STANLEY HUNTLEY.
“Mr. and Mrs. Spoopendyke” are well-known characters. The exceedingly funny descriptions of the home life of Spoopendyke and his better-half, that first appeared in the columns of the Daily Eagle, of Brooklyn, New York, in 1881, have been reproduced in thousands of newspapers in this country, and in Europe. They are written in a style highly original, and occupy a field entirely their own.
Mr. Stanley Huntley, the author of these lively sketches, is a resident of Brooklyn, and has for years occupied a prominent position in the editorial rooms of the Daily Eagle. He is a born journalist, and has been engaged on many newspapers in both the East and West. For many years he was city editor of the St. Louis Evening Journal, and has also held positions on other St. Louis papers. It was not until 1881, early in the year, that Mr. Huntley’s humorous writings began to attract the attention of the public. They were so original, so brilliantly witty, and such oddities inthemselves, that the Brooklyn Eagle became famous through their publication. Spoopendyke at once sprang into popular favor, and the name was known in every city and village in the country.
During this season of popularity, Mr. Huntley gathered together his best sketches, and brought them out in book form through the New York publishing house of W. B. Smith & Company. The book sold with a rapidity that was simply wonderful, and under the simple title of Spoopendyke, over 300,000 copies of the work were manufactured and disposed of within three months after its first appearance. Several revised and enlarged editions have since been published.
Mr. Huntley is of middle age, of lively temperament, pleasing manners, and is kind and sympathetic. He has been married for a number of years to a handsome and highly cultured lady, and lives with happy surroundings in a retired street in Brooklyn. Early in 1882, he was compelled, by serious illness, to cease his labors for a number of months.
It is extremely difficult to determine which is his best production. The Spoopendyke sketches are all good. Here is a fair specimen of them:
SPOOPENDYKE’S ILLNESS.“How long have I been in this measly old barracks?” asked Mr. Spoopendyke, turning painfullyin his bed, and gazing in a vague, half-dazed way toward a long line of antidotes on the mantel.“About two weeks, dear,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke, coming toward him with a bowl of gruel, and smiling pleasantly. “The doctor says you are not likely to have another attack if you keep very quiet, and follow his instructions.”“Oh, he does, does he?” said Mr. Spoopendyke, making a vain effort to sit up, and falling back with a groan. “He says I won’t have another attack? Now, what do you suppose the dod-gasted, bald-pated pill-roller knows about my case, anyway? Perhaps you think he could make an Egyptian mummy dance a Highland fling, and put life into a cigar sign. All he needs is three bulletins a day and unlimited chin to become one of the leading physicians of the country. I suppose if I take all that stuff up there I shall be born again, and see the next centennial. What does that bone-sawing, blistering old ape know about the future, anyway. How can he tell whether I will have another attack or not? Perhaps he will tell you the name of your next husband, and the color of his hair, for fifty cents. Perhaps he is a dod-gasted Spiritualist. What’s that?”“Gruel,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke.“Gruel, always gruel,” said Mr. Spoopendyke,turning his face to the wall. “Do you imagine I’m a Sheltering Arms and St. John’s Guild excursion thrown into one? Why don’t you tie a bib around my neck, get me a rubber to chew on, and put a rattle in my hand?”“But the doctor says you must not eat solid food at pres”—Oh, I’m not to eat solid food,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, kicking viciously at the foot-board. “A diet of cannon-balls and scrap-iron won’t agree with me. It won’t do for me to attempt digesting steel rails and bridge girders. He thinks they won’t agree with me, does he? The measly old rattle-brained powder-mixer. Here, give me that stuff,” and Mr. Spoopendyke knocked the bowl out of his wife’s hands, spilling the contents over the bed-clothes. “There, now I suppose you are satisfied,” he said, squirming over toward the wall, and digging his face in the pillow, while Mrs. Spoopendyke gathered up the pieces, and said it was so fortunate that the bowl was only earthenware.
SPOOPENDYKE’S ILLNESS.
