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Concerning the Fashions of Our Girls

THE best of it is there are none whatever. And because our days represent the student days for female attires on the street and in the drawing room, and because of the many good features they have in followship, we most heartily welcome the eccentricities of cut and of color.

What were the women of fifty years ago, of twenty-five years ago? Replicas of mode journals, strict followers of the rules and regulations set down by importers of fashions, designers of fashion plates, publishers of fashion periodicals and the latter ones mostly and greatly influenced by shop owners and tailoring establishments.

Of course, the two fashion journals of yore, which not only imported their drawings, but even the very plates from which their illustrations were struck off, are supplanted by scores of mode journals. But how different is the spirit of the fashion journal of today!

Originality and individuality are strongly encouraged.

There are always people extant who have no ideas whatever, who wouldn't know what to do with their lives if they couldn't pattern themselves after the lives of others. They, too, must be taken care of. Hence, the pages of minutious description of this or that gown for such and such occasion. But the dominating spirit is that of freedom. Here is what such a woman did and here you can see how it looks. Now you know yourself, you know the color of your hair, you know what colors are most becoming to your complexion — go and do likewise! The abandonment of rigid, tight-fitting shapes made home manufacture of clothes much easier. To drape the human figure, rather than to force it into a shape was a great step forward on the road to complete liberation from set traditions and as law-accepted conventions.

Never in the history of fashions could one see so many fundamentally differently clad women on the same street, at the same time. Just take a walk on Fifth Avenue in the noon hour. Saleswomen,, shop-girls and office employees, mingle with shoppers and with idlers out to take a stroll. A kaleidoscope of twentieth-centurised fashions of five past centuries. A lady with a long frock and a short jacket — hardly reaching her waistline. The jacket velvet, the hem of the frock velvet; it reminds one of the picturesque attire of the German burgfrau of the sixteenth century. Early empire, late empire and individual mixtures of both. The severe and dignified English tailor-made and the flippant mockish two-piece combination that flutters loosely and softly around shoulders and limbs and doesn't impress us at all as sewed, but just pinned together, and half of the pins fallen out. Even the department store patterns have a charm of colors which makes us forget the similarity of the many hundreds set loose on our streets.

And every once in a while we see a striking creature in a style of her own — striking in the real sense of the word; our eyes. We are not flirts but we cannot help to turn around and to look. Brilliant vivid colors are always striking. And our girls here in New York seem to have waited for this word of liberation that permits them to follow their own tastes and to wear whatever makes them attractive; makes them the actor using the entire world as a background.

Of course, the Parisian is chic, she must be — she is so proverbially for the last four hundred years. The Viennese girl is "ein liebes Maedl," a dear. She has dimples in her cheeks, knows how to waltz and how to wear a permanent smile. And of course, all the other girls of all other nations have their own peculiar charms for which they are world famous. And then there is our own Western girl with her pronounced inclination to be athletic and to carry herself in manners and costume accordingly. And there is the piquant Chicagoan.

But you just give me the New York girl! Bred and raised somewhere in the zig-zag of avenues and streets surrounding the Avenue, with her quick understanding of everything that is becoming to her, with her ability to acclimatize herself to all stations and conditions of life, with her kindliness towards everyone with whom she is brought in contact in everyday life, with her unsilencable wit, and with her love for rhythm and for color. She surely is the queen of all.

If she has money, she knows well how to shop on Fifth Avenue. And if she hasn't got it — and that's the great point in the life of everybody — she knows how to put herself together so that she herself has a pleasure in her existence and affords us a pleasure while we look at her.

Curls and rats and false hair are surely a thing of the past The hair is tied modestly in a sober knot and then if remonstrating curls insist on being forelocks — of course, that is an entirely different thing. Walk through a department store, look at the cash girls and the sales girls! Uniformity, you say, imposed upon them by store regulations. All right. Come out in one of our parks on a Sunday afternoon, or walk to popular picnic grounds! There they are real New York girls.

