Chapter 41

“Alas, Poor Yorick!I knew him, Horatio;A fellow of infinite jest,Of most excellent fancy.”

“Alas, Poor Yorick!

I knew him, Horatio;

A fellow of infinite jest,

Of most excellent fancy.”

FRANK. W. BOWEN.PHILIP C. WELCH. ROBERT SIMPSON.

Frank W. Bowen, a diamond of the first water, H. G. McKnight, the lightning type-slinger, and B. F. Gates, a dandy printer, swarmed from theDerrickhive and raised the wind to blow an eveningBlizzardin 1882. They bought theTelegraphstuff and the RichburgEchopress, had brains and pluck in abundance and went in to win. The significant motto—“It blows on whom it pleases and for others’ snuff ne’er sneezes”—attested the independence of the free-playing zephyr. Gentle as the summer breezes when dealing with the good, the true and the beautiful, it swept everything before it when a wrong was to be righted, a sleek rascal unmasked or a monopoly toppled over. Bowen’s “Little Blizzards” had a laugh in every line. If they stung transgressors by their sharp thrusts, the author didn’t lie awake nights trying to load up with mean things. His humor was spontaneous and easy as rolling off a log. Now his friends and admirers—their name is Legion—propose to waft him into the Legislature, a clear case of the office seeking the man. It goes without saying that theBlizzardwas an instant success. It was no fault of the fond parents that they were built that way and couldn’t compel people not to want their exhilarating paper. Place its neat make-up to McKnight’s account. Gates flocked by himself tousher in theVenango Democrat, which the gods loved so well that it passed through the golden gates in four weeks. Robert Simpson, jocularly styled its “horse editor,” was aBlizzardtrump-card until 1886. He then filled consecutive engagements as exchange-editor, news-editor, night-editor, assistant managing-editor and legislative correspondent of the PittsburgDispatch. Again he edited theDerricknine months in 1889. Returning to Pittsburg as political-reporter of theCommercial-Gazette, he was promoted to legislative-correspondent and lastly to managing-editor, a position of much responsibility.

The RenoTimes, an eight-column folio that ranked with the foremost weeklies in the State, was started in 1865 and expired in May of 1866. A department was assigned each kind of news, the matter was classified and set in minion and nonpareil, oil-operations were noted fully and local affairs received due attention. Samuel B. Page, the editor, understood how to glean from exchanges and correspondence. George E. Beardsley, whose parish lay along Oil Creek, about Pithole and the Allegheny River from Franklin to Tidioute, a section thirty miles by seventy, managed the oil-columns admirably. E. W. Mercer kept the books, collected the bills and had general supervision. W. C. Plumer, J. Diffenbach and Edward Fairchilds stuck type and the average edition exceeded ten-thousand copies.

CHARLES C. WICKER.

Pithole, the most kaleidoscopic oil-town that ever stranded human lives and bank-accounts, gave birth to theDaily Recordon the twenty-fifth of September, 1865. It was a five-column folio, crammed with news piping-hot and sold at five cents a copy, or thirty cents a week. Morton, Spare & Co. were the publishers. Col. L. M. Morton—he earned his shoulder-straps in the civil war—edited theRecord, winning laurels by his wise discernment. He was a manly character, incapable of deceit, a brilliant writer and conversationalist, the soul of honor and courtesy, “a knight without fear and without reproach.” He served as postmaster at Milton and spent his closing years as night-editor of the BradfordEra, dying at his post, loved and esteemed by thousands of friends. W. H. Longwell, another brave defender of the Union, bought out Spare in May, 1886. Charles C. Wicker and W. C. Plumer were taken into the firm shortly after. In May of 1868, Pithole having crawled into a hole, Longwell changed the base of operations to Petroleum Centre, then at the zenith of its meteoric flight. He sold the paper in 1871 to Wicker, who held on until formidable rivals in Oil City and Titusville forced theRecordto quit. Generous to a fault and faithful to those who shared his confidence, Wicker left the decaying town in 1873, was foreman of the TitusvilleCourier, worked as a compositor at Bradford and died there years ago. He was never satisfied to accept ill-luck without emphatic dissent. He always wore a blue-flannel shirt, a fashion he adopted in the army, and was eccentric in attire.

Charles C. Leonard was “a bright, particular star” in the days of the PitholeRecord, to which, over the signature of “Crocus,” he contributed side-splitting sketches of ludicrous phases of oil-region life. These felicitous word-paintings, with additions and revisions, he published in a volume that had a prodigious sale. He was an Ohioan, born in 1845, and a soldier at sixteen. Arriving at Pithole in 1865, he saw that wonderful place grow from a dozen shanties to a city of fifteen-thousand at a pace distancing Jonah’s gourd or Jack-the-Giant-Killer’sbean-stalk. In the fall of 1867 he came to the TitusvilleHerald, remaining five years. After short terms with the ClevelandLeaderand St. LouisGlobe, he returned to Titusville to write for theEvening Press. He went back to St. Louis and died at Cleveland on the twelfth of March 1874, wounds received in battle hastening his demise. He was a natural wit, whose keen jokes had the aroma of Attic salt. Mrs. Leonard removed to Detroit, her home at present. One of Charlie’s favorite creations was “The Sheet-Iron Cat,” written for the ClevelandLeader. It passed the rounds of the newspapers and was printed in theScientific American. The sell took immensely, lots of persons sending letters asking the cost of the “cats” and where they could be procured! The article, which revives many a pleasant memory of “auld lang-syne,” follows:

