Exhibition, Stieglitz and the Victim
Irish Green, Saffron Yellow — a frame of square, heavy, black
Black and atrocious Blue, rectangular carmine Red, half-moons
here and there, diverging lines of Brown — a narrow white oak
A broad stroke of green with purple dairies, white grass, a
bunch here and a bunch there, red cactuses on the far pale
horizon, two figures with disheveled black hair, enormous
necks, heads bowed, the woman's breasts hanging to her knees,
the man's hands reaching almost the toes of his feet — a rich,
A naked woman walking on air, yellow flowers beneath her, gray
clouds above her, her right shoulder above her right ear, her
left shoulder sloping nearly down to her left hip. No nose,
but the right eye covers the cavity — a fragile white enamel
Bridges and houses and temples and towers and churches, all
green and red and blue and white and black, like the building
blocks of children, pressed tight together, compressed into a
deep frame . . . .
Mr. Stieglitz, Alfred Stieglitz, absolute monarch of "291,"
autocrat of the dinner table (Holland House), champion of the
sixth dimension, high priest of the fifth Buddha, connoisseur
of the distorted anatomy and of the landscape torn apart: in
the center room. Lieutenants with flying neckties and long
hair, hurrying forth and back like zealous couriers, a blue
coated watchman back of a big table, loaded with publications:
Camera work $1.50, Forum exhibition $1, Camera work $2.50 . .
A row of comfortable, inviting seats.
One can overlook all three galleries; eleven walls. Stieglitz
walks up and down. The modern Ali Baba. Will he speak the
magic word? The sesame open thee. He walks down and up. The
reporter of a morning paper whispers in his right ear, and the
courier of art news for an evening paper spreads before his
eyes a report printed in his last evening's paper. Stieglitz
walks up and down, and down and up. He does not smile, he does
not speak. The elevators spit out every minute a new lot of
arrivals. And Stieglitz walks up and down, down and up. They
point at him. But the key to enlightenment, is hidden securely
in his pocket and his coat is buttoned up; and he walks up and
down, down and up. His body seems to walk three steps back of
his soul, it is an eternal race, down and up, up and down,
"291," Holland House, modern Gallery, Anderson Gallery, up and
down, down and up, the body ahead of the soul, the soul ahead
of the body . . . .
My chair is comfortable. But the walls! The rays from the
skylight! Green. Red. Blue. Purple. Yellow. Green and yellow.
Orange. Black and blue. And Red. Red. Red. Green, yellow;
green, yellow; green, yellow. A head on a terrible neck. A
deformed hand sticking out of a mass of brown and black
squares and circles. Feet without toes, arms with fungus
growths and rheumatic knots, buildings and earth and wrecked
bridges and wild rivers and clouds, frozen to shapeless heaps
. . . it rotates and rolls and turns and rotates and rises and
falls, and writhes and writhes around and around and explodes
and burns up and writhes again; hard labor, inspiration,
imagination, illusion-delusion . . . trying, trying, trying
again. Lies and truth — more lies, less truth . . . a big
I arise, I leave my seat. Stieglitz is walking up and down,
down and up. The blue-coated man back of the periodical
counter is selling Forum exhibition catalogues. The elevator
is awaiting me.
Down into the street. Ah! how wonderfully pure seems the air
on a cold March morning, even here in Fortieth Street in the
heart of smoky old New York.
Board of Comines
The Story of a French City
After the German of Dr, Ham
Poehlmann, German Field Chaplain at Comines, by Guido Bruno
soldiers in all streets and at the market place, at hard work
to care for the sick and wounded. With heavy steps a regiment
returns from the firing line; with serious looks but high
spirits, a battalion crosses the market place, passes the Cafe
de la Paix, called to the front. In front of the town hall the
German watch are doing routine duty as they would at home in
their barracks. The town hall itself, the Mairie, is the seat
of the German commander. A Bavarian major rules here over the
city and population of Comines.
The beautiful old Gothic church is transformed into a field
hospital. Rhododendron and magnolias are in bloom in the
Jardin Public. In the midst of a fine old lawn is a stinking
heap of refuse. Cattle were being killed there and had been
since the German occupation.
