Part 2
Mrs. Belmont, when I saw her in a picture studio, was sitting on the edge of a piece of scenery, smoking a cigarette that she had borrowed from a stage hand. She was excitedly debating an exciting question. She was contending that Jack Dempsey could have licked Jack Johnson when the big dinge was at his very best.
It happened that I sat in a business conference with Anne Morgan the other day. She was the most simple and democratic person present. She sat still and listened until every one else had expressed his opinion. Finally she threw away the butt of her cigarette and said abruptly, “Look here. We are all talking around in circles and getting nowhere.” Then she stated the case with the directness and clarity of a corporation lawyer. “You know,” she said in explanation, “My father was a banker.” I wonder if she thought she was telling anybody any news! J. Pierpont Morgan was the said father.
Mrs. Morgan Belmont isn’t likely to squeeze Mary Pickford out of her job. She was just in pictures on account of her name. In the case of Mrs. Lydig Hoyt, however, it is different. She is really a marvelously beautiful woman and may go far in the cinema.
Like most of the women in society, she is sick of gadding around tea parties. This stuff may be all right in F. Scott Fitzgerald flapper novels, but gets wearisome in real life.
Speaking of F. Scott Fitzgerald, I understand that Princeton University is so vexed with this youthful prodigy that he discreetly omits the usual dutiful visits to his alma mater. What’s ailing Princeton is Mr. Fitzgerald’s book, “This Side of Paradise,” in which he told some painful truths about college life. I couldn’t see anything so terrible about it; but Princeton was touchy.
In fact, I don’t see how anybody could “stay mad” at this child of genius. He is really a charming boy. He looks about seventeen, with those he-vamp blue eyes. I understand that “This Side of Paradise” was practically his own life, except that he really married the young society flapper who “trun him down” in the book. She is a very beautiful girl and the boy genius is obviously crazy about her.
Another “best seller” who is looking at the tall buildings of New York is Harold Bell Wright, the sales of whose books have now amounted to something over 9,000,000 copies.
The first time I ever saw the illustrious Harold was in Chicago, where he had come to sell his first books. He was a green little country preacher from a “riding” circuit in the Ozark mountains in Arkansas. He was so green that a sure-thing man would have been ashamed to sell him gold bricks. He looked pained when you spoke of writing for money; he said he only wrote to give a message to the world. I saw him again at the Waldorf the other day. He has made a couple of million dollars; got a divorce and a Rolls-Royce and other modern equipment.
In spite of his enormous success as a best seller, I am told that Harold has a canker eating at his heart. He grieves because the literary critics will not take his work seriously, but “kid” him as a “he” Laura Jean Libbey.
The other day, New York was electrified by a story that Hearst had quarreled with Marion Davies and that that attractive young lady was to cease to be a film star in the Hearst studios. But if there was a row, Marion must have won the bout. She is not only still the queen at the studio at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth street, but her brother-in-law has just been placed in supreme command. I am told that everything is getting on with peace and harmony—the kind of peace and harmony where nobody dares to be the first to leave a group and always walks out of the room sideways with his back to the wall.
And now that we are speaking about Hearst—Like all men of brilliant mind, he has his little eccentricities. His is that he never can find his automobile. He owns some twenty cars, but never can find one. He brings his car downtown; forgets it and walks away to the nearest taxicab. The chauffeur waits around until he knows that W. R. is lost again and goes home. Wherefore you invariably encounter Hearst riding around New York in sad and disreputable looking taxicabs. Occasionally, he asks his subordinates if “anybody knows where I left my automobile.” Hearst, however, is a man of penetrating intellect. Don’t let anybody tell you the old yarn about his success being due to his brilliant subordinates. He has a mind that cuts like a slashing knife.
To meet him personally, you would think him the newest and meekest reporter in the Hearst service. He comes into the offices of his hired men with a shy bashful air and usually says, “I hope I am not in the way.” But just let them try to disobey his orders and see how meek he is. Wow!
