It is an assurance that death does not rule the world. We need
it, viewing the wide welter of war. Those dead over there died
for something beyond death and the life they so freely gave.
They die that other men may live, that certain ideals, however
dimly or distortedly conceived, may have assurance of
persistence. They die, too, at the urge of mighty forces using
them for ends we must believe are good. Do we not see that
Life burns brighter for the mighty orgy of Death? Is there not
sensible a spiritual quickening of men before the tragedy of
the dozen nations sworn to slaughter? Is not Pity succeeding
Rage, and Hate in its own futility engendering Love? When
truly was the world more desirous of peace than now, when war
has purged its spirit through its horrors? An old world is
dying in blood. A new world is being born in cataclysmic
travail. The old earth has come through many wars and to
betterment. The race of man has learned through suffering. It
has forgot and has had to learn again and more. Death
perpetually renews Life. And Love wields both in interplay.
The peoples will be nearer one another for this present
madness. If we believe not this, the universe is a madhouse
and the law of being is the emanation of an Infinite Idiot.
The millennium is yet far off. There will be other wars, other
purifications by fire and blood. A God, they say, died for us.
We shall have to die often for the God within ourselves, till
all but the God shall remain dead and then His kingdom come.
There shall be myriads of Easters ere the agonies be done, if
ever. And endless loveliness of recurring Springs "with that
nameless pathos in the air" for all that die that Spring may
come to be.
Marion William Reedy
Recollections of Greenwich Village
By Euphemia M. Olcott
(I am indebted for this
story to Mr. Henry Collins Brown, who gave me permission to
extract it from his beautiful "Book of Old New York,"
printed by him privately for collectors.)
of our family with Greenwich Village dates back to the days of
my great-grandfather, the Rev. John M. Mason, D.D., of the
Presbyterian Church on Murray Street, who lived for some time
at what became the corner of Eleventh Street and Sixth Avenue.
I never saw him, but visited the house in my childhood, when
it was occupied by an old Mr. Pringle, who was a friend of the
family. My mother was born away out in the country, on Lovers'
Lane on the Oothout Farm, where her grandfather had rented a
house to take his family out of the reach of cholera, then
prevalent in the city. She was born on the third of August,
1819 — a contemporary of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. Her
birthplace was a frame house with hip roof. In after years a
brick front was put on and the hip roof was straightened up
with bricks. The house was divided into two, and became either
32 and 34 West Twentieth Street, or 34 and 36 — I am not sure
which. Only a dozen years ago, when business made its inroads
into that section, I discovered workmen razing the building,
and the next one having been previously demolished, I could
see the outline of the old roof and some of the original
clapboards. Much to the amazement of the laborers I asked for
and secured some pieces of these clapboards and distributed
sections of them at our family dinner table on the next
Thanksgiving Day. My mother grew up at the comer of Fulton and
Nassau Streets, her father being the Rev. John Knox, D.D.,
whose pastorate of forty years was in the Collegiate Dutch
Church. She often visited in Greenwich Village both at her
grandfather's and at the home of Mr. Abraham Van Nest, which
had been built and originally occupied by Sir Peter Warren.
But she never thought of going so far for less than a week!
There was a city conveyance for part of the way, and then the
old Greenwich stage enabled them to complete the long journey.
This ran several times a day, and when my mother committed her
"Hasten, sinner, to be wise
this evening's stage be run,"
she told us that for some years it never occurred to her that
it could mean anything in the world but the Greenwich stage.
