Part 7

George H. Derby was born of poor but well educated parents in Norfolk county, Massachusetts, in 1823. Little is known of his boyhood or early life. He entered the West Point military academy while yet a youth, and graduated from that institution in 1846. The same year he became engaged in the war with Mexico and continued in the field during the larger part of the year following. He was present at the battle of Vera Cruz and Cerro Gordo, and was made brevet first lieutenant at the former place. He received a severe wound during the latter engagement. He remained with the regular army at the close of the war, and was sent upon various surveys and expeditions from 1847 to 1852. During the two years following the last named date, Derby was engaged on the improvement of San Diego, California, harbor, and the next year he was on the staff of the commanding general and had charge of the military roads, department of the Pacific. In 1856 he was on the coast survey, and in the two years following was light-house engineer.

While sojourning on the Pacific coast Derby first began writing for the San Francisco papers and magazines. His contributions consisted mainly of humorous sketches written under the signature of John Phoenix. These sketches attracted general attention among the Pacific States, and in 1855 were published in book form under the title of Phoenixiana, or Sketches and Burlesques. The book was well received, and ten or twelve editions were exhausted. Four years later a second volume was issued under the title of Squibob Papers. This volume also met with a large and ready sale. Early in 1861 Derby took up his residence in New York, and produced a number of humorous sketches which were never published in book form. He died suddenly on the 15th of May, 1861, at the age of thirty-eight. Although young in years and not having reached the acme of his fame, his work still lives and is recognized as one of the most prominent species of American humor.

Derby’s humor is something like that of Artemus Ward, yet it is peculiarly original and is vastly different from the writings of the so-called funny men of the present day. Among the many good things from Derby’s pen are the following:

LATE.

Passing by one of our doggeries about 3 A. M. the other morning, from which proceeded “a sound of revelry by night,” a hapless stranger on his homeward way paused to obtain a slight refreshment, and to the host he said: “It appears to me your visitors are rather late to-night.” “Oh, no,” replied the worthy landlord, “the boys of San Diego generally run for forty-eight hours, stranger; _it’s a little late for night before last_, but for to-night! why, it’s just in the shank of the evening.” Volumes could not have said more.

FOR SALE.

A valuable law library, lately the property of a distinguished legal gentleman of San Francisco, who has given up practice and removed to the Farralone Islands. It consists of one volume of “Hoyle’s Games,” complete and may be seen at this office.

WANTED.

Back numbers of the Democratic Review, speeches and writings of Jefferson, Coffroth, Calhoun, Bigler, Van Buren and others. Copies of the San Joaquin Republican, files of the Times and Transcript (a few at a time), and a diagram representing the construction of the old United States bank, for the use of a young man desirous of turning Democrat. Apply at this office (by firing a gun, or punching on the ceiling, he being deeply engaged in study in the garret), to

J. PHOENIX.

AN EPITAPH.

This is all, but I writ at the time a epitaff which I think is short, and would do to go over his grave:

Here lies the body of James Hambrick Who was accidentally shot On the banks of the Peacus river By a young man.

He was accidentally shot with one of the large sized Colt’s revolvers with no stopper for the cock to rest on it was one of the old fashion kind brass mounted and of such is the kingdom of Heaven.

GEORGE W. PECK.

A common-sized-mustache-and-goatee young man is George W. Peck, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He is rather a handsome chap, and just after he has left the barber’s chair he looks for all the world like a military officer. However, he looks like a common citizen when Saturday night comes around, and he has not been shaved for several days. Peck has attained quite a reputation as a humorist, through the columns of his paper, Peck’s Sun. Though only established, as a weekly journal with a humorous foundation, something over two years, the Sun has already a circulation of twenty thousand copies, and is rapidly increasing.

