SADA COWAN'S "THE STATE FORBIDS," and August Strindberg's "THE
STRONGER," will be presented on Wednesday. April 5th, by the
Bruno Players, in Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre, at
10 Fifth Avenue, as their second play-bill of this season.
"The State Forbids" is not a problem play. Its two scenes are
simple but cruelly true statements of facts. Millions of
families in Europe were confronted during the last two years
by these two supreme problems. They had to solve them in their
hearts and no matter to what conclusion they had come, "The
State Forbids," and "The State Commands" has been the
merciless solution of their Gordian knot.
Sada Cowan does not attempt in her play to show what could be
done or what should be done.
There is a mother who knows for ten long years that if she
would ever give birth to a child it would be hereditarily
burdened with an incurable disease. But —— the State forbids.
And so she resigns herself to her fate, and she is just a
mother of that little creature that can never be anything but
a "poor little one."
The scene is so real to life, so without false dramatic
pathos! The mother's love which prefers death for her baby
rather than life full of suffering! And there is the district
nurse who knows; who witnessed such scenes in numberless other
families, and there is the doctor who does not hesitate to
state that a physician should be vested with the same powers
of a judge. But —— the State forbids.
And then the other scene ten years hereafter. The same flat;
the same mother; her first-born child grown up to be a
promising, healthy man and "the poor little one" an idiot, a
constant charge of his parent! And the same doctor, now in
these grave and troubled times of war, the recruiting surgeon
of the vicinity. Conscription is ordered. The big boy, his
mother's only comfort in this world, which means to her a
constant chain of suffering, is conscripted. The State orders
him to go out and to shoot and to kill other mother's sons.
The State forbids to take the life of that poor thing, that
idiot in the corner over there ten years ago as it came, into
the world, and the State forbids to save the life of that big
grown up boy whom the doctor had to declare as fit to be a
soldier for his country.
The mother is helpless, just as helpless as the mother cow in
the stable, whom they force to bring calves into the world and
who has to lose her calf if they choose to butcher it.
It is just a statement of plain facts presented in two scenes,
the first and the last station on the passion-way of a mother
in a modern state.
Both actresses. One is married and a mother; the other
unmarried living her own life. They meet the day before
Christmas at a coffee house. The unmarried one is mute. She
does not say a word. She listens to her friend whom she caused
so many pains and sleepless nights; whom she suspects to be
the woman with whom her husband was infatuated; whose taste,
refinement and mode of living her husband had admired. Whom
she had to imitate just to please h«r husband.
But she cannot hate her rival, who like the thief who awakens
one night and finds the things he stole in the repossession of
the one from whom he stole it, is just a poor example of
womanhood; who celebrates her Christmas Eve all by herself in
a public restaurant.
Strindberg shows in this little gem of a play as well as in
every other one of his works that GOOD — and with "good" he
means healthy, the thing that has a purpose and is fulfilling
this purpose — is triumphant in the final end. Triumphant over
sham and over everything not fit to live. The House of
AND there was
silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked
And God opened the Book of Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil, and thou
hast shown cruelty to those who were in need of succors, and
to those who lacked help thou hast been bitter and hard of
heart. The poor called to thee, and thou did'st not hearken,
and thine ears were closed to the cry of the afflicted. The
inheritance of the fatherless thou did'st take to thyself and
thou did'st send the foxes into the vineyard of thy neighbor's
field. Thou did'st take the bread of the children and give it
to the dogs to eat, and the lepers who lived in the marshes,
and were at peace, and praised Me, thou did'st drive forth on
to the highways, and on Mine earth, out of which I made thee,
did'st thou shed innocent blood."
