I PICKED up a
curious book a few days ago. It is just as timely today as it
was upon its publication in 1804; "The art of tying a cravat,
with explanatory plates"; it is true today as well as a
hundred years ago that the man is well-dressed who has a
perfect sitting collar and a well fitting and well tied
cravat. It is really all that catches our eye in a chance
meeting or sitting across the table in the office or in the
dining room. It is the only thing we really observe in street
cars, in subways or on the street after we looked stranger or
friend in the face.
It would be a chapter in itself to enlarge upon how a man
involuntarily expresses his character through his tie bow or
tie knot. The steadfastness of character, the dependency in
matters of importance can be judged by the tie of a man. The
colors he uses will betray to us not only his taste in things
generally, but also his temperamental inclinations.
Women have endless opportunities to express through their
exterior adornment what they really are. Rigid traditions and
strict conventions press the man of today into a uniform; and
the necktie means for him what the regimental colors mean to
the otherwise uniformly clad European army man. He who knows
immediately distinguishes artillery from infantry, and he who
is an initiate will tell at one glance if it is field
artillery or coast artillery. Look at a man's necktie and you
will know instantly not only who he is but, if you are an
initiate, it might be to you the warning signal flag of his
The History of
opinion can be given of the age in which Cravats were first
introduced. The ancients were happily unacquainted with the
ridiculous and dangerous fashion of confining the throat in
linen, either tied in front or fastened behind with a clasp;
this part of the frame was allowed to remain in entire
liberty; they, however, defended it from the cold by means of
a woolen or silken cloth, called in Rome focalium, a term
which is evidently derived from fauces (the throat).
A distinguished Jesuit (the Rev. Father Adam) in his work on
Roman antiquities, proves by the most undoubted authority that
the Romans made use of chin cloths, for the protection of
their neck and throat; these were termed focalia, and the
public orators, who from professional considerations were
fearful of taking cold, contributed in no small degree to
render this fashion general. Some (says the Rev. Father) used
a handkerchief (sudarium) for this purpose. This is probably
the origin of the Cravat, which is in many countries called
Augustus, who was infirm and sickly, constantly used the
focalium when at his own house, or with his friends, but he
was never seen in it in public; and Lampridus observes that
Alexander Severus made use of it only when returning from the
baths to his palace. In Rome the custom of leaving the neck
bare was so general that it was considered beneath the dignity
of the man and citizen to protect it in any other way than by
the hand, or occasionally wrapping the toga round it.
The throats of our forefathers were for ages as uncovered as
their faces; in this respect the descendants of the Sarmatae
have not degenerated, as the Poles during the most severe
winter have their throats constantly exposed. The same fashion
(which is, however, less surprising) has descended to the
Eastern Nations, among whom a white and well turned neck is
metaphorically compared to the beauty of a tower of Ivory. The
Calmucks, Baskirs and other Tartars of the Don, on the border
of the Caspian Sea, also adhere to this fashion; very few of
them, however, merit the eastern compliment, as their throats
are generally ugly and ill-formed. This custom gradually
declined in France and several parts of Europe, and luxury,
rather than necessity, introduced the fashion of covering the
throat loosely with a fine starched linen cloth; this was worn
above the shirt, without a collar; the ends were brought down
on the breast and there fastened by laces of thread — from
this idea of bands was derived — before introduction of the
heavy and unhealthy bonds, which at a later period confined
the throat, was even dreamt of.
The ruff, stiffened and curled in single or double rows (an
inconvenient but harmless ornament) became the favorite in its
turn, and continued in fashion while the hair was worn short;
but this also fell into disrepute when Louis XIII allowed his
to grow. Then raised collars, plaited neck cloths and bands
(both plain and of lace) enveloped the throats of our
ancestors, from the neck to the chin, and covered the tops of
the arms until Louis XIV adopted the enormous flaxen or black
peruke, which almost concealed the front of the neck. It then
gave way to bright colored ribands arranged in bows, which
were also introduced by this gay and gallant monarch, and
imitated by every one according to his rank or caprice.