“A young mechanic in this city, whose friends and acquaintances have heretofore supposed there was “nothing to him,” has at last achieved a triumph that will place him at once among the noblest benefactors of mankind. His name will be handed down to posterity with those of the inventors of the “steam-man,” the patent churn and other contrivances of a labor-saving or comfort-inducing character. His invention, which occurred to him when trying to sleep at night in the sky-parlor of his cheap boarding-house, with the feline demons of mid-night clattering over the roof outside, is nothing more than a patent sheet-iron cat with cylindrical attachment, steel-claws and teeth, the whole arrangement being covered with cat-skins, which give it a natural appearance and preserve the clock-work and intricate machinery with which the old thing is made to work. Among the other peculiarities of this ingenious invention are the tail and voice. The former is hollow and supplied by a bellows (concealed within the body) with compressed air at momentary intervals, which causes the appendage to be elevated and distended to three times its natural size, giving to the metallic cat a most warlike and belligerent appearance. By the aid of the same bellows and a tremolo-stop arrangement, the cat is made to emit the most fearful caterwauls and “spitting” that ever awakened a baby, made the head of the family swear in his dreams, or caused a shower of boots, washbowls and other missiles of midnight wrath to cleave the sky.

“Such is the invention. The method of using and the result is as follows: Winding up the patent Thomas-cat, the owner adjusts him upon the house-top or in the back-yard and awaits events. Soon is heard the tocsin of cat-like war in the shape of every known sound that the tribe are capable of producing, only in a key much louder than any live cat could perform in. Every cat within a circle of a half-mile hears the familiar sounds and accepts the challenge, frequently fifty or one hundred appearing simultaneously upon the battle-ground, ready to buckle in. The swelling tail invites combat and they attack old “Ironsides,” who no sooner feels the weight of a paw upon his hide than a spring is touched off, his paws revolve in all directions with lightning rapidity and the adversaries within six feet of him are torn to shreds! Fresh battalions come to the scratch only to meet a like fate, and in the morning several bushels of hair, fiddle-strings and toe-nails is all that are seen, while the owner proceeds to wind the iron cat up and set him again.

“But a few pleasant evenings are needed to clean out a common-sized country town of its sleep-disturbers. We understand the inventor will make a proposition next week to the common council to depopulate the city of cats for a moderate sum. We do not intend to endorse any invention or article unless we know that it will perform all that it is claimed to do, and therefore we have not been so explicit in our description as we might have been; but the principle is a good one, and we hope to see every house in the city surmounted with a sheet-iron cat as soon as they are offered for sale, which will be about April the first, the inventor and patentee informs us.”

J. H. Bowman and Richard Linn sent forth thePetroleum Monthlyat Oil City in October, 1870. Their purpose was to treat the oil-industry from a scientific stand and present statistics and biographies in magazine-style. TheMonthly, which lasted a year, was ably edited and supplied matter of permanent value. Bowman, a fascinating writer and agreeable companion, went westward and the snows of twenty winters have drifted over his grave. Linn aided in compiling a history of petroleum, spent some years in the east and meandered to Australia. Pleasantville evolved theEvening Newsin 1888 and the semi-monthlyCommercial-Record. The former has sought “the dark realms of everlasting shade,” to keep company with J. L. Rohr’s CooperstownNews, Tom Whitaker’sGatling Gun, the Oil-CityCritic, the FranklinOil-Region, the Petroleum-CentreEraand a score of unwept sacrifices on the altar of Venango journalism. James Tyson, a hardware merchant at Rouseville, in 1872 issued thePennsylvanian, a superior weekly, which subsided with the waning town. He migrated to California, living in San Francisco until last year, when he located in Philadelphia. At the age of seventy-nine his faculties are unimpaired and he stands erect. He is an earnest member of the Pennsylvania Historical Society and compiler of a “Life of Washington and the Signers of the Declaration ofIndependence.”Independence.”This timely and interesting work, published in two handsome volumes in 1895, is dedicated to the public schools of the nation. It fitly crowns the literary labors of the revered author, who is “only waiting till the shadows are a little longer drawn.”

JOHN PONTON.JAMES TYSON.CHARLES C. LEONARD.

JOHN PONTON.

JAMES TYSON.

CHARLES C. LEONARD.

Titusville enjoys the honor of harboring the first petroleum-daily that weathered the storm and stayed in the ring. June, 1865, heralded theMorning Heraldof W. W. and Henry C. Bloss, which possessed the entire field and prospered accordingly. Col. J. H. Cogswell joined the partnership in 1866. Major W. W. Bloss, the elder of the two brothers, was a fluent writer, and made his mark in journalism. Mastering the details of “the art preservative” at Rochester, N. Y., in 1857 he started a short-lived journal in Kansas, retraced his footsteps to his native heath in 1859, was badly wounded at Antietam, beamed upon Titusville in the spring of 1865 and bought thePetroleum Reporter, a moribund weekly. Quitting theHerald, in 1873, he unfurled the banner of theEvening Press, which did not live to cut its eye-teeth. His next attempt, a tasteful weekly, traveled the road to oblivion. The Major once more headed for Kansas, served in the Legislature and wended his way to Chicago, whence he crossed “to the other side” in the prime of matured manhood. Harry C. Bloss stuck to theHerald“through evil and through good report,” steadfastly upholding Titusville and dipping his eagle feather in vitriol when necessary to squelch “a foeman worthy of his steel.” He died—the ranks are thinning out sadly—four years ago and his son, upon whom the mantle of his father has descended, is keeping the paper in the van. Col. Cogswell, who dropped out to accept the postmastership, enacting the role of “Nasby” a couple of terms, for years has been in the office of the Tidewater Pipe-Line. Among theHeraldforce were C. C. Leonard, John Ponton and A. E. Fay. Ponton turned his peculiar talent for invention to electrical pursuits and the giddy telephone.He narrowly missed heading off Prof. Bell in stumbling upon the “hello” machine. Fay forsook theHeraldfor the Oil-CityTimes, did a turn on the TitusvilleCourierand hied him to Arizona. He ran a mining-paper, sat in the Legislature, incubated a chicken-nursery that would have dumbfounded Rutherford B. Hayes, farmed a bit and harvested a crop of shekels.