It is a little city of nine to ten thousand inhabitants. It
has lived through an exciting period the last few weeks. The
torn and damaged sheets on the bulletin board of the town hall
tell its short but grave story of suffering: from happiness to
sorrow, from life to death. Here they are inviting its
population to festivals, vibrating with the terrors of war and
finally silenced by the almighty order of the German general.
The Republic of France.
The City of Comines.
The 14th of July, 1914.
A National Holiday.
Great ascension of carrier pigeons. Distribution of cake. At 6
o'clock, a grand concert in the city park. At 9 P. M., a
public dance at the market place. All public buildings will be
decorated and illuminated in the evening.
D. Dugarin, Knight of
the Legion of Honor.
July 28, 1914.
To the Nation of France:
Notwithstanding the endeavors of our diplomatic corps the
political situation in Europe is very grave. At present most
of the governments have their armies mobilized. Even countries
neutral, and therefore not immediately affected, are preparing
to defend their borders if necessary.
France, who always demonstrated her peacefulness and always
advised previously in critical days like these to be moderate
and to abstain from the horrors of war, is also prepared for
things unforeseen but which might happen. It must now take
steps similar to those taken by other governments.
Sept 15, 1914
To pacify the families who have sons or fathers with our
armies I beg to declare that I have not received up to date,
letters, notes or communications containing authentic reports
about possible casualties of our fellow-citizens. I complained
on several occasions about the unforgivable negligence with
which our mails seem to be handled. But I was not able to
change the situation.
My dear fellow citizens, be courageous, have patience! The
same second I receive communications of or about your beloved
ones, immediately I shall communicate them to you.
Bordeaux, Oct 7, 1914
Nothing new has happened of special interest A very violent
battle raged near Roye and we finally were victorious. The
general outlook is very satisfactory.
Comines, Oct 15, 1914
My dear Fellow-citizens:
I implore you, do not act against the orders of the German
commanders. Do all vou can to satisfy them. The smallest
misdemeanor on your part would mean destruction to the city
and to the population. Upon your attitude depends the life of
all the inhabitants and the fate of Comines.
In case of a battle, keep to your cellars and close your doors
and windows. My dear fellow-citizens, do not be afraid. Be
calm! Count on us as we are counting on you.
Oct 22, 1914
The Major of the city of Comines implores all his
fellow-citizens to return to their homes and to keep quiet in
case German troops should march through our city. Women and
children are prohibited from gathering in the streets. The
inciter of false alarms will be arrested and transported to
Nov. 2, 1914
The Major, the Priest and six of the most prominent citizens
of Comines are prisoners in the town hall. In case the German
troops are molested in word or action all of us will be shot
City of Comines, Nov. 18, 1914
Order of the Commanding General to the Citizens of Comines:
1. All healthy men
between the ages of 16 to 50 will assemble this morning at
9.30 in front of the town hall ready to be used for general
work by the Commanding General.
2. All who do not obey
this order are exposing the city and its population to the
3. Every act of
hostility and every attempt to communicate with the hostile
army will be punished by immediate death.
4. All traffic in
the entire city has to stop, especially at the banks of the
This is the simple little story told by the bulletin board in
front of the town hall of Comines, the French border city.
Paris, March 1st, 1916.
announcements of publications as they appear respectively in
France and in England are significant of the difference in
intellectual stamina between the two nationalities. The
literature of the one country is equally in vogue with the
other, but, whereas the English make timorous and tardy
retrospective adventures, their neighbors prefer to explore
among the most modern British authors. Of these Mr. G. K.
Chesterton seems to answer to a demand. M. Charles Grolleau is
about to follow up Mme. Isabelle Riviere's competent
translation of "The Barbarity of Berlin" with "The Crimes in
England," and Dr. Sarolea's "The French Renascence" has had
the advantage of appearing under the auspices of the same
expert, who is also taking part in a rendering of "What Europe
Owes to Russia," equally by the doctor. Both books will be
published by Cres, whose forthcoming war literature also
comprises a prose study by Verhaeren: "Parmi les Cendres"
(Collection Rellum); "La Maison Anxieuse" by Lucien Descaves;
and "Impressions de Guerre," by Henri Massis (with a
frontispiece by M. Maurice Denis). The last named author has
written a life of Ernest Psichari (great-nephew of Ernest
Renan), one of the war's earliest literary victims, for "L'Art
Catholique," where M. Charles Grolleau is about to add to his
most eminent feats with a version, accompanied by a
biographical notice, of Francis Thompson's "The Hound of
Heaven" and other selections. This poet has only once before
been attempted by a French translator, who openly capitulated
before a certain passage, leaving blanks in their place — a
more honest expedient certainly, than lame or deceptive
M. Anatole France has prefaced M. Paul Fort's lyric bulletins,
"Poemes de France," which, after having appeared periodically,
have been issued in a volume by Payot (3fr. 50.).