Mr. Van Nest's house was as dear to my young days as to those
of my mother. It was a square frame house on a slight
elevation in the midst of land bounded by Fourth and Bleecker,
Charles and Perry Streets. It was the country residence of a
gentleman, with flower and vegetable gardens, a stable, a cow,
chickens, pigeons and a peacock, all dear to childish hearts.
that mansion used to be
From its doors many children had married and gone forth before
my time came, and the mother I never knew. But old Mr. Van
Nest, "a faithful elder in our church, one especially liberal
in his ideas of what the ministers ought to receive, and his
daughter, Miss Katherine Van Nest, made many young hearts
happy, not only the returning grandchildren, but those who,
like myself, could present only claims of friendship with
kinship. A large hall ran through the house and a large
mahogany table stood there, and this was always furnished with
a large silver cake-basket full of delicious sponge cake, a
batch of which must have been made every morning, I am sure,
by the colored cook. And from this basket we were urged — no!
We never needed urging — we were permitted to help ourselves —
and we did. This was just for ordinary days, but yearly, at
least, there was a children's party where mirth and jollity
reigned and all old fashioned games were played and every
child carried home a charming little gift. A party dress then
was — I remember one such very distinctly from my pride in its
acquisition — a red merino, short enough to show the white
pantalettes which went down to our ankles, and over it a
dotted Swiss muslin apron with straps over the shoulders. And
we felt just as fine as the more bedizened little creatures of
today — and I yield to no generations, before our days or
since, in the good times we had.
It was in 1843 that my mother married, her father then being
resident at the corner of Fourth and Mercer Streets. There I
was born in 1844, and when I was two months old I was carried
to her home; where I still reside. This is on Thirteenth
Street, west of Sixth Avenue. There was a drug store, kept by
Mrs. M. Giles, on the corner, and beyond that lot began a row
of dwelling houses of which my father bought the fifth, but
latterly business has absorbed four of these, so that we are
now the first residence on the block. It was very far uptown
in those days — there is a letter still extant which predicts
that my mother will never see her old friends for they cannot
go so far up — and it was thought very narrow, being only
twenty feet wide. Oilcloth was in those days laid in the
halls, but my grandfather advised against it, saying, "Throw
down a strip of carpet, Helen: you won't stay here five
years." She stayed sixty-five, until she was within two months
of ninety years, when she went to her home above. Nine
children were born there, one of whom made a brief stay in
this world — but eight of us grew up, four boys and four
girls, a natural, wholesome, noisy, merry set of youngsters,
whose old fashioned ways would doubtless amaze the succeeding
generations. Just to mention one thing — no Sunday paper has
ever been delivered at our door.
The location, considered from a sanitary point of view, has
always been excellent; in fact, it was a knowledge of this
that determined its choice. The Croton water was in the house,
and even a bathtub, but no stationary tubs for a good many
years and well do I remember seeing the maids on Monday
afternoon carrying out the round tubs and emptying them into
the gutter, and great was our glee if the water soused a great
black pig from its siesta — for these creatures roamed at
large and were the only scavengers of any consequence.
Well do I remember also the introduction of gas and how we
followed our father from room to room as he triumphantly lit
each burner. It was a frolic after that on winter evenings to
shuffle across the carpet and light the gas with an electric
spark from the tips of our fingers, I being the one most
usually successful in this feat.