To look at these dresses and gowns and suits makes one think of old savage times. Everything seems to be handy as ornament or material as long as it has a feature that pleases its owner and suits her individually. Just like our uncivilized forefathers! They liked a tiger skin and hung it around their shoulders, they shot a strange bird with a gorgeous plumage and they stuck it in their hair, they caught together with their fish, some grotesque looking inhabitants of the sea. They strung them on a rope and hung it around their neck. They found a mineral which could be used as a brilliant dyeing medium. Quickly they brought it into the weaving-room and smeared it on the materials they were going to use for clothing.

Look around, if you walk on our streets. Don't our New York girls do the same? What would this dreary life, with its daily heart-set routine be if there were not glaring red beads on a pale neck, hanging down over a yellow silk waist? It is the lack of color and of movement that made our forefathers puritan and hypocritical. If petticoats hidden by a skirt can be of glaring color, why not the skirt itself? If love of life and the oscillation of its mirth and its merriment can be felt and voiced on the street, the hiding cloak of severity and triste sobriety is unnecessary.

Money, station in life, an income has nothing whatever to do with the exalted feeling of happiness and of joy that we could not suppress even if we wanted to. The vivid colors and the shining flirt of decorations our girls are using is an expression of their attitude towards life. To suppress it would be unnatural. It would make them hypocrites, slaves of social regulations. Slaves, as that good old women in Salem, Mass., arrested in the year of our Lord, 1675, on the main street of her town because she wore in daylight, a glaring red dress and pink beads around her neck. And only after she had proved that her husband had an income of five hundred pounds a year, and therefore that she had a right to be happy and take the joyous attitude towards life, was she released and permitted to wear her garb in the future — provided her husband's income should not decrease. The crucial question in this court proceedings was not — as one would expect, as to whether she had honestly procured the necessary means to purchase her attire but as to whether she had a right to express her joy of life outwardly through the unusual colors of her costume. Because her husband had an income, she was officially granted the right to be happy and to manifest her happiness in colors, on the street, in daylight.

A piece of drapery, old tapestry, all kinds of things made for different uses picked up incidentally are used by our girls. Look at their heads, covered with the cretonne that was meant for the wall of the dining-room. Heaven knows where they pick up the strangely colored material for their waists and evening wraps. The lining of their jackets is as picaresque as the head gear of cossack-women visiting the annual church feast of their nearest marketplace. If they have not enough material for a skirt, they put three or four different kinds in one garment, and the screaming contrast of colors is even harmonious if you like her well enough and your eyes are gradually being readjusted to the color schemes of our times.

Small and dandy shoes are no more the password of the girl who is looking for foot gear. They must be comfortable in the first place. If you sit in the subway, let your eyes pass in review along the rows of feet. How full of character and individualism are they, since they are permitted to be a part of their owner's individuality!

This new way of dressing makes creators out of women. Since they realize that nothing else matters but to appear attractively and to feel comfortably, they have become inventors and explorers.

And so there has come a new meaning to the dresses of our women. Not only to cover their bodies and protect them against rain and shine do they wear their clothes; but as a real own, unprejudiced manifestation of their attitude towards life.
                                        Guido Bruno

London Letter
                                        London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY
                                        18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
                                                                       March 14th, 1916

THE war draws off more and more young men. It has made savage inroads on our artistic talent, and among the latest recruits are Messrs. David Bomberg, whose brother has already been killed in France, and Wyndham Lewis. Lewis is really one of our most promising men, an artist of courage and intelligence — a rare and holy combination. Lewis is almost our only painter with ideas. A Slade school student, he painted first in the manner of Augustus John. Then the Futurists and Cubists arrested his imagination, and for a while he became a disciple of Picasso and Picabia. But nearly always he has remained critical and conscious, and in his recent work he has evolved to a style of his own. I mention him because he has just decorated a salon at the Tour Eiffel restaurant on Charlotte Street, which is perhaps the most characteristic Bohemian restaurant in London. "It is to be his last work before enlisting," said Stulik the. proprietor to me. The Tour Eiffel is a famous place not yet discovered by suburbia and the hungry middle class. Only foreigners and artists and silent connoisseurs resort to it. I should never dream of referring to it in an English journal. It has remained with all the charm of its naive cuisine, its quiet and its continental atmosphere for several years. May it survive the war. Stulik shares with many artists memories of students' frolics at his house — baby parties, annual dinners, etc. — but I am not writing my reminiscences.

