Whatever contradictions fuelled, or at this time failed to fuel my cartooning, I would have been better throwing in my lot with overt rudery and dysfunction, rather than trying to gain acceptance from the effete mob that ran the New Yorker.
It was natural that a medical man should examine the state of the art of healing, among the tweebs of Morocco; it is despicable enough: so is that of literature in general.
They are sovereignly unjust, for all the parties are human beings with the same essential interests, and no one of them is the wholly perverse demon which another often imagines him to be.
His costume and bearing, so different from those of the pea-jacketed, quid-chewing, salt-beef devouring, rum-bibbing being whom the word Pilot recalls to the said Briton’s memory—his address, such an admirable compound of ease, freedom, and dignity,—his refined, delicate and expensive tastes,—his twice a-day changes of snow-white raiment,—his splendid dressing case,—his neat and complete portable establishment,—his flashy servant,—are all, to the newly-imported, novelties and wonders.
