy and bosh.
A DAILY THOUGHT. Alas, for the South; her books have grown fewer-- She never was much given to literature. --J. Gordon Cooglar.
The Hon. William H. Anderson, master of the boozehounds, devotes practically the whole of the current number of the American Issue to an ecstatic oiling of the Hon. Young Cochran, the celebrated beyond-Levering and flabbergaster of the Rum Demon. The cover of the American Issue is adorned with a large zinc etching of the hon. gent., somehow recalling the portraits of grapplers and burlesque queens printed in the Police Gazette, and under it, in 10-point type, is the statement that he is “the most liberal contributor to temperance work in the country, if not in the entire world.” So be it! Let him take the blue ribbon! Let him wrap the Richard K. Fox diamond belt around him, and lie down to pleasant dreams!
The first four pages of the Issue are devoted to a fervid biography of the Hon. Mr. Cochran, written in the Hon. Mr. Anderson’s most impassioned and voluptuous style. By this biography it appears that the Hon. Mr. Cochran began his moral career at the age of 5½ years by contributing 35 cents to the heathen of Patagonia, most of whom have since become Dunkards. At the ageof 7 he gave up cigarettes and popcorn, and two years later he said good-by to the Rum Demon. Since then, for a period of nearly 30 years, his sole stimulant has been moral endeavor. Coke and nicotine have never crossed his lips. He abhors Rhine wine, the corncob pipe, chloral, hasheesh, cocktails, chewing tobacco, iced tea and the betel nut. Hop and hops are alike obnoxious to him. He has never tasted Pilsener.
Well, well, well! A very excellent young man, indeed! A champion who could allow the Hon. Eugene Levering 20 or 30 pounds, and yet beat him to the pump. What is more, his life of asceticism has not perceptibly withered his sinews. He has what the cognoscenti call a stiff punch, and at the recent convention of the Episcopalians he landed it upon the larynx of the Rum Demon. The Hon. Mr. Anderson, who has himself done much sanguinary execution upon the Demon, admits freely that this wallop was harder and straighter than any of his own. As the family solicitor of the Demon (and, perhaps, his executor upon some lugubrious tomorrow) I agree with the Hon. Mr. Anderson. This Young Cochran is the toughest boy yet put forward by the chemically pure, and if he keeps on growing he will one day drop the Demon for the fatal count of 10.
Frankly, gents, I begin to despair of bibbery in these parts. It is a doomed art. The yokels of the counties, aroused to incandescence by the bogus statistics and melodramatic sobs of the Hon. Mr. Anderson, are ready to put us bibuli to the torture. Give them a fair chance, and they will vote us dry. That vote, of course, will be no more than a vote. Ardent spirits will still be on tap in an infinitude of speak-easies. Every second blackamoor will be a walking kaif. But there are those among us, alas, who are so uppish and fastidious that we do not care to drink at speak-easies and walking kaifs. We want to stretch our legs in decent and even luxurious surroundings. We want to take our ease in our comfortable inns, our upholstered drinking rooms, our gilded hells. Upon us the heaviest burden will fall. Our happiness will be sacrificed to give the Hon. Mr. Cochran his angel’s wings . So ist das Leben--under a moral democracy.
But don’t put all of the blame upon Cochran. The real villain, the authentic Machiavelli, is the Hon. Mr. Anderson, one of the most serpentine and subterranean conspirators since the days of Catiline. Time and again I have called attention to the chicaneries of this diabolical fellow--how he wins such eager job-seekers as the Hon. Isaac Lobe Straus with soft promises and subtle threats, how he bribes young preachers with free trips to Columbus, Ohio; how he shakes down the Sunday-schools by dint of unparalleled rhetoric and paralogy, how he goes about this fair State with his knapsack full of bogus statistics, inflaming the muzhiks to deeds of moral deviltry. The day that the prohibition amendment is passed in Maryland the coffee, Coca-Cola and ginger-pop dealers should give the Hon. Mr. Anderson a purse of $500,000. And that same day we Pilseneers should lure him up some dark alley and flay him with keg staves, and beat out his brains with seidels.
From “The Walled City: the Story of the Criminal Insane,” by Edward Huntington Williams, M. D., late of Matteawan:
Those who do not believe in the beneficial effects of such forms of amusement as theatres, concerts and stage entertainments in general, will find food for thought in the fact that such entertainments are considered among the most beneficial forms of treatment for insanity.
That is to say, on week-days. But on Sundays, as every “expert” in morals knows, the one effect of concerts and other such exhibitions is to lure the common people into unspeakable debauchery, and to set them to murdering one another.
The estimable Democratic Telegram of this week gives over its first page to a large holzschnitt of the Hon. John Pleasants, Clerk of Circuit Court No. 2, and in its literary section it announces that he is a candidate for election, and that “it has been his habit for some years to send turkeys and other delicacies [probably schwartenmagen, blutwurst and bohnensalat] to poor and deserving families during the holidays.” In addition, the Telegram applies the frankincense to the Hon. Emerson C. Harrington, sneers at the Newspaper Publicity law, smiles benignantly upon the Hon. Isaac Lobe Straus, the solaricide, and presents a fake picture of the forced feeding of English suffragettes. All in all, a varied and valuable number of a gazette that should be always welcome at the domestic hearth.--Adv.
Eight cents cash for the name of an anti who can lay her hand on her heart and say that she has never darned 40 socks in 40 days.--Adv.