Part 9

Burdette says of his life from this time forward: “After a while I started a paper of my own--the Peoria Review. I ran it two years. It was a comforting sort of a paper. It brought to me a few cares but no uncertainty. I knew every Monday morning that on the next Saturday night I would not have money enough to pay the hands. During my career as editor of that wretched sheet it never disappointed me in that particular--not once. Finally the sheriff took me into partnership, and there was a glorious increase of activity. He was an enterprising man, very. He realized more in an hour than I had done in two years. Presently the partnership dissolved, and I looked around for something to do. I thought I would try and get on the Burlington Hawkeye. It was a sober, staid old paper, financially solid. I was young and active. Thought I, ‘I think I can do that paper good. If I can get on the staff I am sure it will do me good. Well, I was thinking of going over there when one day its manager, Mr. Wheeler, came to see me, and offered me the position of city editor and reporter. Well, if I live ten thousand years it will not be long enough time for me to be sufficiently thankful that I accepted the offer, and, besides that, I am very proud of the fact that they sent for me. It gave me an independence of personal satisfaction that I have never recovered from. I don’t try to be funny in my writings. I have an idea, occasionally, and when I get it loose people laugh. Then I review the remark and shake it out to find the fun. My perception of a joke is not hung on a hair trigger.”

In 1870, Mr. Burdette became affianced to Miss Carrie Garrett, of Peoria, Illinois. She was a frail and delicate young lady, and on visiting her one afternoon, Robert was met at the door by her friends, who announced that she was lying at the point of death. The situation was a grave one, but in fifteen minutes’ time he had procured a marriage license from the county clerk’s office, and Miss Garrett became Mrs. Robert J. Burdette at a time when her responses could only be made by a slight motion of the eyes and a faint pressure of the hand. But little hope was entertained for her life, but she passed the ordeal, and after some length of time rallied sufficiently to go with her husband on a short bridal tour to their quiet home in a neighboring street, in Peoria. Mrs. Burdette has been an invalid all her life, and the genial humorist has been a patient attendant and companion for her in her dreary hours of life. The major portion of the rollicking humor that Burdette produces, is written at the bed side of his invalid wife.

It was soon after his marriage, when he was doing editorial work on the Peoria Transcript, that Burdette began his humorous writing. He tells of it in his own words as follows: “When I was on the Transcript, I would try to think of something pleasant to tell the folks when I went home at night--something that would make a tea-table lively. And when nothing of a funny nature occurred, I would make up something, such as one of the burlesques concerning the Middle Rib Family. They seemed to be enjoyed around the tea-table, and finally Mrs. Burdette urged me to write them up. I told her that they would sound as flat as dish-water in print--that it was nothing but tea-table chatter, and that she must not be so highly impressed by my nonsense. But she persisted, and so I would occasionally write in a light vein for the Transcript. The sketches seemed to take, and then I plunged into deep water.” Afterwards Burdette said of his humor: “You see, I don’t know how I do say things people think funny, and sometimes I am in a state of mind bordering on insanity to know why people think they are so. I certainly had no school except the wide world, from which to learn the lesson of fun; and, now I come to think of it, perhaps the page was the most instructive that could have been placed before me.”

From 1874 to the date of his joining the editorial corps of the Burlington Hawkeye, Mr. Burdette rose rapidly as a humorist, and after his writings and the Hawkeye both had become famous, he entered the lecture field. His first lecture was decided upon and written by the promptings of his wife. This little episode Robert tells as follows: “One day when she was lying helpless, she said she believed that I could write a lecture and deliver it successfully, and so she sat me down to write that lecture; and from time to time I rebelled with tears and groans and prayers. I told her that I was too little, that I had no voice, that I couldn’t write a funny lecture, anyhow. She kept me at it, and in due time we had a lecture on our hands:--‘The Rise and Fall of the Mustache.’ That was all right enough; now how to get the audience. I thought I would try it first at Keokuk. If I delivered it first in Burlington, even though it were tame, tamer, tamest, I thought they might pat me on the back. But Keokuk hated Burlington. I thought that if it was flat the Keokuk folks would tell me so. Mrs. Burdette said that, as she was responsible for that lecture, she was going to hear it first delivered. So I carried her aboard the cars. We went down to Keokuk, and they pronounced it good.”

