Copyright by Guido Bruno, May 6th, 1916. Original matter
including all drawing, may not be reproduced without permission
Guido Bruno; but that permissions may be assumed if credit
given to another and Bruno's Weekly
EDISON'S LITTLE THIMBLE THEATRE, SITUATED
AT NO. 10
FIFTH AVENUE, GREENWICH VILLAGE, N.Y.C.
May 10th, 1916 at 8:45 p.m.
The great English editor and author, the
friend and publisher
of those men of :Letters In England,
France, Germany and
Italy, who marked the
important literary epoch of the last
century and of our own times; the most
of Greenwich Village since his arrival in
America, will speak
about Shakespeare as he sees him and will
relate some inter-
esting accounts of his
association with Oscar Wilde, with
Bernard Shaw and many others he had known
you think fifty-two issues
worth two dollars I will be
glad to count you among my
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes
See nothing save their own unlovely
Whose minds know nothing, noting
care to know, —
But that the
roar of thy Democracies,
of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
wildest passions like the sea, —
And give my
rage a brother — ! Liberty!
sake only do thy dissonant cries
discreet soul, else might all kings
knout or treacherous cannonades
of their rights inviolate
And I remain
unmoved — and yet, and yet,
These Christs that die upon
God knows it I am with them, in
How the News of
the Fall of Vicksburg Reached Greenwich Village
(I am indebted
for this story to Mr. Henry Collins Brown, who gave me
permisiion to extract it from his beautiful "Book of Old
Nevi York," printed by him privately for collectors.)
By Euphemia M. Olcott
THE Civil War covered the most
impressionable part of my life. Well do I remember being
roused by the "Extras" in the night which proclaimed the
original attack upon Sumter. I sprang from my bed, and from
the third story hall saw my mother gazing up from the
second, asking, "Do you hear? It has come." Then followed
the four years of such living as we hope and believe our
country will never see again. Of course, every day saw the
enlistment of relatives and friends — of course I stood in
the street and saw the Seventh and the Twenty-Second
Regiments of the New York militia go off — with many friends
of my own age going with them. I may say parenthetically
that, after fifty years, I saw, from the same spot in
Lafayette Place, the Seventh Regiment start over the same
route, the veterans either on foot or in carriages. And from
the old Oriental Hotel, kept by the same ladies, floated the
same flag — with the stars all there, saluted alike by
veteran and the boys of today.
In those days there was
great intimacy between our family and the Roosevelts, and we
always witnessed parades from the house of Mr. C. V. S.
Roosevelt, grandfather of "Teddy," at the corner of
Fourteenth Street and Broadway, with a garden stretching
down toward Thirteenth Street, through whose green gate we
entered when the stoop was crowded by the public. From those
windows I saw the Prince of Wales, afterwards Edward VII,
and from that roof I gazed upon the immense mass meeting
which expressed the loyalty of the North, which was
memorably addressed by Henry Ward Beecher, and the scarcely
less eloquent George W. Bethune, D. D. I remember how on
that day we gazed a little doubtfully at the mother of
President Roosevelt — lovely and dear always — because,
forsooth, she came from Georgia.
The call of the President
for 75,000 troops met with instant response, and from all
sections of the country we kept hearing of relations and
friends who were expecting speedily to advance "On to
Richmond." Alas! it took the disastrous Bull Run and many
similar events to make us realize that it was not a three
months' war. Many, many friends never came back, and when,
years afterwards, I heard Joseph Cook say, "I belong to a
decimated generation," I knew that he and I were
But there were victories.
As I write these words, the fiftieth anniversary of
Gettysburg is being celebrated. All through the first,
second and third days of July, 1863, we kept getting word of
success. On the night of the Fourth we were on our roof,
watching the skyrockets, not then concealed by skyscrapers,
and the sound of extras arose. "More news from Gettysburg,"
we cried, and hastened down, my father being the first to
get to the street. From the front door he shouted, "It isn't
Gettysburg — Vicksburg has surrendered," and of course our
joy knew no bound. Then followed an illumination — how often
I think of it as I go along the "great white way" — for
electricity was then only harnessed to telegraph wires and a
little tallow dip in each pane satisfied our ideas of
On the nineteenth of that
July I left New York with a merry party for a summer outing
in New Hampshire. At Bellows Palls we had to wait for a
train from Boston, and when it came, there were extras
again. And lo! they told us of the draft riots in New York,
which had been so peaceful that morning. My father was still
in the city, and of course he did patrol work, as every one
else did who was on the right side.