Up to that time, as frivolity alone had reigned, the fashion
was not injurious; but the throat, which had hitherto been
comparatively free, now lost that liberty which it has never
since regained. In 1660 a regiment of Croats arrived in
France; a part of their singular costume excited the greatest
admiration, and was immediately and generally imitated; this
was a tour de cou, made (for the private soldiers) of common
lace, and of muslin or silk for the officers; the ends were
arranged en rosette, or ornamented with button or tuft, which
hung gracefully on the breast. This new arrangement, which
confined the throat but very slightly, was at first termed a
Croat, since corrupted to Cravat. The Cravats of the officers
and people of rank were extremely fine, and the ends were
embroidered or trimmed with broad lace; those for the lower
classes were subsequently made of cloth or cotton, or at the
best of black taffeta, plaited: which was tied round the neck
by two small strings. These strings were at a later period
replaced by clasps, or a buckle, and the Cravat then took the
name of Stock.
The Cravat at length became universal, and was increased to an
almost incredible size. Some enveloped the neck in entire
pieces of muslin; others wore a stitched stiffener. on which
several handkerchiefs were folded. By this echafaudage the
neck was placed in a level with the head, which in size it
surpassed, and with which it was confounded. The shirt collar
rose to the side of the ears, and the top of the Cravat
covered the mouth and lower part of the nose, so that the face
(with the exception of the nose) was concealed by the Cravat
and a forest of whiskers; these rose on each side of the hair,
which was combed down over the eyes.
In this costume the elegans bore a greater resemblance to
beasts than men and the fashion gave rise to many laughable
caricatures. They were compelled to look straight before them
as the head could only be turned by general consent of all the
members, and the tout ensemble was that of an unfinished
Instances have, however, occurred in which these immense
Cravats have saved the lives of the wearers in battle. One
fact, as related by Dr. Pizie, may be worthy of record: "I was
laughing" (says he) "at General Lepale, on account of his
enormous Cravat. At the moment of entering into action, his
regiment charged, and after dispersing the enemy's cavalry
returned to the bivouac. I was informed that the General had
been struck by a pistol shot in the throat. I immediately
hastened to his assistance and was shown a bullet which was
stopped in its career by the very Cravat I had just been
ridiculing. Two officers and several privates had received
saber cuts on the Cravat, and escaped without injury, so that
I was obliged to confess that these immense bandages were not
Singers more than any class of persons, should be careful to
avoid exposing the throat to the cold as a moderate heat
contributes to supply the organs, and renders the voice
clearer and more harmonious; though, on the contrary, it is
greatly deteriorated if the throat is constrained by a
tightened Cravat. No part of the body is more susceptible of
cold than the neck; and this susceptibility is the effect of
too much covering in general; but in leaving a ballroom, or
any heated place, the greatest care should be taken to defend
the chest and neck from cold.
The natives of the South are but too well acquainted with the
danger of such sudden transitions, and the Spaniards
particularly, who always wear a large handkerchief hanging
carelessly from the neck, invariably wrap themselves in it,
when being warm they are suddenly exposed to the cold.
In short, the Cravat has now arrived at the summit of
perfection, and has been materially assisted in its progress
by the use of starch. The question naturally arises to whom is
the world indebted for this sublime invention? To the English,
Russians, Italians or French? On this point we confess
ourselves unable to decide. The blanchisseuses of each of
those powers have been instrumental in communicating this
important discovery to the world.
On our parts, more profound investigations would be unavailing
and it is only by a continued course of laborious research
that it would be possible to remove the obscurity which has
enveloped the subject of our labors for so many ages.
(Introduction to "The Art of Tying the Cravat," by H. Le
Blanc, published 1804 by F. and B. Fordes, 455 Broadway, New
London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY,
18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
February 23, 1916
MOORE will probably create some excitement with his new "Life
of Christ" — "The Brook Kerith" — which is announced. In order
to write this work Mr. Moore undertook a journey to Palestine.