(To be continued)
April 1st, 1916
A selection from the leading art groups and limited to artists
of French nationality furnishes a good, tangible object-lesson
of what is to be expected of modern French art and serves as
apology for a display at the present juncture. Naturally it is
chiefly retrospective, not in its representatives, but in the
works it summons together, most of these being already
familiar to habitues of the annual shows. A judicious,
deliberate eclecticism balances the most opposed schools one
against the other: Matisse versus Bonnat; Harpignies versus
Marquet; Mme. Marval versus Mlle. Dufau, etc. Besides the
veteran Harpignies there are others: Degas, and Renoir, who
here introduces himself as a sculptor — a young, debutant
sculptor, nearly eighty years old by the way. Claude Monet is
missing, but in his stead there are Signac, as president of
the Independents, and Odilon Redon, who has dared, and quite
exceptionally, to honour these walls, for he does not care to
mingle in "mixed" society as a rule. And it is well for his
companions, they being painters of varying degrees, high or
low in the scale, but merely painters, and M. Redon on another
plane, outside their zone of operations. The same criterion
does not apply to them and to him. It is clear that they
struggle for some technical supremacy, while he, possessing
his technique, possessing it in the sense that the Japanese
masters possessed theirs, aims and achieves, through an
amazing mastery of his materials, the absolute liberation of
the material element in painting. His art is not only art, but
On all hands artists are making a stand against the
war-deluge. Some yield prudently to the general turmoil by
individual transformations and, realizing the vanity of
practicing "fine" art at its finest just now, adapt their
skill to more accessible forms, and we have painters and
sculptors trying their hand at toys in response to a demand
for the French and, especially, artistic idea. M. Poulbot, the
draughtsman, had, years before the war, set an example with
his gutter-snipe dolls. Mlle. Poupelet, our leading woman
sculptor and one of our leading artists, irrespective of sex,
was one of the next to make an attempt in this direction, and
a group has gathered round her who model and carve and
carpenter for the intended amusement of the young and the
certain admiration of the old. Several exhibitions have
already been held in Paris and New York, yielding success
surpassing anticipation, though it is not to be supposed that
the more remarkable qualities some of these little
knick-knacks disguise under their more obvious purpose is
particularly apparent to the general public.
From "The Egoist" London
Come William et
By Edgar Lee Masters
Come William, you are
the author of "Currents of Destiny."
Come, Theodore, you
wrote "Cowardly Shrinking from Duty."
Come; both of you,
America needs you.
We have a problem.
It is called:
"Neutrality, or The Freedom of the Seas."
We will make it into two
For it would be a shame
To waste both of you on
One problem then is
And that's for you,
And one is The Freedom
of the Seas,
That's for you,
And first where do the
Currents of Destiny take us,
O, William, in the
handling of neutrality?
And if we do not shrink
in a way too cowardly
May we have the freedom
of the seas,
Ahem! There are
For it is nice to stop
But it would be nice to
ship goods, wouldn't it,
To neutral countries?
But how can you do it
When certain foreign
consuls at our ports
Won't let you?
And if they won't let
you, where's your neutrality,
And your freedom of the
Well, now, Theodore, how
shall we not shrink
In a way cowardly or
Ahem! we could drive
these consuls from the custom houses.
And send battleships
To convey America's
But if we did,
What would become of our
Which came to us on the
currents of destiny
And through bravely
doing our duty
And not cowardly
shrinking from it
Ahem! You get the secret
thought no doubt!
What shall we do?
For you who piloted the
Republic to such glory
Can certainly take us to
the Islands of the Blest!
Via Reedy's St. Louis Mirror
By Francis S. Saltus
I HEAR strange
voices in the warm, swift rain,
That falls in tumult
upon town and field;
It seems to tell a
Yet hieroglyphic to a
It sighs and moans as if
in utter pain
Of some colossal sorrow,
It warns of awful
And every drop repeats
the sad refrain.
And then I think of the
Fed by these drops, with
drifting wrecks bestrewn,
And dimly, vaguely, like
a far-off sound,
The meaning of their
sorrow comes to me,
For they may be, oh
rare, considerable boon,
Heaven's humble mourners
for the unnumbered drowned.
power stirs up the sluggish blood
To craft and cunning and
And fills again with
raptures of desire
The failing sense that
drowns in armour's flood.
The spirit's song, freed
from our carnal mud,
Then soars supreme, and
grandlier doth aspire.
And with new vigor that
can never tire,
The flowers of fancy
burst within the bud.
In nobler ways, even
yet, thou prov'st thy might,
strengthened by thy drops of flame
Forget their gory wounds
in frantic zeal.
And with high souls all
thrilling for the fight,
Assault dread bastions
for their country's fame,
And lead their flags
thro' labyrinths of steel!