The TitusvilleCourier, sprung in 1870 to oppose theHerald, was edited by Col. J. T. Henry, an accomplished journalist from Olean, N. Y. In 1871 he bought theSunday News, formerly A. L. Chapman’sLong-Roll, transferring it in 1872 to W. W. Bloss, who changed it to theEvening Press. Col. Henry in 1873 published “Early and Later History of Petroleum,” a large volume, replete with information, biographies and portraits. The author speculated profitably in oil, lived at Olean, wrote as the impulse prompted and died at Jamestown in May, 1878. A tear is due the memory of a kingly, chivalrous man, who reflected luster upon his profession and was not fully appreciated until he had reached the haven of eternal rest. To him Littleton’s tribute applies:

“He wrote not a line which dying he would blot.”

Warren C. Plumer guided theCourierafter Col. Henry’s retirement. He was no tyro in slinging his quill. Born in Maine in 1835, at fourteen he entered a printing-office, ten years later edited a paper, served three years in the war, set type on the RenoTimesin 1865 and was editor-journeyman of the PitholeRecordin the fall of 1866. His “Dedbete” contributions were a striking feature of theRecord, of which he became joint-owner with Longwell and Wicker in 1867, when Burgess of Pithole, and editor-in-chief upon its removal to Petroleum Centre in 1868. Selling out in 1869, Wicker and Plumer lighted aWeekly Starat Titusville that quickly set to rise no more. Plumer was foreman of the Oil CityTimesin 1870-1 and connected with the TidiouteJournalin 1872, when offered the editorship of theCourier. Elected to the Legislature on the Democratic ticket in 1874, he was defeated for a second term and for Congress as the Greenbackers’ candidate in 1878. For a time his political notions were as facile as his Faber and he trained with whatever party chanced to have a vacancy. From 1879 to 1881 he controlled the MeadvilleVindicator, a soft-money weekly, winding up the latter year on the RichburgEcho. In Dakota, his next stamping-ground, he edited Republican papers at Fargo, Bismarck, Aberdeen and Casselton. He stumped several states for Blaine with an eye to an appointment that would have swelled his bank-account to the dimensions of a plumber’s. “The Plumed Knight” failed to connect and the plum did not fall into the lap of his eloquent supporter. President Harrison in 1891 appointed him Receiver of the Minot District Land-office, North Dakota, which he resigned last year. As an orator Col. W. C. Plumer—they call him “Colonel” in the Dakotas—trots in the class with Robert G. Ingersoll, Thomas B. Reed and William McKinley and is denominated the “Silver Tongue of the North-west.” At the Republican National Conventions in 1884-8 he was unanimously pronounced the finest off-hand speaker in the crowd. He is a finished lecturer and unrivaled story-teller, loves the choicest books, reads the Bible diligently, sticks to his friends and delights to recount his experiences in the Pennsylvania oil-regions.

M. N. Allen, an original stockholder and its last guardian, purchased theCourierin 1874. Even his acknowledged skill could not put it on a paying basis and the paper, unsurpassed in quality and appearance, succumbed to the inevitable. Mr. Allen followed Col. Cogswell as postmaster, a proper tribute to his rugged Democracy. Hale and hearty, although “over the summit of life,” time has dealt kindly with him and his deft pen has lost none of its vigor. He isediting theAdvance Guard, the outgrowth of Roger Sherman’s departedAmerican Citizen, as an intellectual pastime. F. A. Tozer, the champion “fat take,” five-feet-four-inches high and four-feet-five-inches around, graduated from theCourier, wafted the St. PetersburgCrude-Localup the flume and was chief-cook of the East-BradyTimes. His reports were newsy and palatable. He travels for a Pittsburg house and would pay extra fare if passengers were carried by weight. The East-BradyReview“sees” theTimesand “goes it one better.”

SAMUEL L. WILLIAMS.

