The Forum Exhibition, Stieglitz and the Victim
FLAMING RED, Irish Green, Saffron Yellow — a frame of square, heavy, black wood.
Black and atrocious Blue, rectangular carmine Red, half-moons here and there, diverging lines of Brown — a narrow white oak frame.
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, gilded frame.
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 frame.
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 beautiful bubble.
It bursts.
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.
Guido Bruno
The Bulletin Board of Comines
The Story of a French City
After the German of Dr, Ham Poehlmann, German Field Chaplain at Comines, by Guido Bruno
GERMAN 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.
Liberty, Fraternity, Equality.
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.
Comines,
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.
The Major
Official Telegram
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.
The Major
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.
Your Major
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 Lille.
The Major
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 dead.
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 severest measures.
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 Lys.
This is the simple little story told by the bulletin board in front of the town hall of Comines, the French border city.
Passing Paris
Paris, March 1st, 1916.
THE 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 renderings.
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.
Muriel Giolkowska
From the Egoist, London
Folklore From Montenegro
After Oral Traditions by Guido Bruno
DURING the 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.
As castles they have the mountains.
As shelter the heavens,
As bed the rocks.
And as sweethearts their rifles.
I.
EVERY tree is a flag-pole.
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.
II.
THE slopes are plowed with carcasses,
And the trees are vested with blood-saturated rags
instead of their foliage;
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
be 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
you and you are using in the battle;
But every evening, returning from the fight, come and tell me
how many you have killed,
Until my ear has heard the glad tidings,
That all of them have perished and are dead.
Two Fables
The Singing Bird
DAMON 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 future.
In this way, Providence always keeps poets hungry — and why? Because, then, they sing the best.
The Apple Tree and the Tulip
A GARDENER 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
Animals Turned Authors
IF ANIMALS 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 unrivalled.
Cats Paw
The Movies Need Criticism
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 effect.
William 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.)
WHETHER we 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 life worthwhile.
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 entertainment.
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 painted wood.
Books and Magazines of the Week
OSCAR WILDE'S 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 transatlantic cousins.
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 London City
Mr. Wilde is seen no more.
Far from Piccadilly banished,
He to Omaha has vanished.
Horrid place, which swells ignore.
On his back a coat he beareth,
Such as Sir John Bennet weareth,
Made of velvet-estrange array!
Legs Apollo might have sighed for,
Or great Hercules have died for,
His new breaches now display.
Waving sunflower and lily,
He calls all the houses "illy
Decorated and designed."
For of taste they're not a tittle;
They may chew and they may whittle;
But 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.
Poetry
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 Newarker
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.
Der Sturm
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.
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, 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, March 27.
Musicales
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 War Correspondents
(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 government.
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. He frowns.
"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 brain."
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)
Wall Street Reflections
THE spring 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 inventions.
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 war.
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 formed.
"Junius"
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.
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