W. S. Lee, Wuhu, China
Festival of Ba Yueh Dzieh
THIS is the night of perfect beauty,
the night of worship, the Festival of the Moon — ba yueh
dzieh. It is seven o'clock, and all through the land of the
Middle Kingdom the Black Haired People turn their faces to the
East. On every one of the little hills around about Wuhu
(sedgy lake) stand groups of men, women and children, on every
high place they stand in silhouette against the ever deepening
light of the eastern sky. They stand with outstretched arms to
welcome the Moon, waiting silently, patiently, until she shall
Lights glow in the temple
under the Pagoda on the hill, but they shine wan and faint
against the bright glory behind it. Suddenly the silence is
broken, the big bell in the temple of Gwo Yin and the bells
from the pagoda boom across the fields of rice to the country
across the river. Bells from the temple inside the city call
back and forth to each other, gongs clang sharply, the thud of
big drums and hollow wooden instruments mingle into one
continuous sound, and under it all is the low murmur of many
The figures on the highest
hill are frantically waving their arms for they have seen the
Moon, and now over the edge of the hill her great golden arc
swings slowly up behind the Pagoda. It is a perfect night, and
all the city is out to do worship to Her — Astarte, Diana,
All yesterday and today the
streets of the city and all the country roads were crowded
with men and women, bearing baskets full of incense. It was
almost impossible to get along the Chang Giai, as no one was
in a hurry, and every one wanted to stop and talk to every one
else, for yesterday was also a holiday.
Now from every square, every
yard and open place thick clouds of pale blue smoke rise to
the Moon, and she is glad for on no other night of the year
has she been so beautiful. This is not a religious festival,
Confucians, Buddhists, Taoists, Shintoists and Mohammedans
worship the Queen of Night together.
From my table goes up three
streams of incense smoke, fragrant and sweet, from burners of
brass, bronze and porcelain.
The Moon is well above the
hills now, and by her light I can see a water buffalo lying
half-submerged in the pool across the road. The air is full of
whirling lights, and fireworks of many kinds. The gongs and
bells and the fireworks will continue all night, and not until
dawn will the weary people stop for sleep.
"Look here, Scribner! Don't be downcast. The vogue of American
literature in the United States may be only temporary."
With those consoling words, the obese Macmillan slapped the
weeping Scribner on the back. The weeping Scribner was not
"It's all very well for you, Macmillan," he sighed. "You can
spend your best years in New York on a list that is British
and then give bold interviews to the newspapers about the
encouragement you have given to American literature. But we
Scribners live by beating the British drum."
He buried his Anglican countenance in a London pocket
"This procession is about to start!" roared Doubleday. "All
banners must bear the portraits of American authors."
A quaint procession they formed as they sallied out of the
Publishers' Club, trying hard to look as if they had ever done
anything for American literature. Houghtonmifflin, in his
capacity as the most Anglicized of them all, took the lead.
Dodd, caught with the British goods on him. paraded side by
side with Putnam, who carried a British flag painted over to
resemble the stars and stripes.
"I'm afraid," sighed Harper, as they turned into Fifth Avenue,
"we'll never bluff them with this sort of thing."
He looked dubiously at an Americanized list issued in a hurry
to suggest that it wasn't made in London.
"You don't know Macmillan," murmured Holt. "He can disguise
himself so cleverly that you'd read the map of London in his
face with difficulty at first."
Just then the procession, with Appleton at the head of it,
turned out of Fifth Avenue into a side street, halting in
front of a private residence.
"Now, boys," yelled Doubleday, "give 'em Yankee Doodle."
They burst into a chorus of "Rule, Encyclopaedia Britannica!"
As New York publishers, they thought the tunes
interchangeable. They had not been singing very long, when a
bedroom window above their heads flew open and the Reading
"Oh, I say!" cried Scribner, chipping a monocle to his eye.
"Amewican literachach, ye know! We're for it. Henwy Jimes —
that sort of thing, ye know."
