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The Importance of Neckties

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 temperament.

The History of the Cravat

NO decided 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 "Neckhandkerchief."

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 statue.

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 always useless."

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 York)

London Letter

                                        London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY,
                                        18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
                                                                                                February 23, 1916

MR. GEORGE 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 artistic columns.

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.
                                        Edward Storer

Charles Edison's 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, March 27.

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.

Editorial Judgment

PERCY BYSSHE 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 with McClure's."

"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 his covers?"

"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 himself?"

"I didn't have to," said Keats. "You can always tell a Harvard man."
    From The Bang, Alexander Harvey's Unique Weekly

Three Things by Tom Sleeper


BLEAR blobs 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 rose
    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.
                                        Diamond Crisp

Nathan Hale

LOOKED at 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 great metropolis.

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."
                                        L. R. Heller

(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.

My Impractibles

        Seneca, or the toreador of virtue.

        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 intelligible character.

        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 offensive transparency.

        The Goncourts, or the two Ajaxes struggling with
                Homer; music by Offenbach.

        Zola, or the delight to stink.
                                        Frederick Nietzsche

                 Nietzsche           Nietzsche

Two Portraits of Nietzsche
By Felix Vallotton, in La Revue Blanche

Hitherto 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

Albermarble Club,
13 Albermarble Street, W.
16 Tite Street,
S. W.


Dear Sir:

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
                                                                                                            Your friend,
                                                                                                                                OSCAR WILDE

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.
                                                                                                            Truly yours,
                                                                                                                                Oscar Wilde

(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.)

Book-Plate Notes

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 times.

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.

Book Plate

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 the Week

CHICAGO 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 problems

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 Minaret

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 house,
        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 college paper.

The International

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.

The Colonnade

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 magazine.

In Our Village

THERE is 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 value.

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 permanent home.

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.

Bruno's Garret

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

IN years 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 belle lettres 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 the books.

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

THE stock 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 November.

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 not promises.

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 outlet.

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.

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