Among several new reviews announced is one entitled "Demain,"
founded by M. Henri Guilbeaux and published at Geneva, a
locality chosen, as it were, to emphasize an apparently
intended neutral attitude to everything except "humanity and
truth" the ideals for which it claims to stand.
A feminist review, "Lea Rayons," is reappearing at Bordeaux.
The poet P. J. Jouve, who has occasionally been mentioned in
these pages, is convalescent, after illness contracted during
the care of sick and wounded soldiers, a task he had
undertaken voluntarily, being exempted from military service.
M. Alexandre Mercereau is also recovering from typhoid fever
contracted at the Front, where he has been acting as a
stretcher-bearer during many long months.
And it is with great regret that I learn of the painful
disablement of M. Pierre Tournier, a young poet whose
chronicle of English letters in "Pan" I always read with much
interest. He suffered his terrible accident, entailing the
loss of one hand and damage to the other, heroically, saying
he was glad to have done his duty.
From the Egoist, London
After Oral Traditions by
wars of liberation fought in Montenegro against the supremacy
of the Turks, women were equal comrades of men. They shared
the trials and hardships of war as well as the pleasures of
home life. The handshar in one hand, the rifle in the other,
their infant tied to the breast, the apron filled with
bullets, they were invincible. At camp-fires and home in the
spinning-room on long winter evenings, tales are narrated of
these heroines of yore, of these women who fought side by side
with their lovers and fathers and husbands.
castles they have the mountains.
shelter the heavens,
bed the rocks.
as sweethearts their rifles.
EVERY tree is
Every rock a fortress for the sons of the mountains.
Who eat gunpowder like bread,
Bullets like meat,
Slaughtering the Turks like goats.
For the plains are thirsting for water.
And the mountains for snow,
The hawks for birds,.
— And the Montenegrins for Turks.
For gold we have our iron,
With which we slaughtered them,
With which we made to widows,
Women, virgins and girls.
are plowed with carcasses,
And the trees are vested with blood-saturated rags
instead of their
Dig me a grave, but dig it high and broad,
That I can load my rifle, that I can swing my handshar.
Do not forget a little window,
That swallows may bring
spring to me and nightingales
the messengers of the May moon.
So that birds flutter in and out, carrying to me messages,
Messages from the Black
Mountains and from my sons.
Leave open the grave around my ear,
So that I can recognize
the sound of my rifle which I left
and you are using in the battle;
But every evening, returning from the fight, come and tell me
how many you have
Until my ear has heard the glad tidings,
That all of them have perished and are dead.
The Singing Bird
presented his Phillis with a bird which he had caught in the
woods, whose song, he assured her, was exquisite. The
shepherdess, delighted with her present, was never tired of
petting it; its cage was kept constantly filled with the most
delicate food, which it devoured incessantly, but never sung a
note — and no wonder — it had something better to do. Poor
Phillis could not understand how her lover could have been so
mistaken as to praise the song of a bird, which seemed to have
been born dumb. One day, however, she went out, forgetting to
replenish her cage as usual, and did not think of her darling
till evening, when she hurried home, fearing to find it dead
or dying. But what was her surprise to find it filling the
whole house with the most delightful strains of music. She now
saw the cause of his silence and took care to avoid it for the
In this way, Providence always keeps poets hungry — and why?
Because, then, they sing the best.
The Apple Tree and the Tulip
had a splendid tulip, the pride of his grounds which he tended
with parental pride. On a sudden, a violent hail-storm arose,
which beat down all his plants, and destroyed, in an hour, all
the promises of the year. As soon as it was over, disregarding
everything else, he ran to his beloved tulip; and, when he
found it shattered to pieces, broke out into loud lamenting.
