Part 8

A country newspaper rarely makes its mark in the journalistic world, and especially a paper printed in such an obscure village as is Whitehall, New York. The Whitehall Times, however, is one of the few exceptions, and, although a country newspaper, has been quoted in every paper of any note in the land.

William Albert Wilkins, the editor and proprietor of the Times, and the one man who has made that journal famous, was born on the 26th day of March, 1840, in the village of Cherry Valley, Otsego county, New York. At the age of ten he removed with his parents to Cohoes, in the same State, where he attended a common district school for several years. He entered business as office boy in the village post-office. From this position he was elevated to a travelling salesman, doing business for a firm in Albany. A year later, however, he settled down to real life as a retail clothing merchant at Whitehall. In this pursuit Wilkins was quite successful, and for eleven years he continued in the business.

Wilkins says that the first important discovery of his life was when he embarked in the printing business. “Then,” says he, “it was easier to convince nine-tenths of the human family that the inhabitants of the infernal regions employ their time skating on real ice ponds, than it is to convince them that they cannot conduct a live newspaper. While a merchant in the town of Whitehall, Mr. Wilkins began writing--along in the fall of 1869--several humorous communications for the Weekly Times, the very paper which he afterwards owned. His articles were signed “Hiram Green, esquire, Lait justiss of the Peece.” His sketches were bright and original, and after doing all he could to supply the crusty Whitehallites with humor, he began a series of letters in the Troy Budget, which he continued for several years.

In 1870 what appeared as his guiding star shone over his horizon. A new comic weekly paper had just been introduced to the residents of New York. It was known as Punchinello, and its publisher made William Albert Wilkins, of Whitehall, a handsome offer to assume the editorial chair. Wilkins was not long in making a decision whether to accept the offer or no. In an evil moment he bade good-bye to the clothing business and hied himself to New York. His salary and the paper ended their existence in five months’ time, and the Whitehall merchant was cast adrift in the great metropolis. He remained in New York and was employed with a leading wholesale clothing house until April, 1873. During his sojourn in the city he wrote regularly for the Tribune, Sun, and Mail, as well as doing occasional work for the Brooklyn Eagle, Albany Argus, and several of the many weekly journals published in Gotham.

In the early May days of 1874 Wilkins returned to Whitehall, and his first love, the Times, became his property. Since that time he has been its editor and proprietor, and has made for it a name that takes first rank among the newspapers of America made famous by their humorous paragraphs.

Mr. Wilkins has a wife, two children, and a charming home. Of his family he says: “None of my relatives have ever been hung, but once a brother-in-law came near going to Congress. My war record is good--as during the rebellion I did not have a hand in the public treasury, but a second cousin of my wife sent a substitute, who by jumping bounties like a true patriot, covered the family with glory enough to reach me.”

As a politician, Mr. Wilkins succeeded through the aid of his paper and his friends, in holding one office, three times being collector of canal tolls at the port of Whitehall, during the years 1874, 1875, and 1878. He is a very small man, being something like five feet four inches in height. He possesses a pleasant cheery face, and adorns the lower portion of it with a moustache of a heavy and a beard of a light growth. His literary work has of late years been devoted almost exclusively to the Times. Recently he has essayed domestic sketches, stories of the home circle, and romantic tales of travel and adventure.

A New York humorist says admiringly of Wilkins: “He is a trump card in the fraternity he adorns. Never a stone has he laid in the path of an earnest fellow laborer. Meet him when you will and where you will, there is the same cordial impressment, the same hand-grip that goes straight to your marrow of susceptibility. It has been my lot to meet him when conviviality held full sway, and again when family affliction had tightly drawn the chords of sympathy; but the same gentle spirit was the thrall. The world is better for such lives; better for the kindly sentiments that emanate from minds charged less with self-opinion than liberal thoughts of and for mankind; better for the outflow of their broad religion, and safer because it is a religion of impulse, a creed born of sentiment and fostered by philanthrophy.”