The whole of the United States have since agreed with Keokuk. Burdette has lectured in about every State in the Union to delighted audiences. Taking his age into consideration, Mr. Burdette is very youthful in appearance. He is short in stature, easy in manner, and affable in conversation. He has a low, broad forehead, a black mustache, rounded chin, and dark, yet bright, penetrating eyes. When writing at any considerable length, he scarcely ever has a definite plan for his effusion, and lets it take its own free way from the point of his pen. He has written much in verse and prose, but his humorous descriptions and pen pictures of those he meets in every-day life, are the most readable of his productions. It is natural for him to be funny, and in speaking of the most common-place things he expresses himself in the most humorous way.

Burdette has published two books: The Rise and Fall of the Mustache, and Hawkeye Glances, both volumes commanding a large sale. He has written much for the literary weeklies, and his pen is never idle. Among his attempts and successes in poetry nothing equals his touching tribute to

WILHELMJ.

Oh, king of the fiddle, Wilhelmj, If truly you love me, just tellmj; Just answer my sigh By the glance of your eye, Be honest, and don’t try to sellmj.

With rapture your music did thrillmj; With pleasure supreme did it fillmj, And if I could believe That you meant to deceive-- Wilhelmj, I think it would killmj.

Among the thousand and one “good things” that Burdette has given us, none contains more of his genuine, characteristic humor than his

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

Don’t judge a man by his clothes. Can you tell what the circus is going to be like by looking at the Italian sunset pictures on the fence? Do you value the turkey for its plumage? And isn’t the skin of the mink the most, and, indeed, the only valuable part of him? There be men, fair to look upon, who wander up and down this country, and sit in the coolest places on the hotel piazzas, who are arrayed in fine linen and cardinal socks, and who have to hold their hand over their scarf-pin when they want to see the moonlight, who, unassisted and unprompted, do not possess the discretion to come in when it rains, and don’t know enough to punch a hole in the snow with an umbrella--new, soft snow at that, without any crust on it. Now and then, son, before you are as old as Methuselah, you will meet a man who wears a hat that is worth twice as much as the head it covers. On the other hand, don’t fall into the error of believing that all the goodness, and honesty, and intelligence in the world goes about in shreds and patches. We have seen the tramp dressed in worse rags than you could rake out of the family rag-bag, and more dirt and hair on him than would suffice to protect a horse, who would step up to the front door and demand three kinds of cake, half an apple pie, and then steal every moveable thing in the yard, kill the dog, choke up the pump with sand, tramp on the pansy bed and girdle the cherry trees, because he couldn’t carry them away. Good clothes or bad are never an infallible index to a man that is in them.

JOE C. ABY.

The subject of this sketch is a resident of New Orleans. His entire life, almost, has been spent there. His name,--that of Aby,--is an uncommon one and a short one, and with the short, very short, surname of Joe prefixed, makes the whole an extraordinary short name. Joe C. Aby has written much in the way of humor, under the rather curious name of “Hoffenstein.” The larger portion of his productions have appeared in the way of sketches, in the columns of that well known Southern newspaper, the New Orleans Times-Democrat.

Joe C. Aby was born on the 23d day of July, 1858, and is consequently one of the youngest of our American humorists. According to his own story, he was in boyhood “a tame sort of individual. I was not vicious, nor was I given to saying smart things, for the reason that my father, whose kindly hand is now still in death, had a habit of hovering around the rear portion of my anatomy with a strap, in order to impress upon my tender mind the fact that it was not becoming in a small boy to get ‘too big for his old clothes.’ His theory was, that the seat of a boy’s pants was the proper medium through which to reach the mind, and the demonstrations of his theory were invariably successful.