"Bah Jove!" struck in Macmillan. "We're very American, what!
Marion Crawford — er — ah! — Jack Lon'."
" 'Merican, s'elp me bob!" Holt was addressing the Reading
Public now. "Poe, you know. Hawthorne. Ya'as, ya'as!"
"But," asked the Reading Public, suddenly, "why must you New
York publishers wake me up out of my bed in the middle of the
night to tell me you are friendly to American literature?"
All eyes were turned on Macmillan, but that Anglican was
unable to bluff on the spur of the moment. Before they knew it
a hose was turned on them, and as they fled back to the
Publishers' Club, the dripping Scribner assured the soused
Dodd that Macmillan had made a fool of them all again — what?
Alexander Harvey in his Weekly "The Bang"
I wandered in
Scoglietto's green retreat.
The oranges on each
Burned as bright lamps
of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird
with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the
blossoms, at my feet
Like silver moons the
pale narcissi lay.
And the curved waves
that streaked the sapphire bay
Laughed i' the sun,
and life seemed very sweet
Outside the young
boy-priest passed singing clear,
"Jesus the Son of Mary
has been slain,
O come and fill his
sepulcher with flowers,"
Ah, God! Ah, God!
those dear Hellenic hours
Had drowned all memory
of thy bitter pain.
The Cross, the Crown,
the Soldiers, and the Spear.
Written in Holy Week at Genoa
sat all day on a rock high above the sea, propped
against a solitary ragged cedar.
And the wind rising over the cliff blew
We sat quietly, not very far apart.
At last, stiff and dripping, we swashed
thru the cranberry
towards home — slowly, very, very
That was a long, long time ago —
I wonder if we would call that fun now?
by Cat's Paw
A Man Without Money
MAN without money is a body without a soul — a walking death —
a spectre that frightens every one. His countenance is
sorrowful, and his conversation languishing and tedious. If he
calls upon an acquaintance he never finds him at home, and if
he opens his mouth to speak, he is interrupted every moment,
so that he may not have a chance to finish his discourse,
which it is feared may end with his asking for money. He is
avoided like a person infected with disease, and is regarded
as an incumbrance to the earth. Want wakes him up in the
morning, and misery accompanies him to bed at night. The
ladies discover that he is an awkward booby — landlords
believe that he lives upon air, and if he wants any thing from
a tradesman, he is asked for cash before delivery.
The Fortitude of a Pig
stoicism of a pig is enviable. The manner in which he receives
the injuries heaped on him is no proof of it, certainly but
his mode of bearing them after they are inflicted, is truly
his own. No creature on earth can make more noise than he does
to prevent himself from being hurt; but that is excellent
policy. He seems to know the value of the old proverb, "It is
better to prevent than to cure." But when he finds the thing
is done, he is silent, and as patient as Job himself. Indeed,
if Job had been allotted to bear what a pig bears we might be
permitted to doubt his patience. The trials of swine are
In Our Village
BUT if we
look back on the scenes of what we are accustomed to call the
Village, back of the Square, west of Fifth Avenue and still
more west of Sixth Avenue, our illusion vanishes. Back of the
community which seems so unique with its worshipful
reminiscences of the old, with its stately mansions, with its
touch of cosmopolitan grandeur as it is voiced every night in
the Brevoort, the Lafayette, in Mazzini's, in the Greenwich
Village Inn, or in the studios of our our popular ones who
harbor refugees from all belligerent countries:
Ragged children playing on sidewalks and thoroughfares, babies
which rightfully should be in the arms of their mothers left
in the care of older sisters or brothers, sitting on doorsteps
or fighting for a place on one of the few benches of
Washington Square. The illusion that we are living in a
village, superior and extraordinary, vanishes quickly if we
stroll around Bleecker street or, down Houston or Thompson and
all the other tenement streets. We hardly think it possible
that so few, time-worn, rickety, dirty old houses can serve as
domiciles for so many thousands of families. Put together all
the heart touching newspaper stories and reports of charitable
associations about human misery in the big city as they appear