Our old friend, Wilbur F. Crafts, the reformer, has spent a busy summer in New York. He has been horrified in turn over the Dempsey-Carpentier fight, over the frightful case of some girls who wore one-piece bathing suits at Atlantic City; over some good respectable families who wanted to walk down to the beach in their regular clothes, with their bathing suits underneath and slip off the top layer, thus foiling the bath house robbers. Wilbur also had a spasm of excitement because Tex Rickard had some children from Panama giving some exhibitions of swimming in his big pool in Madison Square Garden.
Some time ago, in a censorship hearing, I actually heard the Rev. Wilbur admit that he was wrong. He had presented a bill he wanted passed, creating a national censorship. One of his friends on the congressional committee raised his eyes humbly to the chandeliers and said he wanted to offer a criticism. Rev. Crafts said he always welcomes honest criticism; he tried to do his humble best, but if wrong, wanted to be corrected; hence he would yield to the congressional gentleman and accept his amendment. The amendment was to boost the salary of the job Rev. Crafts was after from $4,000 to $8,000 a year. He certainly yielded like a Christian martyr.
But about these girls and their one-piece suits that shocked Atlantic City almost beyond human endurance.
Near Atlantic City is a little strip of beach called Somer’s Point. When the police chased the Annette Kellermanns off the beach at Atlantic City, the mayor of Somer’s Point said they could come to his beach, b’ gosh. And so they went—and so the road around Somer’s Point has been blocked all summer—and so Mayor Robert Crissey, who is seventy-two, but has young ideas, is famous. A discreet man is Mayor Crissey, nevertheless.
After the first Sunday of the girl show, he issued a statement in which he said he thought one-piece suits were all right. “And,” he added with a burst of real inspiration, “I am going to buy my wife one just like ’em.”
Some one has lifted up his voice and wept because, among the other famous New York gin palaces to go with incoming prohibition, is the far-famed one formerly run by Tom Sharkey, the old sailor heavy weight fighter.
Tom was a funny old fellow with not much more than a distant acquaintance with English grammar and such.
When he completed his fine saloon, one of his first visitors was his former manager, Tim McGrath. They looked over the place together. At length Tim said to him, “Tom, you have a fine place, but there is one thing more you should do to it.”
“And what’s that?” said Tom suspiciously.
“Right here above the entrance you should have a fine big chandelier.”
“Yeh, I know,” replied Tom, yawning, “But who would I get to play it?”
That “Garden-of-Eden” party with naked young ladies dancing, outside of Boston, which cost Adolph Zukor and Hi Abrams, the movie magnates, $100,000 to quiet, and which may cost the Massachusetts district attorney his job, was the second time this year the aforesaid magnates have burst into fame.
They—at least one of them—is said to have been in the big stud poker party in which a slick gent with marked cards took in a circle of movie men for a cool $500,000. They had him arrested, but dropped the case because the department of public charities of New York set up a claim for five times the amount of the money lost as a penalty for playing poker—which is the New York law.
I can tell you a little secret about that game. That slicker would have been trimming them yet except for the quick wittedness of Norma Talmadge.
It was at their home—of herself and her husband, Mr. Schenk—that the game had been taking place once a week for months. Coming suddenly into the hall, Norma saw the slick guest slip a pack of cards into his overcoat pocket and take another pack. She told her husband and the slicker was caught red-handed.
Even New York, the town of spenders, gave a little gasp when the “Spanish Jade” stepped out of Greenwich Village and went shopping on the Avenue.
The lady’s real name is Elizabeth Darrow. She was the belle of the village, when a young naval officer named Frederick Linde Ryan blew in with his new uniform and innocent illusions. He was married to the “Spanish Jade” and they began housekeeping on Riverside Drive.
The boy, struggling along on his naval pay, tried patiently and loyally and uncomplainingly to pay; but his debts soon amounted to $20,000, with cigarettes at a dollar a pack and chocolates at $5.00 a pound. The other day the case was brought into court at the instance of one of the boy’s friends and the court ruled that the boy need not continue further to pay the bills.