Speaking of the painters, I should think the new military law will break up the London group and the new realists of Cumberland Market.

An exhibition of paintings and sculpture at the Grosvenor Gallery on Bond street is interesting for two busts of two very interesting women — Miss Iris Tree and Miss Lillian Shelley (Mrs. John P. Flanagan). Both of these women are well known figures in the world of London's artistic and literary Bohemia, and a crowd of friends and interested people have been to see their "heads modeled by Mr. Jacob Epstein." This sculptor has a keen sense of rather brutal sense of character. It is with him rather as if he delighted to "knock out" his sitters with the vigour of his psychological penetration. He is a realist, almost to the point of mysticism one might say. It is a case with this artist of the idealism of the Jew working in the atmosphere of English practicalness or sense of business. As a result, it produces a practical effect, a "business" result which is startling and at the same time not quite English. This is nearly always the case with the Jews. I do not say it in any depreciation of them. Without them where would modern art be? But it is an observable fact. Thus in antiquity Hellenic, the Hellenic Jew of Gadara, is more Hellenic than any Greek poet; Heine more sentimentally German; Catulle Mendes or Bernstein, more obviously Parisian.

At the Alpine Club Gallery there is a mingled gathering of Cubists, Post-Impressionists and what-nots, a weak little show, rather suggestive of falling leaves or art's last roses. Mr. Nevinson introduces a note of reality.
                                        Edward Storer

Sancta Simplicitas!
by Tom Sleeper

HE was a poor man with no family and only an undeveloped inclination to live. Accordingly he rambled around town until run over by an omnibus. During the critical period immediately following in which he hovered between life and death at the hospital under the personal supervision of a gifted surgeon he suddenly saw a great light and in an inspired moment dedicated his hitherto fruitless soul and body to the advancement of surgical knowledge. The surgeon quick to grasp the possibilities of the idea reconstructed him in a highly creditable manner so that he soon found himself well and strong.

Experiments in grafting happened at this time to have caught the fancy of the surgical profession and forthwith commenced a series of amputations and replacements on the willing Jones with signal success until he walked on unrelated legs, wrote with the arm of an unfortunate machinist, saw with the eyes of a still more unfortunate letter carrier, ate with the jaw of a deceased millionaire, digested his food with the transferred stomach of a longshoreman, breathed with fragments of several alien lungs, blushed with the result of various transfusions and was liberally overhauled in other directions.

Fired by the success of his operations and the submissiveness of his subject the surgeon pressed on to more delicate experiments involving the brain. Jones found himself one morning in definite possession of a knowledge of French. He remembered also, many experiences he had had in Paris, a city to which he had formerly believed himself a stranger. In a like manner he obtained a profound knowledge of astronomy and a smattering of related sciences. Once on recovering from the anesthetic he found that he could recall snatches of speeches he had made while stumping the state for the governorship of Ohio. Later Greek and archeological information came to him unsolicited as well as many other disassociated recollections.

The surgeon rubbed his hands in satisfaction and made further substitutions. Into the fold of Brocca of the uncomplaining Jones was grafted odd bits of the folds of an assorted population. And Jones waxed exceeding well informed.

As time went on Jones puzzled over his past. How could he have been with a party of astronomers in Chile when he distinctly remembered that it was at this time he had been run over by an omnibus in New York. What explanation was there for the fact that on the day he had been presented the medal of the Legion of Honor by the President of France for researches in Cypress he had also been burned by a gas stove in a Chicago tenement. Then, too, he had a distinct recollection of having died in a cafe in Scranton, Pa., while his common sense seemed to indicate that this was improbable.

And so it came to pass that one October afternoon a splendid specimen of physical manhood knocked at the door of my mountain hermitage. He spoke, saying:

"I am told that no part of myself is myself. That my great knowledge is not my own. But I have never ceased to live and function as myself. Now in the name of Allah, who I ask you, am I?