Wilkins’ admirable essay on Father Adam is undoubtedly the best thing he has written. It was originally published in the Whitehall Times in 1879, and is as follows:

ADAM’S FALL.

Adam was the first man--if he had been a shoe-maker he would have been the last man.

He was placed in the Garden of Eden and was himself the guardian of Eden. He consequently had no partner to order him up mornings, and he, therefore, played it alone.

All the clothes he had for a long time was the close of day, while a mantle of night was his bed-clothes.

He had dominion over the fish of the sea, the birds of the air, and he also had hoe-minion over the earth.

He was finally furnished with a woman of A-rib-ia, who was sent to Eden for Adam’s Express Company. She was bone of his beauin’, and if she had been called Nancy, she would have been his bone-nancy.

She was a pretty good cook, for she soon cooked up trouble for Adam, and got him into hot water.

When Adam went down to his office mornings, Eve always went to her household duties; but she was a fortunate woman in one respect; she had no washing to do on Monday, so Adam was never afflicted by being obliged to eat mush and milk from the clock-shelf.

Eve never called him back and told him to send home some soap and starch at once, nor did it cost Adam five shillings a week for clothes pins, for the beautiful smile that Mr. and Mrs. Adam always wore could be licked clean with the tip ends of their tongues.

But they were not a happy couple, for the Fourth of July was unknown to Eden.

They never listened to the bang of the cannon, the gun, or the fire-cracker, but Eve used to bang her hair quite often.

{ wore tight boots. { { corns. { had { shirts with buttons off. { { holes in his stockings. { { holes in his pockets. Adam never { wore patched pantaloons. { spilt ice cream on his lavender pants. { pawned his ulster. { pulled down his vest. { burst his suspender buttons. { paid $2 per day for washing. { owed his tailor.

{ { corsets. { { striped stockings. { wore { rats. { { mice. { { frizzes. Eve never { was bothered to find a dressmaker. { found fault with her milliner. { gossiped with her next door neighbor. { went to church and made fun of a rival’s new bonnet. { had beaux from church.

When we say never, no one need say hardly ever. But Mr. and Mrs. Adam fell just the same. As we draw a veil over their fall, let us ask every head of a family, if he doesn’t feel like howling when he remembers that Adam didn’t know what a good thing he had

{ dressmakers’ } { milliners’ } { shoemakers’ } When he did not have any { hosiery } bills to pay. { jewelry } { false hair } { ribbon } { taffy }

But he could have laid in his hammock from sunrise to sunset, and read the daily papers without feeling that he must go down town and work like thunder, so his wife and daughters could all have new bonnets to wear to church on next Sabbath day.

Adam was a queer duck and the fathers of to-day owe him a sockdologer.

CHARLES H. HARRIS.

“Carl Pretzel” is a name generally known throughout the West and Northwest. It is the literary sobriquet of Mr. Charles H. Harris, of Chicago, Illinois. He was born in the city of Rochester, New York, on the 20th day of May, 1841. His father was a well-known politician of the Empire State, and Charles, having a living example of the New York State politician constantly before him, resolved at an early age not to enter politics--at least not in New York State. After receiving a common-school education, and passing his early youth at home, Mr. Harris went to New York city in 1862. He was accompanied by other youngsters of his native town.

Harris shipped as a landsman in the navy, and soon after was transferred to the navy yard at Washington, where, in a few months after his arrival, he received the appointment of captain’s clerk. He was promoted to the position of pay-master’s clerk, and did service on the Potomac river during his one year term of enlistment. After the war he came home, and after remaining a very short time in Rochester, he set out to seek his fortune.

The oil fever having broken out at this time, Harris was one of the first to become afflicted. He started for Pennsylvania, and became interested in oil wells and oil territory. To use his own words, “he made a barrel of money, and left it there, it being too cumbersome to carry home.” In speaking of himself, Harris says: “In 1866 I was notified that an appointment awaited me in Wyoming Territory, that of Secretary of the Territory. I started at once to grasp the prize. Arriving in Chicago, I learned that my next friend, who had been nominated for Governor of the Territory, did not have friends enough in the Senate to ratify his nomination, consequently his failure to secure the Governorship settled me.”

