II. In the Times of the Early English
KNOW not how long a time may have elapsed between the conquest
of this island by the English and the discovery by the Dutch
living retired at the Bossew Bouerie that, a sea change having
over-swept their destinies, they had passed from the
domination of the States General to the domination of the
It is said that
when the engineers of the West Shore Railroad,
provided with guide's and interpreters,
penetrated into the valley of the Hackensack,
a dozen years or so ago, they created a great
commotion among the honest Dutch folk dwelling
in those sequestered parts by taking in the
news that something more than eighty years
previously the American Republic had been
proclaimed. Some few of the more wide-awake of
these retired country folk had got hold, it
was found, of a rumor to the effect that the
New Netherland, having been traded away for
Surinam by the provisions of the Treaty of
Breda, had become a dependency of the British
crown; but the rumor never had been traced to
an authoritative source, and was regarded by
the older and more conservative of the
inhabitants of Tenafly and Schraalenburg and
Kinderkamack, and the towns thereto adjacent,
as mere idle talk. Naturally, the much more
impossible story told by the engineers
involved so violent a strain upon human
credulity that the tellers of it were lucky in
getting safely away, across the hills by
The case of the
people dwelling at Sapokanican was different.
This hamlet being less remote, and far less
inaccessible, than the towns in the Hackensack
Valley, being, indeed, but a trifle more than
two miles northward of the Dutch stronghold,
there is reason for believing that the news of
the surrender of Fort Amsterdam to the
English, on the 8th of September, 1664,
penetrated thither within a comparatively
short period after the gloomy event occurred.
Indeed — while there is no speaking with
absolute precision in this matter — I can
assert confidently that within but a trifle
more than half a century after the change of
rulers had taken place the inhabitants of this
settlement were acquainted with what had
occurred: as is proved by an existing land
conveyance, dated 1721, in which the use of
the phrase "the Bossen Bouerie, alias
Greenwich," shows not only that the advent of
the English was known there, but that already
the new-comers had so wedged themselves into
prominence as to begin their mischievous
obliteration of the good old Dutch names.
For a long
while I cherished the belief that the name
of Greenwich had been given to the Bossen
Bouerie by a gallant sailor who for a time
made that region his home: Captain Peter
Warren of the Royal Navy — who died Sir
Peter Warren, K.B., and a Vice Admiral of
the Red Squadron, and whose final honor
was a tomb in the Abbey in the company of
other heroes and of various kings. Applied
by a British sailor to his home ashore,
there was an absolute fitness in the name;
and it had precisely a parallel in the
bestowal of the name of
Peter Warren was a dashing personage in
his day and generation, but his glory was
won in what now are wellnigh forgotten
wars. Irish by birth, and with as fine a
natural disposition for fighting as ever
an Irishman was blessed with, he worked
his way up in the service with so handsome
a rapidity that he was gazetted a
post-captain, and to the command of his
Majesty's ship Grafton, when he was
only twenty-four years old — and his very
first service after being posted was in
the fleet with which Sir Charles Wager
knocked the Rock of Gibraltar loose from
the rest of the Spanish possessions, and
thereafter, with more rigor than
righteousness, annexed it to the dominions
of the British Crown.
This was in the year 1727. In
the year 1728 Captain Warren was on the American station in
frigate; probably was here again in 1737; and certainly was
here from about 1741 until 1746 in the Squirrel, sloop, the Launceston, frigate and
the 60-gun ship Superbe.
In the spring of 1744 Sir Chaloner Ogle left him for a while
commodore of a squadron of sixteen sail on the Leeward
Island station — where his luck so well stood by him that
off Martinique, in but little more than four months
(February 12—June 24) he captured no less than twenty-four
prizes: one of which was a register ship whereof the lading
of plate was valued at £250,000!
Most of these prizes were sent into
"The sails are spread; see the bold
To chase the French and interloping Dons!"
revived for a moment the personality of this gallant
gentleman because the
Thomas A. Janvier
The Song of the Egg
ONCE knew a man
A very manly man,
A man with a future,
It was said.
While still at his education,
He evolved a fascination—
A peculiar fascination
For the study and the raising
The exploiting and the praising,
By a great combination—
A colossal combination
Of the chicken and the egg.
And all that he would shout
Was egg, egg, egg!
Will you have 'em fresh or stale,
By the gross or by the pail?
We guarantee 'em just as stated
Laid the very day they're dated.
And with ardor unabated,
He continues yelling egg!
He sold 'em scrambled, boiled or baked.