George W. Peck is a ready writer, and takes more to the narrative style than paragraphing. His paper is well liked among his fellow humorists, and is widely quoted. Peck is still a comparatively young man, and is “fair, fat, and _thirty_.” He is one of the few newspaper men who are bashful by nature, as the following letter plainly shows:

“I do not believe the time has arrived when the American people are consumed with a desire to know where I was born, how old I am, or any of the particulars of an uneventful life. If I should ever become of so much importance, which is hardly liable to be the case, while you and I live, I will resurrect the necessary data from the orphan asylum, the reform farm, the State prison, and other places of that kind, too numerous to mention. At the present time I think it is a charity to spare the people. Whatever you do, please do not call me funny. If you do, it is very evident that you do not know me.

“Yours truly,

GEORGE W. PECK.”

Here is one of Mr. Peck’s recent paragraphs:

“Those who take the Sun take it for the fun there is in it, and we feel a confounded sight funnier if we are making something than if we are losing. We are too old to work for glory, and too lazy to work for fun.”

In a recent article in the Sun, Mr. Peck discourses as follows on the

PECULIARITIES OF THEATRICAL SUPES.

About the most laughable thing around a theatre is the “supes.” However funny a play may be, the actions of the supes are funnier than the comedians. Men may act as supes for twenty years, and they can never come on the stage without appearing awkward and falling all over themselves. The actors tell them where to stand, and they get into another place. They act as if they expected to be stabbed and they cannot appear natural to save them. Take a far western scene, where they want a lot of miners in a bar-room to take a drink. One would think fellows who are in bar-rooms a dozen times a day would know how to act, but they don’t. They all go up to the bar in a crowd, and fall around, and then take tin cups of alleged whiskey and stare at vacancy until told to sit down, and then they all try to sit down on the same chair. When they are wanted for a scene in the Roman forum, they get on the red night-gowns and walk around toeing in, and walking knock-kneed, making the sickest lot of Roman citizens that ever robbed a hen roost. It is a singular coincidence that a supe always has a black patch on the seat of a pair of gray pants. Where in the world they all get gray pants, and why they don’t have gray patches on them, is more than anybody can find out. Let a couple of supes come on the stage to remove a table, and they will have those patches dead sure, and they will arrange to stand with the patches to the audience. They probably reason that their faces are liable to betray emotion, or that they may blush, but that the patches can maintain a stern and dignified demeanor under the most trying circumstances of guying and cat-calls on the part of the gallery boys. Female supes are even worse than men in stubbing their toes on the carpet, or backing against the wings. They are hired to come on to fill up a scene at half a dollar a night, and they usually wear octagon shaped tights, with more bran than legs, and it is painful to see them stand around. But they get confidence in themselves quicker than men, and they want to star after appearing one or two times. The supe business has lots of fun in it.

ALEXANDER EDWIN SWEET.

Texas is known to be the largest State in the Union, yet in all the vast territory there resides but one genuine humorist. Alexander Edwin Sweet is the proud possessor of that title. During the last few years the Texas Siftings has been universally quoted and ranked “A 1” among the funny papers of this country. It is needless to state in this connection that Alexander E. Sweet is one of the editors of Siftings.

Mr. Sweet is a Canadian by birth, an American by adoption, and a paragrapher and funny man by instinct. He was born in St. Johns, New Brunswick, March 28, 1841. His father was James R. Sweet, a well-known and prosperous merchant of that city. As early as 1849 young Sweet removed with his parents to San Antonio, Texas. His education was obtained at College Hill, Poughkeepsie, New York, in 1857 and 1858. The next year he went to Europe and entered the Polytechnic institute at Carlsruhe, Baden, Germany. Here he studied for several years, and in 1861 he fell in love with a handsome German girl, and led Miss Marie Zittel to the altar.

Returning to America and to Texas in 1862, he served two years in the war as a private in company A, Thirty-third regiment of Texas cavalry, Confederate army, principally on the Rio Grande, and in the Indian nation. At the close of the war he studied law in the office of Thomas I. Devine. From the law Mr. Sweet drifted into journalism, and in 1869 became editor of the San Antonio Express. In 1871, he was appointed city attorney of San Antonio by Governor Davis. Mr. Sweet had as yet written nothing of note, but with the Herald his work became widely known. Some years ago the Herald sprang into sudden fame on account of the funny articles that appeared in it, descriptive of the ludicrous side of life in Texas. The articles were copied far and wide, and then they suddenly ceased.