Graham & Hoag’sSunday News-Letterarose from the tomb of the Evening Press and theSunday-News. J. W. Graham, now of theHerald, piloted the trim vessel skillfully. A stock-company of producers, thinking a daily in the family would be “a thing of beauty” and “a joy forever,” bought theNews-Letterand theCourierequipment in 1879, to start thePetroleum World. James M. Place, a pusher from Pusherville, had solicited the bulk of the subscriptions to the stock and was entrusted with the management. R. W. Criswell edited the paper splendidly. Captain M. H. Butler, who put heaps of ginger into his spicy effusions, and John P. Zane, whose hobby was finance—both have gone the journey that has no return trip—embellished its columns with thoughtful, digestible brain-food. Oil-news, readable locals, dispatches, jaunty selections and bang-up neatness were never lacking. But competition was fierce and theWorldhad a hard row to hoe. A committee of stockholders soon took charge. Place, sleepless, indomitable and with the energy of a steam-hammer, opened a big store at Richburg and drove a rattling trade. Setting out to paddle his own canoe as a Corry newsboy at ten, he had run a newsroom at Fagundas, a bookstore and the post-office at St. Petersburg, a branch store at Edenburg, large stores at Bradford and Bolivar and won laurels as the greatest newspaper circulator in the petroleum-diggings. At Harrisburg and Reading he swung papers and theGlobein New York. He is now in Washington. S. L. Williams, unexcelled as a sprightly writer, and Hon. George E. Mapes, equally competent in the Legislature and the editorial chair, kept theWorldbooming until “patience ceased to be a virtue” and the daily ceased to be a sheet. About half the material went to the Oil CityBlizzardand the rest went to print theSunday WorldFrank W. Truesdell had determined to originate. The late Hon. A. N. Perrin, ex-Mayor of Titusville, possessing “ample means and ample generosity,” backed the project. Truesdell finished his trade as printer in Cleveland and worked at Youngstown and Franklin, settling at Titusville in 1880 to manage theWorldjobbing-room. He was a young man of fine ability and scrupulous integrity. His partnership with Perrin ended in 1887 by his purchase of the entire business. He sold a half-interest in the paper in 1893 and death claimed him in October of 1894. Measured by his thirty-seven years, Frank Willard Truesdell’s life was short; measured by his good deeds, his worthy enterprises, his lofty sentiments and kindly acts, it was longer than that of many who pass the Psalmist’s three-score-and-ten. Mrs. Truesdell and her little daughter live in Titusville. F. F. Murray, associated with Walter Izant and W. R. Herbert in the general details, edits theSunday World, which is as frisky as a spring-colt. Born at Buffalo in 1860, Murray was reared in Venango county, whither his father was drawn by the oil-excitement. Correspondencefor local papers naturally bore him into the journalistic swim. He whooped it up six years for theBlizzard. A regular hummer, he is at home whether flaying monopolists, taking a ruffian’s scalp, praising a pretty girl, writing a tearful obituary, dissecting asuspicioussuspiciousjob or reeling off a natty poem. “The Old Tramp-Printer,” a recent effort, is a fair sample of his quality:

“Here’s a rhyme to the old tramp-printer, who as long as he lives will roam,Whose ‘card’ is his principal treasure and where night overtakes him home;Whose shoes are run over and twisty, whose garments are shiny and thin,And who takes a bunk in the basement when the pressman lets him in.“It is true there are some of the trampers that only the Angel of Death,When he touches them with his sickle, can cure of the ‘spirituous breath’;That some by their fellow-trampers are shunned as unwholesome scamps,And that some are just aimless, homeless, restless, typographical tramps.“But the most of them surely are worthy of something akin to praise,And have drifted down to the present out of wholesomer, happier days;And when, though his looks be as seedy as ever a mortal wore,Will you find the old tramper minus his marvelous fund of lore?“What paper hasn’t he worked on? Whose manuscript hasn’t he set?What story worthy remembrance was he ever known to forget?What topics rise for discussion, in science, letters or art,That the genuine old tramp-printer cannot grapple and play his part?“It is true you will sometimes see him when the hue that adorns his noseOutrivals the crimson flushes which the peony flaunts at the rose;It is true that much grime he gathers in the course of each trip he takes,Inasmuch as he boards all freight-trains between the Gulf and the Lakes.“Yet his knowledge grows more abundant than many much-titled men’s,Who travel as scholarly tourists and are classed with the upper-tens;And few are the contributions these scholarly ones have pennedThat the seediest, shabbiest tramper couldn’t readily cut and mend.“He has little in life to bind him to one place more than the rest,For his hopes in the past lie buried with the ones that he loved the best;He has little to hope from Fortune and has little to fear from Fate,And little his dreams are troubled over the public’s love or hate.“So a rhyme to the old tramp-printer—to the hopes he has cherished and wept,To the loves and the old home-voices that still in his heart are kept;A rhyme to the old tramp-printer, whose garments are shiny and thin,And who takes a bunk in the basement when the pressman lets him in.”

“Here’s a rhyme to the old tramp-printer, who as long as he lives will roam,

Whose ‘card’ is his principal treasure and where night overtakes him home;

Whose shoes are run over and twisty, whose garments are shiny and thin,

And who takes a bunk in the basement when the pressman lets him in.

“It is true there are some of the trampers that only the Angel of Death,When he touches them with his sickle, can cure of the ‘spirituous breath’;That some by their fellow-trampers are shunned as unwholesome scamps,And that some are just aimless, homeless, restless, typographical tramps.

“It is true there are some of the trampers that only the Angel of Death,

When he touches them with his sickle, can cure of the ‘spirituous breath’;

That some by their fellow-trampers are shunned as unwholesome scamps,

And that some are just aimless, homeless, restless, typographical tramps.

“But the most of them surely are worthy of something akin to praise,And have drifted down to the present out of wholesomer, happier days;And when, though his looks be as seedy as ever a mortal wore,Will you find the old tramper minus his marvelous fund of lore?

“But the most of them surely are worthy of something akin to praise,

And have drifted down to the present out of wholesomer, happier days;

And when, though his looks be as seedy as ever a mortal wore,

Will you find the old tramper minus his marvelous fund of lore?

“What paper hasn’t he worked on? Whose manuscript hasn’t he set?What story worthy remembrance was he ever known to forget?What topics rise for discussion, in science, letters or art,That the genuine old tramp-printer cannot grapple and play his part?

“What paper hasn’t he worked on? Whose manuscript hasn’t he set?

What story worthy remembrance was he ever known to forget?

What topics rise for discussion, in science, letters or art,

That the genuine old tramp-printer cannot grapple and play his part?

“It is true you will sometimes see him when the hue that adorns his noseOutrivals the crimson flushes which the peony flaunts at the rose;It is true that much grime he gathers in the course of each trip he takes,Inasmuch as he boards all freight-trains between the Gulf and the Lakes.

“It is true you will sometimes see him when the hue that adorns his nose

Outrivals the crimson flushes which the peony flaunts at the rose;

It is true that much grime he gathers in the course of each trip he takes,

Inasmuch as he boards all freight-trains between the Gulf and the Lakes.

