Ave Maria Plena Gratia
Was this His coming! I had hoped
A scene of wondrous
glory, as was told
Of some great God who in
a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell
Or a dread vision as
Sickening for love and
Prayed to see God's
clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs
and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I
sought this holy place,
And now with wondering
eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme
mystery of Love:
A kneeling girl with
passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in
And over both with outstretched wings the
times, when a big catastrophe occurred, bringing death to many
people, and damage to much property, artists and poets
promptly took possession of what had transpired, made it a
subject for reverie and were transported into a playground of
fantasy and inspiration. After the earthquake which demolished
Lisbon in 1755, an entire literature was created. Poets, on
wings of imagination, visited the ruins of the city and
themselves felt the power of the mysterious spirits that shook
the earth and disturbed the depths of the planet. They wept
with those whose most dearly beloved lay buried beneath the
debris and voiced in song the praises of the heroism and
sacrifices of men and women who were brave enough to forget
their own safety, when friends, or even neighbors, were in
Other catastrophes of the eighteenth century likewise won the
glorification of their heroes. So Goethe erected an
everlasting monument to the memory of the seventeen-year-old
Johanna Sebus. Everywhere there seemed to rule a desire to
preserve in the jewel box of memory a momentous hour of
And not long ago, indeed, even a few days after the terrible
Chicago holocaust of 1871, poets the country over evinced its
inspiration by paying tribute to the heroes of the devastated
city as well as to the unseen force which burst its bonds and
blazed forth in such mighty power. Throughout the world and in
many languages rang the rhythmic cantations born in the wake
of the disaster. Bret Harte was one of the first to greet the
sorrowing world with a poem. John Greenleaf Whittier dedicated
another to the victims of the smitten city.
And what of today?
Indeed, we are not backing catastrophes in the present age.
With the progress of civilization, to be sure, they seem to
have increased in frequency and horror. We need but recall the
tragedies since the war started. Think of the many lives and
millions of dollars worth of property buried beneath the ruins
of San Francisco and the hundreds of thousands of victims of
the present war.
And each time there awakes amid the horror of such tragedies
the same heroism of olden times. Man are certainly no less
valiantly inclined and ready to sacrifice today than centuries
ago. But still our catastrophes bring us no poesy as in the
past. Our poets do not sing the praise of these heroes. They
turn their eyes from the sinking city.
They do not spar with the envious wizards of the inner earth,
who vent in terrific cataclysms their jealousy of happy
people. They do not reach in despair with the drowning for the
splintered mast, with the fighting for new strength.
And yet, are not these very subjects rich enough in grandeur
to inspire the artistic soul to the most fantastic dreams?
Yes; there is the point. We dream no longer.
We are a generation of newspaper readers. We possess no more
the faculty to picture in our thoughts the catastrophe with
all its dreadful consequences — to allow our fantasy an
unbridled reign, which she must have if something poetically
true is to be materialized from the fabric of fact. There is
made to hover of the grim region, where death harvested, no
fanciful twilight whose outlines are hazy. There is no mystic
belief in the animosity of personalized elements. The cold,
daily press compels us to see everything in broad daylight and
too obvious reality.
The "Special Correspondent" sent to the scene of the disaster,
telegraphs homeward and over the world in his dry, or what is
worse, his pompous sentimental English, all the details a few
hours after things have happened. He interviews the relatives
of the dead and the sick, and the eyewitnesses and gleans his
information so that he may be able to relate all in the most
Of course, we learn too about the heroes and heroic deeds; and
should fortune decree that a man of financial or social
standing should excel in bravery or calmness in the moment of
danger, the news cables vibrate gleefully the story of his
flattery and praise. The disaster is then portrayed to us in a
manner as though it had been enacted by the heavenly powers
for one purpose only — to give the excellent character of this
Croesus or social ladder a dignified background. Certainly,
too, there are loyal bards who will sing submissively of his
praise. But loyal bards are very seldom, perhaps never, good
poets. The good poets remain silent during catastrophes. And
the reason for this is that everything that happens is sobered
into sordidness by the press dispatch. Newspapers vie to excel
in offering lurid descriptions of the disaster. And so we
learn of a catastrophe in all the gruesome entirety. We read
its extent and know just how many were killed and how terribly
their bodies were mutilated. This arouses in us a sadness, an
admiration for the heroic and a desire to aid the suffering.