Already some of the papers are whipping up clerics and
professors to condemn the work in advance. I have not seen any
advance copy of it, but according to report it is in the form
of a novel and puts forward some very heretical views. In fact
I think Moore challenges the very fact of Christ's death upon
the cross. "Some hours on the cross would be more likely to
produce a cataleptic swoon than death," he says. To this Dr.
Claye Shaw, a well known lecturer at St. Bartholomew's
Hospital, replies: "The accepted medical view of the death of
Christ is that He died from pericarditis with effusion, and
that His early death ensued from this condition and was
accelerated by the wound from the javelin."
I think I should include a mention of the Poet Laureate's new
orthology "The Spirit of Man," which is being reviewed
everywhere at great length.
Dr. Bridges has been inspired to compile it in a spirt of
patriotism. He planned it as a volume to afford cheer and
refreshment to those who take no active part in the war of
wars. The book is arranged on a generous basis and includes
quotations from the philosophers as well as the poets. There
are translations from the Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Persian,
Russian, German and Chinese. The poets represented range from
Homer to Rupert Brooke. The fault of the book lies in its very
profuseness. It is really the anthology with the limited
though not financial scope which is the best.
Another "ANTHOLOGY" which is enjoying considerable success in
England comes from America — from Spoon River in fact. Since
this book is well known to you I will say no more about it. I
have not read it yet, but it is certainly very popular over
here and has been widely reviewed. One thing which strikes the
reviewers is the quaintness of the title.
Another shock has been given to the world of writers this
week. Paper is to be doubled or trebled in price. Books will
cost more, and a great many will be postponed. Mr. John Lane
says young novelists will stand little chance of having their
works published. Some of the papers, it is to be supposed,
will cut down their size, and it does not seem cynical to
prophecy that the curtailment will begin with the literary and
The word of translations from the Russian and books on Russia
keeps up its pressure. This week we have ''The Way of the
Cross" by V. Doroshevitch and "The Epic Songs of Russia" by
Isabel Florence Hapgood. Mr. Stephen Graham of course writes
an introduction to the former. Mr. Graham has made a sort of
literary corner in Russia and is naturally applied to for his
benediction over all Russian literary projects.
In the world of the theatre, Mr. Sturge Morse's "Judith" has
been one of the refined pleasures of the week. It was
performed by the Stage Society. The play is gracious,
sensitive and dignified but it is not dramatic or even very
real. Miss Lillah McCarthy played the part of Judith.
Dr. Ethel Smyth our woman composer has produced a new opera —
and on what libretto has she written it do you suppose? She
has taken one of N. W. Jacobs' sea yarns, "The Boatsman's
Mate" and altered it considerably and made something out of it
which has certainly more distinction than a musical comedy but
perhaps not so much reason.
A new volume of poems, "The Man With a Hammer" by Miss Anna
Wickham (Grant Richards 2s 6d) contains some verses which if
not remarkable as poetry are interesting psychologically. The
revolting woman speaks in Miss Wicknam, or perhaps it is
really the woman who would like to revolt.
Little Thimble Theatre
The Bruno Players
"Miss Julia" will continue on the program during the coming
week. The performances take place Monday, Tuesday and
Wednesday at 8:45 p. m., and the Saturday matinee at 3 p.m.
The curtain rises respectively at eight forty-five and three
sharp, and the doors are closed during the performance.
Late-comers are not being admitted. The next program will
present a comedy by Strindberg which will prove that the Great
Swede has the same sense of the comedy in life that he has
manifested so often for the inevitable tragedy. Also a war
play by an American author, which unrolls before our eyes a
vivid picture of things that are or could be, will be on the
bill of which the first performance is scheduled for Monday,
On Friday and Saturday evenings Donna Faunce, a soprano, will
sing a selection of songs by Liza Lehmann, including The Wood
Pigeon, The Yellowhammer, The Owl, and The Cuckoo. Miss Faunce
recently came to New York to complete her vocal studies and
intends to enter upon a concert career.