“Yet his knowledge grows more abundant than many much-titled men’s,Who travel as scholarly tourists and are classed with the upper-tens;And few are the contributions these scholarly ones have pennedThat the seediest, shabbiest tramper couldn’t readily cut and mend.

“Yet his knowledge grows more abundant than many much-titled men’s,

Who travel as scholarly tourists and are classed with the upper-tens;

And few are the contributions these scholarly ones have penned

That the seediest, shabbiest tramper couldn’t readily cut and mend.

“He has little in life to bind him to one place more than the rest,For his hopes in the past lie buried with the ones that he loved the best;He has little to hope from Fortune and has little to fear from Fate,And little his dreams are troubled over the public’s love or hate.

“He has little in life to bind him to one place more than the rest,

For his hopes in the past lie buried with the ones that he loved the best;

He has little to hope from Fortune and has little to fear from Fate,

And little his dreams are troubled over the public’s love or hate.

“So a rhyme to the old tramp-printer—to the hopes he has cherished and wept,To the loves and the old home-voices that still in his heart are kept;A rhyme to the old tramp-printer, whose garments are shiny and thin,And who takes a bunk in the basement when the pressman lets him in.”

“So a rhyme to the old tramp-printer—to the hopes he has cherished and wept,

To the loves and the old home-voices that still in his heart are kept;

A rhyme to the old tramp-printer, whose garments are shiny and thin,

And who takes a bunk in the basement when the pressman lets him in.”

Mr. Mapes gravitated to Philadelphia to write for Colonel McClure’sTimes. His are the appetizing paragraphs that burnish the editorial page by their subtile essence. He is a familiar figure at party conventions, which his intimate knowledge of state-politics enables him to gauge accurately. He abhors trickery and chicanery, deals his hardest blows in exposing corrupt methods, believes taxpayers and voters have rights contractors and bosses are bound to respect and is a stickler for honest government. Williams also strayed to the Quaker City as paragrapher for thePress, making a phenomenal hit. James G. Blaine complimented Charles Emory Smith upon these tart, peppery nuggets, saying: “I invariably read thePressparagraphs before looking at any other paper.” This pleasant tribute added ten dollars a week to Sam’s salary, yet he tired of Philadelphia years ago and glided back to his old home in “the Messer Diocese.” He is now connected with the New YorkMail and Express, whose readers can hardly find words to express their satisfaction with the spice he injects into Elliot Shepherd’s trusty expositor of Republicanism.

His pointed squibs and his cranium bareAre as much alike as steps in a stair—One grows no moss and the other no hair.

His pointed squibs and his cranium bare

Are as much alike as steps in a stair—

One grows no moss and the other no hair.

R. W. Criswell holds an honorable place among the men who have madeoil-region newspapers known abroad and influential at home. He was born in Clarion county and educated in Cincinnati. His sketches, signed “Chris,” introduced him to the public through the medium of the Oil-CityDerrick, the East BradyIndependentand the FairviewIndependent, Colonel Samuel Young’s twin offspring. Retiring from Young’s employ at Fairview, he was next heard of as traveling correspondent of the CincinnatiEnquirer. His editorship of theDerrickin 1877 clinched his fame as a Simon-pure humorist, thirty-six inches to the yard and one-hundred cents to the dollar. TheShakespearianShakespearianparodies and Lickshingle stories, lustrous as the Kohinoor, waltzed the merry round of the American press and were published in two taking books—“The New Shakespeare” and “Grandfather Lickshingle.” After his departure from thePetroleum WorldCriswell renewed his relations with theEnquireras managing-editor. He was John R. McLean’s trusty lieutenant and held the great western daily on the topmost rung of the ladder. The New-YorkGraphic, the pathfinder of illustrated dailies, needed him and he accepted its flattering offer. The CincinnatiSunwas about to shine on the just and the unjust and he returned to Porkopolis. Colonel John Cockrell coaxed him back to Manhattanville to reconstruct the funny-streak of the overflowing New-YorkWorld.

F. F. MURRAY. JAMES M. PLACE.R. W. CRISWELL.FRANK W. TRUESDELL. GEORGE E. MAPES.

“LEND ME YOUR EARS.”

When the Colonel and Joseph Pulitzer disagreed—they “never spoke as they passed by”—he went with Cockrell to theCommercial Advertiser, for which he has done some of the brightest work in the newspaper-kingdom. He now editsTruth. “Mark Anthony’s Oration Over Cæsar,” from “The Comic Shakespeare,” will dispel the gloom and indicate the rare brand of Criswell’s vintage:

“Friends, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ears;I will return them next Saturday. I comeTo bury Cæsar because the times are hardAnd his folks can’t afford to hire an undertaker.The evil that men do lives after them,In the shape of progeny, who reapThe benefit of their life insurance.So let it be with the deceased.Brutus hath told you that Cæsar was ambitious,What does Brutus know about it?It is none of his funeral.But that it isn’t is no fault of the undersigned.Here under leave of you I come toMake a speech at Cæsar’s funeral.He was my friend, faithful and just to me;He loaned me five dollars once when I was in a pinch,And signed my petition for a post-office.And Brutus says he was ambitious.Brutus should chase himself around the block.Cæsar hath brought many captives home to RomeWho broke rock on the streets until their ransomsDid the general coffers fill.When that the poor hath cried, Cæsar hath wept,Because it didn’t cost anythingAnd made him solid with the masses. [Cheers.Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.Yet Brutus says he was ambitious.Brutus is a liar, and I can prove it.You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse, because it did not fit him quite.Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious.Brutus is not only the biggest liar in this countryBut is a politician of the deepest dye. [Applause.If you have tears prepare to shed them now.You all do know this ulster. [Laughter.I remember the first time ever Cæsar put it on;It was on a summer’s evening in his tent,With the thermometer registering ninety degrees in the shade;But it was an ulster to be proud of,And it cost him $3 at Marcalus Swartzheimer’s,Corner of Broad and Ferry streets, sign of the red flag.Old Swartz wanted $40 for it,But finally came down to $3, because it was Cæsar!Look! in this place ran Casca’s dagger through;Through this the son of a gun of a Brutus stabbed,And when he plucked his cursed steel away,Good gracious, how the blood of Cæsar followed it![Cheers, and cries of “Give us something on the Wilson bill!” “Hit him again;” etc.]I came not, friends, to steal away your hearts;I am no thief as Brutus is.Brutus has a monopoly in all that business,And if he had his deserts, he would beIn the State prison and don’t you forget it.Kind friends, sweet friends, I do not wish to stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny,And, as it looks like rain,The pallbearers will please place the body in the wheelbarrowAnd we will proceed to bury Cæsar,Not to praise him.”