before Christmas, make a mosaic of the most pitiful conditions
humanity in a big city is subjected to . . . and you will have
the painting, vivid in colors and naturalistic in conception,
to which we of the Greenwich Village on Washington Square and
on Fifth Avenue, created the much admired and talked-about
We discarded our overcoats, the furs are properly stored away,
we are thinking of our trip, of moving to the country; the
trees are budding, soft green blades of grass peep bashfully
out of the brown earth, the sparrows came forth from under
their eaves repairing their summer residences in trees and
The sun did it. The sun with its kind golden rays, which are
more beautiful on the dirtiest sidewalk of Little Italy back
of our square amidst the raggedest and noisiest lot of
children than the chiselled gold-circling around the cold,
costly cut precious stones in Tiffany's window on Fifth
Avenue. The sun did it, who shines for the poorest of us just
as warm and gladly as for the richest. The sun who finds his
way to the heart of every one of us, no matter where we are,
no matter what our lot in this world might be; the sun comes
and knocks at the door of our heart, and he is persistent. We
will have to open, even if we think in the importance of our
microbic existence that we have no time . . . . for sun rays
which warm our heart and tor light and for love.
One quarter of an acre of playgrounds is provided by our city
for the thirty-five thousand children of Greenwich Village.
One quarter of an acre of land to play in, to romp in, to feel
like a human being before being shut up again in the evening
in the stuffy atmosphere of a dingy tenement room. There are
large parks in other parts of the city; parks where these poor
little ones who do not know God's free country could spend a
day and think they had been in the country. But mothers cannot
take them, they have to work and slave from morning till late
in the night in order to eke out a living after they succeeded
to earn enough to pay their rent to their landlord (I cannot
understand how the honorable landlords dare to take money for
these dungeon holes, very often unfit to house vermin).
Cars and elevators cannot be used without paying a fare and
children get very hungry being out in the green using for once
their limbs unrestrictedly, and a proper repast has to be
provided for them. The babies want milk.
There is a man among us who plays St. Peter to the children of
Greenwich Village. He is the gatekeeper to the summer
pleasures of thirty-five thousand future citizens of our
country. The Rev. Sheridan Watson Bell of the Washington
Square Church, supported by a host of men and women — his true
apostles — is planning for this year still more than he did
last year for the children of the village. No sectarian
questions are being asked, no matter what nationality or
denomination they might call their own. They all are alike,
they all are entitled to fresh air, to sunlight, to the
freedom of the country. Dr. Bell gave last year two hundred
and fifty children each week a whole day in one of our city
parks. They had a jolly ride up to the park, a lot of playing
if they felt like it; they could lie on the green grass and
look up to the sky, unhampered by smoke stacks and factory
buildings, and they could watch the passing clouds! They could
dream, and a good substantial lunch would remind them that
dreams come true even here on earth. And then the ride
homeward again, fun and laughter and tired — healthily tired,
ready for a good night's rest.
Do you remember how often kids come up to you while you are
buying a ticket tor a moving picture show and look at you with
their pleading, hungry eyes: "Please, mister, take me in." If
you are one of those who feel the warm spring sun even if
their backs are turned to the window, you'll buy a ticket for
the child and play the host.
If you feel inclined to give one of these thirty-five thousand
children of our village eight perfect summer days away from
the dusty, smoky street, send Dr. Bell one dollar. Send it in
care of the Washington Square Church or in care of Bruno's
Weekly. What is one dollar? The tip you hand the waiter after
a ten dollar dinner, the price of five high-balls, the price
of a taxi from the Brevoort Hotel to some lobster palace. . .
. No, not that? A part of your weekly room rent, almost the
half of a pair pf shoes or your laundry bill?
But think, it means sun, happiness, health to a little boy or
to a little girl.