Miss Elsa De Val, who also appears on this week's program, is
known as a church singer, but it is her desire to use the
concert stage as a stepping stone to grand opera. She appears
in the Thimble Theatre for the first time before a public
audience. Her program includes One Fine Day (Madam Butterfly),
by Puccini, The Gift by Mary Helen Brown, and Welcome, Sweet
Wind, by Cadman.
SHELLEY had just been kicked out of the office of McClure's.
"I tried to sell my ode to a skylark," he explained to John
Keats, "but they objected to it as a violation of neutrality."
"I can understand that," said Leigh Hunt, who joined the pair
at Twenty-Third Street, ''because McClure would be sure to
think you meant a Zeppelin."
"But I thought McClure was such an admirer of the Germans,"
said Shelley. "Didn't he go all around the country once,
imploring us to imitate the Germans?"
"Besides," interjected Keats, "McClure has nothing more to do
"His editorial judgment must still carry weight though," said
Leigh Hunt. "They refused my poem, 'Jenny Kissed Me,' because
I failed to make it clear that the parties were either married
or engaged to be married."
"I shouldn't think McClure would care," said Keats sadly,
"whether you and Jenny are married or not."
"He doesn't," explained Shelley. "But he can't run the risk of
having a whole edition held up in the post office."
"Then why does he expose the female form the way he does on
"That isn't the female form you're always seeing on the cover
of McClure's. It's a lot of Harvard men in the same style of
girl's bathing suit."
"Did you get your information," asked Shelley, "from McClure
"I didn't have to," said Keats. "You can always tell a Harvard
Bang, Alexander Harvey's Unique Weekly
Things by Tom Sleeper
of light that burble murkily thru the drithering fog. — A
horse-cab janketing over the cobble-stones. — A man and woman
chawning odd bids of puff over near the curb. — The bulking
cop sentineling his traffic post — and ever comes the brum bum
of far-off tram cars.
The world gave me the
ha! ha! when I was twenty-six.
And again when I was forty-two.
Now I can give the world
the ha! ha!
The Devil eat it!
WHY should my
cow be tethered with a common iron chain while my dog disports
himself at the end of a Russian leather thong?
There is caste even among prisoners.
LOVE like a
Smiling in the sun
Hath called me
Love like a rose
Blowing in a storm
Hath lashed me
Love like a rose
Scattered on the grass
Hath killed me.
from any standpoint, from any aspect, at any hour of the day,
or on any day of the week, in all seasons and under all human
condition, that statue is an inspiration to the men of this
Standing as he does, the clear-eyed patriot looks out and over
the busy highway of traffic, and at his right hand rise the
massive homes of the daily press.
When the summer leafage softens the background; when the bare
branches intensify the outlines of the bronze; when the
morning sun lights up the east and spreads an aureole of glory
behind his head; when the sunset's lingering rays touch that
calm young face with a kiss of infinite tenderness; when the
cold moonlight wraps him in the mantle of her shimmering
glory, always, always he stands there, with fettered hands and
feet, but with a dauntless spirit which no human power can
quell, which bows but to the mandates of truth and honor.
Yet, when the rush and the turmoil of the week are ended and
over the Sabbath stillness, the noontide chimes of Trinity are
heard, he seems to assume more majestic proportions; he stands
a giant, fettered for his country's sake, and in the voices of
the chapel bells he seems to hear the music of the angels
singing, and the Master's words "Well done."
(Among the few
literary men who succeeded in interviewing the great
actress, Eleanora Duse, was Arthur Symons, The following
sentences are perhaps the most important spoken by Duse
during the conversation.)
To save the theatre, the theatre must be destroyed, the actors
and actresses must all die of the plague. They poison the air,
they make art impossible. It is not drama that they play, but
pieces for the theatre. The drama dies of stalls and boxes and
evening dress, and people who come to digest their dinner.
Seneca, or the toreador
Rousseau, or return to
nature in impuris naturalibus.
Schiller, or the moral
Trumpeter of Sackingen.
Dante, or the hyena
poetizing in tombs.
Kant, or cant as an
Victor Hugo, or Pharos
in a sea of absurdity.
Michelet, or enthusiasm
which strips off the coat.