But when the imagination is smothered, the artistic
inspiration is lost And, indeed, should a poet depart from the
trend of the times and write about a catastrophe he would have
little effect and — what to the nowadays poet is most vital, —
little or no popularity. The newspaper, which satisfies and
arouses his curiosity, conveyed the same narrative more
correctly, in greater detail and in a way, perhaps, better
understood by the masses.
"My paper has this better," says the subscriber, and laughs
about the poet, who doesn't seem to know the cruel details and
correct descriptions of the disaster location.
None would deny the merits of the newspaper of today. It
renders speedy succor possible and brings relief to the
unfortunate. And with our rapid transport facilities,
immediate news dispatches are a necessity. But the daily press
is killing all dreams, educating a fantasy-lacking race and
paralyzing poetical desires. Because of it the catastrophe of
today is not followed by poesy. We are robbed of the faculty
of seeing with our own inner eyes and are compelled to look at
everything, as thousands of others about us see the same.
There is stolen from the disaster and the heroic deed of
unselfishness the romance, without which we cannot feel
And so we may say unhesitatingly: What is clicked over the
wires is lost for Art.
Reminiscences of Tommaso
By Hugo Ballin (New York)
excessively cold the first time Tommaso Salvini called to
see me in the big empty studio in the Piazzo Donatello in
Florence. On that day the hills of Fiesole were patched with
snow, as if some mighty visitor from the north had left the
impress of his powdered sole. Through my southern window the
little oval English cemetery intercepted my view. The naked
trees, like imploring hands clawed the cheerless heavens for
a ray of kindly warmth. Salvini knocked — at my door at
about ten in the morning. He refused to take off his large
heavy bat-winged coat. The thermometer registered about 55
degrees F. My big fat tin drum stove was very useless on
that day as on all other days. The more wood I fed it, the
less it worked. It seemed to grow stubborn. The ashes that
formed within its body, choked it. It was sorrow-bound for
four cold months. It was the most ineffectual bit of
machinery ever reared by man. I called it a stove because it
stood where stoves are supposed to occupy a studio and from
its collar-bone a long black unpainted tube ran up sixteen
feet to an exit that was the most efficient exit ever
numbered. The Gordigiani, the proud owners of this
equipment, had other possessions such as the building in
which this treasure was housed, and in their drawing room
hung the most remarkable collection of chilled tapestries
that ever graced an unpainted wall. But all this is quite
irrelevant. Salvini knew the Gordigiani, but on that
cheerless day he came to me.
Those days in Florence were not exactly happy ones. Even
Hope, the most constant friend an aspiring painter has, had
left me. She flew south on the wings of my far reaching
desires to linger where the waters are ever blue and where
the sweet voiced and ill behaved daughters of Oceanus
port-holed cruising parties and behaved so surreptitiously.
I remained in Florence because I had contemplated remaining
and I would no more break this resolve than a thousand lire
I had met Salvini in his home. I entertained a suspicion
that the first time he called to see me, he went abroad to
find more comfort in the rooms of another. His house was a
very cozy place, full of photos and fragments of tabards and
morions and Lochaber axes that crossed halberds in palmated
arrangement. It was essentially an actor's home, crowded
with souvenirs. I remember him reading to me in his ground
floor room; that was sixteen years ago on a bright morning
in early spring when life had returned on the breath of a
soft message from Aeolus.
Perhaps Salvini's friendship for me was very sincere because
he found me alone working with very swollen hands, due to
the cold, trying to realize an ideal in the face of these
oppositions. There must have been pity in his heart, for
after that we often saw each other and when I was not in
Florence his letters were a great source of interest and
I shall quote his letter written Oct. 21st, 1902.