Giver of light give me knowledge wherewith to answer this man.

Verses
By Stephen Crane

        In the Night
                Grey, heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
                And the peaks looked toward God, alone.
                    "O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,
                    Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
                    Grant that we may run swiftly across the world,
                    To huddle in worship at Thy feet."

        In the Morning
                A noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,
                And the little black cities were apparent.
                    "O Master, that knowest the wherefore of rain-drops,
                    Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
                    Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
                    That we may chant Thy goodness to the sun."

        In the Evening
                The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
                    "O Master,
                    Thou who knowest the value of kings and swallows,
                    Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks,
                    Thou only needest eternal patience;
                    We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord —
                    Humble, idle, futile peaks."

        In the Night
                Grey, heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
                And the peaks looked toward God, alone.

Truth and Fable

THE poets' goddess Fable, wandered once into a barbarous country, where she was assailed by a band of robbers. They found her purse empty, to make up for which they stripped her of her clothing. And lo! when the veil which covered her was removed, Truth stood before them.

The robbers were confounded, and humbly besought her to resume her garb; "for who," said they, "can bear to see Truth naked?"
After the German of Lichtwer

A HINT FOR THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN —A singular custom prevailed in the city of ancient Thebes, which was, that the painter who exhibited the worst picture was subjected to a fine.

The "Drive" After Villa

OUR "drive" into Mexico after Villa may be a more serious matter than many suppose. A guerrilla on his own terrain is hard to catch. The people are with him against his pursuers. So the pursuit of Pancho may be a stern chase. Moreover, there is the possibility of Villa's being made into a hero pressed by the hated gringos. This might bring him strong support from the forces, none too cohesive at best, of the Constitutionalist First Chief. There is danger in Señor Carranza's meticulous punctilio on the point of our troops occupying towns as bases or using the Mexican railroads. He insists upon extreme deference from the power that has given his position whatever of stability is possessed. His "negotiosity" may very well be an aid to Villa's escape from our punitive expedition and at any time the amour propre of his party may be offended to the point of making common cause with Villa against the foreign invaders. Such co-operation as the Constitutionalist government renders us at this juncture is perfunctory, dilatory and grudging. In such a situation it is only ordinary precaution on our part to increase our forces in pursuit of the man who invaded this country and slaughtered a number of Americans. It is a ticklish business we are engaged in and there are partly hidden factors — possibly of European intrigue — therein that may turn our trailing of Villa into another war with Mexico. We cannot turn back. Therefore we must be prepared for whatever may happen in the course of our going ahead.
                                        William Marion Reedy in his St. Louis Mirror

Specimens of a New Dictionary

Servants — People who are fed and paid for making other people uncomfortable.

Argument — A series of positive assertions and denials, ending in a quarrel.

Public spirit — Readiness to do anything which is likely to prove lucrative.

Automobile — A machine designed to make jobs for the surgeons and coroners.

Prominent man — Anybody who will allow his name to be used by a quack of any kind — from a dentist to a dancing master.

Public Opinion — Whatever is advanced by three newspapers.

Popularity —The privilege of being abused and slandered.

Wit — A talent for littering old jokes with a grave face.

Morality — Sinning with prudence and secrecy.

Respectability — Five thousand dollars a year.

Talent — Friendly relations with editors and producers.
                                        Cats Paw

Chinese Letters
by Alan W. S. Lee (Wuhu, China)

(Mrs. Elizabeth H. Russell, sent us a cheery letter from Old Sudhury Road, Wayland, Mass, where she is writing in the seclusion of this sleepy New England town.

"I wish I could send you the big loaf of sponge cake I have just made but I fear it would crumble on the route, I will not forget about the apple pie. But I do send with this some extracts from my young friends' letters from China. I have bushels more, and the one that I think loveliest of all I cannot put hands on at this moment. The writer is an English boy of whom I am very fond. He teaches French and German in a boys' school in Wuhu")

Tsing Ming Dzieh

LYING in the long grass on the slope of my garden is an ancient coffin. It is old and weather beaten and the planks of it are so warped and twisted that when I pass by I can look through the large cracks to the inner blackness and see the poor, dead bones, white and still. It lies at the foot of a willow tree, and in summer it is covered with the mass of trailing green branches which hang over it like a pall. My friends do not like graves in their gardens, and think I should have the old coffin taken away.

