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Vol. 11, No. 23
What Are We Doing Down At Vera Crai ?
/"ALE boss, sit right still, for half a minute,
and commune with yourself.
Did you ever know a school-teacher, who
had taught boys until middle life, that was
a chinquapin for anything else?
That's your President.
Did you ever know a professional speech
maker, who had been making speeches ever
since he became a college student, and who
had kept it up constantly until liis mouth met
under his ears and his head was as bald as a
glass globe, to be worth hell’s room for any
thing else?
That's your Secretary of State.
Your President is a cross between a ferule
and a treatise on algebra.
Your Secretary of State is a hybrid, com
posed of borrowed rhetoric and a native incli
nation to cheap slobbergosh.
Recently, he learned that Denmark owns
one of the West Indian Island groups; and
he has been taking medicine ever since.
As to your President, he first refused to
make a speech to the old soldiers at Arling
ton on Decoration Day; then changed his
mind, and made the speech; and left most of
the old soldiers regretting that he didn’t
stick to his first resolution: instead of chang
ing it.
The Brazilian Ambassador declared,
Why Is It That No American Can Be Appointed
pAP A claims to have sixteen millions of
1 bipeds on this side of the pond who are
ready at all times to kiss his foot, without
even waiting to see whether it is clean, or not.
Os course, Papa claims more than he really
has; but he has quite a goodly number, most
of them being as yet unwashed foreigners
who can’t even read their own language.
Papa is virtually President of the United
States, for Woodrow Wilson is not much
more than private secretary to Joseph Pat
rick Tumulty.
Papa also owns our Supreme Court,
through Ned White, the Jesuit from Louisi
ana.
Papa can also wind our War Department
and our Navy Department around his gouty
finger, any old day he has a mind to; and if
he wants more Christ-eating chaplains on
our battleships, all he has to do is to tip the
wink to Josephine Daniels, our Secretary of
the Navy.
Josephine dearly loves to please the Pope—
so much so that he sent a considerable portion
of our Navy over to Rome to kiss old Sarto’s
foot.
Papa also controls the American News
Company, as I happened to learn, when that
association of Christians, whom John Barry
and Christopher Columbus discovered, boy
cotted our Watson’s Magazine, and bragged
that they had killed it.
They bragged a little too soon, as it turned
out. The Magazine still perseveres in well
doing, and laughs at Papa, once a month.
But the daily papers are dreadfully afraid
of old brother Sarto, and they actually trem-
Thomson, Ga., Thursday, June 4, 1914
according to the Washington Post, that our
President and our Secretary called upon
Argentina, Brazil and Chile to mediate this
Mexico tangle.
That’s a serious statement. It has not been
denied. The President and the Secretary see
the Washington Post every day.
If that statement of the Ambassador of
Brazil is not true, it ought to be denied.
If it is true, it puts Wilson and Bryan in a
hole.
Wilson and Bryan backed up Admiral
Mayo in demanding that 21 blank cartridges
be fired by the Mexicans, in honor of our
They did not propose to arbitrate the qucs
-11
THEY DID NOT OFFpR TO DEFER
IT TO THE HAGUE PEACE COURT.
They hurriedly backed up Mayo in his
unlawful and trivial demand, without wait-
HAVE NOT ACCEPTED ANY INVI
TATIONS TO SPEAK.
Don’t believe any notices to that
effed unless you see them on this
page. T. E. W.
Cardinal?
ble every time a Catholic bar-keeper threatens
to take his advertisement out.
The fool editors don’t seem to know that
they could run the barrooms off the earth, if
they’d half try.
But what I am trying to get at is this:
The Italian tricksters who work the hid
den wires of Romanism WON'T ALLOW
US AMERICANS TO LI AVE A SINGLE
CARDINAL.
Did you ever meditate on that, my son?
If not, meditate.
There is something in the blood of the
Anglo-Saxon that unfits him for the asinine
mummeries of popery.
You hear people say, “ Blood will tell." It
does.
Once a thoroughbred, always a thorough
bred. No matter how poor, how seedy, how
debauched a gentleman may become, the
trained door-keeper at the nobleman’s palace
knows him for a thoroughbred, the moment
the poor outcast stands in the door. The
hall-mark of gentility can never be whollv
erased.
So with the Anolo-Saxon: he’s a type to
himself, and a very terrible type, at that.
He has fought more battles, shed more
blood, committed more deeds of violence,
sacked more cities, outraged more women than
any race that ever trod the stage of life.
But the Anglo-Saxon never makes a good
menial; is a poor hand at telling lies; rarely
ever steals; never stabs his enemy in the back;
ing to consult the law of nations, or the pre
cedents of record.
Half-a-dozen of our marines had been
landed on a hostile coast, where Martial Law
was in force, and where our brave boys had
no business to be.
They were never imprisoned a single min
ute.
A superior Mexican officer saw them under
arrest, and ordered their immediate release.
He not only apologized promptly to Admi
ral Mayo, but General Huerta did the same
thing.
But Mayo sent a most insulting note to the
Mexican general, demanding that he should,
within 24 hours, run up the American flag,
and salute it with 21 guns.
I assert that the Law of Nations docs not
authorize any such demand.
If John Bassett Moore had not become dis
gusted with Bryan, and quit the office of
Assistant-Secretary, the apology of the de
facto Mexican government would most
assuredly have been accepted, as absolutely
sufficient.
But Moore was gone; and Bryan doesn’t
know the law of Nebraska, much less the Law
of Nations; and therefore, he and Professor
Wilson plunged right into unnecessary blood
shed.
(continued on page eight.)
and never bends his knee, willingly, save to
God.
When I say Anglo-Saxon, I mean to
include the Indo-Germanic peoples’ generally.
You never in your life saw an Anglo-Saxon
who was a sycophant—and you never will.
It isn’t in the blood.
Gallant as a plumed Knight to a woman,
he will not wallow in servility to another
man.
Deep down in his soul, he believes he’s as
good as anybody; and there is nothing in
elemental manhood so wonderfully admira
ble as the unconscious pride and self-respect
of our poor whites.
I never cease to marvel at it, and to pay
silent tribute to it—the superb, unbending,
instinctive high-bearing of the man whom I
know hasn’t got a surplus dollar on earth,
but who counts himself and his empty pock
ets. as being the full equal of any other man
whomsoever.
It’s glorious! Those are the men who are
the salt of the earth.
Not one of those men have ever knelt to any
Italian 'priest and kissed his foot.
Not a single one!
IF ho is Cardinal James Gibbons?
A Celt who was reared in Ireland, fed on
popish milk, soaked in popish tomfoolery,
isolated from companionship with robust
Irishmen, and wrapped up in a woman’s
chemist and petticoat before he had ever
breathed a single whiff of the free air of com
mon sense.
(CONTINUED ON t PAGE SIX.)
Price, Five Qents