"And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And again God opened the Book of Life of the Man, and God said
to the Man, "Thy life hath been evil and thou did'st seek for
the seven sins. The walls of thy chamber were painted with
images, and from the bed of thine abominations thou did'st
rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou did'st build seven altars
to the sins I have suffered, and did'st eat of the thing that
may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was
embroidered with the three signs of shame. Thine idols were
neither of gold nor of silver, which endure, but of flesh that
dieth. Thou did'st stain their hair with colors and set
pomegranates in their hands. Thou did'st stain their feet with
perfumes, and spread carpets before them. With antimony thou
did'st stain their eyelids, and their bodies thou did'st smear
with myrrh; Thou did'st bow thyself to the ground before them,
and the thrones of the idols were set in the sun. Thou did'st
show to the sun thy shame and to the moon thy madness."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And a third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.
And God said to the Man, "Evil hath been thy life, and with
evil did'st thou requite good, and with wrongdoing kindness.
The hands that fed thee thou did'st wound, and the breasts
that gave thee suck thou did'st despise. He who came to thee
with water went away thirsting, and the outlawed men who hid
thee in their tents at night thou did'st betray before dawn.
Thine enemy who spared thee thou did'st snare in an ambush,
and the friend who walked with thee thou did'st sell for a
price and to those who brought thee Love thou did'st ever give
Lust in thy turn."
And the Man made answer and said, "Even so did I."
And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said,
"Surely I shall send thee to Hell. Even unto Hell shall I send
And the Man cried out, "Thou canst not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee to
Hell, and for what reason?"
And the Man made answer and said, "Because in Hell have I
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, "Seeing that
I may not send thee to Hell, surely I shall send thee to
Heaven. Even unto Heaven shall I send thee."
And the Man cried out "Thou canst not."
And God said to the Man, "Wherefore can I not send thee to
Heaven, and for what reason?"
'And the Man made answer, and said, ''Because never, and in no
place, have I been able to imagine Heaven."
And there was silence in the House of Judgment.
Oscar Wilde Flasks and
Flagons by Francis S. Seltus
faith, oh cool, delicious beer,
Gave thee the power
through centuries to muntain,
A charm that soothes
dull care, and laughs at pain;
A power sad hearts to
vitalize and cheer?
No blase palate of thy
drops can fear;
Once quaffed, lips
eager, seek thy sweets again,
Without thee students
sing no loud refrain;
Laughter and mirth
depart, be thou not near.
And when I drink thee to
my soul's delight,
A vision of King
Gambrinus, fat and gay,
Haunts me, and I behold
bright tankards shine.
And hear him laugh with
many a thirsty wight,
And merry maiden,
drinking night and day,
In quaint, old, gabled
towns along the Rhine.
GRIM cicerone of
the towns of sin,
From thy rank drops, the
germs of crime and lust,
Nurtured by sloth and
hatred of the just,
In bestial minds to
awful bloom begin.
Dulling all confidence
in God or kin,
Thy woeful spectre on
Invokes sad pictures of
A yelling harlot, or a
I hear in St. Gilas'
foulest slums, the dread
And blasphemous cries of
ruffians in mad strife,
And, the shocked eye by
odious magic led,
Sees in some garret,
panting still with life,
A half-starved child
clasping a woman, dead.
While o'er them lears a
gaunt brute with a knife! London Letter
London Office of BRUNO'S
18 St. Charles Square,
March 23d, 1916
Having a taste for gossip I cannot help telling you of an
amusing literary scandal. It is only a trifle, but it is an
amusing if rather malicious trifle and is to be read in the
March number of "The English Review." There, under the title
of "The Grayles," a well known London literary family is
delicately ridiculed; its foibles exposed, its inner secrets
made fun of by one who has evidently often enjoyed the
hospitality of that house. Opinion will be doubtless divided
as to the "taste" of the article, and no doubt many friends of
the family which is satirized will be very indignant. As for
the house in question itself, I think it will only laugh.