But why should I disturb the dead? There is so much room for us both, and I think the willow tree would die, for I know she loves the soul of him whose bones lie in the old coffin — she bends over so tenderly, and lets fall all of her lovely hair to protect his narrow, ruined house from the sun and rain.

On certain days a very old man used to come and burn incense by this grave, and sitting in the long grass beneath the tree he would chant Buddhist rites, but he was so old, and his voice was so cracked, it was but a piteous croaking. He has not been to the grave for many weeks now, and the soul of the dead is grieved. Often at night I hear it crying softly to itself, and the wind sighs in the willow tree. But the Tsing Ming Dzieh (Day to Honor the Dead) will soon be here, and the old man will surely come then to chant his little songs to the old coffin.

Today is the Tsing Ming Dzieh. Since dawn the people have passed between the rice fields and over the country roads. In their arms they bear joyous bunches of flowers and baskets of incense. They are going to decorate the graves of their ancestors. This is the day when the Living bow down and worship, and pay tribute to the Dead.

But no one has come this year to the grave on my garden slope. I hear the little old man died of the summer's heat, and now there is no one to reverence him who lies buried beneath my willow tree.

The Moon is coming up behind the Pagoda on the hill. Many stars twinkle in the stagnant pond by the roadside. Fireflies swing their little green lamps among the deep shadows of the cedars, and crickets chirp in the long grass. Trailing along the jeweled sky, the Milky Way floats like a filmy veil half hiding the eyes of night. The deep boom of temple gongs has ceased. The moon has reached her zenith. Little bats flit with muffled wings above the stars in the pond. The Tsing Ming Dzieh has passed, and no one came to offer prayers and sacrifice by the grave on my garden slope. From beneath the willow tree comes a sound like the sobbing of a little child. Ah, poor soul, is it then so terrible to die and be forgotten?

When I awoke the east was flushed with the coming Dawn. Thin strands of mist hung about the cedars and floated above the turquoise waters of the river. The starlings twittered in the rain gutters of the roof, and from the half-submerged fields came the familiar little songs of the rice planters.

The Tsing Ming Dzieh is past, and no one came to worship by the ancient grave on my garden slope.

I know the soul has gone now forever, for my willow tree is dying. The birds sing in its branches, the violets bloom at its foot, and all about is the full, throbbing joy of Spring, but its leaves are pale, and yellow, as though Autumn had passed in the night. Where are they gone — those two who loved on my garden slope? I do not know, but I grieve because my willow is dying.

Our Mausoleums

OUR museums are mausoleums. Scientific explanation of art seems their main object. Whoever has time and the desire to search and to explore the spacious halls filled with junk and curiosities might detect a real work of art. But who likes to swallow dust even if it is historic and scientific dust? Our museums are not the home of the eternal. There is not that spirit that makes us forget centuries and thousands of years, years whose art is still living and embracing over the span of time and space.

The fact stares us mercilessly in the face that one artist is sustaining hundreds of so-called artists. It is true that life consists of piece work but there is no necessity to vivisect art.

Whatever cannot live must die. And if it is hung up for eternity, even eternity will not call it to life.

The American museum is an antique shop. Antique shops do not open their doors to the masses of the population. Art history and art research work have nothing whatever to do with art itself. A man who paints uses as his medium the canvas and his paints. He appeals to the eye. A painting is something to look at. Explanation is unnecessary.

The works of Tolstoi or of Hauptmann must be translated into English because most of the English readers are ignorant of Russian and of German. To translate painting into language it is necessary only for those who cannot use their eyes.

The explanation of our paintings, the commentary to our works of art is only for the blind.
                                        G .B.