Most dear Mr. Ballin: —
As you see (referring to a small photograph) I am still in
the country with my Newfoundland between my knees. In a few
days I shall return to Florence, via Gino Capponi 17. In
general my health is good with the slight exception of some
small annoyance, which persuades me that I have not acquired
seventy-four years for nothing. But what can be done? Suffer
it until death.
I too know the Island of Capri. Its location is
incomparable, so poetic and inspiring. Who can tell how many
sketches you have made? Are they compositions for a large
painting? Why do you say that you have admired these places
for the last time? You are young and can return to them, not
once but twenty times, while to me it is forbidden to visit
America, not having much time before me.
I can be naught but thankful for the kindly memories you
cherish of me. I beg of you to always have them. It makes me
pleased and happy.
This letter will find you in that country of energy and
loyal people for whom I have deep sympathy and affection. I
hope that you will cross the ocean safely and that you will
enjoy perfect health. Every time you wish to give me news,
it will give me a holiday.
Believe me with respects.
Yours affectionate and devoted
Another letter dated Siena per Vagliagli, Aug. 18th, 1903 I
am sure will be of interest.
Gentilissimo Ballin: —
If I could write and speak English as you write and speak
Italian, I would consider myself a sage; you will therefore
see how I must not criticize any slight error in your
Yes, gentle friend, many were the inducements which the
impresarios, Liebler & Co., personally made to me, and I
could not refuse to return once more to the United States.
This will be settled next April.
I will act in Italian with an English company in which your
beautiful star Miss Robson is to take part. If you will tell
me something concerning this young actress I will consider
it a favor.
I am now in my domain to escape the warmth of the city. In
October I am going to Asti and Torino to commemorate in a
production of Saul, the centenary of the death of Vittorio
Alfieri, our grand tragic poet, and afterward I shall return
to Florence where I will prepare myself for the new tour.
I believe I have always answered your very welcome letters
and I do not merit the reproach you make of my not having
written you. My correspondence is enormous. I do
nevertheless answer all my letters.
Your country never ceases and with time it ameliorates. As
me! I always cherish the advancement of that great country.
I am sending you a clipping which will give you pleasure.
Read it and congratulate me in time. In the meanwhile I
exchange best wishes. Consider me always your affectionate
and devoted friend,
These two letters are typical. I always found him sincere
and kindly. The last time I saw him was four years ago in
Florence when I called at his home with my wife. He was
rehearsing his son and daughter-in-law for a production in
which they were to appear that afternoon.
We drove up to the amphitheater at Fiesole and under a soft
blue sky we saw "Edipus Rex." The air was never softer and
the seats were never harder.
Flasks and Flagons
By Francis S. Saltus
Thou canst unbind potency unique.
tangled skein of misty souvenirs,
bring again, defiant of dull years,
mantling pulse of youth unto the cheek.
Urged by the warmth, the fancy loves to seek
roses of a past that disappears,
by some recollection that endears,
Once more, in charm, forgotten words to speak.
sunlight of the past will then return
Warming the soul; and I, oh blessed boon
resurrection of the things that fade,
Recall that happy days for which all yearn,
When that I heard on Venice's lagoon,
soft adagio of a serenade!
Whence comes thy fatal, fascinating charm?
fumes are sharp, dire as Medusa's tears,
thy green depths a tempting demon leers,
Leading the victim on without alarm.
trait'rous poison makes the senses warm;
Dull minds, growth vivid, grasp the distant spheres;
ah, the sad reaction, when the tears
madness flow, when maniac fancies swarm!
me, thy glorious Lethe ever shows
Some godless wretch, with haggard eyes and pale,
Seeking the shame of brutal bagnios.
mixed with powder, when all else doth fail,
see thee make impetuous Zouaves scale
Stern Malakoffs that teem with countless foes!
Once upon a
time two beautiful maidens went bathing. One was named Falsehood and the other
gamboling to their hearts content in the water, Falsehood stepped out
first and, true to her nature, she stole and dressed herself
in the robes of Truth
and ran away. When Truth
came out she found the robes of Falsehood lying on the bank; she, however
true to her nature, would not don them but went her way as
it was, and that is why we so seldom meet with "Naked Truth."