Square or round, flat, spun or flaked
Canned or bottled, charged or still,
Powdered, loose or as a pill
Sold the yoke and sold the white
Unrelenting day or night.
Anyway at all he sold 'em,
Dry and flat so you could fold 'em,
Deckel edged or mixed with ham
Bacon, Barle due or jam;
Shaped 'em up to look like fishes,
Colored 'em to match your dishes.
Anyway to suit your wishes.
Well, this giant combination,
This colossal combination
Slowly forced this healthy nation
To a state of desolation
To a grotesque malformation
Till at length up rose the masses,
The down-trodden, hungry masses
And with curses dullen deep,
Slowly and at night they creep
To his house and find him snipping
Snipping, snipping, deftly snipping coupons
With a big hay chopper,
And they thought it quite improper
So they up and killed this magnate,
Killed and left him there to stagnate,
Pity now this poor man's fate!
On the stone
above his grave
Is neatly carved by some bright knave,
He the world this motto gave:
"Every man his egg."
Four Dollars and Ninety-five Cents
By Guido Bruno
IT was on the night of the big snow storm. I stood at the ticket office of the elevated station. I was freezing miserably. Between the torn sole of my right shoe and my foot I had forced the cover of a tin can for protection from the icy pavements of the street
I wanted to purchase a ticket for my nickel. I had to wait at the gate. A woman in front of me had pushed a five dollar bill through the wicket. She waited for her change. She received four bills and ninety-five cents in small change. Without recounting, she slipped the money into her black plush handbag.
I was traveling to the room of a friend of mine — one of the few I knew in the big city. I had promised to repay him a dollar that day.
I wasn't able to meet my obligation, but I hoped to borrow twenty-five cents more to secure a bed for the night.
"Would I find him at home? What if he should have moved, since I last visited him or what if he should have nothing himself?"
The lady of the five dollar bill sat opposite me. The plush hand-bag hung from her wrist by its gold chain. In it was the money I had seen passed through the wicket in change for her bill.
"Supposing I had the money!" I thought to myself. "What if she should drop the purse upon the seat by some chance and leave the train? No one would notice it and she would forget the bag. I would then move hurriedly to her seat, get it and leave the train instantly. No one would know! I would throw the bag away and have the money.
"All that money!
"The four bills and the change! It would all be mine!
"I could buy shoes — warm shoes with solid soles to protect me from the snow and ice!
"I could rent a room and pay a week's rent in advance.
"And I could get some warm food! . . . . "
It was my station. I had to leave the train. I descended the stairs and was again in the wind-swept street. The thin sole in my shoe was colder than before. The swirl of snow, like rain of sharp pebbles, cut my face more keenly. I hurried
Again I saw the black plush purse! The woman was walking right ahead of me in the crowd. Two fingers of her right hand held the hand-bag. The other two clasped the loop of her big white muff. She walked briskly and swung her arm rhythmically back and forth.
My eyes were fixed upon the bag. The woman was not going, in the direction I wanted to go. I was following her like a child. I knew not why.
"Warm shoes! . . . A room! . . . A bed . . . Something hot to eat! . . ."
A peculiar feeling overcame me: I must have the purse — the money!
I was very close to her. I would count — "One . . . .Two . . . ." and at "Three" I would do itl
"One! . . . Two . . ."
A gloved hand shot out from one side just in front of me and seized the purse.
The woman screamed . . . The
prize was gone! I had been cheated.
"Stop thief! Stop thief!" I shouted.
A red mist clouded my eyes. All my hopes had vanished. He had stolen my property. I dashed after the man. I overtook him. I knew not what I was doing. I flung myself upon him, seized the collar of his overcoat, tore the purse from his hand and I shouted madly:
"You dirty dog! You miserable thief!"
I shook him. I wanted to tear him to shreds. I wanted to hurl him to the ground and crush him with my feet.
A crowd had gathered. The woman with the big muff stood beside me. She took her purse from my hand. She said something to a policeman. I had not seen him before. He loosened my grip from the man's collar and took charge of him.
Now I realized what I had done.
"It is too late!" shouted something within me. "What a fool I was! Why didn't I run away after I had gotten the purse?"
The woman's voice sounded as from a distance.
"Thanks! Many thanks!" she was saying. "How kind of you to have saved my bag. It contained my baby's first tooth! And if I lost that . . . !
"But you poor man!" she resumed. "No overcoat in such cold weather? Here take this money!" (She handed me the four dollars and ninety-five cents).
Kindly smiling she hailed a taxicab from a nearby hotel. She waved to me once more and was driven away.
The big policeman hustled his prisoner to the station.