“My school life was not at all remarkable, or different from that of the average urchin. It consisted of thrashings, which I received from the pedagogue for not knowing my lessons. He was a man who clung to the motto: ‘Hit for the basement, let the rod fall where it may;’ but even while he was doing so, I felt that there was a destiny that would model my end, despite his efforts to hammer it out of shape. At the age of fourteen years I entered a collegiate institute, but at sixteen, my career there was abruptly terminated by the right boot of the principal, who foolishly believed that a student deserved immediate expulsion, who was bold enough to attempt to punch the head of a German professor. After my hasty exit from college, I migrated to Texas for the benefit of my health.

“For seven or eight years I lived among the cattle ranches in the southwestern portion of the Lone Star State. While in Texas I drifted around promiscuously from one kind of business to another, until a position was offered me, as a reporter, on the local staff of the Houston Daily Post--a journalistic venture which has since proved a success, and is now a leading paper in Texas. I made my appearance as a journalist with the first issue of the paper. During my sojourn on the staff of the paper, I dabbled somewhat in humorous writing, which attracted some attention. Finally, I received an offer from the New Orleans Times to join its staff of writers. This offer I accepted at once, and returned to my native city. I remained with the Times until its consolidation with the New Orleans Democrat was effected, when I was offered a position on the local staff of the hyphenated journal--The Times-Democrat. This offer I also accepted, and have since served that paper.”

Under the _nom de plume_ of “Hoffenstein,” Mr. Aby has written much that is not only funny, but ridiculously so. His Hoffenstein sketches in the Times-Democrat have won for him a national reputation, and his writings are reproduced in papers in various parts of the country. He is a young man, unmarried, handsome and dignified. A volume of the Hoffenstein sketches has been issued by a New York publishing house, and has been flattered by a ready sale.

One of the most popular of these sketches is the following

THERMOMETER PANTS.

Hoffenstein was busily engaged scolding Hermann for not polishing a lot of brass jewelry there was in a show case, when a thin, stoop-shouldered countryman entered the store and inquired:

“Have you got any good jean pants here?”

“Certainly, my frent,” replied Hoffenstein, “ve makes a specialty uf goods in dot line, und ve defy competition. If ve sells anyding und you don’t lik it, you gets your money back or someding else in exshange, you know. Vas you a farmer?”

“Yes, sir, I live up on Red River.”

“Vell, den, you need a bair uf bants like dese,” said Hoffenstein, pulling out a sky-blue pair from a pile of clothing on the counter. “Dey vas de genervine doeskin, und will last de whole year oud.”

The countryman took the pants to the light, examined the texture of the cloth, and then shaking his head knowingly said:

“There’s too much cotton in them; they will shrink.”

“Of course my frent dey will shrink, but vait und I tells you someding. If a man vat owns a pank or keeps a store comes here, I don’t sell him dem kind uf pants. Vy? Because dey vas made exbressly for de farming pisiness. Dey vas de dermometer pants, und a plessing to every farmer vat vears a bair uf dem. Do you know, my frent, dose bants vill dell you exactly vat de vedder will be. Ven it vas going to be vet and cold, dose bants vill begin to shrink up, und ven it vas going to be dry und varm, dey comes right down, you know. Dree years ago, I sell a bair of dem to a man vat vas named Vilking, und eber since den he makes good crops, ven de oder beoble don’t make noding, because he always knows py his dermometer pants vat de vedder vill be. After avile de beoble in de neighborhood finds oud de segret uf Vilkin’s success, and at the beginning of the planting season, you know, dey comes for dirty miles around, and if dey see Vilkin’s bants crawling up his leg dey holds off und vaits for a change, but if his bants vas down dey goes right back home, und puts in de crop. Dink of it, my frent; mit de thermometer bants, you can tell exactly ven to put in cabbage seed, und plant corn twice as better as mit an almanac, besides ven de vedder gets so cold und vet dot de bants goes up under your arms, you sew buttons on the front and vear him as a vest.”