Carlyle, or pessimism as
an undigested dinner.
John Stuart Mill, or
The Goncourts, or the
two Ajaxes struggling with
Homer; music by Offenbach.
Zola, or the delight to
Two Portraits of Nietzsche
By Felix Vallotton, in La
Unpublished Letters by Oscar Wilde
(Letters which are at
present among the collection of Patrick P. Madigan, written
by Oscar Wilde to friends and acquaintances, and a few
letters addressed to Mr. Smtthers, his publisher, are so
significant for his style and every-day thoughts that the
reproduction on these pages will prove a valuable addition
to our Wilde
13 Albermarble Street, W.
16 Tite Street,
I will send you a Ms. copy of my play — a little incomplete,
but still, enough to give you an idea of its ethical scheme.
Your letter has deeply moved me — to the world I seem, by
intention or by part, a dilettante and dandy merely — .
It is not wise to show one's heart to the world — and as
seriousness of manner is the disguise of the fool, so folly in
its exquisite modes of triviality and indifference and lack of
care, is the robe of the wise man.
In so vile an age as this we all need masks.
But write to me about yourself — tell me your life and loves —
and all that makes you wonder. Who are you? (what a difficult
question for any one of us to answer!) I, at any rate, am
To T. Hutchinson, Esq.,
16 Tite Street,
Chelsea, S. W.
July 13th, 1888
My dear Sir:
I must thank you for your very charming and graceful letter
but I am afraid that I don't think as much of the Young
Student as you do. He seems to me a rather shallow young man,
and almost as bad as the girl he thinks so lovely. The
Nightingale is the true lover, if there is one. She, at least,
is Romance; and the Student and the girl are, like most of us,
unworthy of Romance. So, at least, it seems to me, but I like
to fancy that there may be many meanings in the Tale, for in
writing it, and the others, I did not start with an idea and
clothe it in form, but began with a form and strove to make it
beautiful enough to have many secrets, and many answers.
(The Nightingale and the
Rose, to which the above letter refers, is included in the
collection of Fairy stories entitled "The Happy Prince, and
Other Tales," by Oscar Wilde.)
THE book-plate today is a necessary accessory to the book
itself. Anybody can buy a book put on public sale. To place
the individual mark of ownership upon everything that we
acquire for personal use is the marked tendency of our times:
to place our initials or our coat-of-arms or our trademark
upon the things we are using daily. The monogram on our
handkerchief and on our linen, the label on the inside pocket
of our coat or on the vanity case or on the seal ring; on the
china or silver we are using in our dining room, impregnate
those things with our personality. Book-plates are not an
ornament. Just a visible sign of proprietorship.
Coulton Waugh is devoting himself to book-plates exclusively
and will arrange for an exhibition in the near future.
During the first week in May the American Art Association will
sell at public auction the remarkable collection of
book-plates formed by the late Dr. Henrv C. Eno, consisting of
American, English and Continental plates, library labels,
leather book-plates and the like, which number over four
thousand items and include the works of famous designers and
the plates of important personages of ancient and modern
Henry Blakewell, who recently disposed by auction sale of his
large collection of book-plates, is at work upon a check-list
of American book-plates.
The book-plate reproduced on this page was drawn
by and for Adelaide Helen Page in April, 1898, when she
was five and a half years old. It was accepted by the
Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. The silhouette is a
portrait of Miss Page.
Books and Magazines of
was and is the city where wit and humor, uninfluenced by
Europe, finds its expression from time to time in small
magazines published and edited by one man, who evidently
has no other desires but to have his say, unhampered by
editors and uncurtailed by that mighty ruler: convention.
It was Chicago where the greatest American minds which
were humans at the same time found a chance to express
themselves during the last twenty-five years. There was
Eugene Field, who knew better than anyone else, either
before him or since, how to look at that other side of
American life, to see the man beneath his everyday
attitude towards everyday life. There was Ben King, who
was for Chicago what Salis meant to Paris; but Salis
needed a chat noir
and a circle of poets, musicians and artists, while Ben
King created a chat
noir wherever he was present. And there was
Stanley Waterloo, with whom to converse for an hour meant
to take a new lease upon life.