“Friends, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ears;

I will return them next Saturday. I come

To bury Cæsar because the times are hard

And his folks can’t afford to hire an undertaker.

The evil that men do lives after them,

In the shape of progeny, who reap

The benefit of their life insurance.

So let it be with the deceased.

Brutus hath told you that Cæsar was ambitious,

What does Brutus know about it?

It is none of his funeral.

But that it isn’t is no fault of the undersigned.

Here under leave of you I come to

Make a speech at Cæsar’s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me;

He loaned me five dollars once when I was in a pinch,

And signed my petition for a post-office.

And Brutus says he was ambitious.

Brutus should chase himself around the block.

Cæsar hath brought many captives home to Rome

Who broke rock on the streets until their ransoms

Did the general coffers fill.

When that the poor hath cried, Cæsar hath wept,

Because it didn’t cost anything

And made him solid with the masses. [Cheers.

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious.

Brutus is a liar, and I can prove it.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse, because it did not fit him quite.

Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious.

Brutus is not only the biggest liar in this country

But is a politician of the deepest dye. [Applause.

If you have tears prepare to shed them now.

You all do know this ulster. [Laughter.

I remember the first time ever Cæsar put it on;

It was on a summer’s evening in his tent,

With the thermometer registering ninety degrees in the shade;

But it was an ulster to be proud of,

And it cost him $3 at Marcalus Swartzheimer’s,

Corner of Broad and Ferry streets, sign of the red flag.

Old Swartz wanted $40 for it,

But finally came down to $3, because it was Cæsar!

Look! in this place ran Casca’s dagger through;

Through this the son of a gun of a Brutus stabbed,

And when he plucked his cursed steel away,

Good gracious, how the blood of Cæsar followed it!

[Cheers, and cries of “Give us something on the Wilson bill!” “Hit him again;” etc.]

I came not, friends, to steal away your hearts;I am no thief as Brutus is.Brutus has a monopoly in all that business,And if he had his deserts, he would beIn the State prison and don’t you forget it.Kind friends, sweet friends, I do not wish to stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny,And, as it looks like rain,The pallbearers will please place the body in the wheelbarrowAnd we will proceed to bury Cæsar,Not to praise him.”

I came not, friends, to steal away your hearts;

I am no thief as Brutus is.

Brutus has a monopoly in all that business,

And if he had his deserts, he would be

In the State prison and don’t you forget it.

Kind friends, sweet friends, I do not wish to stir you up

To such a sudden flood of mutiny,

And, as it looks like rain,

The pallbearers will please place the body in the wheelbarrow

And we will proceed to bury Cæsar,

Not to praise him.”

Edwin C. Bell, a son of the Pine-Tree state, landed at Petroleum Centre in 1866, spent 1869 in the west, returned to Oil Creek in 1870 and for three years punched down oil-wells. In 1874 he started a job-printery at Pioneer, using a press he built from iron-scraps and an oak-rail and learning the trade without an instructor. That fall he transplanted his kit to Titusville and continued in the jobbing-line fourteen years. Early in 1878 he published theLeader, aweekly that petered out in two months. Mr. Bell in 1882 flew the flag of theRepublic, a campaign-oracle of the Greenbackers and supporter of Thomas A. Armstrong for governor. TheRepublic, like theArgus, theObserverand others of that ilk, didn’t attain old age. Bell’s first grists—stories and sketches—went into theCourierhopper in 1872, supplemented from 1878 to 1882 by bundles of live matter in the MeadvilleVindicatorand the RichburgEcho. He edited theRepublicanat Casselton, N. D., in 1882-3, and during the nine years following his return to Titusville sent a news-letter almost daily to the Oil-CityBlizzard. He has long contributed to theSunday Worldand in 1888-9 was its assistant-editor. In 1892 he began a history of the Pennsylvania oil-regions, instalments of which theDerrickprinted, and he hopes to finish the task on a comprehensive scale befitting the subject.

GEORGE A. NEEDLE.STEPHEN W. HARLEY.EDWIN C. BELL.

GEORGE A. NEEDLE.

STEPHEN W. HARLEY.

EDWIN C. BELL.