When Hoffenstein finished his yarn concerning the pants, the countryman smiled, and, turning abruptly on his heel, left the store.

“Did you see de vay dot man acted, Hermann?” said Hoffenstein, angrily.

“Yes, sir,” replied his clerk.

“Vell, it shust shows dot de more you dry to help beoble along, de more, py tam, you don’t got any tanks for it.”

EDWARD E. EDWARDS.

The subject of this sketch is known but little, although his humor has acquired fame widespread and universal. Edward E. Edwards is the paragrapher and “funny man” of the Boston Transcript. This journal has become famous for its bright and racy column of “Facts and Fancies,” and for the hundreds of sparkling humorous sketches that have appeared in its columns during a great number of years.

Edward E. Edwards, the life of the journal, is a New Englander. Born and reared in the vicinity of the great metropolis of culture, Edwards has become one of the institutions of Boston. While yet a youth he entered into the employ of the Transcript, in the capacity of assistant in the mailing-room in the basement. He worked steadily; and gradually, as he became a man, ascended in the business he had chosen, step by step, until he now holds a remunerative position in the editorial rooms on the fifth floor of the Transcript building.

Edwards is the fortunate possessor of a vein of humor of very peculiar composition, and he occupies in the world of wit a field entirely his own. The column of bright paragraphs published under the caption of Facts and Fancies has long been one of the leading features of the Boston Transcript, and is widely quoted. Edwards has made his most happy hits, however, in his descriptive sketches, lectures to the young, etc., that have appeared in his paper. These have been more widely copied, perhaps, than any one class of humorous sketches that have appeared in this country during the last decade. Their author is a small man, of good appearance, weighing one hundred and sixty pounds, and is about six and thirty years of age.

As a fair specimen of the humor that springs from the pen of Edwards, I annex the following discourse to little children on

THE EDITOR.

The editor is a member of that race of animals called mankind. He is invariably a kind man.

He is perfectly harmless. You may go into his den without fear. But he has his peculiarities. The sight of a poet makes him wild. He is then very dangerous, and is apt to do bodily harm to all within his reach. He is also wrought up when a man comes in with a little trifle he has just dashed off.

There is one thing that must be said in the editor’s dispraise. His mind is so biased by long thinking in a certain direction, that he dislikes very much to look upon both sides of a question. Therefore, if you value your safety, never approach him with manuscript written on both sides of your paper. Let me say right here, children, that a good deal of sheer nonsense has been written about the editor. He uses his shears only when composing an entirely original article. He usually writes with his pen, but his most cutting articles are the product of his shears.

The editor would make a good public speaker but for his propensity for clipping words. The editor’s hardest task is to dispose of his time. It is a monotonous life, indeed, were it not for the kindness of the few hundred people who call upon him every day, to enliven his dull life with stories of their grievances, of their new enterprises and with antediluvian anecdotes.

When you grow up to be men and women, children, remember this, and spend all the time you can in the sanctum of the editor. He loves company so much, you know, and sometimes he has to sit silent alone for a whole half minute. Is it not too bad? The business of the editor is to entertain itinerant lecturers, book canvassers, exchange fiends, and other philanthropists. He gives his whole day to these. He writes his editorials at night after he has gone to bed.

The editor is never so happy as when he is writing complimentary notices. For ten cents worth of presents he will gladly give ten dollars worth of advertising--all on account of the pleasure it gives him to write, you know, children. He loves to write neat little speeches and bright, witty poems for people without brains, who wish to speak in public. It is so easy to do this that he is sometimes quite miserable when an hour or two passes without an opportunity to do something of the kind.

The editor dines at all the hotels free, he travels free, theaters open wide their doors to him, the tailor clothes him gratis, his butcher and grocer furnish him with food without money and without price. In short, his every want is provided for. He spends his princely salary in building churches and school-houses in foreign lands.

By all means, children, be editors. Of course, it would be better if you could be hod-carriers or dray horses, but, as that is impossible, by all means be editors.

EUGENE FIELD.

One of the most clever of Western humorists is Eugene Field. He is a native of Missouri, having been born in St. Louis, September 2, 1850. His mother died when he was but six years of age, and he was sent, with a younger brother, to Amherst, Massachusetts, and placed under the care of his cousin, Miss French. He was fitted for college by the Rev. James Tufts, of Monson, and entered Williams college in 1868. Upon the death of his father, in 1869, he returned to the West, and has since then made his home on the western side of the Mississippi. He left the State University of Missouri at the close of his junior year, and went to Europe, where he remained for seven months.

In 1873 Mr. Field became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal, of which paper Stanley Huntley (now of the Brooklyn Eagle) was then city editor. He changed his location soon after to St. Joseph, where for eighteen months he was associate editor of the St. Joseph Gazette. He then moved to Kansas City, where, for a period of twenty months, he acted as managing editor of the Daily Times. He was with the St. Louis Times-Journal during its best days, and was twice elected poet of the Missouri Press Association. He is, at the present writing, managing editor of the Denver Tribune. He has been married eight years and is the father of four living children.

It was in 1878 that Mr. Field first began writing verse, and, for a young poet, his productions were highly complimented. His first effort was a little poem of ten stanzas, which was printed in a St. Louis paper. It was entitled:

THE CHRISTMAS TREASURES.

I count my treasures o’er with care-- A little toy that baby knew-- A little lock of faded hue-- A little lock of golden hair.

Long years ago this Christmas time, My little one--my all to me-- Sat, robed in white, upon my knee, And heard the Merry Christmas chime.

“Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright-- What treasure for my boy?” I said.

And then he named the little toy, While in his round and truthful eyes There came a look of glad surprise That spoke his trustful, childish joy.

And as he lisped his evening pray’r, He asked the boon with baby grace, And toddling to the chimney place, He hung his little stocking there.

That night, as length’ning shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With music to our humble home And kiss my darling as he slept.

They must have heard his baby pray’r, For in the morn, with glowing face, He toddled to the chimney place And found the little treasure there.

They came again one Christmas tide-- That angel host, so fair and white-- And, singing all the Christmas night, They lured my darling from my side.

A little sock, a little toy-- A little lock of golden hair-- The Christmas music on the air-- A watching for my baby boy.

But if again that angel train And golden-head come back for me, To bear me to eternity, My watching will not be in vain.

Other efforts in a similar vein followed, of which the following is a fair sample:

THE PRAYER.

Long years have passed since that sweet time When first I breathed upon the air My simple little baby prayer-- A prayer with earnestness sublime; Since first my mother clasped my hands, And bade me, ere I went to sleep, Pray God my little soul to keep, Or take to dwell in heav’nly land.

And now, tho’ years on years have fled, And tho’ the mother’s passed away, And tho’ my head be bowed and gray, The little prayer that then I said Comes floating back on angel wing, As if, upon the other shore, A little child had lisped it o’er For God’s own messengers to bring.

His work in a lighter vein is fairly represented by the following:

THE SAME DEAR HAND.

The bells ring out a happy sound, The earth is mantled o’er with white, It is the merry Christmas night, And love and mirth and joy abound. And here sit you and here sit I; I should be happiest in the land, For, oh, I hold the same dear hand I’ve held for many a year gone by!

It is not withered up with care; It is as fresh and fair to see, As sweet to hold and dear to me, As when with chimes upon the air On Christmas nights of years ago I held the same dear little thing And felt its soft caresses bring The flushes to my throbbing brow.