The Perversity of
day Love dropped an arrow from his quiver. A short, stout
little lady picked it up and with many blushes returned it
to its owner.
"Ah! Sweetheart!" said Love, "you shall have your reward."
And the man, alas! was tall and slim.
A Greenwich Village Anthology
(With apologies io Edgar Lee Masters)
Where he came from and where he is going ——
That is not the main thing.
The main thing is that he is Sadakichi Hartmann,
A strange sardonic figure,
The author of Christ and Buddha.
But great as are his Christ and Buddha
Greater still, more piteous and more splendid
Is the drama called Sadakichi Hartmann.
The Nameless One
There were two people in Greenwich Village.
One of them belonged to the oldest and most infamous profession for women.
She created nothing; her mission was to destroy.
The other was an artist who created beautiful things.
Mark the irony.
The artist died.
The nameless one will live to a hale and hideous old age.
For Death will have his little joke.
Even in Greenwich Village.
In a selfish age
This man is kinder to "Others" than to himself.
He obeys the maxim
"Do unto 'Others' as you would they should do unto you."
Shelley was the poet's poet.
Alfred Kreymborg is more than the poet's poet.
He is the poet's friend.
A Publishers' Club
Scribner persisted in weeping.
"If Americans cling to their new fad of reading American literature," he gasped, "our great British writers will starve."
"Our great American writers," Holt reminded him, "have starved for years."
"They're used to it," Dodd put in, "and we're not. Were publishers."
"We'll starve too, though," Houghton Mifflin groaned. "We have loaded ourselves with British novelists in sheets. British poets by the wagon load."
"The jig," MacMillan roared, "is up! The fools won't buy the poetry and prose of the Londoners just because they're Londoners."
"Couldn't we work up a centenary of some British novelist?" Dodd asked this. He was snapped up crossly by Houghton Mifflin.
"No, we can't have any more centenaries of British novelists. We can't live on any more scandals about British poets."
"You don't mean," gasped Scribner, "that Dodd'll stop The Bookman?"
"How can Dodd stop The Bookman when it isn't going, you fool?" roared MacMillan. ''
"Boys!" yelled Doubleday, "this trick will save us."
He held up the picture of Byron, now labelled in large letters with the name of Charles Brockden Brown.
"I see the game!" cried MacMillan. "I'll have a statement in next Sunday's World to the effect that we've always stood for American literature."
Even the weeping Scribner had to join in the laugh with which they all broke into the chorus of "stuff the public, stuff, stuff, stuff, publishing is nothing but a game of bluff."
From The Bang, Alexander Harvey's Fearless Weekly
THERE came to the colony a young man whose face was unmarked by care and whose blue eyes contained a deep happiness.
The people stared at him, but none thought to offer him lodging. They did not inquire his name nor from what country he had journeyed.
"He is not like us," said one, and he berated the new comer with coarse words and threw stones at him.
"Let him alone," said another; "his odd conceits may serve to make our children laugh;" and he gave to the calm young stranger a gay cap with bells.
But a third said, "This wanderer speaks words which we do not understand. He is mad."
So they built with great stones a tower and imprisoned the beautiful stranger, not dreaming that his name was Wisdom and that he had come from their far-away Fatherland.
Emily B. Stone
FOR the unutterable, I would gather the stars,
For the ineffable The flowers of heaven;
Am I longing For my garden bright
In dead of night; Is the beautiful whole;
For the rose unfading, I would stray with thee
The song unending, O'er night's wide meadow,
The heart unchanging, O spirit maiden,
For love, for light! O radiant soul.
From ''The Victory — Songs of Triumph"
AND it came to pass that I
pondered on the reason for my being. And as time passed my
spirits drooped within me — my days became sunless and my
nights abysmal — for I knew not my purpose. And lo! as I
sat, brooding by the margin of a pool, watching the pale
white lilies nodding one unto the other, the figure of a
man appeared unto me coming from out the hemlock grove.