I have not spoken of the
great fair of the Sanitary Commission, and I am not sure in
which year it occurred, but all women and girls consecrated
their time and their money, with what results the world
knows. Nor have I mentioned how boys and girls alike scraped
lint and rolled bandages and made "Havelocks" during classes
in school — and doubtless sent them off laden with germs
which would make the surgeons of today shudder and turn
pale. So we lived — and at last the troops did get to
Richmond and the day of great rejoicing came. And after the
assassination of our President, ah me! I sometimes think the
gay and happy young people of the next generation have not
known what living means, even if they did have a bit of a
taste of war during that hot summer when we liberated Cuba
and took upon ourselves the responsibility of the
Recreation of the Human Voice
By Frank Harris
I have never believed much in the
mechanical reproduction of artistic masterpieces, never
praised them. It has always seemed to me difficult enough
for a man to become an artist, to say nothing of the
machine. Photographs of drawings, it is true, are often
indistinguishable from the originals; statues, too, can be
reproduced in bronze and other metals to perfection. Form
can be recreated to the satisfaction even of the artist
himself, but color defies reproduction, and still more
musical tone with its myriad varying inflections.
Accordingly, when I was
assured the other day that Edison was able to recreate and
render perfectly the voice of a great singer or a master's
work on the violin, I took the assurances with more than the
usual grain of salt.
"Come to Carnegie Hall,"
said my friend, "and judge for yourself," and as a doubting
Thomas, I consented to go.
Carnegie Hall, as every one
knows, is very large; it seats 3500 persons and its acoustic
properties are not wonderful. The test, therefore was sure
to be severe. But Mr. Fuller, Mr. Edison's representative,
was very confident. He declared that Mr. Edison had
accomplished the incredible, that it was impossible to
distinguish between the singer's voice and its recreation,
or between the real violin player and the mechanical
Madame Rappold, of the
Metropolitan Opera Company was the prima donna chosen for
the demonstration, and the first song was "Vissi D'Arte,"
from Puccini's "Tosca." The music began and one was
immediately caught by the beauty of the sound, the "human"
quality of the voice, throbbing through the air, now rising,
now falling in waves of melody. One could shut one's eyes
and almost swear it was a woman singing. Suddenly the music
increased in volume; we looked, Madame Rappold had joined
in; just as suddenly, she ceased but the voice continued.
Again and again the test was made; it was impossible to
distinguish between the singer's voice and the voice given
forth by the Cabinet; impossible. Every lightest tone, every
shade of emotion, the tremolo of fear, the triumphant
pulsing of joy, even the indescribable sense of tears in the
voice were perfectly reproduced. Criticism was silenced.
With wonder and curiosity
mingled we waited for the demonstration with the violin. In
this test too, a violinist appeared and played, now alone,
now with the instrument; at one moment you heard the Cabinet
alone, then the violinist joined in, the volume of sound
increased, but the sound was the same, absolutely the same,
indistinguishable, identical. The miracle was accomplished.
No wonder Mr. Edison wrote
of this invention: "It is the greatest thing I've ever done
— almost a new art." Henceforth it will be possible for
anyone to listen to the greatest music in the world by his
It is only right to say
that the demonstration with the piano was not anything like
so wonderful, whether this was due in part to the size of
the hall or not, I could not say; but the recreation was not
perfect. Mr. Fuller warned us beforehand that Mr. Edison
regards this part of his work as still experimental, and
there it must be left until the. wizard takes it in hand
again and does for the piano what he has done for the voice
and the violin. But as both voice and violin are
incomparably more complex than the piano, it is certain that
sooner or later the reproduction of the piano, too, will be
brought to perfection.
Meantime one can rest and
be thankful for what has already been done. One can now sit
in one's own room in the evening and hear Anna Case or Marie
Rappold in "Vissi D'Arte," or in "Mimi" in all comfort. One
can have Spaulding at command or Marie Kaiser whenever one
The world's debt to Edison
has been enormously increased.