The war and the increased cost of paper press heavily upon
literary enterprise. As it is now, the conditions tend more
and more to the disfavour of artistic or speculative works,
while only those books which will command a ready and vulgar
sale are sure of being produced. If conditions do not improve,
the outlook for books of literary merit will be very bad
indeed. All the same a new art and literary review is
announced for publication. Its name is "Form," which name is
also intended to indicate its aesthetic. It is to be a
quarterly, something in the style of the Yellow Book. Looking
at the list of contributors one cannot avoid the criticism too
eclectic. Without a new hope, a new point of view, a minor
philosophy of some sort, a new review cannot live. Even with
this advantage such a review can as a rule only count on a
spiritual existence after a brief and troubled material one.
But that surely is the better fate. The fault with so many
young reviews and young movements is that they are afraid to
die. They will not go forth and perish if perish they must,
secure in the knowledge that what is immortal in them will
survive the trifling defeat of bankruptcy.
Rupert Brooke's "Letters from America" appears today prefaced
by a note from Henry James. As the work is probably appearing
simultaneously with you I will say nothing about it.
I will mention a few of the titles of the plays now running at
the theatres so that you can guess the kind of fare we are
enjoying: There are "A Little Bit of Fluff,'' "Jerry," a
farce; "Peg O' My Heart," "L' Enfant Prodigue," "The Love
Thief," "The Basker," a comedy, and "The Merchant of Venice,"
An interesting revival of the old fashioned puppet show has
been held at the Aeolian Hall. The piece given was ''Maria
Marten, or the Murder in the Red Barn,'' a famous old puppet
melodrama. Some idea of the captivating quality of the
dialogue may be perceived from this extract:
Maria: I have kept my promise to meet you at the Red Barn.
William: I have brought you here to murder you.
Maria: Oh, William!
William: You are in a different social scale. I cannot marry
you. But none else shall possess you. Therefore you die — Aha!
Edward Storer Clara Tice as I
CLARA TICE is
a little girl.
Clara Tice is an artist. Her drawings are the expression of a
little girl's conception of line and color, of a little girl
who is an artist.
It is the refreshing naivety in her naughty pictures that
pleases the eye. Did I say "that pleases the eye"? If they
please my eye they had a right to hang there on the walls of
It is up to you to think the same or to discard them.
Have you ever listened to the chatter of a child after it
returns home from an exciting expedition to the shopping
district or from a show? It is a pity that we have no more
chances to listen to children, and that those who have them
are usually too tired or too bored to lend an attentive ear to
those wonderful revelations of a child's untrained,
unsophisticated and pure mind.
Clara Tice has a wonderful gift of seeing, of being impressed
and of immediately recording. The movement expressing a whole
long story is more important to her than the anatomy of the
organ expressing it. The joyfullest height of merriment may be
expressed in one kick of her leg. For the fraction of one
second the skirts are fluttering in the air; the leg is
exposed — perhaps high up to the hips, the body sways back,
the eyes are radiant, the shoulders drawn according to the
rhythm of the music — this all happens in a movement as quick
as a flash. Clara Tice registers just this as the one of the
most importance. She doesn't think of the exposed, disarranged
dress, she doesn't see the disarranged hair, but only a
beautiful line as the expression of a beautiful emotion. Her
splash of color gives radiance to the life of her emotions.
While most of her drawings are draped with nothing more
substantial than a very fine gauze, they do not impress us as
nudes. They are clad with the purity of beauty. They can be
used as well for extra illustrating the Arabian Nights or the
works of Boccaccio as well as very appropriate decoration for
a nursery or a girl's living room.
Miss Tice is an artist. And even if she does not seem to be
interested in the small details like hands or feet or faces,
her pictures contain the rhythm of life. They bring to us
visions from the fields of the innocent, of the eternally
happy. They please our eyes.
What higher mission can a drawing have than to please the eye? Dim Reflections
The face is the mirror
Of the soul, so they say,
Then why paint the mirror
To hide the soul away?
Those twinkling eyes
As they spark with
And the sweet kind expression
While they talk to me.
But over the mirror,
Is a mask, to betray
A soul obscured,
By a dim faddists ray.