An apple tree, which stood near, shorn of its leaves and
blossoms, overheard him, and answered angrily, "Dost thou
mourn for the loss of an empty bauble, and yet hast no tears
for my ruin; I, who supplied thee with fruit, and helped to
sustain thy family?"
So it is with men — to petty evils they are sensitive — to
great calamities indifferent.
After the German of Lichtwer
were to turn authors, the eagle would shine in epic, and the
sheep in pastoral poetry. The elephant would produce an
excellent treatise on philosophy, the horse employ his genius
on chivalry; the cow on agriculture, and the dog cut a figure
in the drama. The writings of the monkey would excel in satire
and burlesque; while the cat would be distinguished for the
sarcasm, envy, and disingenuousness of his composition. The
style of the lion would be bold, abrupt and Pindaric; while
the gander would be remarkable for the extreme verbosity and
diffuseness of his language. The badger would probably attempt
a treatise on the medical effect of perfumes, the turkey a
disquisition on the mock heroic. The genius of the owl would
exhibit itself in the composition of elegies, epitaphs and
solemn dirges; that of the bear in an essay on dancing. As for
the hog, he could never excel in polite literature but might
favor the world with a critical analysis of the philosophy of
Bacon. The peacock would make an excellent contributor to the
"Ladies Home Journal." The whale would write powerfully on the
depopulating consequences of fishes, and the pigeon on letter
carrying. The goose would make a suffragette of the first
class, and would be famous for dealing in scandal. The magpie
would be a notorious plagiarist, cabbaging ideas at all hands.
As for the parrot, he would not indulge much in written
composition, but be fond of showing off as a public speaker.
For composing political harangues, the ass would-be
The Movies Need
I HAVE been
going around to some picture shows, latterly. Broadly
speaking, the picture shows are getting bad. They are not as
good as they were five years ago, though they are more
pretentious. There's a lot of talk about the need for a moral
censorship of the films. That's bosh. The public will do the
moral censoring, all right. What the movie films need is
criticism. They should get it good and hard, straight from the
shoulder. All they get now from the big daily papers is
indiscriminate boosting. I think that more and more drama
films are protracted bores. I know they spoil the novels that
I have read, from which they are made. I saw Ibsen's "Ghosts"
hideously butchered once. And De Wolf Hopper in "Don Quixote"
was a crime. The film is made out of that famous lougeur in
the masterpiece, the tale of Cardenio. The film is more
tiresome than the tale. Someone has told me that the only real
movie successes are the comedic things; that no drama has yet
been done satisfactorily. So long as the movies are not
criticized, so long will the film men turn out anything that
can possibly ''get by." Maybe the movie men are doing the best
they can. Probably they are. But criticism would make them do
better. The newspapers criticize baseball management and
playing. Why should they not do the same to the moving
pictures? I am not a movie fan, but I hear a great deal of
complaint from people who are such, to the effect that there
are too many films presented which are, to put it plainly,
dull. While we must not expect too much of the movie, which is
rather new as yet, there's nothing wrong about expecting their
best. It is my impression that the movie magnates are trying
to do too much in too great haste. They are filming everything
that has been advertised, without regard to fitness for such
treatment. They cannot, apparently, do drama. They do big
things in spectacular like "The Birth of a Nation" and some
other pieces, but they have not mastered the play proper.
Dramatic criticism of films, with due regard, of course, for
the limitations of the medium, would be salutary for the
moving picture business. I think the movies are getting into
ruts of conventionality. They are too young, too new for that.
Criticism will jolt them out of their tendency to monotony of
Marion Reedy in his St. Louis Mirror
In Our Village
(The following letter penned
for us by William H. Oliver, an old time resident of the
village, and one who knows the history of every house and
every mansion in it, steaks for itself. It voices, surely
the sentiment of a good many others, and many who do not
dare to even think that a reactionary movement would in
reality mean progress.)
are willing to admit it or not, it is nevertheless true, that
while the cold and calculating demands of business leaves
little room for sentiment, still, the human make-up is such
that the memories of youth play an important part in shaking
the finer side of life, and way down, and deeper perhaps in
the heart of some than in others, there is a tender feeling,
not only for one's cradle town, but also for the things that
were then pleasurable to look at, and the things that made
It will not do to say that all the ways of old were the only
good ways, and that those of today are turning us from paths
that were good enough for our forefathers, to those that lead,
we know not where; but on the other hand we can say, that many
of the old ways have been discarded only because they were
old, and not because we found something better.