Harris was left in Chicago like a stranded ship. He embarked into journalism soon after his arrival, and began inflicting the public with “Pretzelisms,” by “Carl Pretzel.” These consisted of short and witty paragraphs in broken German dialect. They took well, and Harris has made a national reputation through them. He says: “I began the ‘Pretzelisms’ to get even with the world, and I will not let up on them.”

For a number of years Mr. Harris has issued his annual almanac, which has commanded a large and ready sale. A few years ago he issued his first book, “My Book of Expressions,” which has had a wide circulation. It contained only articles in the Dutch dialect. The Almanac for 1882, written by Mr. Harris, is overflowing with his peculiar humor, and another large volume, “My Book of Parodies,” will soon appear.

“Carl Pretzel,” outside of his book work, is a thorough and hard-working journalist. He is at present engaged in editing and publishing a weekly newspaper at 119 Clark street, Chicago. “The National Weekly is eight years old,” says Harris in a private letter, “and is a healthy, growing enterprise.”

Here is one of Carl’s best small efforts:

“One nite time I comed me home on mine house, und dook mine leedle daughter, Gretchen, Jr., on mine kneeses. I told her some shtory riddles, und vas make her some lafe. Pooty gwick she vas creeb on my bosom, und vas so shleepy, I dook her on her leedle ped, und say of her:

“‘Gretchy, would you gone on vour ped mitout saiding your prayers?’

“She opened dem beautiful leedle blue eyses, und radder dreamily exclaimed:

‘Now I vas lay me down to shleep, ‘I pray der----’

dhen adding in one shweet leedle vhisper, ‘He knows der rest,’ she sunk down on her leedle ped, in His watchful care, who gifs His belofed shleeb.”

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

“Uncle Remus” is a well-known character throughout the South, and his fame has even found its way northward. “Uncle Remus” is the literary nickname adopted by Mr. Joel Chandler Harris, a well-known journalist of the South. He was born in Eatonton, Georgia, on the 8th of December, 1846. At a very early age he was taken out of school, and placed at work as “printer’s devil” in the office of a country newspaper.

Charles Pilsbury, in a recent article, says of Harris: “He must have had access to many books, and those of the best sort, and he mastered them thoroughly. One can readily imagine him pursuing his studies in some shady nook in the summer time, and in the winter evenings by the blaze of pine knots or the modest tallow dip. It was in these days and evenings, we may be sure, that he obtained the insight into negro character, which has enabled him to portray in ‘Uncle Remus,’ the _ante bellum_ negro.”

In 1866 Mr. Harris became connected with a publishing house at New Orleans, and he had plenty of spare time to devote to literature. He has written a good deal for southern periodicals, during the last five years; essays, sketches and lyrics have appeared from his pen that would have done honor to older heads. In January, 1867, he published in the New Orleans Times, a poem entitled The Sea Wind, which has been greatly admired.

He returned to Eatonton, Georgia, in May, 1867, where he wrote many articles in both prose and verse. In 1868 Mr. Harris was in Forsythe, Georgia, still bent on following literature as a profession. In June of the same year he was working at the case, and thought some of going to New York, to seek his fortune and a name. About this time he received the promise of an editorial position on a paper about to be established at Savannah, Georgia; and on the 12th of July he writes to a friend that he “thinks he was cut out for a paragraphing journalist.”

His newspaper promise failed to realize anything for him, however, and in October he was still at the case in a country newspaper office, longing for journalistic life in a great city. Two years later we find his hopes realized, and Mr. Harris became the associate editor of the Savannah Morning News. He worked hard, and soon placed his name high in rank among Georgia journalists.

After six years of work on the Morning News, Harris purchased an interest in the Atlanta Constitution, and immediately joined its editorial staff. It was in the columns of the Constitution that Uncle Remus and his quaint humor first appeared. From this time forward his success has been rapid, and he has placed his name in the front rank among American humorists. Last year Mr. Harris published his first book, Uncle Remus; His Songs and Sayings. The work took wonderfully well with the public and has had an immense sale.