Mr. Sweet transferred his labors to the Galveston News and consequently that journal sprang into popularity all over the country. He possesses that peculiar journalistic trait of carrying an entire newspaper at the end of his pen. His column of Siftings in the News were widely copied, and a New York journal in commenting upon them had this to say of the author: “Mr. Sweet’s sketches, paragraphs and _bon mots_ are second to no living writer in freshness, originality, sparkling wit, and refined humor. Mr. Sweet is far more than a humorous writer, as his brilliant editorials in the News from time to time will show.”

A year or two ago, Mr. Sweet sought a partner in the person of Mr. J. Amroy Knox, and began the publication of Texas Siftings. Mr. Knox is also well known as an author, having written for several prominent newspapers and magazines. In conjunction with Mr. Knox, Alexander E. Sweet wrote an interesting volume, which was but recently issued from the press. It is entitled Through Texas, or from the Gulf to the Rio Grande on the back of a Mexican Mustang. The book is a narrative, descriptive and humorous, and has commanded a ready sale.

Since the establishment of Texas Siftings that journal has risen rapidly into public favor, and is sold and read in every State in the union. Mr. Sweet does the larger portion of the humorous writing for the paper. The Graphic of New York published a portrait of the rollicking humorist in 1877, but time and a heavy beard have changed him so that the picture does not now resemble him. He has a pleasant home, and surrounded by his wife and five bright children, his life is a most happy one.

Many clever articles have appeared in Texas Siftings, but none more clever than the following:

DOMESTIC LIFE IN TEXAS.

“It wasn’t that!” exclaimed Mr. Sanders, indignantly. “You see, I didn’t say a word at all.”

“How’d she find out, then?” asked one of the party.

“Why, I went home, and she asked if it was me. I told her it was. Took the chances on that, you know. Then she asked me if I’d been drinking. I told her no. And there I stopped. Never said another word.”

“But you say she caught on somewhere. How was it?”

“Just a blunder I made. When I told her I hadn’t drank anything she was satisfied, but when I come to go to bed, I put on my overcoat instead of my night-shirt. That excited suspicion.”

DISGUSTING GREED.

Fitznoodle is an Austin nimrod who goes out every Sunday and brings in a jack-rabbit or so. Fitznoodle is an enormous eater, and nobody else gets much of a taste of the rabbit.

“I wonder why nobody gets any of the shot except me,” said Fitznoodle, taking a shot out of his mouth.

Because nobody else gets any of the rabbit, I suppose,” responded Mrs. Fitznoodle, with telling sarcasm.

SAMUEL W. SMALL.

The humorous writings in the Atlanta (Georgia) Constitution have made that paper famous. It has been quoted, perhaps, as much as any other daily newspaper in this country. Among those bright journalists employed upon its editorial staff, none have added more to the popularity of the Constitution than Samuel W. Small, better known to his admirers as “Old Si.”

Small was born in Knoxville, Tennessee, in 1851, and spent his youth in that city and vicinity. In 1861 he removed to Georgia with his parents. Here he divided his time in going to school and loafing around the depots and railroad tracks. In 1865 he lived in New Orleans, and four years later he graduated from the high school in that city. After his graduation, Samuel was sent by his parents to Henry college, in Virginia, and he graduated from that institution in 1871. He then returned to Nashville, began the study of law, and was admitted to the bar by the supreme court of Tennessee in 1872.

Mr. Small failed to adopt the law as his profession and turned his entire attention to journalism. He first became a reporter on the Nashville Republican Banner, but soon after removed to Greenville, Tennessee where he edited a weekly paper, and acted as private secretary to ex-President Johnson for nearly two years. The year 1874 found him in Houston, Texas, still in the newspaper business. After laboring on nearly all the journals of Houston, he returned to Georgia in May, 1875. It was in this month that he became connected with the Atlanta Constitution, in whose columns his humorous writings first came under public notice.

