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There’s every indication that another gigantic prize fight fake will soon make a swipe for the long green of the cibarious sucker. Were it not a violation of the law of the land and the canons of the Baptist church to wager money that we should give to the missionaries, I’d risk six-bits that Corbett and Fitzsimmons get together within a year and that the gamblers who are on the inside “make a killing.” For six months or more before their last mill these two worthies chewed the rag, making everybody believe that the battle was to be for berlud. The odds were on Corbett, and he got lost in the shuffle as a matter of course–just as Fitz did when he mixed it with Sharkey. Now the rag-chewing has begun over again, and Bob is doing the lordly contempt act just as Jeems did before the late unpleasantness. He has “retired”–wants Corbett to “go get er repertashun”–says “Corbett quit in the last go like er cowardly cur.” It will take time to work the thing up, to resuscitate the old excitement, to set fools to betting wildly on their favorite; but when the pippin’s ripe it will be pulled. There’s not the slightest reason for the existence of any personal ill will between these pugs–it’s all in the play, and being bad actors they overdo the part of Termagant, do protest too much. It is quite noticeable that in the “big fights” nowadays nobody gets seriously bruised. It’s easy enough to start the claret, and an ounce o’ blood well smeared satisfies the crowd as well as a barrel. The result of the “fight” will be determined beforehand–as soon as the managers learn how they can scoop the most money. The best thing you can do with your ducats is to send them to me with instructions to bet them even that Bill McKinley’s job will soon fit Bryan. The man who bets on the result of a prize-fight ought to have a guardian appointed.

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A Los Angeles, Cal., correspondent informs me that the editor of the Times of that town, who I trimmed up last month for permitting impudent coons to insult Southern white women through his columns, is named “Col.” H. G. Otis, and that during the war he commanded a negro company. He also sends me the following extract from the alleged newspaper published by the ex-captain of the Darktown Paladins:

In considering the crimes of which some negroes are frequently guilty it should not be forgotten that these traits of violent sensuality are undoubtedly inherited from mothers and grandmothers who were subjected to the lust of their masters under the slavery system. In other words, the sins of the fathers are being visited upon their children to the third and fourth generation.

That is a vast improvement over the original statement published by Coon-Captain Otis to the effect that Southern white women seek black paramours, and that most lynchings are caused by the guilty parties getting caught. It is a matter of utter indifference to the ex-slaveholders what this calumnious little fice says about them, if he will but refrain from voiding his fetid rheum upon their families. Doubtless some slaveholders were degraded sensualists, but such were exceptions to the rule. Not one yaller nigger in a hundred is the child of its mother’s old master. There were comparatively few mulattoes in the South before the war, most of these were the offspring of white overseers–and it is a notorious fact that a majority of our professional “nigger-drivers” were from the North. This is no reflection on the character of the Northern people–these fellows were simply the feculent scum, the excrementitious offscourings of civilization. And now I remember that a second-cousin of mine in Kentucky has an overseer from Ohio named Otis. A very thrifty and choleric man was my cousin, and considering a yaller nigger less valuable than a black one, he threatened to subject his overseer to a surgical operation if another half-breed pickaninny appeared on the place. I do wonder if this “Col.” Otis–who knew so much about the management of coons that he was placed in command of a colored company–can be the same fellow; also what was the result of my relative’s ultimatum? Can anybody in Los Angeles tell me what state this “Col.” Otis came from, or send me a good picture of the ex-commander of coons?