Of the later works of Uncle Remus, the following are very popular:

PLANTATION PROVERBS.

Drive out de dreamin’ dog.

Mighty few horses fits a barley hatch.

Noddin’ nigger gives the ash-cake a chill.

Don’t fall out wid de fat what cook de ’possum.

Fightin’ nigger ain’t far from de callaboose.

Ole cloze better go ’round de picket fence.

You kin sell mo’ patter rallers dan boozer-bears.

Short stirrups en a do’-back horse.

Mighty good sheep w’ats wuff mo’ dan his wool.

Sunday pra’rs ain’t gwineter las’ all de week.

Lazy folks got too many ter-morrers ahead of um.

Don’t hol’ yo’ head too high, less you gwineter eat out’n de hoss-rack.

Hotter de wedder, de fresher de nigger. Dis w’at save de salt.

One eye on de overseer en t’er on de mule don’t make de furrer straight.

De shote w’at stays out in der dark er de moon, done gone from home fer good.

Some marsters gotter be tuck on trus’. How de wurm git in de scaly-bark? Who raised de row twixt de bee-martin en de buzzard?

A PLANTATION BALLAD.

I.

De boss, he squall ter de rompin’ boys: _Don’t bodder dat jug in de spring!_ De jug, he guzzle out _good, good, good_! Nigger, he holler en sing: _Oh, gimme de gal, de big greasy gal W’at wrap up ’er ha’r wid a string!_

II.

Little bird flutter w’en de big speckle hawk Sail up en light in de pine; W’en de overseer come en look thro de fence Nigger don’t cut no shine, But he roll up he eye, en he break loose en sing: _En I wish dat big gal ’us mine!_

III.

Oh, de speckle hawk light in de top ob de pine, En dar he set en swing; De overseer lean his chin on de fence, En lissen at de cotton-choppers sing: _Don’t nobody bodder dat sway-back gal W’at wrap up ’er ha’r wid a string!_

IV.

_Oh, de strappin’ black gal, de big greasy gal! She kyar herse’f mighty fine! How de boys gwineter foller along in de row, A-waitin’ for ter ketch her sign? De boss mighty close, yet I study en I wish-- En I wish dat big gal uz mine!_

[The italics seem to mark what may be called the refrain choruses. The variable nature of these gives unexpected coloring--not to say humor--to the songs in which they occur. Any typographical arrangement of these choruses must be, in the very nature of things, awkward and ineffective.]

DAVID ROSS LOCKE.

“David Ross Locke, an American satirist,” says the American Encyclopedia, yet Locke is a newspaper humorist of the modern school. True, he does not subject himself to the painful necessity of forcing humorous paragraphs into the world, neither is he given to punning. Yet throughout his writing is easily distinguished a dry, uncertain, yet entertaining humor.

David Ross Locke was born in Broome county, New York, in or near the village of Vestal, on the 20th day of September, 1833. After a common school education, lasting but a year or two, young Locke, in 1844, or when he was but eleven years of age, became apprenticed to a printer in Cortland, a few miles distant from Vestal. Learning his trade, he sought out, Bohemian-like, to seek his fortune. He drifted around the country, North and South, varying the occupation with which he earned his daily bread. At different times he acted in the capacity of compositor, reporter and general writer for various newspapers and magazines.

It was in 1852 that young Locke settled down for the first time, at Plymouth, Ohio, where he became connected with the Advertiser, a weekly village newspaper, with a few hundreds circulation. Locke afterwards removed his talents to the Herald, at Mansfield, Ohio; then he drifted into the offices of the Journal at Bucyrus, Bellefontaine Republican, and the Jeffersonian, a prosperous weekly published at Findlay. It was during his connection with the last named paper that Locke wrote for the Journal, an article signed by the “Rev. Petroleum Vesuvius Nasby.” The letter purported to have come from an ignorant and penniless bourbon Democrat, who resided in Kentucky. This character was apparently devoted entirely to free whisky, perpetual slavery, and a position as post-master. The letter was dated “Confederit Cross Roads,” and soon after its appearance created considerable comment.

