Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Sundry Accounts by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Back Home by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Local Color by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: The Escape of Mr. Trimm by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Cobb s Anatomy by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Cobb s Anatomy by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Europe Revised by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Two or Three Languages by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: One Third Off by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Paths of Glory by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Europe Revised by Irvin S. Cobb

Reproduction of the original: Old Judge Priest by Irvin S. Cobb

There was a house in this town where always by night lights burned. In one of its rooms many lights burned; in each of the other rooms at least one light. It stood on Clay Street, on a treeless plot among flower beds, a small dull-looking house; and when late on dark nights all the other houses on Clay Street were solid blockings lifting from the lesser blackness of their background, the lights in this house patterned its windows with squares of brilliancy so that it suggested a grid set on edge before hot flames. Once a newcomer to the town, a transient guest at Mrs. Otterbuck's boarding house, spoke about it to old Squire Jonas, who lived next door to where the lights blazed of nights, and the answer he got makes a fitting enough beginning for this account.

Mr. Trimm, recently president of the late Thirteenth National Bank, was taking a trip which was different in a number of ways from any he had ever taken. To begin with, he was used to parlor cars and Pullmans and even luxurious private cars when he went anywhere; whereas now he rode with a most mixed company in a dusty, smelly day coach. In the second place, his traveling companion was not such a one as Mr. Trimm would have chosen had the choice been left to him, being a stupid-looking German-American with a drooping, yellow mustache. And in the third place, Mr. Trimm's plump white hands were folded in his lap, held in a close and enforced companionship by a new and shiny pair of Bean's Latest Model Little Giant handcuffs. Mr. Trimm was on his way to the Federal penitentiary to serve twelve years at hard labor for breaking, one way or another, about all the laws that are presumed to govern national banks.

This pair of essays represent a fascinating glimpse of the gender rights rhetoric of the early twentieth century. Rambling by, turns patronizing, sexist, admiring and reverential, the authors reflect on many topics from suffrage to fashion. A quick read that is both humorous and thought-provoking.