In Our Village

Spring and Poets
SPRING has arrived. She had an ultimate gigantic struggle on her scheduled day of advent, on the 21st. Hurricanes of snow, bitterly cold, the sidewalks dangerously frozen, janitors and snow shovellers busy at their unexpected work — and then the sudden change. Sun and warmth and victory.

The sparrows dared to come out from under their shelter-giving eaves and happily they hopped from branch to branch of the old — soon to be their summer residence — trees on Washington Square. Their chirping mingled harmoniously with the screams and shouts of the children who, for the first time after months of being shut in, had come to their playgrounds.

The windows of houses, mansions and shacks, which peacefully stand in a row on the South Side fulfilling their mission unbothered by the exciting events that mark the earthly life of their occupants, stood wide open, and the old lady, who is known for her love of flowers and plants, put a few of her children on the window sills in the warm, mid-day sun.

And together with sun and birds and merry children had come the poets. To the rooms of the Washington Square Gallery, to the Art sanctum of Mr. Coady, they had followed the Call of Others, those strange birds whom Alfred Kreymborg has taken under his wings and mothered and fostered, and given a warm coop in his ''magazine of the new verse."

They had come to kowtow before the big editress of the West, before Harriet Monroe, before her who has made poets who otherwise would never have been heard of, who brought to the shores of America the first of the rays of that Imagism and Ezra Poundism which has developed into our own "free verse," into "vers libre," that stepchild among poets, that illegitimate offspring struggling for recognition. The friendly winds of spring had blown her east from her Chicago seclusion.

She is a nice kind lady. She shook hands with about a hundred people who express themselves through poetry free and otherwise. She had profound apologies to offer to everyone she met about that manuscript that just had to be sent back. She chatted with everybody, and I do believe that she was not displeased with the color scheme of the sixty odd hats of the poetesses, blonde, brunette and gray haired which constantly formed a dense circle around her. Clement Wood was there and showed to his young wife his brother poets; and Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff looked well under a portrait which might as well have been of Oscar Wilde as the somebody else that it was. But the bow of his necktie reminded me very much of the peculiar way in which Wilde used to tie his. And of course Kreymborg was sliding about to give a finishing touch to this group or that group while he smoked his cigar. It behooves one to smoke a cigar, be he host to the Supreme Court of American poetry or himself a member of the Bench.

Djuna Barnes was there too. She wore a long black veil and a flaming red rose. She looked very Spanish.

And then there were Kreymborg's satellites that are just marching in the procession with an occasional ambition and secret wish once to lead a procession of their own.

I left. Three stars were shining on the dark blue firmament high above the electricity glaring cross on Washington Square. A few couples of Italian lovers had come out from "Little Italy" around the corner promenading around the Square. The benches were filled with loungers and dreamers for the first time after the cold winter days. Wide open stood the doors of Rossi's ice cream establishment and so I strolled in and drank a slow sweetly sour lemonade, meditating deeply upon the mild winds of spring, upon the great poetess from Chicago, and upon men and women who want to be poets.

Strange things are happening in the Village. Not only poets convene here but all the peculiar characters one has the good luck of meeting in life every once in awhile seem to have a rendezvous on the Square. There is, for instance, that beautiful woman who takes her noon day walk around the Square. We noticed her today for the third time from our Garret window. Monday she wore a striking black gown, a black hat, black gloves, black handbag, and on a black leash — trotting very snobbishly — a black poodle. Tuesday at the same hour, the same lady in a magnificent white gown; with white fox furs, a white fox hat, white gloves, white shoes . . . and on a white leash, very grave and very proud, a white poodle.

And today, just as I am writing these lines, she passes at my window again. She is dressed in a brown riding habit, tight-fitting very exclusive-looking, brown boots, brown gloves, a brown soft felt hat, and on a brown leash a brown, long-haired Pomeranian whose ears almost sweep the ground as he waddles close to the skirt of his mistress.

What will tomorrow bring, and what the day after tomorrow? Does she ever wear pink or green, or pale blue? Does she match her gowns with her dogs or her dogs with her gowns, I wonder? I wonder?