They have departed from earthly life, but pick up one of
their books and you will feel their individuality, you
will feel their presence. James Whitcomb Riley and George
Ade passed through Chicago on their happy road to
achievement and success. And Opie Read is still there. And
Bill Eaton, who guards in his "Scoop" every week, a
brilliant testimony of what is being done in Chicago today
in letters and art. The pages of his paper are a
kaleidoscope of real life, seasoned with a bit of sarcasm
here and there, serious in their criticisms but always
kind and always cheerful. Leaving a lasting good taste.
Colonel Visscher, the humorist, looks upon things in a
lighter vein. And Dr. Frank Lydston forgets here his ever
preparedness and talks about things nearer to us than his
surgical-wonder operations or his solutions of sexual
Cowley Stapleton Brown, he of the never-to-be-forgotten
"Goose-Quill," created for himself a unique corner in
American criticism in Mr. French's "Musical Leader," which
gave this otherwise unimportant musical publication a
distinction that will be pointed out in times to come.
And now there is being published a new magazine called
"The Polemic." No editor's name appears upon its pages. It
is unique. It has exceptional literary qualities. It is a
distinct portrayal of Chicago life, and it is life. Here
is the "Overture" on the first page of Vol. 1, No. 1: "In
creating "The Polemic" we are entertaining the hypothesis
that if we crack a bull-dog on the nose, he may not love
us but he will be damned interested in our movements."
The current issue of "The Minaret" contains a very good
review of Rupert Brooke's collected poems by Blanche
Shoemaker Wagstaff. It is short but says everything that
could be said. Sentiments very seldom voiced by American
contemporaries are the attractive motives of Harold
Hersey's "Silhouettes of the City." We cannot resist
reprinting the one published in the March issue.
The Old House
Just an old brick
One among many
others in a dreary block.
But like the houses
of the city it has an individual voice,
Its own memories,
its own sadness.
Here I lived in the
springtime of my years.
In that room with
the dull, silent windows.
And through that
hall came to my door
One whose hand and
voice will never be forgotten,
The kindest secret
of my heart.
Old house, I wonder
how many others have lived within you.
There was a lot of noise at the time of the birth of this
new monthly: Parturiunt
montes, nascetur ridiculus mus! it is a nice
college paper and is a bit revolutionary, just enough so
to be daring, but that is all. Discussion of such matters
as sex and equal suffrage, never led to positive results
or direct conclusions in magazines. But it is a nice
In the current issue of Mr. Viereck's monthly Hans Heinz
Ewers found his first appreciation in America. Ewers,
whose prose writings have some of the qualities of Edgar
Allan Poe, played an important part in the cabaret
movement of the early nineties in Germany and contributed
a great deal to the understanding in Germany of
contemporary French writers. Not long ago he was in
America when he gave several readings of his works in the
Irving Place Theater.
John W. Draper's importance for style and significance in
contemporary poetry is discussed in the current issue of
this magazine, published by the Andiron Club by Charles
Gray Shaw, Professor of Ethics in the New York University.
The same number contains a three-act play, "Between
Cloister Gates," by John W. Draper, the editor of the
In Our Village
only one thing that prevents Sadakichi from ranking today
among our classics; he is alive. Sadakichi should be dead.
Rightfully he should have died about ten years ago. But he
insists upon living; he insists upon being a monument of
his own. He insists upon standing on the pedestal where he
placed himself, and he loves with the naïveté
of a child to gather himself the wreaths and flowers his
admirers place at his feet — the feet of that monument.
Sadakichi has, in common with other great men to whom
recognition did not come easily, the ardent wish to be
recognized by his contemporaries. He is looking upon his
contemporaries as his posterity which he wishes to pay
homage to him. . . . He is a bad actor. He dies upon that
stage, which life represents to him, and insists upon
awakening at the wrong time, before the curtain has been
rung down on him; the onlookers admire the heroic death,
and he destroys that "certain something" in the
psychological moment . . . and we all can see that real
live thing . . . and Sadakichi will try again to die.