Meg Kerner Bruno's Garret —
Cat and Girl by Clara Tice
Soap and Girl by Clara Tice
by Clara Tice
Tice and Her Dog Verna, by Herself
Verna, little Clara Tice's big dog
pictures through the colors
and movements of her
drawings the follies and foolery of all of us.
One movement (quicker than a. flash)
can portray the characteristics of an
Delicate but rigorous. Graceful but
strong. Lean and lazy but lots of
Cats, women. lowers, jewels, delicate
shades of colors, strong streams of
light, black brutes, white giants, girls
with red, and golden, and black hair,
prayers, tears, laughter, dance.
Harmony and peace hover over
everything! Soundless tunes of an
unplayed sonata of Mozart's diffused
through the air.
Guido Bruno Fake News From Mexico
journalism signally discredits itself in its news
treatment of the army expedition into Mexico to capture
and punish Villa and his banditti. We know that there is
absolutely no authentic news of the expeditionary corps,
but every day we are treated to broad spreads with flaring
headlines purporting to tell us where Villa is hiding, how
he is being surrounded and how the march progresses. All
this "news" is faked. So are the stories of defections of
Carranzitas to the Villa forces, and the tales of
concentrating German or even Japanese officers at various
points to direct a general attack upon the American
forces. Pure imagination is the only content of startling
announcements of a general Mexican uprising in support of
Villa. The whole Mexican incident is imagined and
distorted into a danger which it cannot possibly be. There
is no need to fear a slaughter of our forces. In all
Mexico there is not enough ammunition for one fair-sized
battle. The war supplies that were sent from this country
are stopped. None can be procured from Europe or Japan.
There is no authoritative information coming out of Mexico
to justify the scare the newspapers are trying to create.
President Wilson wisely warns us that much of this scare
stuff had its origin among persons who have an interest in
making the pursuit of Villa develop into a general
intervention and occupation of Mexico. The chase after
Villa may be long and difficult, but it need not become a
war of invasion. Discount heavily the sensational
newspaper dispatches supposed to come from Mexico. They
are probably concocted in order to work up sentiment for
another such outrage as the war against old Santa Anna. William
Marion Reedy in his St. Louis Mirror Chinese Letters
By Allan W. S. Lee
had one of those delightful and spectacular little storms
which come up all of a sudden, with a shriek and howl of a
great wind that whines and moans around the house, and
then tears along bending the trees that frantically beat
the air. The willows lash the quiet ponds with their long,
green wisps of hair; the flowers and shrubs crouch low
against the house or garden wall.
Then comes a great hissing sound over the hill, and a
slanting wall of rain, rushes down on the garden, beating
and stamping it in fury. The sky is full of galloping
forms tearing, huge and majestic across the sky — great
war horses of the Mahruts that rear and plunge, while
above the roar and crash of Mighty Indra makes the
frightened earth tremble and shiver with dread.
Now they are over Purple Mountain, a couple of miles away,
and through a rift in the silver gray clouds the sun
shines down on the hill of graves which glows like
burnished gold, and all is quiet again — the storm has
All around this compound are rice fields, and in the early
mornings one hears the strange, little songs, plaintive,
elusive and beautiful, of the women working in the fields.
The life of the country people is certainly to be found in
their songs, and there is a great opportunity for some
musician to write a Chinese symphony. I think the
fascinating little tunes could easily be interpreted to
foreign ears. Chicago Letter
Chicago Office of Bruno's Weekly
3124 Michigan Avenue
quiet along the Boul Mich save a noise from the Cliff
Dwellers club — Hamlin Garland blowing his own horn.
John T. McCutcheon is back from Saloniki — his stay there
it is said was cut short by representations made by the
French Counsel in Chicago as to Hoosier John's pro-German
cartoons and letter-press in the World's Best Newspaper,
the Chicago "Tribune."
Nevertheless John need never fear about his declining
years — he can always live in the castle on the Rhine
presented to him and James O'Donnel Bennett when
Armageddon was young.