And he came close to me and spoke words of counsel. And I
thought unto myself: "I will do that which this man
counseleth" and arose and went straightway unto mine own
Then it came to pass that
after three days I stood before the oracle and I spoke
unto him three questions: Whence came I? By what rule must
I live? Whither do I go?
And the oracle answered
unto me saying: "These are mighty matters of which ye
Then drew away the oracle
unto himself. And after the moon had risen I went again
unto him for an answer. And he replied, saying: "Oh ye of
little faith! Know ye not that the Kingdom of Heaven is
like unto rare gems that are hidden, and that he that
liveth by the spirit shall have ever-lasting life? Let thy
faith circle then round about like unto a coat of armor.
Believe for in believing lies all virtue."
And I prostrated myself
before him in reverence and in worship. And after I had
made offering of gold and of silver — of sandal-wood and
of rare spices I returned unto mine own hearth exalted.
Yet, I knew not the
meaning of that which was spoken unto me.
In Our Village
the Great sojourn among us and we have a chance to see the
daily life of men whose works we do admire, we view it
through the magnifying glass of the unusual; stories —
really only everyday observations — pass on from mouth to
ear and from ear to mouth. That is how history is related.
A rich field for biographers.
Many and various are the stories told about Sadakichi
Hartmann and his indispensable valet, during his last
visit to our village. Inseparable like a shadow, watchful
like a dog, inspired with a mission like an apostle, is
that little man whom Sadakichi chooses to intrust the care
of his bodily welfare.
He is never far. If he does not announce the arrival of
Sadakichi he is carrying his master's overcoat or rain
coat and that ominous hat box which contains not only a
black sombrero but also other useful objects which might
come in handy if a man decides quickly to do something
quite different than he has planned on leaving his home.
He is more than a body servant, who keeps shoes shined,
the proper crease in trousers and all those other things
which are the daily routine of a "man." He is the screen
Sadakichi chooses often to put between himself and the
world. He is the bearer and deliverer of messages, the
plenipotentiary extraordinary on occasions most difficult
It was at a dinner recently in the home of a well-known
patroness of Art on the north side of the Square.
Sadakichi was one of the guests of honor. He was in that
mood in which one enjoys a well prepared repast and awaits
anxiously the arrival of the demi-tasse. A lady well known
as a soulful poetess was sitting at his right. She is one
of those women who are not content to leave buried the
romance of their life and to plant faithfully flowers of
the season around the tombstone, but who are trying
constantly to exhume the carcass, to force to new life
what was dead and should remain so for ever. She spoke to
Sadakichi; she spoke constantly. He was undisturbed,
partaking of the different courses of the dinner. The
slight signs of annoyance were not noticed. The lady
talked. It was too much for Sadakichi! "Call my valet," he
said to the butler, while everybody was rising to repair
to the next room for the demi-tasse. The valet appeared.
Sadakichi calls him "valet," never by name. That man
doesn't seem to have a name at all. He must have been born
as Sadakichi's valet, and to be his valet seems to be
identical with his life. He appeared; he did not take
notice of anybody in the room. He stood there all
attention, like the dispatcher of torpedoes before the
commander of his craft.
"Valet," Sadakichi thundered at him, "take my place at the
side of this lady (pointing to the soulful poetess who was
still talking) drink a demi-tasse with her and exchange
Out he walked and the bang which sounded through the house
indicated that Sadakichi had not waited for the foot-man
to open the door for him. How long the valet remained in
the drawing room I do not know, and if he drank a
demi-tasse with the soulful poetess and exchanged
commonplaces with her I could not ascertain.
And then it was on an afternoon in the Brevoort. Maria
Appel, the sculptress who had just finished the bust of
Sadakichi, interrupted a serious session of his, around a
round table: "Your bust is ready; it is good; it is
wonderful; it is not only a likeness, it is a masterpiece.
I will ship it tomorrow to an exhibition up town. You MUST
come and see it at once!"