“How long have I been in this measly old barracks?” asked Mr. Spoopendyke, turning painfullyin his bed, and gazing in a vague, half-dazed way toward a long line of antidotes on the mantel.
“About two weeks, dear,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke, coming toward him with a bowl of gruel, and smiling pleasantly. “The doctor says you are not likely to have another attack if you keep very quiet, and follow his instructions.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” said Mr. Spoopendyke, making a vain effort to sit up, and falling back with a groan. “He says I won’t have another attack? Now, what do you suppose the dod-gasted, bald-pated pill-roller knows about my case, anyway? Perhaps you think he could make an Egyptian mummy dance a Highland fling, and put life into a cigar sign. All he needs is three bulletins a day and unlimited chin to become one of the leading physicians of the country. I suppose if I take all that stuff up there I shall be born again, and see the next centennial. What does that bone-sawing, blistering old ape know about the future, anyway. How can he tell whether I will have another attack or not? Perhaps he will tell you the name of your next husband, and the color of his hair, for fifty cents. Perhaps he is a dod-gasted Spiritualist. What’s that?”
“Gruel,” said Mrs. Spoopendyke.
“Gruel, always gruel,” said Mr. Spoopendyke,turning his face to the wall. “Do you imagine I’m a Sheltering Arms and St. John’s Guild excursion thrown into one? Why don’t you tie a bib around my neck, get me a rubber to chew on, and put a rattle in my hand?”
“But the doctor says you must not eat solid food at pres”—
Oh, I’m not to eat solid food,” said Mr. Spoopendyke, kicking viciously at the foot-board. “A diet of cannon-balls and scrap-iron won’t agree with me. It won’t do for me to attempt digesting steel rails and bridge girders. He thinks they won’t agree with me, does he? The measly old rattle-brained powder-mixer. Here, give me that stuff,” and Mr. Spoopendyke knocked the bowl out of his wife’s hands, spilling the contents over the bed-clothes. “There, now I suppose you are satisfied,” he said, squirming over toward the wall, and digging his face in the pillow, while Mrs. Spoopendyke gathered up the pieces, and said it was so fortunate that the bowl was only earthenware.
The following excellent satire on the current juvenile literature of the day, was originally published in the columns of the Brooklyn Eagle:
INVESTIGATING LIGHT LITERATURE.The other day a stout woman, armed with an umbrella and leading a small urchin, called at the office of a New York boys’ story paper.“Is this the place where they fight Indians?” she inquired of the gentleman in charge. “Is this the locality where the brave boy charges up the canyon and speeds a bullet to the heart of the dusky red-skin?” and she jerked the urchin around by the ear and brought her umbrella down on the desk.“We publish stories for boys,” replied the young man evasively.“I want to know if these are the premises on which the daring lad springs upon the fiery mustang and, darting through the circle of thunderstruck savages, cuts the captive’s cords and bears him away before the wondering Indians have recovered from their astonishment! That’s the information I’m after. I want to know if that sort of thing is perpetrated here!” and she swung the umbrella around her head and launched a crack at the young man’s head.“I don’t remember those specific acts,” protested the young man.“I want to know if this is the precinct where the adventurous boy jumps on the back of a buffalo and with unerring aim, picks off one by one,the bloodthirsty pursuers, who bite the dust at every crack of his faithful rifle! I’m looking for the place where that sort of thing happens!” and this time she brought the unlucky young man a tremendous whack across the back.“I think—?’ commenced the dodging victim.“I’m in search of the shop in which the boy road agent holds the quivering stage driver powerless with his glittering eye, while he robs the male passengers with an adroitness born of long and tried experience, and kisses the hands of the lady passengers with a gallantry of bearing that bespeaks noble birth and a chivalrous nature!” screamed the woman, driving the young man into the corner. “I’m looking for the apartment in which that business is transacted!” and down came the umbrella with trip-hammer force on the young man’s head.“Upon my soul, ma’am—!” gasped the wretched youth.“I want to be introduced to the jars in which you keep the boy scouts of the Sierras! Show me the bins full of the boy detectives of the prairie! Point out to me the barrels full of boy pirates of the Spanish main!” and with each demand she dropped the umbrella on the young man’s skull, until he skipped over the desk and sought safety in a neighboring canyon.“I’ll teach ’em!” she panted, grasping the urchin by the ear and leading him off. “I’ll teach ’em to make it good or dance. Want to go fight Indians any more? Want to stand proudly upon the pinnacle of the mountain and scatter the plain beneath with the bleeding bodies of uncounted slain? Want to say ‘hist’ in a tone that brooks no contradiction? Propose to spring upon the taffrail and with a ringing word of command send a broadside into the richly laden galley, and then mercifully spare the beautiful maiden in the cabin, that she may become your bride? Eh! Going to do it any more?”With each question she hammered the yelping urchin until his bones were sore and he protested his permanent abandonment of all the glories enumerated.“Then come along,” said she, taking him by the collar. “Let me catch you around with any more ramrods and carving knives, and you’ll think the leaping, curling, resistless prairie fire had swept with a ferocious roar of triumph across the trembling plains and lodged in your pantaloons to stay!”