His works, those he wrote years and years ago — are
superb. They are strong, they are convincing. He has often
been compared to Poe. Whenever the American thinks of
originality in letters, he will remember Poe who stands
out today as well as seventy-five years ago as the only
poet and writer in America who was an individuality and
who was original. Sadakichi has a style of his own, and
the tertium comparationis is originality.
The merciless necessity of earning money has been the
stumbling-block of many a genius. It was not in
Sadakichi's path. He always was and is a firm believer
that genius is the one and only investment that should
bear him rightfully ample interest to live on comfortably.
The world misunderstands. Posterity will find it only
natural. But posterity again will have its own personal
interests to expend lavishly money to erect monuments or
confer other honors upon the dead man.
It is easier to buy a block of marble and have an artist
transform it into a wonderful bust than to give value for
And so Sadakichi is a wayfarer of yore, out in the world,
appearing here and there demanding tribute from
contemporaries who look upon him as a curiosity. But he is
conscious of what he is doing. He has no illusions about
it. He laughs. He laughs at the world and he laughs at
himself . . . but he is serious, reverently serious when
he remembers those years in which he really worked and
strived and produced; and those are the years that are
redeeming him now for us, — that will make posterity to
understand him to honor him to glorify him.
I see the time when publishers will collect the scraps
with his handwriting and the books and pamphlets he
published himself. I see a biographer busy to interpret
that fruit-bearing period of the Nineties when he was at
his best and wrote his "Christ," and "Buddha" and
published his "Stylus" and his "Art Critic."
Sadakichi Hartmann was among us for a few days before his
departure for Colorado, where he is going to make his
The dramatic group of the Liberal Club produced on Sunday,
the 5th, two plays, "Suppressed Desires," a
psychoanalytical play by George Cram Cook and Susan
Glaspell, and "The Five Daughters of a King," by Rollo
Peters. Alice Palmer was the second princess. She acted a
princess here as well as she does in her village store,
when she is seated under that gorgeous purple canopy, her
head reclining on a flaming green pillow with yellow
ornaments, and two enormous candles (they are six-footers)
flickering mystically on each side of her. Mary Pyne, who
played the fifth princess, should have been the first.
The large array of electric lamps under shades of all
shapes and color combinations is but one of the twilight
attractions in Mr. Hellman's studio. His Sunday afternoon
teas are developing into a salon, where one can meet in
the most unconventional manner refugee princesses, newly
arrived from Europe, editors who represent power on the
other side of the counter which divides the litterateurs
and artists of America in successes and into others; and
just plain everyday villagers who are writing or painting.
The Candlestick Tea Room is now owned and operated solely
by Miss Coones, who last week purchased Mrs. Pendington's
interest in this orange colored and candle-lighted eating
place in Greenwich Village.
From February 19th until March 5th, the Modern Art School
exhibited works of art by its teachers and pupils. Most of
the exhibits were shown for the first time. Among them was
a bust by Bourdelle, never before exhibited in America.
Landlords are very slow if it means to repair a building
or put it into shape again after a fire. It took almost a
month to put a roof upon the Garret and to restore the
damaged walls, so it can again fulfill its mission: to
shelter the works of artists tacked to its walls (the
works, not the artists) and people who are anxious to
listen to the creations of the poets and authors who give
their readings here. The Garret will open its doors again
on Saturday, March 11th. Cartoons of Steinlen
chronologically arranged as they appeared in Gil Blas,
sixty-eight of the best he ever did, will be exhibited
from the 11th of March until the first of April. Saturday
afternoon and Monday evening are reserved, as before the
fire, for the purpose of keeping "open house."