Sadakichi who at first had indignantly interrupted his
apparently more important conversation with his companions
at the table, looked around for a few seconds as if
searching for something and then, wheeling around in his
chair: "Valet" with such a strong voice that Emily Stevens
in the next room was visibly disturbed in the consummation
of her scrambled eggs, and the waiters rushed to the door
ready for an affray. Heavy steps quickly approaching. The
valet with hat box and rain coat.
"Valet" roared Sadakichi, "Go home with the sculptress,
look at my bust and then come back and report to me if it
looks like me." And he resumed his conversation.
Again I do not know if the sculptress accepted Sadakichi's
proxy and if he proved himself a competent art critic.
Doctor Reitman, the advance agent of Emma Goldman,
undertook some time ago to manage a series of lectures for
Sadakichi. They had a disagreement of some sort, a long
argument that lasted for hours which culminated in the
final break up of business associations. These were the
parting words of Sadakichi:
"You are permitted to greet me but I will not talk to you
— that shall be your punishment!"
Tom Sleeper, the hermit of the New Jersey mountains, poet
and ponderer of the riddles of the Universe, left, as we
are informed by authentic sources his solitary hut, has
thrown away the hair-cloak to invade after an absence of
months the village on last Wednesday eve. He came in a
Ford accompanied by a man who as rumor, and he himself
ascertained, will be married to the woman of his choice in
less than fourteen days. Tom Sleeper had been seen the
week previous in Hoboken but he assures us that he did not
take advantage of the marriage facilities of this peace
loving suburb. Tom took, as he always does upon his
arrival, a solitary walk on the square in worshipful
reverence of the great spirits deceased and still among
us, before he pilgrimaged to Charles Edison's Little
Thimble Theatre. While deeply meditating upon the fate of
unborn children of persons unfit to be parents, and upon
questions of preparedness, he tried his best to start his
Ford. He succeeded after a while and leaving for the
better illuminated haunts of upper New York, he shook off
the impressions the Bruno Players had made upon him during
the performance he had attended with a "Develish thing,
this Sada Cowan's 'The State Forbids'." Ziegfield's
Follies were his antidote. Careless as every proprietor of
a Ford, he wanted to leave his car unwatched in front of
the New Amsterdam, trusting that thieves recognize the
make of an automobile at first sight. A benevolent
policeman drew his attention to the fact that someone
might take a chance on it, being a brand new one. But
nobody did. And in the chill of the early morning hour did
he start back for his home mountains, leaving behind him
the lures of the Great White Way, of the haunts of our
village whose foremost citizen he will remain even be he
not in our midst as of yore. Yes! New Jersey! That's the
life for you! Far out there in its plains and in its
Many were the notable personages who pilgrimaged down to
Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre during the last
week and honored the Bruno Players with their illustrious
presence. Kaufman, he of "Around the Town" in the Globe
had come, seen and listened. It was particularly nice and
comforting to have it from him himself that he was
Zoe Beckley of New York Evening Mail fame, who interviews
on the average more unusual and famous people in one year
than the ordinary human being has a chance to meet
acknowledged frankly she knew nothing of the Bruno Players
before this evening, which marked a historical moment in
her life. To know so much and not to know the Bruno
Players is a distinction of its own. With pleasure did we
inhale the fragrance of this bouquet, Zoe Beckley!
Helen Roland accompanied her, she, the renowned sage of
the Evening World's magazine page. And Emma Goldman had
come to see what "The State Forbids." It was not new to
Miss Sada Cowan, who wrote the play presented by the Bruno
Players, was pleased with her work. She viewed it,
accompanied by her mother, from the first row, and she is
quite different from any other author of plays. She had no
suggestions to offer nor changes to make.
Mr. Walcott, the great dramatic censor of a still greater
daily paper, sat through the whole performance very
attentively. He was accompanied by his yellow gloves, his
spectacles and his walking cane.