Not long after the appearance of the first Nasby letter, Locke changed his location once more, and turned up in the office of the Blade, at Toledo. Here he came to stay. He has stayed there ever since; has grown up with the Blade, and now owns and controls the paper. The “Nasby” letters have made both the Blade and Locke famous all over the country. In a private letter to the writer, Nasby says: “I have kept up the letters ever since 1860, for which I ask forgiveness.” At the close of the war Locke, like others of his class, entered the lecture field for a short time, and lectured in nearly all the Northern States. His first volume of letters appeared in 1865, in Cincinnati, under the title of Divers Views, Etc. In 1867 appeared another volume of Nasby letters, published in Boston, under the title of Swingin’ Round the Cirkle.” In 1868, appeared a third volume, Ekkoes From Kentucky, and, in 1874, a Boston house published his Morals of Abou ben Adhem. This was followed by A Paper City, published by Lee & Shepard, Boston, and Hannah Jane, a poem. This last-named work has had a large sale, and is quite popular. Of this work a leading critic said: “It is certainly one of the best things the Rev. P. V. Nasby ever produced. It has the extraordinary attraction of being in popular and excellent verse. It is real life, and true nature. It touches a chord that will vibrate everywhere; a subject near the heart of many, and in the experience of all. It touches it with honesty, frankness, and self-condemnation, that stings with conviction while it thrills with admiration.” One is fully convinced of these facts after a careful perusal of Hannah Jane. The following is a fragment from the poem:

“I was but little better. True, I’d longer been at school; My tongue and pen were run, perhaps, a trifle more by rule; But that was all: the neighbors round, who knew us thro’ and thro’, Spoke but the truth in calling her the better of the two.

“She blundered in her writing, and she blundered when she spoke, And ev’ry rule of syntax that old Murray made she broke; But she was fresh and beautiful, and I----well, I was young; Her form and face far, far outweighed the blunders of her tongue.”

In 1881 Mr. Locke, with his eldest son, sailed for Europe, where they travelled for nearly a year. On his return he began a series of papers in the Toledo Blade, entitled “Nasby in Exile.” These letters were afterwards, in 1882, published in book form by the Locke Publishing Co., of Toledo, under the same title. The work is principally descriptive of travel in Ireland, England and on the Continent. Locke is the author of two plays, “Inflation” and “Widow Bedott.” The last named has proved very successful, financially and otherwise.

“Nasby” was married to a very estimable lady, upwards of twenty-six years ago, and is the proud father of three children. He lives in a quiet, but elegant manner in the city of Toledo, and is considerably engrossed with the business interests of the city. Under his able management the weekly Toledo Blade has become one of the leading family papers of the country, and circulates in every State and Territory of the Union. Locke writes solely for his paper, even his most successful books being made up of material taken from the columns of the Toledo newspaper.

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.

The famous funny man of the Burlington, Iowa, Hawkeye, was born at Greensboro, Pennsylvania, on the 30th of July, 1844. At the early age of seven months he went West with his parents, to grow up with the country. They settled in Peoria, Illinois, where at the age of eighteen Robert enlisted as a private, in 1862, in the Forty-seventh Illinois Infantry. He served through the war as a private, was present at the siege of Vicksburg, and was a member of the famous Red River expedition. He showed himself to be a brave and fearless man on various occasions, especially at the battle of Corinth.

Robert J. Burdette, at the close of the war found life’s struggle rather severe. He was the oldest son of a family of nine, and aided them as best he could. In after years he made the remark: “As the oldest son I saw it was my duty to help pull the others through.” His facilities for acquiring an academic education were limited, and his ambition to enter college has never been gratified. While on a visit to New York he penned several letters from that city to the Peoria Transcript, and the publication of these letters betrayed his natural inclination for the journalistic life. Upon his return to Peoria he secured a position as proofreader on the Transcript. In the meantime he wrote numerous sketches for the different New York magazines, but few of which were published or even accepted.