Of course, you will send that dollar. But send it immediately.
Bis dat, qui cito dat.
Djuna Barnes, who designed the front cover of Bruno's Weekly
this week, retired to a sedate and quiet private life. After a
rather exciting career of a few years of newspaper work
(drawing and writing) she decided to do some real work
unhampered by editorial (sic!) influences. A series of war
pictures and among these her uncanny gripping "The Bullet,"
are not only the work of a promising artist, but of one who
started to really fulfill promises.
As well as in drawing and painting she has a style of her own.
in her literary adventures. Her poems and her short stories
cannot possibly be called otherwise but adventures. She feels
the rhythm of her inspiration and she struggles along as good
as she can to make us feel it too. Her inspiration is flirting
constantly with her creative desires. But Djuna Barnes is a
bad match-maker. The little things in life make for tragedies.
Spelling, punctuation, syntax, lack of concentration, are such
little things. They are everyday tragedies in Djuna's life
Charles Keeler is expecting anxiously the appearance of the
new book "Songs of Victory." It should have been out a few
weeks ago, but Laurence Gomme is not better than all the other
publishers, just a little bit late.
Hamilton Owens, once upon a time the youthful Sunday editor
for Mr. Munsey's New York Press, and who is now the publisher
of the "Motion Picture Mail," made after a long absence a trip
to the village. He and his associate editor Homestead, were
seen last week in a spaghetti house.
A Defense (?) of
excellence of execution without motive. Drama is motive
partially dependent upon execution. In Drama we see life. The
Drama is for people who do not see life until it is acted, and
for those who prefer to look at life only.
Drama is life. Vaudeville is the beauty of life. We enjoy the
beauty of life without the motive when we watch a graceful
diver, when we dance, in music, sometimes in paintings. There
are those who revel in Brahms, and discard Wagner as inferior.
It is a matter of comparative execution. Drama is the idea.
Drama, like the cigar, stimulates and continues meditation,
research. Vaudeville the cigarette, affects the senses
primarily, the brain reflexly. Drama is for those who do not
know introspection and musing, and for those who dwell
exclusively on life. Vaudeville appeals to those who ARE Drama
and seek beauty without motive, and to those who sense the
primitive affect, unconscious of cause.
A Drama may be good even with poor execution; Vaudeville,
never. A Drama is an idea well expressed in words and action.
A Vaudeville act (not a play in a vaudeville program, but an
exhibition of strength, beauty, equilibrium, rhythm or
buffoonery) is execution and personality minus motive — as is
a concert. Granting that music may have a meaning — it is
sensual, not mental.
Humor is the intermediate medium between sense and brain, and
Drama is essentially mental, tempered — but slightly — by
scenery and acting. Opera depends upon both motive and
execution is the more essential.
To sum up: —Drama is study; Vaudeville, enjoyment.
Books and Magazines of the
ARLINGTON ROBINSON'S "Van Zorn," a comedy in three acts, and
published by that lady-like concern, the Macmillans is, for
some reason or other, laid in Macdougall Alley, Greenwich
Village, New York. The characters are artists who are wealthy.
With all due respect to Mr. Robinson as one of our foremost
American poets, we cannot applaud a work whose relation to the
life of the alley is about as real as an automaton is to a
human being. The characters talk like books, and of them all,
Van Zorn himself, a wealthy fatalist, is the most tiresome.
Villa, the heroine, is a stilted lady. Her attempts at wit are
a painful bore. And what ancient humor she unearths!
''It seems to me sometimes that funerals are better than
weddings. When we go to funerals, we know what has happened;
but when we go to weddings, we don't even pretend to know what
is going to happen."
"A spirited story," says the Macmillans. It is about as
spirited as the worms who wait on customers at their saintly
sanctums on the Avenue. Technique it has, but a technique as
academic and cold as a dead fish.