Books and Magazines of
The Citizen and Art
citizen does not criticize anything so keenly and so
self-lordly as Art. Every new appearance of literature,
music and painting gives him a welcome chance for his
jests and jokes. Just like the paranoiac, he sees the
megalomania under whose illusions he himself labors, in
the artist. The citizen hates Art because Art seems to him
"useless." Art does not transmit to him news. It doesn't
bring him facts and it is very hardly avoidable, because
Art is — it is hard to say why, and surely it must be
lamented — a part of society. But Art is obtrusive and
therefore one must find imaginary, sham causes tor a
defense. One simply has no time for Art. Life today is
very strenuous. Every profession claims the whole man and
the whole woman, and in the evening it is the duty of
everybody to look for recreation. One's mentality must be
unhitched, and it was never hitched! (Nothing is more
automatic than to follow one's profession.) To acquire a
surface knowledge — in order to be counted among the
educated — the daily newspapers suffice and a provide a
knowledge of names. The new novel of Richard Harding
Davis, a new drama by Shaw, the new poems of the friend,
the lawyer, are bought and one has done his duty. The
musical comedy "Du Jour" the average citizen would take in
three times. You know it is necessary to recognize the
melodies in the cabaret! Everything else done for Art is
felt as a disturbing element in one's private life,
preventing an afternoon nap or a spin into the country.
How dares Mr. Matisse to draw things one cannot see? How
dares Ezra Pound or Richard Aldington or Alfred Kreymborg
write a language one does not speak? Even if one does not
speak his own English mother's tongue, one has learned his
little French or German in school — also for the sake of
that curse to be counted educated. And the critic of the
family paper is "against it." Artists simply have to learn
to express themselves so that they can be completely
understood. Otherwise, the Art can go to blazes,
especially the Art of our contemporaries, because the
citizen has, by reason of the afore-mentioned education,
his beloved "classics." In the museums are the most
wonderful pictures and people who would never think of
visiting them are indignant that they are being charged an
entrance fee on certain days and just on those days when
they intended to ravel in Art. Music always had to be paid
for cash, but there, one has the advantage of sitting in a
comfortable chair. And now you dear reader, if you meet
men and women who speak to you in strange sounding voices,
whose language seems different from your own and therefore
foreign to your own self, if you see their paintings which
are strange to your eyes, have never seen their like
before, do not join the chorus of the Romans. Do not
assail them because it is more comfortable to walk the
path trodden by the millions. But try to be yourself —
your unbiased self, and lo, the miracle will be performed
and your eyes will see with their eyes and your ears will
hear with their ears and your language will become their
language and the beauty outside of you will become part of
yourself and the universe will be a part of you and you
will be part of the universe. The joy of others will be
your joy, and your sorrow will be the sorrow of the world:
and you will be nearer — oh, so much nearer to the
solution of your existence before you have to return to
the nothing out of which you came.
"Taking tea with Longfellow" is the pleasant experience of
A.G. Heaton, the editor of this unique communication sent
out by him into the world quarterly.
The Art Critic
This new magazine devoted to art criticism contains very
little criticism of art. I do not believe that it is
essential to know market values and financial returns of
pictures in order to appreciate their artistic merits.
The New Review
An additional feature of this critical survey of
International Socialism is the publication of a complete
play in each issue. "Will he come back?" by Felix Grendon
is not bad.
The Edison Monthly
The historical articles and illustrations of the same by
old and rare prints add importance to the monthly numbers
of this magazine. "The Descent of the Brick" draws
attention to a subject otherwise scarcely thought of to
The Last of the War Correspondents
(continued from last
In the garden he poses and we talk but it is to von
Krieglstein he gives all his attention. Villa does not
smoke. We lave the word of the New York World editorially
for this. That is why he is rolling a corn shuck
continuously. Pardon the digressions. Poor Villa is the
most maligned aristocrat n Mexico. He really loves the
common people enough to make them behave and work for the
common good which will be headed by Pancho Villa. See
Government of the United States for a parallel. Only Villa
will have to shoot a few more deluded peons who are with
the Carranza army before the common good comes about. The
baron likes Villa. He remarks after the meeting:
"Villa is an orangutang with the heart of a tiger."
"Will he rule Mexico?"
"Absolutely, and the best that can happen to them."
