After thanking my kind pilot, I returned to the Burnet House to read the evening papers. I read that the next day I was to breakfast with Mr. A., lunch with Mr. B., and dine with Mr. C. The menu was not published. I take it for granted that this piece of intelligence is quite interesting to the readers of Cincinnati.
My evening being free, I looked at the column of amusements. The first did not tempt me, it was this:
THE KING OF THE SWAMPS.
The Only and the Original.
English Jack.
THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE FROG MAN.
He makes a frog pond of his stomach by eating living frogs. An appetite created by life in the swamps. He is so fond of this sort of food that he takes the pretty creatures by the hind legs, and before they can say their prayers they are inside out of the cold.
“THE KING OF THE SWAMPS.”
The next advertisement was that of a variety show, that most stupid form of entertainment so popular in America; the next was the announcement of pugilists, and another one that of a “most sensational drama, in which ‘one of the most emotional actresses’ in America” was to appear, supported by “one of the most powerful casts ever gathered together in the world.”
The superlatives, in American advertisements, have long ceased to have the slightest effect upon me.