The annual exhibition of American artists at the Art
Institute is over. The exhibition received scant critical
attention, for the reason that Chicago has but three
art-critics, namely, Miss Harriett Monro, who can write
but who knows nothing about art (?), Miss Lena McCauley,
who knows something about art, but who cannot write, and a
Dr. Monagelas, who knows nothing about art and who cannot
Yet Chicago's art criticism is less at its reader than is
its dramatic criticism. Blanche Ring's new medium "Jane
O'Day From Broadway" by Willard Mack, has just fizzled
out, after the critics had fallen over each other in
landing it. The Chicago public you see has heard ''Wolf,
Wolf!" shouted so often without any "wolf" showing up that
they take all critical verdicts in a Pickwickian sense.
Nearly all the Chicago dramatic critics graduated from
night-police, they should return whence they came. The
Hearst paper critic, Ashton Stevens, is a cheap and nasty
imitation of the nasty and cheap Alan Dale; Percy Hammond
repeats what was never worth writing; Amy Leslie has a
flow of words, sans ideas; Richard Henry Little, who when
Glaucen was Consul was known as length without breadth,
"does" the drama for the "Herald" and does it so
amateurishly that one wonders if proprietor "Jim" Keeley
ever reads his own paper; old man Hall on the "Journal"
seems in his fourth childhood, while Cheeky Charley
Collins, on the not dead but sleeping "Evening Post"
writes sloshmushgush on chorus-girls (a selected few) but
knows not that Salvini is dead, or confuses that tragedian
Howard Vincent O'Brien, whose dad runs a picture-store in
the McCormick Building, has entered his maiden offence
"New Men for Old" in the "Great American Novel" Stakes.
Unless all the other competitors break their legs, Mr.
O'Brien's entry will be a distant trailer. As a literary
exercise, young Mr. O'Brien should study Opie Read's "The
New Mr. Howerson," a new work by an old master the product
of a mind matured in philosophy, and mellowed in kindness
and patience for all mankind, and mankind's foibles, a
mind to which nothing human is alien, and from which no
secrets are hid. For Opie Read has done admirably what now
young O'Brien has egregiously botched. Their theme, the
struggle between Capital and labor is cognate, and each
writer gives short shift to the cuckoos that lay their
eggs in labor's nest; as it were, and whose greedy
fledglings crowd the legitimate owner out, but their
respective treatments of their not strikingly original
theme differ as authentic bourbon from Canadian whiskey.
Hall Caine's latest, unfortunately not "last" novel is
inscribed "To My Mother." So is the latest atrocity from a
soi-disant Chicagoan, from that machine for blackening
inoffensive white paper, George Barr McCutcheon. Authors
nowadays have mighty little respect for their mother.
Emerson Hough, one of the fine flowers of Cook County's
concatenated literati has sold "Munsey's" a serial. Was
"Bob" Davis asleep at the switch?
Hobart Chatfield-Taylor, whose books have killed many,
himself is in the pink of health. He is at Palm Beach with
his valet Wallace Trite. He had just pompously registered
as "Hobart Chatfield-Taylor, Chicago."
When waggish Jack London went him one better by
registering: "Jack London and Valise."
When the time comes for this amiable dilettante to join
his betters, I would suggest the following epitaph for his
tombstone: "Epitaph for Chatfield-Taylor."
"Chat" loved to loll on the
His pen to suck and all his thumbs to
What poetry he'd written but for lack
Of skill, when he had counted, to
Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred
To wake the lyre and put the world to
John Stapleton Cowley-Brown In Our Village
(Reprinted by request)
has six windows. Through every one the sun is shining,
bathing the table with the typewriter in a shower of pure
golden rays. The laundry that hangs along wash lines
between the houses of little Italy near by seems real
white, swinging joyfully to the rhythm of a teasing wind.
A few of my neighbors seem to love vivid, glaring colors.