The humor of Old Si, his _nom de plume_, began by his writing short and spicy paragraphs as coming from an aged negro. These grew into larger paragraphs, and gradually into lengthy articles, which were widely copied. Mr. Small is an expert stenographer and reports the official proceedings of the circuit court of Atlanta. He was connected with the Constitution, and was one of that journal’s most valued writers, up to March, 1882, when he became sole editor and proprietor of a prosperous weekly paper in Florida.

In his Florida venture, the Jacksonville Union, Old Si appears as brilliant as ever, as the annexed selection will show:

FLORIDA POLITICIANS AND ALLIGATORS.

“I kinder likes dis sort ob climack!” said Old Si, as he come into the office last evening.

“In what way?”

“Well, I likes to be ’round whar yer kin hang up yer obercoat soon ez yer buys it an’ set ’round in yur shurt-sleebes jest ez well on New Year ez yer kin on de Foth o’ July!”

“That is pleasant.”

“Yes, sah, an’ dat’s what meks me say what I do. Dar’s plenty ob helth down heah if you jess knows how to fin’ it. De only place whar you kant fin’ it is in er allygator’s mouf!”

“Then your advice is that people should come to Florida, but beware of the alligator?”

“Dat’s hit! I ain’t got no use for ’er allygator hits to much like er pollytishun--got mo’ mouf dan vittals an’ mo’ hide dan honisty!”

And with this epigram the old man bowed himself out of the sanctum.

CHARLES HOYT.

Frederick Hudson, in his History of Journalism in America, credits the Boston Post with having originated the column of funny paragraphs which are now seen in nearly all the leading newspapers of the United States. The All Sorts column of the Post was started when that paper first appeared, over half a century ago. It was in this department that Mrs. Partington and her son Ike were first introduced to the humor-loving public, and scores of writers have sent forth their wit, during the fifty years past, through this same medium.

George F. Babbit began writing the All Sorts for the Post seven or eight years ago, but relinquished the position a few years later. Babbitt was a graduate of Harvard college, and his witticisms in the Post were of a very brilliant character. The present “funny man” of the Post is Charles Hoyt, better known to his Boston friends as Charley Hoyt.

A well-known Boston journalist in a recent article says of him: “He is a well-proportioned man, lithe, active, and nervy in physique, a broad forehead, an open face on which candor is written in every feature, bright, restless eyes, firm mouth and chin, a clear, ruddy complexion, and a voice not loud or strident but clear as a bell in its enunciation. His column of All Sorts in the Post is a fine example of conscientious paragraphing, where neither time nor diverse labor interfere to distract or hurry the writer. It is enjoyed by thousands every day, who laugh at his quaint conceits and genuine wit.”

Hoyt is a native of Vermont, and comes of good, old Puritan stock. In early youth he held a public office, being page in the State Senate. In this school his intellect was sharpened, and his naturally retentive memory gathered together and carried away much which has been useful in later years. His knowledge of, and acquaintance with, public men, is wide and varied. In his personal address he is both pleasing and attractive. These are both admirable points in his favor, considering that he is a bachelor, and young at that.

Hoyt’s Ragbag stories are very entertaining:

RAGBAG’S PRACTICAL JOKE.

The other night, after Mr. Ragbag had gone to bed, the idea of a very funny joke occurred to him. It seemed so funny that he went into a paroxysm of laughter, and twisted and squirmed so that he pulled the bed clothes all out at the foot and had to get out to tuck them in again, and got awful cold, and made as much noise as to awaken his wife in the next room, and she, on hearing the cause of the commotion, told Ragbag he was a fool and advised him to go to bed. He did so, but lay awake half the night thinking of the joke, and the next morning Ragbag hastily swallowed his breakfast, and hastened out on the street to play his joke. The first man he met was Gallagher. Gallagher’s business compels him to carry about one hundred keys, and Ragbag knew this. Gallagher was just the man Ragbag wanted to see. Rushing up to Gallagher he said:

“Ah, Gallagher, have you lost a key?”

“Don’t know,” replied the victim. “Let me see it.”

“First see if you have lost one,” said Ragbag.