And I stood there at the corner
and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Among Our Aristocrats
TWELFTH NIGHT cake tipping the scales at a hundred pounds
and made of the richest material will be one of the
novelties of the holiday season, at the Sunday Kindergarten
Twelfth Night Party, at Arlington Hall, East Eighth Street,
on the afternoon of Jan. 6th, which is "Little Christmas."
This unique festival for tenement house children, to which
some of our little Italians back of Washington Square South
will be bidden as sepcial guests, combines features of both
the Italian Befana, and an old-English Twelfth Night. The
cake is made from the following recipe: 103 eggs, 60 lbs.
The little king of the Twelfth Night,
Master Jimmy Fiori, will come over from Brooklyn, heading a
cavalcade of juvenile art history students — mostly young
Italian girls who live between the old Brooklyn Bridge and
the new Manhattan Bridge — "the place where nobody cares to
live." The king will also be attended by a band of
choristers, Italian working-girls from the Sunday
The little Twelfth Night queen,
Sylvia Nei, a pretty little Italian girl from
Henry Clews, the banker is to
give a few words of welcome to the children and William
In Our Village
SHORT-LIVED are the glories of this world, and the Christmas tree which was hung with glittering gold and silver, by loving hands, only a few days ago, is lying today in the back yard or in the alley, stripped of its regalia — a prey to the garbage-man. If you found it interesting to watch during the holiday week the front entrances of our mansions, if you noted the shining windows, the clean washed window sills, the newly painted iron gates; if you saw messenger boys with promising looking packages disappear and come out empty handed, and distinguished delivery wagons with chauffeur and footmen in livery bringing parcels from exclusive Fifth Avenue shops, now after the holiday week is over take a walk to the other side of the house, to the back entrance and there you will see the sad remnants of all those glorious things: flowers — messengers of love and of admiration — crumpled up, dried, together with boxes which contained necessities and luxuries, holly wreaths deprived of their ribbons: peacefully do they await the arrival of that ominous hearse furnished by the street-cleaning department, and forth they go to the mysterious somewhere, the ultimate destination of our own journey.
And then there is New Year's. Resolutions, new hopes, new stimuli, new ambitions, quiet counsel with ourselves, new policies toward friends and toward life . . . . . we get accustomed to the change of the date line on the head of our letters, the new will grow old and after this first week of the first month of the new year shall have passed we will find that we are what we are, just our own selves; that our life is a long stretch of time with two radically important events — our birth and our death. And all that lies between these two dates which give us to the world and take us from the world is just life. Traditions and conventions parcel it off into years and days. The system of the planets provides us with night and light and we permit others — some of whom are dead and gone and some of whom are contemporaries — to fill in our days with events, and we sleep in the night.
But if we set aside everything and all look back to the date of our birth and after we have found ourselves and picked together all that which really makes our own self and then we look forward and search for the date of our death veiled by the good gods so that worry and regret at leaving this wonderful world may not spoil the joyous moments of today: we fail to see new years standing out like hurdles dividing the track to the infinite into shorter and longer paces, into hard and thornless paths.
It is one long joyous journey, one road of happiness . . . . and all you have to do is to travel it just by yourself, not depending on time tables of conveyances, not depending upon mechanical devices others impose upon you: but just you yourself with head high up to the clouds who passing will greet you; with expanded chest inhale the glorious air of a universe that's yours, which is yours because you take possession of it.
Every new moment of your life a new year: in your own world.
Heloise DeForest Haynes arranges on New
Year's eve, in "The Wardrobe," on
A new shop is added to the
The Reverend and Mrs.
Miss Karasz' exhibition has aroused interest in the widest circles, and especially her manuscript illuminations are pointed out as unique among the art creations of our day. Her exhibition will continue until January 7th.
Mr. H. Thompson Rich will read, on Monday, the 3rd of January, at eight o'clock in the evening, a selection of his war poems, published and unpublished. You are welcome to be present. Admission fees are not charged.
Diamond Disc Shop
place is the Diamond Disc Shop, on the corner of
Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre
THE first performance in the Little Thimble Theatre will take place on Thursday, January 6th. The program will include a selection of difficult classical music played for the first time, by Mr. Max Kneznik, on the balaleika, in this country. The balaleika is a Russian national instrument, used by farmers and country population, with only two strings, and hitherto was thought adapted only for folk music. Mr. Kneznik will play the "Moments Musicale," by Schubert and Winianewsky Mazurka's "Song of the Voga Botman."