There is one red nightshirt, on which I feast my eyes
every other week. Its owner must be a giant with long
arms. I fancy he brought it from Naples or Sicily. The
shirt will fade and will go the way of all shirts and
he'll buy nice flannel pajamas — all Italians wear
pajamas. There are dozens of them on the lines in front of
my window; and he will forget his sunny Italy and lose his
sun-browned cheeks, and how long will it be and he will be
one of the thousands of pale, uniformly clad New Yorkers?
Doing the same work, shoulder to shoulder with thousands
of others makes people uniform. Some elevate themselves up
to the standard of the average, some come down to the
standard of the average. But after a while they will all
be equal, they all will wear the same clothes, they will
walk in the same manner, they will eat the same kind of
food, make the same gestures, use the same language: and
all for one purpose; to make their daily bread.
Over there across the back yard in front of my garret a
woman leans over the washtub. She never looks up to the
forget-me-not blue sky; she doesn't see the sparrows
fighting for crumbs of bread on the fence. Her husband
leans somewhere in a shop over his work and is angry
because tiny little rays of the kind sun peep through the
blinded window, fascinated by the needle in his hand and
dance in jolly little circles over his work. Not to become
paupers is the tragedy that kills happiness, transforms
proud and free humans into bent and worn slaves; that
creates human automatons.
It is the lack of time that makes millions wretched. They
cannot look up to the skies and see the passing clouds —
awakening of spring, the growth of youth in nature — they
have no time. They do not admire the beauty and the colors
of the flowers — they don't smell their fragrance — they
have no time. They don't hear the birds singing; they
don't hear the cooing of babies and the heart gladdening
chattering of children — they have no time.
Time, time — just a little time to live is the real plea
of the poor man.
And how beautiful is life — how wonderful is just real
life, even without the comforts and blessings of
civilization. Life is love, but we need time — just time
to do nothing but to live and to love. Book Plate Notes
will be honored this year, throughout the United States.
Schools, universities, and organizations of various kinds
are planning fitting forms of observing the Shakespeare
Tercentenary. With the purpose of further stimulating
interest in the works of the great poet, the American
Institute of Graphic Arts, in conjunction with the
Shakespeare Birthday Committee of the City of New York
will conduct a BOOK PLATE CONTEST. The prizes to be
awarded should be an incentive, but the pleasure of
designing a book plate in the spirit of Shakespeare should
be the chief stimulus.
The contest is open to all persons who desire to compete.
Drawings to be awarded exclusively to a Shakespearean
motif. More than one drawing may be submitted by one
individual. Drawings to be sent prepaid addressed as
follows: The American Institute of Graphic Arts, 344 West
38th Street, New York. Prizes to be as follows: First
Prize, $100.00; Second Prize, $60.00; Third Prize, $40.00.
The contest closes May 15, 1916.
The Regular May Meeting of the American Bookplate Society
will be held at the Avery Library, Columbia University,
Saturday afternoon, May 6th, at 2:30 p.m.
G. H. Sears of Leighton, Essex, England, announces the
sale of a very interesting collection of old English and
American ex libris, including some modern examples by C W.
Sherborn. There are also Beardsley plates, original
designs on vellum for G. H. Ashworth.
Richmond, Indiana has an exhibition of Book Plates as we
learn from Miss White's "Little Paper." Original drawings
and plates by the late Raymond Perry White, by Miss
Florence Fox, whose group of book plates formed about half
the exhibit and some of Carl Bernhardt's etchings were of
importance. The new plates of the Morrison-Reeves library
are the composite work of two men and one woman. Books and Magazines of the Week
"The Passing of the Editor" is one of the many fine
contributions to the March "Phoenix," Michael Monahan's
monthly magazine of Individuality. Richard le Gallienne
says in this article a few things which are true, even be
they not pleasing to the ears of many an editor and
publisher in this country.