What we call up-to-dateness and modernism is in the analysis,
a product born of excitement, a restless desire for change, a
going from one thing to another, and although there is a
measured tendency in some directions for a return to some of
the ways of old, the fear of being called old fashioned is the
tyrant that speeds us on to seek new activities and novelty in
Back to the farm and the simple life has a meaning greater
than tilling the soil; it beckons back to a life we loved so
well and a life that seems more worthwhile as against the
present day existence that demands new scenes, new faces and
new excitement each hour.
Let us be honest with ourselves; we are tired of it; we seek
relief; the hot water heater with its long pipe standing in
the corner has lost its novelty; the electric push-button
never did have a charm, but satisfied an impatience born of
hurry. The single plate glass window is no longer valued as
something new, and is now nothing more than a transparent
partition behind which the stores show off their wares.
Dinner is served, has brushed aside the music of the dinner
bell, and modernism seems at times to tell us that it is
vulgar to be hungry, and in public places, to eat, is an
excuse to be entertained by poor acting, and sounds of string
and wind instruments called music.
The family album is something of the past, but where it does
remain, it is kept higher up in the closet, and old pictures
are turned to the wall to make room for those that show the
latest and newest examples of the dressmaker and tailors' art.
The back yard has been crowded out to make room for the
apartment house depriving even the flowers of the opportunity
to turn their faces to the sun.
The casement sash, the window box, the bird cage and white
front door have given way to all that is strictly new and up
to date, and why? Time was, when being able to have all that
was new was a mark of progress, and an evidence of worldly
possessions, which in turn brushed aside special fitness and
the personal note of the old home.
All things up to date have their places, and by invention do
we measure progress, but on the other hand, a change is often
times a going back, rather than a moving forward. With it all,
however, and as much as many regret the passing of the old
ways, and while New York seems destined in some localities to
change from a private house city to an apartment settlement,
there is still the Greenwich Village and Chelsea section, that
has shown a stubborn resistance to bricks and mortar of the
speculative builder, that seems to the point to a return of
this part of the city to something of its old time home life.
It remains, however, for those who can, to do their part. Many
of the vacant and poorly rented houses would find desirable
tenants if they were put in complete order and freshened up;
sidewalks leveled and yard fences straightened, cellars
concreted, and hot air furnaces and open fireplaces made
workable; open plumbing should replace the old boxed in kind,
for sanitary reasons if for no other.
The old pine floor, put in shape to receive rugs, or replaced
with hard wood. The dark and dingy basements brightened up and
made a place where better work would be done.
The old inside shutters and outside blinds made to work, or
else discarded. An elevator, too, so that stair climbing would
be lessened; lower the door openings; get rid of the
meaningless walnut woodwork as a feature in the room: it never
had a fitness, and was only used because it cost more than
Magazines of the Week
impressions of America, a lecture delivered by him before many
distinguished audiences after his return from his two sojourns
in the United States, are the contents of the current issue of
the Bruno Chap Books. His "Impressions of America" appeared in
a limited edition of five hundred copies in 1906 in a
privately printed pamphlet edited by Stuart Mason, who also
wrote an introduction to this highly interesting document
Wilde left as a memento for America. Oscar Wilde visited
America in the year 1882. Interest in the Aesthetic School, of
which he was already the acknowledged master, had sometime
previously spread to the United States, and it is said that
the production of the Gilbert and Sullivan opera, "Patience,"
in which he and his disciples were held up to ridicule,
determined him to pay a visit to the States to give some
lectures explaining what he meant by Aestheticism, hoping
thereby to interest, and possibly to instruct and elevate our
He set sail on board the "Arizona" on Saturday, December 24th,
1881, arriving in New York early in the following year. On
landing he was bombarded by journalists eager to interview the
distinguished stranger. "Punch," in its issue of January 14th,
in a happy vein, parodied these interviewers, the most amusing
passage in which referred to "His Glorious Past," wherein
Wilde was made to say, "Precisely — I took the Newdigate. Oh!
no doubt, every year some man gets the Newdigate; but not
every year does Newdigate get an Oscar."