Friday afternoon, the 7th of April at three o'clock D. Molby, known to the readers of this magazine from his "Musings" will give an informal reading from his "Hippopotamus Tails," "Rats' Ears and Cats' Eyes'' and such musings as remain yet unpublished. You are invited to attend this reading, admission free of charge, at Bruno's Garret, 58 Washington Square.

The cartoons of Steinlen chronologically arranged as they appeared in "Gil Bias," sixty-eight of the best he ever did, will remain on the walls of the Garret until April the tenth. Saturday afternoon and Monday evening are reserved, as before the fire, for the purpose of keeping "open house."

Books and Magazines of the Week

IN an old volume of poetry by Dr. W. Dodd, written in prison, shortly before his death, 1777, is an interesting paragraph, which throws a curious sidelight upon the position of newspaper editors and newspaper men at large. Dodd was chaplain to King George III of England, but in a fatal moment committed the crime of forgery, for which he was tried, convicted and hung, in June 1777. Poems he wrote during his imprisonment together with the brief of the prosecuting Crown attorney fell recently into my hands, with a lot of religious publications. Here is the condemning argument of the prosecuting Crown attorney.

"Though encumbered with debts, he might still have retrieved his circumstances if not his character, had he attended to the lessons of prudence but his extravagance continued undiminished, and drove him to schemes which overwhelmed him with additional infamy. HE DESCENDED SO LOW AS TO BECOME THE EDITOR OF A NEWSPAPER, and is said to have attempted to disengage himself from his debts by a commission of bankruptcy, in which he failed. From this period every step led to complete his ruin. In the summer of 1776 he went to Paris, and, with little regard to decency, paraded in a phantom at the races on the plains of Sablons, dressed, in all the froppery of the kingdom in which he then resided. He returned to England about the beginning of the winter, and continued to exercise the duties of his function, particularly at the Magdalen chapel, where he still was heard with approbation, and where his last sermon was preached, February 2, 1777, two days only before he signed the fatal instrument which brought him to an ignominious end."

Violet Leigh, of Eau Claire

She surely must be a poetess, and even if you should disagree as to giving her this title after reading her "Little Book of Verses," published by the Fremad Publishing Company of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, you would have to recognize in her the poetical spirit which prompted the pale blue satin cover of her book, tied with a darling bow of pink. Violet likes Clara Tice and she wrote a nice poem to Clara which will appear in the near future on these pages.

Bull

Vol. 1, No. 1 of this monthly, is about the first satirical paper published during the last twenty-five years in the United States that really contains satire in words and pictures. The title page alone is worth its purchasing price. There is a spirit of truthful daring through its pages. Its cartoons mean something, and its jokes are bitter jokes which you also could call the real life confronting us step by step every day. The name of its editor is not stated but it is worth one's while to look at it. Get it on the newsstands.

The Hesperian

The current issue of this interesting quarterly magazine, contains a very good portrait of Charlotte Brontë accompanied by an article which is worthwhile reading. It is good miscellany that Alexander N. De Menil, editor and publisher, brings on its pages.

The Miscellany

W. G. Blaikie-Murdoch, the art historian, who came to the shores of America a few months ago in a rather spectacular way, being one of the passengers of a torpedoed steamer, is represented in this quarterly magazine by an excellent account of the relationship of lithography and Whistler. It is very deplorable that the magazine who publishes an article such as this and which is supposed to be devoted to the book beautiful and book plates, should also devote its pages to articles on military duty and unpreparedness as it does in the March issue. Those things are vital enough for newspapers and the average run of periodicals but surely have nothing to do with beautifully bound books, with book plates and with autographs.

Book Plate Notes

Book
                      Plate


Miss Flora King, of Mt. Vernon, Ind., is undoubtedly the proprietress of one of the very remarkable book plates in America. Master Timothy Cole, America's wood-engraver, is designing a book plate for Miss King. There are only very few book plates designed by Mr. Cole extant, all owned by very distinguished personages.

The California Book Plate Society has announced a competition, open to art students in California, for a book plate design suitable for use in the Society's library. Two prizes of $10.00 and $5.00 are offered. Designs are to be exhibited at the May meeting of the society, and a committee of artists will then award the prizes. While the competition was undertaken primarily to increase interest in the book plate problems' among the art students of the state, it is hoped that some of the designs submitted will be worthy of reproduction and continued use.

