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Ave Maria Plena Gratia

            Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
            A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
            Of some great God who in a rain of gold
            Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
            Or a dread vision as when Semele
            Sickening for love and unappeased desire
            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 his hand,
            And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.
                                            Oscar Wilde

Disasters and Poetry

IN olden 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 danger.

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 danger.

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 minute detail.

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 poetically.

And so we may say unhesitatingly: What is clicked over the wires is lost for Art.
                                        Guido Bruno

Reminiscences of Tommaso Salvini
By Hugo Ballin (New York)

IT was 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 note.

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 enjoyment.

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
                                                        Tommaso Salvini

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 letter.

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,
                                                                                                                        Tommaso Salvini

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.
            The tangled skein of misty souvenirs,
            And bring again, defiant of dull years,
            The mantling pulse of youth unto the cheek.
            Urged by the warmth, the fancy loves to seek
            The roses of a past that disappears,
            And by some recollection that endears,
            Once more, in charm, forgotten words to speak.
            The sunlight of the past will then return
            Warming the soul; and I, oh blessed boon
            And resurrection of the things that fade,
            Recall that happy days for which all yearn,
            When that I heard on Venice's lagoon,
            The soft adagio of a serenade!

            Whence comes thy fatal, fascinating charm?
            Thy fumes are sharp, dire as Medusa's tears,
            In thy green depths a tempting demon leers,
            Leading the victim on without alarm.
            Thy trait'rous poison makes the senses warm;
            Dull minds, growth vivid, grasp the distant spheres;
            But ah, the sad reaction, when the tears
            Of madness flow, when maniac fancies swarm!
            To me, thy glorious Lethe ever shows
            Some godless wretch, with haggard eyes and pale,
            Seeking the shame of brutal bagnios.
            Or, mixed with powder, when all else doth fail,
            I see thee make impetuous Zouaves scale
            Stern Malakoffs that teem with countless foes!

A Fable

Once upon a time two beautiful maidens went bathing. One was named Falsehood and the other Truth. After 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."
                                        Sadakichi Hartmann

The Perversity of Love

One 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.
                                        Ernest Peabody

A Greenwich Village Anthology 
(With apologies io Edgar Lee Masters)

Sadakichl Hartmann
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.

Alfred Kreymborg
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

The Stranger 

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"
Charles Keeler

Sadakichi's Head


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 house.

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 speak."

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.
                                        Tom Sleeper

In Our Village

WHENEVER 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 and delicate.

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 commonplaces.

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 mountains!

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 pleased.

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 her.

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 Week
The Citizen and Art

THE 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.

The Nutshell

"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 write about.

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

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 French.

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 it.

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.

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