Warren has been blessed with two weeklies, theLedgerand theMail, for two generations. Ephraim Cowan founded theMailin 1848 and owned it until his death in 1894. Three dailies vigilantly watch each other and guard the pretty town. At Tidioute theJournal, inaugurated by J. B. Close in 1867, jogged along seven years. George A. Needle and Frank H. Taylor were the owners. Needle, whose sharp lance could prick the fiends of the opposition like a needle, followed the tide to Parker and boosted theDaily, which shortly plunged into perpetual night. Its chief contributor was Stephen W. Harley, who furnished rich budgets of Petrolia odds and ends over the name of “Keno.” “Steve” was kindly, obliging, congenial and well-liked. Six summers have come and gone since he was laid beneath the sod. Clark Wilson removed theOilman’s Journalto Smethport and thePhœnixis in undisputed possession of the Parker territory, with the youngest editor—son of G. A. Needle—in the State guiding it capably. In October of 1874 the Warren-CountyNewswas moved from Youngsville to Tidioute. C. E. White, who took charge in December, bought the plant in 1875 and he has been in the harness continuously since. Mr. White is among the best all-round newspaper-men in the country. He was born at Newburg in 1842, boyhooded at Binghampton, learned his trade at Elmira, served the JamestownJournalsix years, spent a year with the Oil-CityDerrickand went to Tidioute in 1872 to manage theJournal’sjob-department. His record as a citizen, soldier, printer and editor is solid nonpareil.

Clarion county did not escape the frantic rush to stick a paper in everymushroom-town. F. H. Barclay inflicted theRecordon the long-suffering St. Petersburgers, mooring his bark in California when the paper turned up its toes. Tozer’sCrude-Local, which never sported a crude-local or editorial, the Fern-CityIlluminator, brighter in name than in real substance, the ClarionBanner, a species of rag on the bush, the EdenburgNational Recordand several more slid off the perch with a dull thud, fatal as Humpty Dumpty’s irretrievable tumble.

P. A. RATTIGAN.

JOHN H. NEGLEY.

Frank A. Herr’sRecordhas long kept up a good record at Petrolia. Colonel Young and the three papers he propagated in Butler county, with a half-dozen elsewhere, have mouldered into dust. He was intensely earnest and industrious, able to maintain his end of a discussion and seldom unwilling to dare opponents knock the chip off his stout shoulder. Rev. W. A. Thorne attempted to reform the race with his Greece-CityReview, hauling the traps to Millerstown upon the depletion of the frontier-town. His path was strewn with thorns, mankind resenting his review of everybody and everything. Ex-Postmaster Rattigan braces up the unterrified with his sturdy ChicoraHerald, which he has conducted successfully for twenty years. St. Joe’s bantam, never distinguished for its strength, crowed mildly and dropped from the roost. The county-seat is fully stocked with political organs, theCitizen, theEagleand theHeraldcoaching their respective parties. J. H. Negley & Son are not negligent in their conduct of theCitizen. TheEagleis the proud bird of Thomas H. Robertson, a trained writer and journalist, now Superintendent of Public-Printing in Harrisburg. TheHeraldwas for many years the pet of Jacob Zeigler, to whom all Butlerites took off their hats. “Uncle Jake” was the soul of the social circle, a treasury of wit and wisdom, an exhaustless reservoir of pat stories, a mine of practical knowledge and a welcome guest in every corner of Pennsylvania. His soubriquet of “Uncle” fastened upon him in a curious way. At the funeral of a youthful acquaintance the distracted mother, as her boy was consigned to the grave, in a frenzy of grief laid her head upon young Zeigler’s breast and exclaimed: “Oh, were you ever a stricken mother?” “No, madam,” was the cool reply, “but I expect to be an uncle before sundown to-morrow.” Bystanders noted the strange incident and thenceforth the “Uncle” stuck like a fly-blister. His parents are buried in the Harrisburg cemetery, near Joseph Jefferson’s father, and whenever he visited the capital he strewed their resting-place with flowers. Who can doubt that the filial son, in whom mingled the strength of a man and the tenderness of a woman, found his loved ones not far away when he entered the pearly gates? Truly “this was the noblest Roman of them all.”

Another honored resident of Butler was Samuel P. Irvin, author of “The Oil-Bubble,” a pamphlet abounding with delicious satire and bits of personal experience. It was printed in 1868 and produced a sensation. Enjoying veryfew advantages in his boyhood, Mr. Irvin was emphatically a self-made man. Born in a backwoods-township seventy years ago, his schooling was limited and he toiled “down on the farm.” Like Lincoln, Garfield, Simon Cameron and many other country-boys, he rose to distinction by his own exertions. He read assiduously, studied law and stood well at the bar. His literary bent found expression in newspaper-articles of very high grade. He lived some years at Franklin in the earlier stages of petroleum-developments, drilling wells and handling oil-properties on commission. He met death with fortitude, “like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

SAMUEL P. IRVIN.JACOB ZEIGLER.SAMUEL YOUNG.

The Bradford semi-weeklyNew Era, harbinger of the new era dawning upon McKean county, saw daylight in the spring of 1875. The main object of its founder, Colonel J. H. Haffey, was to invite attention to the possibilities of the locality as a prospective oil-field. Colonel Haffey was a man of varied talents—public speaker, writer, soldier, surveyor, promoter of oil-enterprises, rail-roader and expounder of the gospel. Irish by birth, he came to America at fourteen, lived three years in Canada, was licensed to preach and in 1851, at the age of twenty-one, accepted a call to the Baptist church at Bradford, then Littleton. Marrying Diantha, youngest daughter of Nathan De Golier, in December of 1852, a year later he quit the pulpit, sensibly concluding that the Lord had not called him to starve his family. As surveyor and geologist, he was employed to prospect for coal and iron in McKean and adjacent counties. In 1858-9 he had charge of a gang of men grading the Erie railroad to Buttsville. The first man in Bradford township to enlist in 1861, he raised a force for Colonel Kane’s famous “Bucktails,” shared in the fighting around Richmond and was honorably discharged with the rank of major. Governor Hartranft appointed him a member of his staff and the title of colonel resulted. He sold his Bradford home in 1877 and removed to Beverly, N.J., where his active, helpful career ended in November, 1881.