As a sort of free circus the “Village” does well enough for a little while; but it would seem a dubious place to find a wife.
* * * * *
Thus It Was
He was young, good looking and had plenty of money. She was also young and good looking, but lacked the money. Consequently she anxiously awaited for manifestations of affection.
“What have you named your new island home?” she inquired one evening, following his description of the wonderful island he had purchased in a neighboring lake.
“Isle of View,” he answered, and has since been wondering what happened to the young lady to make her throw herself in his arms.
* * * * *
There was a cross-eyed judge in Chicago who had three cross-eyed prisoners brought before him. Turning to the first, he said, “What is your name?” and the second replied, “James Smith.” Turning to the second, he said, rather severely, “I wasn’t talking to you.” The third one said, “I didn’t say anything.”
* * * * *
Wife—Mistress—Lady
_The following is translated from the German, and published in the Gazette of the Union, February, 1856_:
Who marries from love takes a wife; who marries for the sake of convenience takes a mistress; who marries from consideration takes a lady. You are loved by your wife, regarded by your mistress, tolerated by your lady. You have a wife for yourself, a mistress for your house and its friends, a lady for the world. Your wife will agree with you, your mistress will accommodate you, your lady will manage you. Your wife will take care of your household, your mistress of your house, your lady of appearances. If you are sick your wife will nurse you, your mistress will visit you, and your lady inquire after your health. You take a walk with your wife, a ride with your mistress, and join parties with your lady. Your wife will share your grief, your mistress your money, your lady your debt. If you are dead, your wife will shed tears, your mistress lament, and your lady wear mourning. A year after death your wife marries again, in six months your mistress, and in six weeks, or sooner, when mourning is over, your lady.
* * * * *
Wifey’s Lament
Clarence—“Do you think it will rain?”
Doris—“What?”
Clarence—“Say yes.”
Doris—“I said yes the other day and got myself in grief.”
Clarence—“When?”
Doris—“The other day.”
_Questions and Answers_
=_Dear Cap_=—Are we not all descendants of the monkey?
No, we are not. My folks came from Wales.
* * * * *
=_Dear Skipper_=—Can you tell me why a black cow gives white milk that makes yellow butter?—=_Helen Bach._=
For the same reason that blackberries are red when they are green.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Bill_=—What do you think of a man who throws a girl a kiss?—=_Ima Blower._=
I think he’s the laziest man in the world.
* * * * *
=_Dear Farmer Bill_=—How do you keep milk from souring?—=_Reggie._=
Leave it in the cow.
* * * * *
=_Dear Cap_=—Why is it that professors claim touch to be the most delicate of all the senses?—=_Hook M. Cowe._=
Well, here’s why: when you sit on a pin you can’t see it, you can’t hear it, you can’t taste it—but it is there.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain_=—What is a button?—=_Holly Woode._=
A small event that always comes off.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—The waiters in our city of Brainerd have just organized a union and wish you would kindly suggest some sort of a yell to hand the cooks when they raise the dickens with us.—=_Tillie Olson._=
My feeble effort:
Grape nut, Grape nut, Malta vita force. Keep your trap closed. Well, of course. We want oysters, Rah! Rah! Rah! Nabisco wafers Bah!!
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—I am about to organize a nice little club for thirsty people. What motto should our organization adopt?—=_Sipper Jin._=
How about this one: “If you don’t see what you want, ask for it.”
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What were the two most popular ballads of the American doughboy in France?—=_Mona Long._=
Before the armistice it was “I Want to Go Home.” Afterwards it was “If You Want to Go Home, Just Let Them Alone.”
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Billy_=—My father is a motor-man, and my mother is a conductorette. What am I?—=_Enter Tainem._=
A transfer.