INVESTIGATING LIGHT LITERATURE.
The other day a stout woman, armed with an umbrella and leading a small urchin, called at the office of a New York boys’ story paper.
“Is this the place where they fight Indians?” she inquired of the gentleman in charge. “Is this the locality where the brave boy charges up the canyon and speeds a bullet to the heart of the dusky red-skin?” and she jerked the urchin around by the ear and brought her umbrella down on the desk.
“We publish stories for boys,” replied the young man evasively.
“I want to know if these are the premises on which the daring lad springs upon the fiery mustang and, darting through the circle of thunderstruck savages, cuts the captive’s cords and bears him away before the wondering Indians have recovered from their astonishment! That’s the information I’m after. I want to know if that sort of thing is perpetrated here!” and she swung the umbrella around her head and launched a crack at the young man’s head.
“I don’t remember those specific acts,” protested the young man.
“I want to know if this is the precinct where the adventurous boy jumps on the back of a buffalo and with unerring aim, picks off one by one,the bloodthirsty pursuers, who bite the dust at every crack of his faithful rifle! I’m looking for the place where that sort of thing happens!” and this time she brought the unlucky young man a tremendous whack across the back.
“I think—?’ commenced the dodging victim.
“I’m in search of the shop in which the boy road agent holds the quivering stage driver powerless with his glittering eye, while he robs the male passengers with an adroitness born of long and tried experience, and kisses the hands of the lady passengers with a gallantry of bearing that bespeaks noble birth and a chivalrous nature!” screamed the woman, driving the young man into the corner. “I’m looking for the apartment in which that business is transacted!” and down came the umbrella with trip-hammer force on the young man’s head.
“Upon my soul, ma’am—!” gasped the wretched youth.
“I want to be introduced to the jars in which you keep the boy scouts of the Sierras! Show me the bins full of the boy detectives of the prairie! Point out to me the barrels full of boy pirates of the Spanish main!” and with each demand she dropped the umbrella on the young man’s skull, until he skipped over the desk and sought safety in a neighboring canyon.
“I’ll teach ’em!” she panted, grasping the urchin by the ear and leading him off. “I’ll teach ’em to make it good or dance. Want to go fight Indians any more? Want to stand proudly upon the pinnacle of the mountain and scatter the plain beneath with the bleeding bodies of uncounted slain? Want to say ‘hist’ in a tone that brooks no contradiction? Propose to spring upon the taffrail and with a ringing word of command send a broadside into the richly laden galley, and then mercifully spare the beautiful maiden in the cabin, that she may become your bride? Eh! Going to do it any more?”
With each question she hammered the yelping urchin until his bones were sore and he protested his permanent abandonment of all the glories enumerated.
“Then come along,” said she, taking him by the collar. “Let me catch you around with any more ramrods and carving knives, and you’ll think the leaping, curling, resistless prairie fire had swept with a ferocious roar of triumph across the trembling plains and lodged in your pantaloons to stay!”