Ferrin & Weber, of Salamanca, publishers of the CattaraugasRepublican, in 1876 bought theNew Erafrom Col. Haffey and placed it in charge of Charles F. Persons. He had been in their establishment at Little Valley two years. For nine or ten months he washed rollers, fed presses, carried wood and did the varied chores allotted to the “printer’s devil.” His aptitude impressed his employers, who sent him first to Salamanca and then to Bradford, an important post for a youth of twenty-two. Hoping to be an editor some day, he had correspondedfor neighboring papers from boyhood on his father’s farm, a practice he maintained during his apprenticeship. A few months after reaching Bradford he and the Salamanca firm established theDaily Era, with the names of Ferrin, Weber & Persons at the mast-head. Very soon Persons bought out his partners and conducted the paper alone. His ability and energy had full play. TheEramet the demands of the eager, restless crowds that thronged the streets of Bradford and scoured the hills in quest of territory. Its news was concise and fresh, its oil-reports were not doctored for speculative ends, it had opinions and presented them tersely. Persons sold to W. H. Longwell and W. F. Jordan early in 1879 and in the fall bought the OleanDemocrat. The nobby New-York town was feeling the stimulus of oil-operations and he started theDaily Herald, enhancing his wallet and well-won reputation. The American Press-Association, which furnishes plate-matter to thousands of newspapers, secured him in 1888 as Local Manager of its New-York office. Two years ago he was promoted to General Eastern-Manager and in 1894 was elected Secretary, Assistant General-Manager and one of the five directors. Mr. Persons occupies a snug home in Brooklyn, with his wife and two little daughters. He is a live representative of the go-ahead, enterprising, sagacious, executive American.

COL. J. H. HAFFEY.D. A. DENNISON. CHAS. F. PERSONS.THOMAS A. KERN.

Longwell & Jordan also bought theBreeze—it first breathed the oil-laden air of Bradford in 1878 and was edited by David Armstrong, “organizer” of theproducers in one of their movements to “get together”—and consolidated it with theEra. Col. Edward Stuck, of York, worked the combination successfully some months. Colonel Leander M. Morton was night-editor until his lamented death. Thomas A. Kern attended to the field, preparing the “monthly reports” and posting readers on oil-developments in his bailiwick. Years have flown since poor “Tom,” young and enthusiastic, and J. K. Graham, exact and upright, responded to the message that brooks no excuse or postponement. “Musing on companions gone, we doubly feel ourselves alone.” Bradshaw, McMullen and others scattered. Jordan, whose first work for papers was done at Petrolia in 1873, died in Harrisburg in 1897. P. C. Boyle secured theEraand infused into it much of his own prompt, courageous spirit. David A. Dennison has for years been its efficient editor. His parents removed from Connecticut to a farm south of Titusville when he was a baby. At thirteen David wrote a batch of items, which it tickled him to see in print, without a thought of one day blossoming into a full-fledged “literary feller.” Not caring to be a tiller of the soil, he juggled the hammer and lathe in machine-shops to the music of “the Anvil Chorus.” A short season on the boards convinced him that he was not commissioned to elevate the stage and wrest the scepter from Edwin Booth, Lawrence Barrett, John McCullough or Alexander Salvini. He whisked to a Bradford shop to strike the iron while it was hot, writing smart descriptions of oil-region scenes for outside papers as a side-issue for several years. A series of his articles on gas-monopoly, in the ElmiraTelegram, brought reduced rates to consumers and pleasant notoriety to the ironworker, who had proved himself a blacksmith with the sledge and no “blacksmith” with the quill. His name was neither Dennis nor Mud, and theDaily Oil News, McMullen & Bradshaw’s game-fowl, wanted him forthwith. The salary was not alluring and in the Indian-summer days of 1886 he cast in his lot with theEra. Promotion chased him persistently. From reporter he was boosted to city-editor and in 1894 to the editorial management, a flawless selection. He has tussled with all sorts of topics, constructed tales of woe in jingling verse and even tempted fate by firing off a drama, which has not yet run the gamut of publicity. Dennison has been offered good sits in metropolitan offices, but he likes Bradford and clings to theEra. He married Miss Katharine Grady in 1883 and three boys gladden the home of the exultant D. A. D. “May his shadow never grow less.”

E. W. Butler started the BradfordSunday Newson April first, 1879, with Joseph Moorhead as editor. Mr. Moorhead grew up on a farm near Newcastle, served in the army as captain in Matthew Stanley Quay’s regiment, landed at Petroleum Centre in 1869, worked about oil-wells five years, taught school at St. Petersburg in 1874-5, published a short-lived fraternal paper at Newcastle in 1870, aided in editing the MillerstownReviewand in 1878 filled a position on the BradfordEra. He edited the Sunday News one year, helped launch a similar sheet at Minneapolis, returned to Bradford in 1880, resumed his position a few months and resigned to edit theSunday-Mail. Early in 1885 he settled in Kansas, farming there five years and coming back to Pennsylvania in 1890. Since that time he has lived in Pittsburg and been connected with various dailies of the sooty city. His vigor and experience are manifested in his writings, which always go direct to the spot. At sixty-two the veteran unites the activity of buoyant youth with the wisdom of robust age. Butler reeled off the BuffaloSunday-Newsin 1880, the sharpest, quickest, breeziest afternoon-paper in the Bison City, and in 1885 sold his Bradford bantling to Philip H. Lindeman,Erabook-keeper and manager. Lindeman navigatedagainst wind and tide until theNewsran ashore in 1894, the “Commodore” himself ending life’s voyage in June of 1897.

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