At Omaha, where, under the auspices of the Social Art Club,
Wilde delivered a lecture on "Decorative Art," he described
his impressions of many American houses as being "illy
designed, decorated shabbily, and in bad taste, filled with
furniture that was not honestly made, and was out of
character." This statement gave rise to the following verses:
What a shame and what a pity.
In the streets of
Wilde is seen no more.
Far from Piccadilly
He to Omaha has
Horrid place, which swells ignore.
On his back a coat he
Such as Sir John
Made of velvet-estrange array!
Legs Apollo might have
Or great Hercules have
new breaches now display.
Waving sunflower and
He calls all the
Decorated and designed."
For of taste they're
not a tittle;
They may chew and they may
they're all born colour-blind!
His lectures dealt almost exclusively with the subjects of Art
and Dress Reform. In the course of one lecture he remarked
that the most impressive room he had yet entered in America
was the one in Camden Town where he met Walt Whitman. It
contained plenty of fresh air and sunlight. On the table was a
simple cruse of water. This led to a parody, in the style of
Whitman, describing an imaginary interview between two poets,
which appeared in "The Century" a few months later. Wilde is
called Narcissus and Whitman Paumanokides.
John Gould Fletcher's Arizona poems are probably some of the
happiest contributions that have appeared for a long time in
this exponent of the verse of our day.
The birthplace of American poetry — American for other reasons
than because it was written by a man born in America — are
those plains and mountains which are untouched from all
influences. From here will emanate real American poetry. Here
will it be that the American painting, the American sculpture
and American literature, both prose and verse, will see the
light of the world.
And not such men, who create their impressions by comparison
of things they have seen and things they are observing out
there, will be the artists. The glorious simplicity of nature
and of humans will find expression through one who was always
a part of that country.
The current issue of this magazine, published monthly by the
Committee of One Hundred as a record of work in the progress
of events for the Newark Celebration in 1916, contains a
reproduction of the poster which won the first prize of $500
in the Newark Poster Competition. It was designed by Helen
Dryden and that, doubtless, is the only excuse for its
existence. Take away the name and there is an ugly drawing
left, hideous in its conception and in its execution.
The Wild Hawk
The entire February issue is devoted to an essay on the
Socialization of Art by George Pauli, translated from the
Swedish by Karl Erich Lindin. He calls the most interesting
episode of his career — this deliberate and successful attempt
to penetrate the mysteries of the revolutionary theories of
the modern artistic movement.
Very scarce for the past six months have been the mails from
the continent of Europe, German periodicals especially are
rarely to be seen. The February issue of the organ of the
Futurists of Germany, France and Switzerland contains a series
of ex libris by modern artists. They look like paintings at
present exhibited in the Forum Exhibition, and their chief
distinction is that they do not give the name of the owner of
the plate. He is supposed to be characterized sufficiently in
the design and the execution of the drawing to be recognized
by those who know him.
Little Thimble Theatre
The Bruno Players
''Miss Julia" will continue on the program during the coming
week. The performances take place Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday
and Thursday, 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 of 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,
Saturday evening only Mr. Loran Timmermann, a baritone, will
sing a selection of songs, among which will be "Requiem" by
Sidney Homer, "Somewhere a Voice is Calling" by Arthur F.
Tate, and "Three for Jack" by W. H. Squire.
Miss Belle Stowell, who has a beautiful soprano voice which is
being trained for the concert stage, will add to the program
with the following numbers: "Ave Maria" by Bach-Gounod, "Ou
bist die Ruh" by Schubfert, "Pastorale" by Bizet, and "Red,
Red Rose" by Cottenet.
Book Plate Notes
Unique, perhaps, among all the book plates of America is this
one designed and printed in a prison, by a prisoner, for a
prisoner, to be used in books on penology. No. 5153 started a
collection of books on penology and as editor of GOOD WORDS he
has access to a good many periodicals and papers which he
surveys carefully for all material on or about prisons or
prison life, and his collection of extracts and clippings
surely will be of largest interest.
A communication from an old book plate collector, Hiram E.
Deats, one of the veteran collectors of America, voices in a
recent letter to us a rather discouraging spirit among ex
libris collectors. He says: "I sold my collection of book
plates some years ago, but keep up my membership in the
society to keep in touch with old friends. French is gone,
Blackwell has sold his recently, Allen is in the linen
business or something of the sort, the XL Society of London
went to pieces. Fred Libbie, the Boston auctioneer, still has
his collection but don't look at it. I am now putting in my
spare time on local historical work. Next month and for a
time, it will be outdoor work."