Movies and the Press
A FACT in
explanation of the popularity of the movies is the
cooperation between the film magnates and the newspapers. It
is not generally known that the publication in the
newspapers of some, if not all, of the continued stories
which are synchronously displayed in films in the moving
pictures theaters, are paid for by the movie magnates. Not
alone are those stories printed much as are paid
advertisements, but the newspapers printing them are paid a
certain royalty on the film presentations of the stories in
the theaters of the district covered by the circulation of
those newspapers. The advantage of this arrangement to the
newspapers and to the moving picture houses is so evident as
to be in no need of demonstration. In the face of such a
powerful combination there seems to be slight prospect of
any resuscitation of the spoken drama. The interest of the
newspapers is with the moving picture institution. There is
no such heavy interest of the press in the encouragement of
the revival of the drama proper. The old style theatrical
advertising hardly amounted to enough to make newspapers
participants in theatrical prosperity. There is more
newspaper participation in the movie profits. Practical
journalism's success in getting in on the movie profits
shows that the newspaper business will never again make the
mistake it made with regard to baseball. The newspapers
exploited baseball to such an extent that they created a
public craving for baseball news and now they must cater to
that craving. They print more baseball news than any other
kind. They pay sporting writers better than any other kind.
They permit those writers to exploit themselves. They turn
loose their artists on the sports pages. And now the
newspapers can't stop. They find themselves boosting the
baseball business and getting practically nothing in the way
of revenue from that business, for baseball clubs do very
little advertising. They pay for small cards during the days
there are games played, and that is all. The papers are
working for the baseball magnates and the papers cannot quit
because, if they do, they will lose their readers of
sporting news, and if they lose readers, they will lose the
support of the big advertisers. The baseball business has
the newspaper business on the hip. When the movies came, the
newspapers, remembering baseball, were in no haste to boost
the game. They held off until the movies began to advertise.
At first the individual movie houses began printing small
cards announcing attractions. Then the film making
corporations indulged in advertising splurges to help the
business of the little theaters, and now these big
corporations pay advertising rates to have stories like
"Mary Paige" or "The Mysteries of Myra" or "The Iron Claw"
printed as serials in the dailies and then pay the dailies a
percentage of the receipts of every film performance of the
scenarios of the serials. Of these serial-story films as
works of literature, nothing need be said. They get what
they go after — the public's money. They are morally clean,
even if they are, of movie necessity, super-sensational. But
how is the spoken drama to make any headway against the
combination of journalistic business and film corporation
business? Can the men who are interested in the old theater
as a business afford the public? Can they arrange to get
more than the Sunday page announcements of coming shows? And
can they put a stop to the appearance of condemnatory
criticism of their offerings? There is no journalistic
criticism of the movies. These are practical questions
concerning the terrific vogue of the new mechanical form of
dramatic representation. Professor Muensterberg and others
say that the movie is an art form, but that is disputable.
But if the movies are art, must not the social philosopher
find in this realm of human expression and its current
crescent vogue another demonstration of the potency of
economic determinism? The newspaper-movie combination is
economic. It is a factor determining movie development as
either a business or an art, as surely as the cheapness of
movie entertainment is such a factor. There is nothing
reprehensible in this. It is simply a fact we must accept.
How it will work out finally no one can say. It has
apparently killed the spoken drama, commercially. But it has
made for the publication and the wide reading of literary
plays. It has brought into being such an organization as the
Drama League and innumerable societies for the study and
acting of plays for the plays' sake. It has built "little
theaters" and brought about the vogue oi the country
theater. It has encouraged amateur acting and it may bring
about a revival of the professional stock company. Even it
may be said that the film play is developing a better and
truer representation of actual life, as indicated in Mr.
Floyd Dell's article on a new film play in this issue of the
"Mirror." The possibilities of of the movie are
incalculable. They are powerful in propaganda. The liquor
interests aver that certain influences have used the movies
in the interest of Prohibition by persistent representation
of the evils of drink. The films have been preaching
"Preparedness." They have been made special pleaders for the
Germans and for the Allies. They are used to educate the
farmers in agronomic efficiency. And now the Chicago
"Public" offers a prize for the best moving picture scenario
of a film drama to preach the social efficacy of the Single
Tax. But the combination of the movies and the press is the
most significant development of the situation. Will the
movies finally dominate the press or vice versa? Is man, as
Samuel Butler prophesied, to be dominated by the machine
that will not only do his work but direct his thinking?