* * * * *
=_Dear Cap’n_=—What is a Pomeranian Whiff Sniff?—=_Willack Fulish._=
A Pomeranian Whiff Sniff is a species of small wooly dog with the curious habit of trying to climb telegraph poles, hind feet first.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain_=—Being as you are an etiquette expert, I would like to ask if it is a gentleman’s duty to approach a young lady and tell her that her eyebrow is on crooked and that she has a speck of soot on her right ankle?—=_Inquisitive Andy._=
A gentleman is not supposed to notice the details of a lady’s attire. He is supposed to be in a state of rapturous admiration of the tout ensemble.
* * * * *
=_Captain Billy_=—Is a sallow, pale skin always affected by weak people?—=_I. M. Payle._=
Dear Payle—Not always! I know a chap that was very dark, but he found a pair of dice and right from then he began to fade, and fade and fade.
* * * * *
=_Dear Skipper Bill_=—Why is a ship always called “She”?—=_M. T. Beane._=
Probably because the rigging costs more than the hull.
* * * * *
=_Dear Farmer Bill_=—What is the best way to make both ends meet?—=_Lady de Barbour._=
Learn to be a contortionist.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What, in your opinion, does love most resemble?—=_Georgette._=
A roast beef sandwich. Two thin slices of sentiment and the rest filled in with bull.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Billiam_=—What kind of hand does a card sharper win with?—=_Pokker Feene._=
An I-deal hand.
* * * * *
=_Dear Cap_=—Why are eggs much smaller now than in the past?—=_Lee Way._=
I suppose it’s because they’re taken out of the nest too soon.
* * * * *
=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—A story in a New York paper says a dancer has insured her legs for $125,000. What’s the idea?—=_Lew D. Fiske._=
We don’t know definitely, Lew.
* * * * *
=_Dear Skipper Bill_=—What war material did Chili export to the Allies during the war?—=_Clara Voyant._=
Beans.
* * * * *
=_Dear Bill_=—If you’re a good little astronomer I know you’ll tell me what star was recently measured, and found to be of enormous size?—=_May Triatit._=
Fatty Arbuckle, I guess.
* * * * *
=_Dear Captain Willy_=—A waiter in the Waldorf Flaskoria spilled hot soup down my neck, and when I remonstrated with him, the horrid old thing only snapped his fingers at me. Have you any words to describe such creature?—=_Ferdie Nann._=
I would say that he is too soupercillious.
* * * * *
=_Dear Farmer Bill_=—Why is it you farmers always dress your scarecrows in men’s clothing?—=_Sack Kitt._=
Well, if we dressed them in women’s clothes there’d be sure to be some old birds hanging around.
* * * * *
A friend of the Whiz Bang who served with the British forces during the World War sends us the following, which he claims was a favorite song among the “Limies.”
When this bloody war is over Oh, how happy we will be; No more hiking, no more drilling, No retreat or reville. No more shining up brass buttons, No more asking for a “leave,” For we’ll tell the sergeant-major To shove his passes in his sleeve.
* * * * *
_I know a young woman called Kitty._ _In the dance-hall she looks very pretty._ _But the next day at ten,_ _If you saw her then—_ _Oh, my gawd! What a pity!_
* * * * *
Their Specialty
Written by a dealer in electric washing machines:
“Don’t kill your wife. Get one of our machines to do the dirty work.”
* * * * *
Friend tells us that the way Clinton’s in New Haven advertises the record is: “Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming with Male Chorus, $1.25.” This ad was evidently written by the gent who said: “I stand back of every bed I sell.”
* * * * *
With a girl of twenty, marriage is an adventure; at twenty-five, a career; at thirty, a goal; and at forty, a haven of rest.
_Whiz Bang Editorials_
“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet._”
In the old days, to the women fell the task of making gentlemen of the men, but not now-a-days, according to our friend, Bob Toole, who claims that the boys keep the girls in line during this grand and glorious age of jazz.
In dancing, conversing, playing, courting and “spooning,” the standards of young boys and girls were fixed in the good old colonial days, by the girls. Their natural feminine modesty erected sensible social barriers and the chivalry of men made them sacred and preserved them.
