A common-sized-mustache-and-goatee young man is George W. Peck, of
Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He is rather a handsome chap, and just after he
has left the barber’s chair he looks for all the world like a military
officer. However, he looks like a common citizen when Saturday night
comes around, and he has not been shaved for several days. Peck has
attained quite a reputation as a humorist, through the columns of his
paper, Peck’s Sun. Though only established, as a weekly journal with a
humorous foundation, something over two years, the Sun has already a
circulation of twenty thousand copies, and is rapidly increasing.
George W. Peck is a ready writer, and takes more to the narrative style
than paragraphing. His paper is well liked among his fellow humorists,
and is widely quoted. Peck is still a comparatively young man, and is
“fair, fat, and _thirty_.” He is one of the few newspaper men who are
bashful by nature, as the following letter plainly shows:
“I do not believe the time has arrived when the American people are
consumed with a desire to know where I was born, how old I am, or any
of the particulars of an uneventful life. If I should ever become
of so much importance, which is hardly liable to be the case, while
you and I live, I will resurrect the necessary data from the orphan
asylum, the reform farm, the State prison, and other places of that
kind, too numerous to mention. At the present time I think it is a
charity to spare the people. Whatever you do, please do not call me
funny. If you do, it is very evident that you do not know me.
“Yours truly,