Los Angeles herald., 1891-10-11

porting to be specimen pages iron
Poets of America" a"-"the only com
plete biographical dictionary of local anc
national poets, containing numerous Sc
lections, and profusely illustrated with
over five hundred lifelike portraits"
Passing over the specimen lifelike por'
traits as speedily as possible, and with
the sole remark that any one of them
would furnish to an honest jury good
reason for awarding the subject-if not
extraordinarily cursed by the gods
heavy damages for criminal libel, pause
to note one or two of the interesting
biographical" references.
The first concerns Mrs. Laura Kit
tenhouse, whose lifelike portrait is
cruelty inserted. OF this female
we are told that she is a
fervent supporter of the temperance
cause, contribution to the leading per-
iodicals (not specifed) of America, and
the proprietor of a splendid family OF
five children. A good record, Laura,
but it will take more than that to atone
for your face, not to mention your
"poems."
Contiguous to the above is (appar-
ently) the death mask of one William
Paxton, who is, however, sat the age OF
seventy-one still industriously employed
in the business of making spectacle
of himself. He has, we are told, COM
piled a genealogy of his mothers family
"a work of 425 pages, also two volumes
of respectively 1876 and 452 pages, 'the
latter of which has attracted universal
admiration"
We are mercifully allowed to hope
that said pages were blank.
The subject of the next sketch came
to this country from Germany at the age
of eleven, thereby furnishing additional
proof of the urgent necessity for re-
stricting the immigration of criminals
and idiots. This man-Wolf Wilmer
is both. With the courage of my con-
victions risk reprobation as an acces-
sorry after the fact in order to prove this
statement by the following quotation
I'll marry her, both tall and fair;
Blue is her eyes, blonde is her hair
AS beauteous as one only seeks,
And pretty dimpleS in her cheeks;
tiny nose between her eyes
Her ears are just the correct size
Her skin as fine as velvet is,
Her ruby lips invite kiss.
But refrain.
Henry Arnold Isler is also, fortunately
for the dear reputation OF our native
land, an alien. He has published a
volume justly entitled "Wild Thoughts
in Rhyme" He is happily married and
his hobby is making scrap-books. A
speciman poem voices his conviction
that
Sweet is the sleep OF the dead,
Quiet tnelr rest in the clay.
Also the fact that he is weary of drink
ing and "eating his own bread" what
ever that may be-, and that he yearns
to be at rest in the cold dark clay.
Quite right, Henry. 1t were a con-
summation devoutly to be wished.
have reserved Mrs. Kate S. Kisner
for the last, and purpose quoting one of
her little gems, feeling that it viii speak
for her far more eloquently than any
weak words of mine. 1t is in the presence
of such outpourings of the poet soul that
one feels indeed the poverty even of the
Century dictionary, and the feebleness
OF that instrument erstwhile trumpeted
as mightier than the sword.
THE MAN LOVE.
The man of my hearts own choice
Doth make my soul rejoice.
lie is WOndrOuS fair,
With gold FURNISHED hair,
And kind and winsome voice.
He has the classic brow of a sage,
And his life is q clean white page;
And naught will he do
To make him blush to
Reflect on it in old age.
His eyes are like Heavens own blue,
And his heart is just as true.
And he loves me- oh,
And his children, So
There is naught for us he would not do
He is not so very great in size
But he is OH so very wise.
And there is naught to compare
With the light that shines there
In those luminous soul-lit eyes.
We can safely relegate this galaxy Of
"poets" to the obscurity whence not
even Mr.. Herringshaw's splendidly
illustrated volume will avail to drag
them.
Butt ask again-what adequate
punishment can we infict upon the
creature who, for the sake of a few
dirty dollars, has pandered to the dis
eased vanity of the local and national
fools of America, and has wasted much
good white paper and printers ink in
his puny endeavor to perpetuate the
pitiful drIvel that he has gathered to-
gether out of the refuse-heaps OF the
land? What shall be done with this
parasite that fattens on the softened
brains of his fellow idiots?
Let us, first of all, tattoo him all over
with his own specimen pages and life
like portraits. Let us then fay him
alive, and finally drown him in a pool
of Stygian ink. There will be an end of
him-tor such things have no souls.
METH BOYCE.