is dead. Nothing is left of her. She has disappeared from
Whenever she was being dressed or coiffured for the theater,
for dinner or for a reception I was in despair as a child
and like in death agony. Her leaving our home in the evening
hurt me indescribably. The governess said; "Look what a
beautiful mother you have! . . ." Nobody understood my
grief. She went out into that world which was not ours, and
even with pleasure she went. I was deeply unhappy. The rooms
with the lighted candelabras seemed to me like the result of
a destructive war, as after an accident. The mirror over the
dressing table, the receptacles with fragrant waters which
had served to manicure her hands, her dressing gown and her
little slippers, everything was in disorder. No one had
thought of my pain; not the old faithful cook, nor the
ever-giggling chambermaid, nor the governess. They were
sitting together, gossiping, and happier than ever. But I
had lost my dearest, whilst the others had won an "evening
A few days ago at the nightly hour of 2 o'clock in the
morning, I stood in front of the house. I was looking up at
the dark windows in the second story. Here then at about the
same quiet hour, had lain my beautiful mother in
indescribable pain, and had brought me into the world. I
seemed to hear my first whining. I saw mother exhausted to
death, fulfilling her duty towards life. I was there, too.
The faith of my being was irrevocable. I hollowed, but the
midwife most likely said; "Oh! What healthy lungs!" Now I am
standing here in front of these windows at the same hour of
the night and seem to hear again mother's moaning. I am bald
headed and pretty well demoralized and forty-eight years of
age, and didn't succeed in anything, notwithstanding my
Mother is dead. Nothing is left of her. She has vanished
from the world and will never come back again. She gave to
me a healthy body, intelligence and a soul. And so she
fulfilled, ideally, her duties as a mother.
May she sleep peacefully.
the German of Altenberg, by Guido Bruno
To Fourteenth Street
Thou art the boundary line
Between those that are and think they
Those that are and think they art not,
And those that are not and do not think
be no greater distinction for an author than to produce a
book which everybody disliked. Such a book would be either a
work of genius or a mass of putrefaction; probably the
latter; but in any case it would be a distinction.
Literature is far too democratized; everybody reads and
nearly everybody writes. A book, however good, is bound to
please somebody; there are snobs who will like a book merely
because they do not understand it. To please is nowadays too
facile a conquest. I dream of the perfect book which would
disgust not only the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Morals and the worm eaten jackals of the Press, but one's
nearest friends and the masters whom one reveres.
One would even be disgusted with it oneself — supreme
Via the Egoist, London
April 15th, 1916
may sometimes be the outcome of lack of confidence,
indifference to popularity is always estimable albeit the
qualities it evinces may be of a negative order. It may
sometimes be due to intelligibility, which in its turn may
proceed from (1) of course, a superior intellect whose
workings are beyond immediate reach; (2) from a natural
idiosyncrasy; (3) from the use of drugs (as in Raimbaud);
(4) from affectation, it being almost impossible to
distinguish the last-named category with certainty. M.
Sebastien Voirol, by whom we give one of the most lucid of
the poems he sent in his La Feuille de Laurler Tncolore mais
Verte (sic) to soldiers at the front, does not, I believe,
intend deliberately to puzzle. In his estimation,
literature, his literature condescending to be easily
decipherable is to him, I fancy, a literature of utility,
domestic, and of a low order, a literature of the streets,
not literature, therefore, but merely writing. He has,
apparently, come to use words in some parallel, rather than
in their direct, sense. Mallarme's most hermetic pages must
be M. Voirol's pet delectation. All his work, whether in
poetry or in prose (L'Eden, Augurales et Talismans, Les
Sandales aux Larmes), is written with the loftiest disregard
for conventional coherence, but always with a species of
literary gentility which commands admiration and sympathy.
It is possible that words have some mystic significance for
M. Voirol, to which he has the key; it is possible that to
him they are images in themselves; it is possible that to
him they have a life outside and beyond their meanings; it
is possible he condenses and triturates and dilutes them
till he reaches their soul and spirit, and it is these he
distils for us. It is possible that, like many an alchemist
of old, his labor is futile of results, and that he expects
more of language, as they did often of their chemicals, than
it can give. . . . It is possible, on the other hand, that
it does open on to a new world, or at least on to one of
which he has the intuition and vision — it is possible it
opens on to nothing. At all events it opens on to nothing
that is vulgar or commonplace and certainly on to something
that is distinguished in its singularity. M. Voirol's
respect of language must be respected, his tenacity to his
convictions admired, his desire of the decorative eminently
M. Sebastien Voirol is the Secretary-founder of the,
Anglo-French Literary Bureau, to which reference has been
made in these columns as aiming at establishing a link
between French and British literary circles.