This order has been changed. Men now fix the standards. Naturally, they are not as high as they “used to be.” A man is not as particular in things moral and esthetic as the average girl. The modern man makes a jazz hound of his lady. The modern girl endures a lot of things she inherently dislikes. She puts up with annoying behavior just to be a good fellow. She really doesn’t like this cheek-to-cheek and wiggly dancing; but she stands for it, for she is too good a scout to be a kill-joy. And just because she is such a good fellow about it, the men—good-hearted fools!—become less lax in their behavior until they unconsciously impose on good nature.
Fellows, we’re going back again to the standards set by the natural modesty and sweet reserve of the girls! And we’re going to like it, too!
With wine gone, a “powerful” incentive to excessive “good fellowship” has been removed. With equal suffrage a fact, girls will unconsciously resent extreme impositions on their fine comradeship. There is certain to be a good natured reaction on a part of the ladies. They are going to set new standards. Not by law; by sweet common sense. Femininity will never revert to prudery, but girls are going to amend sensibly that “go-as-far-as-you-like” policy of good fellowship so that men will realize girls are less common and more wonderful than ever before.
And, we repeat, we’ll like it.
Go to it, girls! Make us be good!
* * * * *
An Ohio editor allows that a man in Columbus got himself into a ton of trouble by marrying two women without the formality of divorce from the first. A Western observer points out that a good many men in that section had gotten that way by marrying just one. A Southern editor has retorted by alleging that quite a few of his friends found trouble enough by merely promising to marry without going any further. And an old doughboy friend of ours collected a goodly surplussage of grief when he was simply found in company with another man’s wife.
* * * * *
If two souls are happily mated, there is no reason why either should live in or refer to the past. Their Eden is in the present and the future of what may be and not what has been. The man or woman should be sacredly silent about the dead past, unless there is some person or something which sooner or later may rise to bring darkness or death. The Bible basis of marriage is a love which takes for better or worse the heart which it calls its own. People ought not to marry unless they are so devoted to each other that any later knowledge of what either may have been or done would make no difference.
Man’s inhumanity to woman is often earthly, selfish and devilish. Women are naturally and generally better than men. If they err, it is usually the man’s fault. The average young man is fortunate to secure any girl to live with him as his wife. Keep still and ask no questions is the wise way. There is no double moral standard for speech or silence for man or woman. At the marriage altar, heaven demands no more of the woman than of the man. That a woman should tell the past to a man who insists, though it is none of his business, or that she should persist in confessing to him when he does not care to hear it, is a piece of folly of which some women are guilty. Where ignorance is bliss “’tis folly to be wise.” After marriage it will do no good to tell what you said and did before. There are many homes now happy, as if made under the wings of the angels, whose members at one time left the paradise of innocence and wandered beneath a roofless world.
Love is blind. A true and genuine lover does not want to hear a girl’s past; and if he did hear it from her own or another’s lips, it would make no difference to him. If any one is to tell let it be the man, for usually it is the woman and not he who runs the risk of a past. Let the man confess who places the material above the mental and moral and thinks of a wife as a cheap luxury, and of home as a dry-dock of repairs. No matter how greatly discrowned, a woman may be recrowned. With her, heaven is in the future and not in any past, she may serve, give, work and pray with the love that is the crown jewel in her diadem.
The sweetheart who is willing to be a wife is not man’s inferior or superior, but equal in personal equivalent. The mere accident or providence of sex does not entitle a man to any special privileged of conduct before or after he is husband. Man’s character is judged by his estimate of women. Such a poem as Hood’s “Bridge of Sighs” or Goldsmith’s “Folly” would be impossible if men remembered not to act the part of Faust to Margaret.
“Go in peace and sin no more,” was the command to the fallen woman. Confess to the one you have wronged, but don’t make a boastful show before others. There are converted sinners in the pulpit and prayer meeting who make a glory of their shame, unmindful of the advice, “See thou tell no man.” It is the unpardonable sin of society that it would cast and keep in deeper hell the woman with a past, though she be willing to purify herself in the fire of remorse and baptize herself with tears of repentance.