Merely opinion, but von 'Kriegelstein has seen twenty-one
years of revolution. It is now possible to get an article
out, tor the announcement comes that the wires to the
United States are open. This is August the sixth, and the
baron is interested to learn that his country is now at
war with most of Europe. Even Chihuahua is excited
although used to War for four years and there is no war
just as interesting as your own. There are reservists to
gather at once, mining men who have been officers in
Austria. They must be financed out in a hurry for they all
know something of benefit to Austria. The baron must go.
Von Kriegelstein shows excitement for the first time. This
is the great war that he has lived for. I hurry with him,
for now it is useless to try and send any Mexican news. He
must have one interview with General Felipe Angeles, the
artillery, commander. General Angeles is no slouch. The
French Government wants him in Europe this minute to take
charge of artillery there. He is acknowledged in secret
circles of Europe to be the best military expert in the
world. Yes, he is a Mexican. He has more and better
artillery than the United States. He also has more than
one day's ammunition for it. No, he will not invade the
United States. He is too good a general for that, although
he imagines he might be able to hold the Southern State
for a year. The conversation is in highly technical
General Angeles knows the baron. They figure out some
involved things. Shucks, but von Kriegelstein is the type
of correspondent who foolishly acquired military knowledge
in the absurd belief it made him better able to understand
and report war. Not needed now. Didn't think I needed it
myself until I knew the baron a while. Languages helped
somewhat, too. Witness him that day.
He speaks French with General Angeles, goes to the little
restaurant under the Hotel Francia and jabbers a moment in
Chinese with the proprietor, talks Spanish on the street,
enters the Hotel Palaccio to get a draft cashed and talks
with the Danish owner in Danish, meets Ihmkoff, the
Russian salesman for a shoe company in St. Louis; damns
him out and his country in satisfactory Russian, hurries
me along in English, chats an instant in Turkish with a
salesman who has been marooned probably as a punishment
for trying to sell oriental rugs and winds up by bowing in
Japanese to the attache who has just come over from
Torreon. He could have spoken to the Japanese in his
native language, because his complete repertoire of
languages is fourteen, in six of which he writes articles.
English he likes best, because there are some hundred
thousand more words to pick and choose a meaning than in
any other language. So he says, but I have never verified
Are you beginning to believe that the last of the war
correspondents was von Kriegelstein ?
Before we left Chihuahua, the Russian attempts to have the
baron murdered, a matter of money there, the same as in
New York. The man elected is the renegade Brooks, an
American army deserter, who is playfully accurate with a
pistol when executing helpless Federal officers. He is
affectionately known as "Fierro's Gringo" and lives up to
the quality of his master. But he meets the wrong man in
von Kriegelstein, who promises to shoot him out of hand.
Brooks means nothing, he says, and produces an American
army colt automatic marked United States property. He will
remove the magazine to explain the new colt to the baron.
He does remove it and is about to point the empty pistol
at the baron when von Kriegelstein covers him with his own
pistol telling him to take out the bullet that remains.
Brooks is very surprised that he should have made such a
mistake. He removes the bullet. There is no accident.
(To be continued)
Statement of the Ownership,
Management, etc., of Bruno's Weekly, published weekly at
New York, N. Y., for April 1st, 1916, required by Act of
August 24th, 1912. Editor: — Guido Bruno, Post Office
address, 58 Washington Square, New York, N. Y., Managing
Editor, Guido Bruno; Business Manager, Guido Bruno;
Publisher, Charles Edison, Llewellyn Park, W. Orange, N.
J. Owners: Charles Edison and Guide Bruno. Known
bondholders, mortgagees and other security holders,
holding 1 per cent, or more of total amount of bonds,
mortgages or other securities: None. Signed, Charles
Edison. Sworn and subscribed to before me this 29th day of
March, 1916, Frederick Bachmann, Notary Public, State of
New Jersey. My commission expires July 2, 1917.
Bruno's Weekly, published weekly by Charles
Edison, and edited and written by Guido Bruno, both at
58 Washinston Square, New York City. Subscription $2 a
Entered as second class
matter at the Post Office of New York. N. Y., October
14th, 1916, under the Act of March 3d. 1879.
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