Extract from a letter to
the London Egoist
In looking over an old New York Almanac, a curious gentleman
found the following names, than which it would be difficult
to imagine any more admirably adapted to the professions or
trades of the persons by whom they were borne. Dunn, a
tailor; Giblett and Bull, butchers; Truefit, a wigmaker;
Cutmore, an eating house keeper; Boilet, a fish monger;
Rhackem, an attorney; Whippy, a saddler; Breadcut, a baker;
Coldman, an undertaker, Wicks, a tallow chandler; and
Bringlow, an apothecary.
Epitaphs in a Connecticut Churchyard
(The wife dies)
Weep not for me, my
husband dear —
I am not dead, but
(The husband dies)
Your husband dear has
ceased to weep,
And here with you will
lie and sleep.
in olden times, so it is writ, there was a King of the
East who possessed a copy of each of the known books
of the world. Being a busy monarch, what with his wars
and his many affairs of state, the King felt the need
of a condensed compendium of the learning contained in
his library for his own private use, and ordered his
wise men to prepare it. In twenty years' time they
brought him an encyclopedia which twenty camels might
carry. But the King had not time to read so much as
that. The wise men labored afresh reducing the matter
to what one camel might carry. But still the monarch
demurred. "Take it, and put it into the least possible
compass," said he; "I am now old and must possess this
knowledge in a form that I may take it in a glance."
Then, at last, his worthy servants came to him bearing
a simple leaf of the papyrus upon which was written:
This is the history
of mankind: They were born; they suffered; and they
died. And the quintessence of all science, of
all knowledge, is this: Perhaps.
Flasks and Flagons
By Francis S. Saltus
of thy reviving gold to me,
Whether or no my
dreamy soul be sad,
of lovely Vienna, glad
In her eternal
summer-time to be!
I hear in joyous
trills, resounding free,
The waltzes that
the German fairies bade
The souls of
Strauss and Lanier, music mad,
Compose, to set
the brains of worlds aglee.
And in the
Sperl, dreaming away the sweet
life, and finding it all praise,
Dead to the past
and scorning Death's surprise,
I see in calm
Hungarian Jewess on me gaze
With the black
glory of Hebraic eyes!
THE world to give thee lasting fame
Jamaica sends thee
sugar cane, o'er seas;
And pungent spices
from the Antilles,
Lend thee the perfumes
of the southern vines.
France gives the
crimson sorcery of her wines,
Mongolia lavishes her
And to endower thee
with rare mysteries,
Sicily yields her
lemons and sweet pines.
Thou dost recall to me
And visions of the
Quarter Latin, where,
Chatting around thy
bluish spectral light
and alert grisettes
Drank thee while
puffing regie cigarettes,
Mocking with merry
song. the startled night!
is one book Oscar Wilde gave to the world, and that
alone is worth more than all that a hundred others
did. This is "The Picture of Dorian Grey." Just
abstract from the plot and read for the sake of the
beautty of each sentence and of the beauty expressed
in each sentence. I know it is a revelation to almost
everybody who really reads it. I have given this book
to ever so may men an women who didn't know it, and I
know I gave them a new value for their lives. The
English is masterful. The situation pictures and the
scenery, unsurpassed, and what a wealth of new worlds
of unknown worlds of beauty to the average being.
There he mentions rare and wonderful books, of whose
existence very few know; you receive a lecture about
old paintings, about flowers, about germs. The inside
decorator and the landscape architect find here
wonderful ideas and suggestions. The student of
sociology receives good tips for practical studies.
The vainness of real life is painted with the same
vivid colors as the shallowness of society life and
the idle passing of days of the rich. The woman-hater
will find very few points to change his mind, and he
who believes and trusts in the female sex implicitly
will see sights of womankind he has never observed
before. This is a real book. It is a masterpiece — in
every word unsurpassed by any fiction in the English
language. If he had never written another line this
book would have made him immortal. It is so sane and
so perverted, so healthy and so morbid, so cruel and
so tender, so full of light and full of darkness; it
is throbbing, unconstrained, real, real life.
Books and Magazines of the Week
year nineteen-sixteen will be known to the historian
of American literature as the one blessed with many
new magazines. In New York, in Chicago, in St. Louis,
in Kansas City and in little places of whose existence
we never even dreamt, they have been born. Eighty-four
are lying before me, all in the early teens. Names?