From The Mirror, St. Louis
"Encyclopedia Brittanica" swindle, it is worthy of note that
the advertising of the "handy'" set is placed by its
publishers and not by the Sears, Roebuck Company of Chicago.
It is the publishers, not the distributors who are responsible
for violation of the guarantee that the price of the
publication would be raised after the filling of the advance
orders. The cheaper edition robs the purchasers of the first
edition of the 60 per cent difference between the original and
later prices. Subscribers to the first edition should refuse
to complete their time payments otherwise than on the basis of
the lesser price for the handy edition.
SO much was
asked of me
That, in striving to
My Heart was crushed.
So much was asked of me
In striving to raise my
My lids have drooped.
So much was asked of me
My Soul could no longer
In the dust I lay.
In a Modern Art
Laid out on a
table draped with heavy black velvet, is a room without
windows and with staring, orange-colored tapestry, was the
The room had no windows, the air was thick and heavy like that
in the Martyr Chamber of the Venetian palace, sixty feet below
The lifeless eyes of the corpse were opalescent. They shone in
the darkness like badly cut opals on the velvet waist of a
The orange of the walls seemed glaring and the black velvet
under the carcass, fascinating like the preachment of the
fifth Buddha, who is not born yet.
The orange of the walls was dazzling like the hungry eyes of
the stray hyenas. The beasts smelt the nearness of the dead.
They wanted to feast on his flesh, they wanted to crunch his
There was no light. There was no love. There was no beauty.
There was black. There was orange. There was hunger.
The Enemies of Freedom
Crush every league of her friends, destroy every book and
every one who gave it to the world, to show us the rising sun
of freedom, and that sun will not be reflected from one mirror
alone, but will shine with new lustre in every fragment. When
the sea is smooth, but one sun shines out from its breast; but
when broken into a thousand waves, it glitters with a
To a Rose Bleached by the Sun
Pale rose, the sun gave thee thy bloom, and the glowing sun
now robs thee of it; thou art like us. When the spirit, which
makes the cheek of man to glow, draws nigher and nigher to us,
it, too, makes our cheek pale, and we die.
Thought and Action
Many flowers open to the sun, but one only follows him
constantly. Let thy heart be the sunflower; let it not only be
open to God, but bow to him, and follow him.
Flowers on a Virgin's Bier
Strew flowers upon her, ye, her fair friends! Once ye brought
flowers to grace her cradle-festivals; now she is celebrating
the greatest of them all, for her bier is the cradle of
The Last of the
(Concluded from last week)
Merely an incident in his way of life is this avoiding an
accident by pointing a pistol at a man's heart. The baron
knows he will have to be well protected and for the first time
he seeks shelter in Chihuahua from individual assassins.
Urquidi takes him to the house of Gonzales de la Garza., who
is later to become one of Mexico's presidents for a few days'
appearance only. De la Garza is kind and gives the proper
The next day it is Juarez and across the border.
Von Kriegelstein is written up in Chicago as he goes through.
Consequently he must get some kind of a paper, probably an
American passport to get him over to Europe. Well, at any rate
we said good bye and although the British cruisers searched
the steamer he was on — well what can one or two ordinary
humans do with a man who talks so many languages.
But because he was von Kriegelstein I kept thinking of him
after he had gone. Then came the news of his death, as he
should have died facing the Russians whom he hated and wrote
against. The sun of his profession has set, but the star of
von Kriegelstein is rising. Like most he will be best known
long after he is dead because he has left his books to speak
O CLARA TICE
think about the rhymes
one can frame
hundred or more times
rhyme with mice;
should be very glad!
sure you'll find
the pet cat you had.
We hope to
great deal more of it.
published weekly by Charles Edison, and edited and written
by Guido Bruno, both at 58 Washington Square, New York City.
Subscription $2 a year.
Entered as second class
matter at the Post Office of New York. N. Y., October 14th,
1915, under the Act of March 3d, 1879.
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