Miss Kathleen Burns, daughter of William J. Burns, the detective, will appear for the first time before a public audience and will sing Thayer's "My Laddie" and a few Irish ballads. Miss Burns loves Irish music, and especially the old folk songs, of which she has made a special study.
Books and Magazines of the Week
Very interesting historical articles appear in almost every issue, for the past months, of "The Edison Monthly," the house organ of the New York Edison Company. The Christmas number brings a historical account of the Washington Market of one hundred years ago and of today. The description of the Washington Market of one hundred years ago is taken from a history of the place, written in 1858 by Thomas De Voe, a butcher in the market who in that year completed the forty-fifth year of his activities in the Washington Market, which he had helped to establish.
The Town Market, an institution brought to
the New World by the Dutch settlers, prevailed in
It requires a vivid imagination to fill the
gaps in a word picture of the market as it stood a hundred
years ago. Farmers drove down from
There were one hundred head in the drove
and, according to a local paper, they appeared "as fresh as
if just taken off of our
about 1830 the
The current issue of "Der Sturm" arrived
safely after a complicated voyage to
"You are one of the real big artists because you are timeless. While the artists of your time occupied themselves lovingly with their Earth, you stood on the other side of Love and Earth, reaching out for the world."
I wonder why gentleman Harry Turner, editor of "Much Ado," the St. Louis fortnightly that carries Shakespeare on its front cover and a beer ad on its back cover, doesn't have the decency to give credit to artist, writer, poet and to the shop itself, for three pictures, five articles and a long poem he lifted from "Greenwich Village" and Bruno's Weekly to make his Christmas issue look like a magazine.
The Little Review
of the magazines edited by a woman is "The Little Review,"
the literary messenger of the
In the Orchestra
Esther Griffin White, editor of "The Little Paper" in Richmond, Indiana — she who writes inflamed editorials against political corruption — came forth with a little volume of sonnets. She is quite a different woman in the pages of her book, "In the Orchestra," was written during her activities as music editor of a daily paper. In the introductory remarks she apologises that their composition was not given special care but that they were done in the haste and hurry of producing "copy."
Really, it doesn't mean much what we wear, so long as we are otherwise all right. And therefore, even if the sonnets of Miss White walk on limping feet, here and there, it is just a matter of appearance. Her thoughts are good and there is a certain rhythm to her language which makes it very sympathetic. The little volume is illustrated by Miss Florence Fox. The vignettes are charming nudes who seem to know that they are illustrating music.
Theodore Schroeder wrote another of his interesting pamphlets, "Liberty Through Personal Service."
"As your development approaches the stage where you desire and can approximately live the impersonal life, you will see all yet overlook all; being without blinding special friendships you will yet be the friend of all; without doing personal charity io any, you will cheerfully devote your whole life to the impersonal service of all; while looking with like emotional indifference and desire for understanding, upon the compliments or condemnations of fools or knaves, of friends or enemies you can ignore the fellowship-claim of the infantile pharisee — and yet extend your fellowship to him."
Monahan's leading article in the January issue of his
magazine is "Jack London: Master." It is a praise and review
of Jack London's "The Star Rover," published in
To Clara Tice
(With genuflections, to G. G., who discovered the rhyme: "Tice-nice.")
I've a hunch, dear Clara Tice,
That you must be very nice;
Else why draw yourself so poor—
Modest in "caric a choor"?
And your "
Seems a cross twixt wolf and rat.
Please do take G. G.'s advice . . .
And draw us something nice.
W. T. R.
OUR soldiers' indemnity has been raised from one sou to five sous per day. Those at the front may manage with this as their needs are small and opportunities for spending limited, but for those at the rear it is a mockery. Such is the consequence of conscription, the costs of which the State cannot meet. When called upon to serve, every man in the country is expected to possess an independent income on which to draw for his keep. Many men are now drawing upon their capital. To say that a soldier is adequately provided for is a vain boast; he is just housed, fed in a manner suitable only to men in the best of health, and but roughly equipped. The State thinks it does well by him in providing him with tobacco and free postage, privileges by which all men do not profit equally. But the treatment strikes the French so little as unfair that they still wonder at the superior advantages of the English soldiers, all of which proves that Governments exploit the public as far as it will stand and entirely with its consent — passive, perhaps, but consent nevertheless.
I have spoken much and often in these columns of writers asnd their activities during the war, to the neglect of the artist-body. There is a reason for this apparent omission. Such call as is made upon the arts of form and color seems more than ever to favor the vulgarest. The others are scarcely given a chance. That sentiments of patriotism, the glorification of heroism and scenes of destruction can be illustrated nobly has been proved by Paul Iribe's idealistic and Masereel's realistic interpretations. But official influence is all powerful just now, and, as the late Jean Dolent, Carriere's friend, said: "Official art has this peculiarity, that it is not art." The orders go, therefore, to those who are official if not artists, and particularly to those specialists who labelled themselves "military painters," even when they were less in demand. Every painter, evidently, has his day. Some are attached to the General Staff and follow operations safely ambushed in State-provided motors.