The word editor, as applied to the conductors of magazines
and newspapers, is rapidly becoming a mere courtesy title;
for the powers and functions formerly exercised by editors
properly so called, are being more and more usurped by the
capitalist proprietor. There are not a few magazines where
the ''editor" has hardly more say in the acceptance of a
manuscript than the contributor who sends it in. Few are
the editors left who uphold the magisterial dignity and
awe with which the name of editor was wont to be invested.
These survive owning chiefly to the prestige of long
service, and even they are not always free from the
encroachments of the new method. The proprietor still
feels the irksome necessity of treating their editorial
policies with respect, though secretly chafing for the
moment when they shall give place to more manageable
modern tools. The "new" editor, in fact, is little more
than a clerk doing the bidding of his proprietor, and the
proprietor's idea o£ editing is slavishly to truckle
to the public taste — or rather to his crude conception of
the public taste. The only real editors of today are the
capitalist and the public. The nominal editor is merely an
office boy of larger growth, and slightly largely salary.
Innocent souls still, of course, imagine him clothed with
divine powers, and letters of introduction to him are
still sought after by the superstitious beginner. Alas!
The chances are that the better he thinks of your MS. the
less likely is it to be accepted by — the proprietor; for
Mr Snooks, the proprietor, has decided tastes of his own,
and a peculiar distaste for anything remotely savoring of
The Poetry Review
William Stanley Braithwaite, the Dean of Poetry editors of
America, the anthologist who preserves American magazine
verse for future generations yearly in a nicely bound
guilt-edged book, has founded a magazine of his own. With
him are all those well known exponents of new verse as
that amicable, soulful Amy Lowell and Sara Teasdale, Louis
Untermeyer etc., etc.
Here is what the editor tells in his prospectus: "The
spirit of the Poetry Review of America will be one of
advancement and cooperation; the desire to serve the art
of poetry and to consolidate public interest in its growth
and popularity — to quicken and enlarge the poetic pulse
of the country. In this spirit, we propose to our
contemporaries in the field a union of effort and mutual
encouragement; to the poets of America an open forum and a
clearinghouse for ways and means to serve the art we all
love; to the poetry-reading public of our country we
pledge a never ceasing striving for the best in American
poetry, and a constant effort to bring out the strength
and joy to be derived therefrom."
Branch Library News
A very timely selection of titles of books on military
education are printed on the pages of this month's Branch
Library News, the monthly publication of the New York
Public Library. They are compiled at the request of the
Committee on Military Education of the American Defense
Society. The books named are simple, non-technical works,
nearly all of them intended for the reader without
previous knowledge or experience of this subject.
Edison Diamond Points
Even if it is a trade paper and primarily of interest only
to people engaged in the selling of Edison Diamond Discs
it contains a lot of material of interest to almost
everybody who wishes to know a little bit more about
American artists and musicians, than the average newspaper
or magazine article will contain. There is, for instance,
a chat with Albert Spalding, the Violinist, "The Spell of
Saplding's Bow." The department "With the Edison Artists"
is a kaledeiscope of everyday life of men and women famous
in both hemispheres.
Harriet Monroe's magazine which just entered upon its
fourth year of existence has a new cover design. This is a
welcome change to the otherwise little variety this
journal has to offer. The Last of the War Correspondents
(Continued from last
You did not know he wrote books? Mostly on trains he finds
time for that. But then a train going through Siberia in
the Russian-Japanese war took over two months. He was on
it. The party left the train forty days, because they were
all imaginative and two of them were saying with the car
trucks: "Click clickety-click," and had been at it ten
hours to the exclusion of everything else. One of the two
stopped the next day, but the other kept on jibbering and
had to be left behind.
No, the time with von Kriegelstein was very dull. On the
train was Uriquidi going to join Villa. Best Mexican I
know. Educated in Paris. Big electrical engineer.
Atheistic idealist is Uriquidi — if such is possible — and
marvelous to tell, does not hate the Catholic Church.
Small head has Urquidi, but a broad mind. An atheist
who does not— . Learning something every minute.