On Bookstall Row
there has not been such a demand for books in foreign
languages as has been evidenced since the beginning of the
war, especially during the last four months, according to
Mr. Hammond, one of the oldest booksellers on Fourth
Avenue. He specializes in French and German novels and his
explanation of this suddenly awakened interest for foreign
seems very plausible. Many thousand dollars' worth of
books are bought daily by the various war relief societies
and by individuals who are shipping their purchases to the
German, English and French concentration camps. While the
Germans permit, English books and magazines intra muras of the
concentration camps; the English and French exclude all
periodical literature in a foreign language from their
prison camps. Mr. Hammond contends that he sold more books
by Balzac and by Dickens during the last six months than
he ordinarily would sell in the course of five years,
depending upon his New York trade.
It was a good joke upon H. Stone, he who had the good
fortune — or perhaps a profound knowledge, who knows, — to
dig up during the last few years very rare and important
items, such as a complete series of Poor Richard's
Almanacs and never-before-known Mark Twain material to
dispose of a letter by Lincoln for fifteen cents. He
bought a lot of books at a recent auction sale and after
looking them over, evidently not too carefully, designated
them to his table in front of his shop, to be sold at
fifteen cents each. They did not prove very good sellers.
For almost three weeks they were out there in rain and
shine, and nobody seemed to be attracted enough to take
them home. Last Saturday a well-known Brooklyn clergyman
inspected the lot, picked up one of the volumes, paid
fifteen cents for it and took home an apparently
unimportant book; but inlaid between its pages was a
letter in the handwriting of Lincoln, and a long one, too.
Since then the clergyman was offered one hundred and fifty
dollars for his find, but he refused to sell it. But so
will it happen if a dealer of books pays special interest
to art, and makes out of his book shop an exhibition
parlor of discarded originals of drawings which have
appeared during the last ten years in "Leslie's Weekly."
Frank Bender, whose store is filled to the brim with books
on architecture and with ancient plans and plates,
recently bought a curious lot of a long-forgotten English
magazine, "The Spirit Lamp." He has hundreds of them. They
are of interest because Lord Alfred Douglas was the editor
and Oscar Wilde one of the chief contributors.
Old Man Deutschberger, who moved a few doors north of his
old shop some time ago, disposed, Friday, of all his
book-plate books and of a large part of his book-plate
literature, consisting of pamphlets, periodicals and
individual plates. He has some very curious Americana in
that ominous old buffet used by him as the sacred screen
for the rarest of the rare. But his prices are
prohibitive, at least for those who really want to read
Several new shops ventured to locate among the old
stand-bys from the days of the old Astor library. There is
a new basement shop whose proprietor evidently loves
English essays and books on books. And another one a few
doors south specializing in old magazines. It is the
Dorado for the extra illustrator; but he must have the
time to sit down and to look through a few thousand
periodicals. They are not classified, and the proprietor
is as ignorant of what he has as his prospective buyer.
Wall Street Reflections
market situation has just enough of mystery in it to make
it perplexing even for the shrewdest observers. The
attitude is one of watchful waiting. Prices, not values
are under pressure.
Those timid ones who feared that the political cloud
hovering over Washington was the precursor of a tornado
and who made haste to sacrifice their securities, are now
coming out of their panic to find that the sun of peace
and prosperity is still shining here.
Politics has ruled the stock market for the last
fortnight. War stocks have suffered most. Prices of the
leading shares are much lower than they were last
It was their thought that all the "good news" was out and
the market was sold for that reason, but now even better
news is coming. The wonderful New York Central January
report following the satisfactory Pennsylvania's annual
figures will bring the good rails into line also steels
and coopers as an exceptionally good purchase.
European demand for American goods and products continues
and in my opinion will continue not only during the war
but for a long period to come. Earnings make dividends and
An interesting situation is manifest in the Bond market.
Hardly a day passes that new Bond issues are not offered
to the public and are being quickly absorbed. This shows
that there is an abundance of investment money awaiting an
Bruno's Weekly, published
weekly by Charles Edison, and edited and written by Guido
Bruno, both at 58 Washington Square, New York City.
Subscription $2 a year.
Entered as second class
matter at the Post Office of New York, N. Y., October
14th, 1916. under the Act of March 3d, 1879.
Proceed To Next Issue
Go To Table Of Contents
Return To BohemianLit.com