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
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
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
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
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,
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.
London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY
18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
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
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.
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,
Giver of light give me knowledge wherewith to answer this man.
By Stephen Crane
In the Night
heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
the peaks looked toward God, alone.
"O Master, that movest the wind with a
Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
Grant that we may run swiftly across the
To huddle in worship at Thy feet."
In the Morning
of men at work came the clear blue miles,
the little black cities were apparent.
"O Master, that knowest the wherefore of
Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
That we may chant Thy goodness to the
In the Evening
valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
Thou who knowest the value of kings and
Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile
Thou only needest eternal patience;
We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord —
Humble, idle, futile peaks."
In the Night
heavy clouds muffled the valleys,
the peaks looked toward God, alone.
Truth and Fable
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.
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
Marion Reedy in his St. Louis Mirror
Specimens of a
Servants — People who are fed and paid for making other people
Argument — A series of positive assertions and denials, ending
in a quarrel.
Public spirit — Readiness to do anything which is likely to
Automobile — A machine designed to make jobs for the surgeons
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.
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
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
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.
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
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
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.
In Our Village
Spring and Poets
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
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?
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."
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.
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 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.
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
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
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
(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
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
"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.