What do they matter? All of them have one aim — to
redeem suppressed voices. Some acknowledge frankly
being "one-man" magazines. They want to run a hole
into the universe. Poor lads! They will find a hole in
their pockets and a roof over their enthusiasm.
Instead of looking through the roofless house of a
beauty thirsty soul to the skies and to the stars —
and might it be only one star, framed by a hall room
window — they will droop their heads and try to adjust
the price they must pay for their venture. If they
only see the humorous side of it, they will get a
bushel of fun in return for every dollar and every
wasted printed page.
There are others who desire to run competition with
established periodicals of good standing. They pride
themselves m having won "big names" for their initial
And then there are others who simply had to do it,
they couldn't help to gather a basketful of love and
beauty and desire and idealism and distribute it among
those that wish to have it.
They know it won't
last long but it means life to this as long as it
lasts. And they are the men who will eventually
fail in their venture, but they will come back and
will come back again.
considerable time elapses and you fail to hear
from them, you fail to see a new venture of
theirs, you can take for granted that they are not
among the living, that they have passed to happier
hunting grounds — where there are no printer bills
to pay, where one does not need to settle any
counts with paper mills.
the endeavors of publishers in America half a
century ago is the publisher's note that appears
at the conclusion of the first volume of Putnam's
Magazine, published 1853 by the since be-famed
Putnam & Company, of New York.
publishing our prospectus, we made sure of
abundant literary help, and gave the names of many
of the distinguished writers who had assured us of
their heart, sympathy, and promised us
contributions, yet our conviction was that our
best aid would come from Young America whose name
had not yet been announced on Magazine covers. And
so we determined not to give the names of the
contributors to our Monthly, that each article
might stand on its own merits, and the young
unknown be presented to the public on a perfect
equality with the illustrious contributor whose
name, alone, would give him an audience for, in literature,
the newcomer is always treated as an intruder.
By this course we missed the clapping of hands and
bravo which we might have commanded by announcing
the name of some of our contributors, but we are
so well satisfied with the result of the
experiment that we shall adhere to the rule
"Perhaps it is
worthwhile to exhibit some of the mysteries of
Magazine-making, and let our countrymen know how
much intellectual activity contributors, four
hundred and eighty-nine articles, the greater part
from writers wholly unknown before. . . . Every
article that we have published have been paid for
at a rate which their writers have thought
"liberal," all have been original, the product of
American pens and with one exception, we believe
that all were written for our columns."
of our age! Go! and do likewise!)
WARM July evening in the little park near the
railroad station. Half an hour before the arrival
of the Twentieth Century Limited. Under a wide
spreading tree Pearl and Bill nestled in the
shadow of darkness.
Pearl embraces Bill gently, tenderly, clings to
him, kisses his lips and eyes repeatedly. From a
nearby amusement park the sound of music borne by
the wind. And now, clearly distinguished the
little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer—— "
"Bill," sobs Pearl, "if you ever hear this strain
again, remember me and our parting of today."
—— (Sobbing, softly) ——
"I cannot live without you . . . Let me go with
you . . . . Take me with you."
"Be sensible, Pearl," Bill persuades.
"You can't leave your mother just now and I have
to go back to that miserable little city. How
unhappy you would be out there if I couldn't
always be with you!"
"And you know I could not."
"Come, sweetheart, walk over with me to the train
so I may have you until the last second and at
Christmas time I'll come again."
"That is not far off. Just five months."
"And we'll write to each other and forget each
"Won't you. Pearl, my darling, my only one?"
And he kisses her in the shadows of the trees. The
far off music plays:
little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer—— "
She goes with him, step by step, to the
ticket office, to the baggage agent, to the
station platform, to the door of the coach.
A last embrace.
The train begins to move.
Pearl waves with the tear-wet handkerchief and the
days later in the city.
Bill lounges on the couch of his hotel room.
Nestled up to him — Mae. Her black hair is
disheveled. The brown, hazel eyes are laughing.
The little white teeth, the fresh red lips, the
dimples in the cheek — everybody cheer and
And she kisses him again and again: "Finally you
came! I didn't know what to do with myself in that
lonely, lonesome town and so I came up here to
meet you. And tomorrow we shall travel home
together and if the sun shines as today it will be
"Billy, my Billy ——" She kisses him madly. And
from the dining room through the open window of
the hotel room there sounds:
the parlor of Pearl's mother.
It is evening. The light is not turned on.