The Last of the War Correspondents
(Continued from last week)

"Ach! Never this upstart general will tell me numbers of men while I have eyesight. No matter how many times they are marched through the city, it does not increase the number. Let us go up on La Cilla and look down on the army of the northeast.

We ride up. Von Kriegelstein points to the dust clouds down on the roads. "Now I will show you something. The high broken clouds are artillery. There are eighteen guns. You cannot see them but the dust does not lie. There are eleven thousand men — maybe a few hundred more — and about two thousand are mounted. The thin, even dust rising high is cavalry, the low thick dust is infantry. It is a good army, but not what General Gonzales said to us. You will look along this paper here where I have drawn the line in angles. The distance is about five thousand meters. The rest is mathematics. After some years you will be able to tell to perhaps fifty men how many are on a road."

It is Saltillo a few days later. The warrant for our arrest is out and we are to die as spies, Beinhacker has not succumbed to the registry of character. Beinhacker has lived two years on the East Side of New York where character is often registered. From the cuartel we have escaped to the English consulate. John R. Silliman, the agent of our stern government, is there, too. There is a large lump of dynamite under Silliman's house. Not even grape juice will remove it. I appeal to Silliman for protection and probably from excitement do not see anything comical in it. I said Silliman was living at the British consulate, because ____. The door is barred and McMillian, the British consul — Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland — will do the best he can.

A few minutes later in response to inquiries after our health: "Tell Major Elizondo to make a good job of it. You can't rush it from the street. Tell him to go up on the mountain and shell the consulate." It is the baron who speaks. Night goes on and we are up. The baron is jocular. "I tell you Logue, this is great. You will be famous. I shall take your picture if they shoot you first. You must grant me that request.

Tragedy is funny. No one clutches the brow and says "Megudd!'' We shake hands at once, firmly believing  there is only the morning for the shelling. Nobody says "Good bye old pal, and if we meet again in a better world____." Von Kriegelstein is a Catholic and so am I. He is not beyond admitting it for fear it may not be smart. So we say a few prayers and make an act of contrition. I don't believe he needed it half as much as I. His life was clean, good where it could be otherwise with nobody to tell. Perhaps a testing too.

Comes morning. I call General Gonzales on the phone. He cannot reply to me in English. I must use lame Spanish. He will investigate, but he does not understand English. He has been a traveling salesman in the United States for four years and he knows I know it. Very unfavorable outlook. Silliman pleads for us. Across the street is a graduate bandit, General Francisco Coss. He has a mansion now. He took it one day in one minute. The baron has a little inside track. Coss dislikes Gonzales. Coss has five thousand men in Saltillo. "We can put up a better fight with Cosses' men than alone," suggests von Kriegelstein. We chance to call on Coss. There is a cow carcass on the mansion entrance. People must eat. None of the carcass is in the reception room where Coss greets us. The liberator will first pose for a picture seeing the baron's camera. He poses thirty minutes with a shrapnel shell under each arm. Thank the señors very much for putting his pictures in all papers in the United States and Europe and Asia. Touching the matter of General Gonzales he does not like to see Gonzales' troops on the street near his quarters anyway. Yes, he will bear us in mind and we will surely go with him when he starts down to free the people.

Gonzales leaves and so do we — in another direction, on a mail car that is going over to Villa. Carranza does not know it; neither does Gonzales. Only the engineers and the Villa agents who uncouple several rear cars containing troops knows it.

We enter the desert on our way to Torreon. He tests his moustache.

"How dry the hair gets," is all von Kriegelstein says, for a time after we are well under way. "It is so it gets brittle, as one's hair in the desert of Gobi, which is you know, just before Manchuria." He talks and most books become nonsense in comparison. He has in his baggage two volumes of Kipling and one of O. Henry. He likes them both. This is fair praise, because he has written twelve novels himself which have the largest circulation in Austria.
(to be continued)

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, 1915, under the Act of March 3d. 1879.


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