Von Kriegelstein talks of a single star for an hour. No
repetition of adjectives. Perhaps because Mexican night is
black like jeweler's velvet with a handful of diamonds,
scattered over the soft deep black and a smudge where
jeweler's powder has been wiped away.
There are adventures in Torreon, where we get the word of
the highest authority that a Japanese army of twenty-five
thousand with rifles can be called on Villa's colors in
four days. No, they will not cross the ocean in that time.
Francisco Madero could have had them before he finished
the first revolution. They are in lower California now.
Authority? Only Francisco Madero's brother, General Emilio
Madero. Yes, the chief adviser to Villa. Certainly, all
the Maderos are with Villa. Perhaps, but it will be the
first time they have backed a loser.
We are in Chihuahua. It may be dangerous for the baron to
see the great revolutionist. Villa is such a great
democrat the baron had better discard his white suit and
medals that infuriate people on the street. Once on a
street a man hurries after him and seizes his coat and
kisses it. He stands aside bowing humbly. The street is
thronged and there is laughter.
"I must register my character here also," the baron says.
He does, but only with the cane.
"Never when you are with people like these who are half
developed must you fail to register yourself at once. They
are fond of someone to fear. Never you will tell me this
revolution is to free the people. All leaders who want to
free the people are discontented aristocrats. The other
aristocrats will not let them have what they want, so they
overturn the order and take it themselves."
"I am going to wear these clothes. I call them my
offensive clothes. They register my personality and show
that I do what I please. There is one way to stop me and
that is to kill me. But I have been in many places. So we
will go to this Villa just as I am."
Villa received him. A baron? Villa is delighted. Will all
Europe know of his prowess? All Europe will and history
forever will record it even better than John Reed did in
the Metropolitan Magazine. Villa is puzzled which John
Reed? But Secretary Luis Aguirre Benavides remembers.
There was such a young American long ago, before Torreon
for one or two days. No one with the forces now. Will the
baron step into the reception room of Villa's house? There
is a twenty-five thousand dollar (not Mexican) chandelier.
Yes, Villa is very fond of the beautiful chandelier. He
likes comfort, despite reports to the contrary. We have
dinner with Villa and Mrs. Villa. The leader of the
revolution uses a knife and fork better than the average
American. You are fascinated by his eyes. Some fool said
no leaders of men have brown eyes. I think it was in the
New York Journal. It doesn't matter. Villa has big soft
looking brown eyes and according to form can never rise
above a clerkship. That is why he is absolute ruler of
millions in Mexico and more really ruler than the Czar.
Von Kriegelstein jokes with Villa and they indulge in
horse play. The officers are amazed. Never has he become
familiar with anyone before. Surely von Krigelstein cannot
be right when he says Villa is a true aristocrat and is
delighted to have a baron treat him as a companion. Will
Villa pose for some nice pictures? There is no need of him
looking like a bandit for Europe. Will not General Villa
go upstairs and put on some glad rags? See Metropolitan
Magazine for proof, Villa is a plain citizen who hates
show. Villa comes down wearing a new uniform with, by
actual authenticated figures, fifteen pounds of gold braid
that never saw a brass foundry.
(To be continued)
Wall Street Reflections
seismograph of the stock market has shown no indication of
the disturbances either of land or sea, in other cation of
the disturbances either on land or sea, in other words the
Mexican outbreak or the new subamarine crisis; this
strikes one as a very significant fact.
The natural seasonal tendency is always upwards This year
is no exception to the rule.
The closing of the Southern vacation season brings back to
the financial centers a large number of Capitalists who
will no doubt take particular interest in the spring
At the present time the question of railroads is one of
the great problems before this country. The industries of
a nation can be no bigger than its transportation
Our expert trade continues to break all records and it is
generally believed that the threatened great strikes will
Bankers admit that the investing public is more
discriminating in their purchasers than at any time this
year and that there is extension buying of good securities
in connection with the reinvestment of April dividend
money. "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., October
14th, 1915, under the Act of March 3d. 1879.