Pearl leans against the window sill.
At her side — Arthur — cheek against cheek.
"Your mother stays away long today and in the
meantime I can caress . . . can kiss you."
And he kisses her: "Do you really care for me?"
"If you could only feel how I love you, Pearl, my
"And you really love me?"
And she throws her arms about his neck and she
looks into his eyes and whispers in his ear and
kisses him. And in the adjoining room her sister
plays on the piano:
little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer —— "
The One Missive
days later, Pearl receives a postal from Bill.
"Dearie: — I am sitting alone in the desolate
hotel waiting for the train that will take me
farther away from you again. Downstairs in the
dining room the music plays:
little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer — "
"I think of you and write it to you. Your Bill."
The Other Missive
among the mail awaiting him. Bill found a little
"Billy Dear: — You have been away two days and
seems an eternity to me. In the adjoining room my
sister is playing on the piano. She plays:"
little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer — "
"She doesn't know how that air tortures me and
quickly I have to write to you. I think of you and
Suicide — II
By Martin Brown
Jumping From a
spirit put this in my mind?
What devil of delirium drives
That up, and up, on any path I
Stumbling along, my weary
Now — now — at last I see my
A sickening, dizzy drop to
A zigzag path winds down a
Did I leave there a century
I cannot help it, have no
strength to fight
The tentacles that draw me on
They say that after all one
dies of fright
That in the whistling air all
sense is gone.
And yet I fear that I shall
live to know
That hideous impact where the
rocks are grey.
A ghastly suction draws me from
It is of fate, and this the
I GIVE myself
abandoned to your arms
Ecstatic, free, to do with as
In blissful trust I feel your
Nor fear your cryptic eyes so
dark and still.
And when they find me sleeping
on your breast
Smothered with kisses, that you
loved me so,
With tears they'll murmur —
"drowned" — nor understand
What only God and you and I can
By Henri Fumet
the French for Bruno's Weekly by Renee Lacoste.
Dear God, promise me death,
that I may taste
life. Dear God, give me
remorse, that I may
taste pleasure. Dear God,
make me the equal
of the daughters of Eve.
(Prayer of Leila, daughter of
—— Anatole France
was a strange, little girl. He followed her for a
while through the dark streets where she seemed
lost. Then he spoke to her:
"Pardon me, little lady; don't I know you?"
"Upon my word, sir, I know nothing about it, but I
hardly believe it."
"Now I know you."
"What is your name?"
He was startled.
"It is true? That's really your name? Can there be
a woman who is called that . . . Permit me to
salute you. You give me a great deal of pleasure,
you don't realize how much."
"I am well aware that I have an original name, but
no one has ever complimented me about it in such a
"Just fancy . . . To find on the pavement of a
city, in the dust of the setting sun, a little
girl like you, with eyes like yours, with hair
like this, it is so rare! . . . And if you bear
the name of the eternal city, who can render
homage to your true worth! . . . Why do you have
such a name?"
"My father was of Italian descent. He always
wanted a daughter so he could call her Roma,
wishing her name to be a beautiful phrase."
"Your father must have been very intelligent?"
"He wrote books which never were printed. He spoke
French and Italian, and thoroughly understood both
languages. But he preferred French because of its
monotone cadence and because he abhorred the
accent of tones. Thus it was that he pronounced my
name slowly, holding all the syllables as if
singing it; when people pronounced it after the
Italian fashion, only sounding the 'o' and the
't,' it was a real pain to him; he said they
While she was speaking, he was looking at her
eyes, trying to discover their real shade; he
admired her hands and her ankles. Her whole body
was as harmonious as a poem. She bore the
impediment of modern dress with the grace of a
"Oh, Roma Lucida! How much you please me. Do you
know I was wandering about the streets like a lost
soul and that you base resurrected me? You have
performed a good deed. I hope you aren't going to
send me away now?"
"You will have to leave, though."
"Why? . . . You are about to reply with a
platitude and I will be obliged to answer you in
the same fashion. You don't know me; neither do I
know you. I would hardly be able to recognize you
in a crowd a month from now. Come, give me your
arm. We are going to walk by the setting sun
telling each other stories."
Willingly the little girl put her hand on the arm
of her new friend. It was thus they became
They strolled around all evening in the dusk. Then
they said farewell. He kissed her wrist above the
glove. She began to laugh, as she had never been
kissed in this way before.
"Promise to come to see me!"
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.