A copy of Beardsley's own book plate drifted into our kennel
last week. It was in an insignificant copy of a French still
more insignificant novel, but with the artist's own signature.
The Last of the
(Continued from last week)
"But you will be killed if you do that." I remonstrate. "This
is a revolution and they hate barons here on principle."
"Never you will be afraid of that," he smiles. "I think I know
these people. I have studied their history. It is fatal for
you to be their equal. That way they will murder you. So do
not worry or whimper. We have to live through this and it must
be roughly we live. It is all they understand.
"You intend to plug your way through?"
"Already it may be too late," he answers. "There is a man who
calls himself Colonel Lorraine, but who is really August
Beinhacker and an Austrian anarchist. He is chief of Secret
Service for Carranza." Then he stopped, fearing to tell me
what I afterwards found out concerning his relations with his
It is later in the day and I am before the hotel. A fat lousy
beggar, cock-eyed and strong is before me demanding money.
Nothing will do him but two pesos. I excuse myself a moment
and enter the bar of the hotel. Von Kriegelstein is toying
with a bottle of good Mexican beer. He toys while I explain.
"Damnationl You have forgotten to register your character.
That is a fatal omission my young friend. Here," he drew out
his pistol and handed it to me. "Remember only once in the
fleshy part of his leg and bring me back my good pistol."
"You mean I should take a shot at him. He is only a beggar."
The baron arose. I followed him to the door. "Now then, you
see," he whispered pointing to a small group across the
street. They are waiting the outcome. If you do not
immediately register character I cannot travel with you. It
would be deadly. You will be stabbed from behind. Go at once
to the beggar and give him one good blow on the nose. Knock
him down and when he is down do not neglect to spit on him."
Well, it was one thing or the other. So my beggar went down
and I fulfilled the bargain to the letter. Then we reentered
the hotel and a moment later three of the numberless
lieutenants and sub-tenients insisted on a round of drinks to
the very welcome corresponsals. Character was registered. It
may sound incredible, but though they hated the baron in
Monterrey, no one chanced an encounter with him. He knew the
heart of the people of Mexico.
"That is why nobody will shoot General Villa," said the baron.
"He has been registering character for years."
"You believe in force?"
"Force is gentle sometimes," he laughed. "It relieves these
people of the mental pain of trying to understand through the
Later came Beinhacker and demanded a share of the receipts of
the baron's news bureau. Von Kriegelstein led him to the
street affably and waited until plenty were about before
scientifically cursing him for a thief. Frankness above all
characterized the interview. We had made an enemy more
powerful than we knew. Now the secret service of Carranza was
looking after us.
It was before General Gonzales the next day. The general had
twenty-one thousand troops left in town, he told us, and forty
Mondragon-Canet field pieces.
(To be continued)
rise on stocks is now an accomplished fact. How long and how
far will it extend is a practical question.
Sponsors for the "War Brides" are puzzled to find an excuse
for another boom. Avoid hallucinations and look to the
securities represented by such real businesses as export
trade, manufacturing, railroad traffic and farm production.
Locomotive and equipment stocks are most attractive
The limit of this country's capacity for creating new wealth
is nearly reached, viz., the. limit of mechanical means and
the limit of labor. We have plenty of capital. To increase the
mechanical means of production requires time and labor, but if
we have time we have not the labor. Formerly labor was
imported, which is now practically impossible on account of
The purchase of Government bonds by the Federal Reserve Bank
last week marks a new and interesting stage in the passage
from the old banking system to the new.
It is rumored that the new banking affiliations for Mexican
Petroleum Co. are the Standard Oil interests.
On visits across the pond it has long been the custom of the
American business men to laugh at the habit of taking tea
during business hours, but at last this habit has invaded Wall
Street, as I notice among the regent listings on the Stock
Exchange the name of a large and flourishing tea concern. This
may take the place of some of the stronger beverages which so
far have been our only liquid refreshments.
It is rumored that a milk and seltzer company is also being
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., Ootober 14th, 1915, under the Act of March 3d, 1879.
Proceed To Next Issue
Go To Table Of Contents
Return To BohemianLit.com Home Page