On the eastern shore of Maryland is situated a town known to the
post-office authorities as Berlin. It was in Berlin in the warm month
of July, 1841, that Charles Heber Clark, “Max Adeler,” first saw the
light of day.
His father was a clergyman in the Episcopal church, but this appeared
to have little effect on Charles, who, like all bad boys, grew up
to make fun of everybody and everything. He was sent to Georgetown,
District of Columbia, early in life, being shipped by express and
labeled “handle with care.” He attended school for a brief period,
learning but little, and jumped into the mercantile world by moving his
linen to Philadelphia.
The mercantile business appeared to agree with his constitution until
1865, when he bethought himself that he had been sent into this wicked
world for the express purpose of becoming a journalist. He subsequently
began his editorial career on the Philadelphia Enquirer during that
same year. Clark made rapid advancement in journalism, and in 1867
became one of the editors of the Evening Bulletin, of which paper he is
at present one of the proprietors.
It was soon after Clark entered upon his editorial duties at the
Bulletin office that the droll humor of his pen began to attract
general attention. His most amusing articles were written in the
intervals of his private life, and the more serious daily newspaper
work to which he devoted himself. He is not, and never was, a
paragrapher, but has thrown out to the world his droll and grotesque
humor in the form of narratives. His fun is of the most rollicking
kind, and ranks him along with Mark Twain and Artemus Ward. Three
volumes of humor have appeared from his pen.
His best known books are Out of the Hurly Burly, and Elbow Room. These
works appeared several years ago simultaneously in this country and in
England. The sales were large, and over five thousand copies of Elbow
Room were sold in London within a month after its publication. Both
books have been issued in Canada, where the piratical publishers sold
them by the thousand.
His latest work, issued quite early in 1882, entitled The Fortunate
Island and Other Stories, is meeting with a wide sale. It is destined
to become very popular. Mr. Clark is fond of his home and family. His
residence is located in a remote but beautiful suburb of Philadelphia,
where he hopes to live to a ripe old age. Mr. Clark is an excellent
musician, and for a number of years he acted in the capacity of
organist for one of the Quaker City churches.
Besides his book-making Mr. Clark still retains a firm hold on
journalism. He takes a leading interest in his paper, the Bulletin, and
writes the dramatic criticisms and a portion of the editorials. He also
edits the humorous department of Our Continent, a well-known literary
weekly, published in Philadelphia.
As a writer and composer of obituary verse Max Adeler has probably no
equal, unless it be another, older, and more prominent Philadelphia
journalist--Childs, of the Ledger. The following rare exotics are
selected from Out of the Hurly Burly:
“Four doctors tackled Johnny Smith--
They blistered and they bled him;
With squills and anti-bilious pills
And ipecac they fed him.
“They stirred him up with calomel
And tried to move his liver;
But all in vain--his little soul
Was wafted o’er the river.”
Of another little youngster, just departed, Max warbles:
“Little Alexander’s dead;
Jam him in a coffin;
Don’t have as good a chance
For a funeral often.
“Rush his body right around
To the cemetery,
Drop him in the sepulchre
With his uncle Jerry.”
In another instance, Adeler gets off the following horrible concoction:
“O! bury Bartholomew out in the woods,
In a beautiful hole in the ground,
Where the bumble-bees buzz and the woodpeckers sing,
And the straddle-bugs tumble around;
So that in winter, when the snow and the slush
Have covered his last little bed,
His brother Artemas can go out with Jane
And visit the place with his sled.”
Then, I am pleased to give another choice selection from Clark’s
wonderful storehouse:
“The death angel smote Alexander McGlue,
And gave him protracted repose;
He wore a checked shirt and number nine shoe,
And he had a pink wart on his nose.
“No doubt he is happier dwelling in space
Over there on the evergreen shore.
His friends are informed that his funeral takes place
Precisely at quarter past four.”
The same volume contains an admirable bit of drollery in the following
take-off on art criticism: