Robert W. Criswell, who has forged to the front by his mirth-provoking sketches, followed Taylor as editor in 1877. He fertilized the “Stray-sand,” parodied Shakespeare and developed “Grandfather Lickshingle,” giving the Derrick national celebrity. He stepped down when the shuffle occurred in 1877 and went to the Cincinnati Enquirer. W. J. McCullagh and Frank W. Bowen were on deck at about the same time. McCullagh held the field department up to its elevated standard and Bowen ground out first-class local and editorial. Col. Edward Stuck, who came from York in 1879 to supervise the Bradford Era, ran the machine in 1880-2, displaying much ability in the face of manifold hindrances. William Brough and J. M. Bonham of Franklin, gentlemen of high literary attainments, wishing to have a paper of their own, induced Mr. Stuck to leave Bradford, with a view to resurrect the Sunday Call. The project was not carried out and he assumed charge of the Derrick, with gratifying results. His training was acquired on the York Democratic Press, his father’s weekly, which Col. Stuck now conducts in connection with the Daily Age, established by him after his sojourn in Oil City. He was appointed State Librarian during Governor Pattison’s first term and elected Register of Wills of York county in 1889, in recognition of his excellent journalistic services. William H. Siviter, straight from college, was next in order. His polished, scholarly writings were relished by educated people. He paragraphed for the Pittsburg Chronicle-Telegraph and for some years has contributed to the comic weeklies. He is responsible for the “High-School Girl,” with her Bostonese flavor and highfalutin speech. McCullagh became an operator in the Bradford region, drilled extensively in Ohio, laid by considerable boodle and chose Toledo as his residence. Robert Simpson, who began as “printer’s devil” in 1872, remained with the Derrick as a writer until the Blizzard blew into town, excepting brief respites at Emlenton and Bradford.
P. C. Boyle, whose dash and skill and tireless energy had advanced him steadily, leased the establishment in 1885. He had the vigor and backbone needed to bring the paper back to its pristine strength. By turns a roustabout at Pithole in 1866, a driller, a scout, a reporter, a publisher and an editor, his experience in the oil-country was extensive and invaluable. He published the Laborer’s Voice at Martinsburg in 1877-8, reported for the Derrick and Titusville Herald in 1879, for the Petroleum World in 1880 and the Olean Herald in 1881, conducted the Richburg Echo in 1881-2 and scouted all through the developments at Cherry Grove, Macksburg and Thorn Creek in 1882-5. George Dillingham, who had “a nose for news,” and J. N. Perrine, gilt-edged and yard-wide in the counting-room, assisted Mr. Boyle in tuning the paper up to high G. The outside fields, daily growing in number and importance, were put in charge of Homer McClintock, the real Homer of oil-reporters. He fattens on timely paragraphs, scents live items in the air and lets no juicy happening escape. The force was augmented as occasion arose, type-setting machines and fast presses were added, the job-office was supplied with the latest and best materials and the Derrick is to-day one of the finest, brightest, smartest newspapers that ever edified a community.[community.] It is owned by the Derrick Publishing Company, of which Mr. Boyle is president and H. McClintock, J. N. Perrine and Alfred L. Snell are the active members. Mr. Boyle also managed the Toledo Commercial and the Bradford Era. He is “the Dean of the Fourth Estate” by virtue of eminent services and seniority. Like the lightning, he never needs strike twice in the same spot, because the job is finished at a single lick when he goes “loaded for b’ar.”
John B. Smithman, a wealthy operator, to whom Oil City owes its street-railways and a bridge spanning the Allegheny, in 1880 equipped the Telegraph, an evening sunflower, with Philip C. Welch at its head. Isaac N. Pratt, later an advance-agent for Ezra Kendall, had a finger in the pie. The paper was as fetching as a rural maiden in a brand-new calico gown, but two dailies were too rich for the blood of the population and the Telegraph wilted at a tender age. Welch tapped a vein of rich humor in the Philadelphia Call by originating “Accidentally Overheard,” a feature that captured the bakery. It bubbled with actual wit, fragrant as sweet clover and wholesome as morning dew, not revamped and twisted and warmed over. Charles A. Dana, no mean judge of literary merit, recognized the value of the Welch rarebits and secured them for the New York Sun at a fixed rate for each, big or little, long or short, large or small. Anon Dana offered him a salary few bank-presidents would refuse and Welch moved to Gotham. The Sun that “shines for all” fairly glittered and dazzled. Welch’s “Tailor-Made Girl” hit the popular taste and was published in elegant form by the Scribners. Disease preyed upon him, compelling an operation similar to General Grant’s. Half the tongue was cut off, affecting his utterance seriously. Weeks and months of patient suffering ended at last in release from earthly pain and sorrow. Mrs. Welch, a noble helpmeet, lives in Brooklyn and is to be credited with the clever, dainty “From Her Point of View,” which irradiates the Sunday issues of the New York Times. Upon the grave of Philip C. Welch old friends would lay a wreath and drop a sympathetic tear.
“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 the Derrick hive and raised the wind to blow an evening Blizzard in 1882. They bought the Telegraph stuff and the Richburg Echo press, 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 the Blizzard was 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 to usher in the Venango 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 a Blizzard trump-card until 1886. He then filled consecutive engagements as exchange-editor, news-editor, night-editor, assistant managing-editor and legislative correspondent of the Pittsburg Dispatch. Again he edited the Derrick nine months in 1889. Returning to Pittsburg as political-reporter of the Commercial-Gazette, he was promoted to legislative-correspondent and lastly to managing-editor, a position of much responsibility.