So Gallagher took off his gloves and went to work. He searched pocket after pocket, and examined each and every bunch of keys carefully. It was sharp weather, and his fingers got cold and numb, but he kept at it. One hundred keys were a good many to keep track of, and Gallagher had to think of every lock about his establishment, and then look for that particular key, and it was a tedious job. And it wasn’t satisfactory, either, for Gallagher couldn’t quite make up his mind that one key was not missing. He demanded a sight of the key found. Then Ragbag’s self-control gave way. With a howl of laughter he cried:

“Why, I haven’t found any. I only asked if you had lost one as a matter of curiosity.”

It didn’t take three seconds for Gallagher to decide what to do. The snow for forty feet around was clawed and kicked into a cloud that filled the air. Folks looked out of the windows and howled to see the fun. And when Ragbag re-entered the house with his clothes torn, ear chawed, and eyes blacked, and explained that he had been playing his joke, his wife was more than ever convinced that he was an old donkey, and told him so. Somehow, at times, humor is fearfully discouraging in this country.

HENRY CLAY LUKENS.

The New York Daily News, like all other first-class journals, possesses its paragrapher. In the person of Henry Clay Lukens, the News has for many years had a valuable contributor, and one of the best humorous writers in America. Under the name of Erratic Enrique, he has written early and late, noon, morning, and night, and, in fact, about all the time.

Lukens is of Dutch ancestry. He was born in Germantown, near Philadelphia, on the 18th day of August, 1838. His first newspaper enterprise was a monthly publication issued in his native city, during the winter of 1857. For this paper, George Alfred Townsend wrote some of his first articles. Lukens worked at his journalistic profession for many years in different States in the Union.

In 1874 he went to South America, where he remained as a traveling correspondent for nearly two years. While there he wrote interesting letters to the Danbury News and the St. John (New Brunswick) Torch, under the quaint pseudonym of Erratic Enrique. He also wrote for various other American journals under the same name.

It was not until March, 1877, that Henry Clay Lukens settled down to steady work on a daily newspaper. He then associated himself with the sprightly little News, with which paper he has ever since been connected. He originated a column of humor called Pith and Point, which has brought both the paper and himself into prominence. It is said he has not missed a week’s labor since his first day’s connection with the News. He is one of the few hard-worked city journalists.

Early in 1881, he began a series of articles, entitled Sanctum Sketches, in Hubbard’s Advertiser, of New Haven, Connecticut. In this series of articles he produced the biographies of six or eight well known paragraphers. He is also a regular contributor to several weekly and monthly periodicals.

Lukens is quite inclined to poetry, and at times jingles some very clever and witty rhymes. The following is from his pen:

ESPRIT MALIN.

What hideous yell assails my ear? Whose shuffling feet distract my nerves? Insatiate demon, nothing serves To clinch thy clutch! All day I hear, “More copy!”

My brain’s a-whirl, my senses swim-- What cares the screeching imp for that? He’s got two words, so tonguey pat, He slits the air with vocal vim, “More copy!”

A sapient smirk illumes his phiz-- He feels his power, and grinning grips, The ink-wet pages, scissored slips, And cabled specials; that’s his “biz”-- “More copy!”

Intense disgust has hobbled hate, Else would I slay this vampire scorned. Though neither cloven-toed nor horned, His devilish yawpings ne’er abate-- “More copy!”

ERRATICS.

It is not so very painful to lose a fortune as it is to hear what your neighbors will say about it afterwards.

When the prodigal son comes home they no longer kill the fatted calf for him. They just turn the animal into a vaccine farm and give him the profits.

A new serial yarn by Besant and Rice is entitled, All Sorts and Conditions of Men. The plot is probably worked out in the caucus room of a delegates convention.

“Man Reading,” a picture by Meissonier, has been sold for $10,000. It was cheap as dirt. The man reading was an editor with a contribution written on both sides of the paper, and spontaneously interlined besides.

Our agricultural contemporary, the Herald, has a learned and highly interesting article on “Our Codfish Culture.” We trust it may be followed by another, equally able, on “Our Goat Fisheries.” Both are subjects of intense and universal concern.

WILLIAM A. WILKINS.