There is not a single modern man of the brush who can render cavalry. M. Dunoyer de Segonzac, who knows the beauty of soldiery, will perhaps give us something in that line one day, if he is spared. Meanwhile he is exercising his ingeniousness in the camouflage department, the equivalent English term for which I regret I do not happen to know. The work consists in contrivances of deception, such as mock scenery for hiding artillery, aviation camps, etc.
Among the cartoonists Forain continues busy. Le Mot has, after a lingering agony, come to an end; it was too good for this world. Steinlen wears the best because he is so entirely free from tricks and mannerisms. Bernard Naudin, though mobilized, has, as was to be expected, found time to prove that his pen is well suited to scenes associated with warfare and its sufferings; and Poulbot's merit does not decrease as his vogue increases. - Muriel Ciolkowska
from a letter to "The Egoist,"
Maude: A Memory
(Continued from last issue)
I was mistaken, Kenneth. Mistaken like years ago. But it
is more dreadful because I have waited so long and I
thought I had found at last just the one that was made
for me in the beginning. Did you know that I have been
So I went up on the top deck. The wind was blowing, the outline of the little place where I got aboard was vanishing with every turn of the wheel. It was in the late afternoon and the sun had draped himself in his night attire, with those beautiful rays, purple and yellow, which makes such a saddening picture and moves the lonely man to think of the vanity of the world — if he only cares to concentrate his mind and think.
I was standing on the boat near the
captain's bridge and I was looking at those gray, placid
waves and the sun which was soon to disappear; and I
could not account for that tired, lonely feeling which
came over me. My eyes ached looking at the sun-ball. I
turned around to look for a quiet place where I could
sit and await our arrival in
Then — I do not remember exactly — but there was something I did for her. I think I offered her a chair, something of the kind. Some peculiar desire to be near her made me stay up there in the wind. I walked back and forth. I forgot to go down to the dining room as I had intended to do after all the other diners had left. And finally I discovered a chair, just vacated by a stout old lady, for whom the breezes had become too cold, and I carried it near hers and sat down. Again I looked out toward the sea. The twilight had settled heavily and the pale moon could be seen if one looked long and sharply towards the grayish skies.
I turned to her and looked her straight in the face. I looked into her big blue eyes. She gazed at me. I don't know why but I simply had to speak to her. "My name is Courtland," I said. "Won't you please talk to me? Tell me your first name." She did not hesitate a second. A very quiet melodious voice said, "I am Maude. Why are you here on this steamer?"
And we talked, and we talked until the darkness had settled. It was night. A million stars, clearly shining, glittering, hiding themselves behind clouds, and appearing once again. The moon rose higher and higher on its nightly travel. We didn't know that all the other people who had been on deck had gone below to their staterooms. It seemed to me as if I had found the only other being besides myself occupying this world, seeing with the eyes with which I see, talking with the voice and answering in the most sympathetic voice I had ever heard in my life the thoughts that I could never have spoken in words.
What did we talk about? About everything. About everything that ever interested me in my whole life. About my profession and about the shadow sides of my calling; about beautiful pictures and about the hurried noises that they call modern music; about her ambition, what she desired to be. She told me about the picture she wanted to paint, perhaps in years, after she had achieved what she wanted to achieve — a picture which would be so true, so pure and so beautiful that a mother would put it in the trunk of her departing daughter, the lover give it to his bride as the most precious gift and the bad man, should he stop and glance at it, would stop and look again and remember his mother; a picture which would be reproduced in millions of copies to be hung in the homes of the wealthy and in the small huts of the poor and in the cell of the man who serves a life sentence.
told her about myself and about my connections with the
world; how I was disappointed in everything which I had
done for my own sake and successful in all those things
I undertook in the interest of others. All loneliness
(To be continued)
RARE BOOKS FIRST EDITIONS
Extra Illustrated Books. Early Printed Books. Association Books. Books for Christmas Gifts
Purchased singly or in sets for people who have neither time nor opportunity to elect for themselves, or for those who have not access to the belt book marts. Why not begin collecting now?
Address E. V.,
published weekly by Charles Edison, and edited and
written by Guido Bruno, both at
Applications for entry as second-class matter at the Post Office of