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Civilization

    So then, tomorrow I will get up as usual — the sae as
as yesterday, the day before . . . .
    And I will plod to my place at the bench that I may
paste labels on tomato cans until dark . . . after-
wards returning to a cold radiator, a few slices of
bologna and an unmade bad.
    World without end
    Amen.
                                        Tom Sleeper

GREENWICH VILLAGE OF YORE
III.  Peter Warren's Country-Place

Flying his flage aboard the Launceston, commanding on the station, and making such a brave show with his captured ships, Capitan — by coutesy Commodore  — Warren cuts a prodigiously fine figure here in New York about the year of grace 1744; so fine, indeed, that never a man in the whole Province could be compared with him in dignity save only the Governer himself. And under these brilliant circumstances it is not at all surprising that pretty Mistress Susannah De Lancey was quite ready to complete his tale of "Irishman's luck" by giving him in her own sweet person an heiress for a wife; nor that her excellent father — who alreiady must have made a pot of money out of this most promising son-in-law — was more than ready to give his consent to the match. It was about the time of the Commodore's marriage, probably, that he bought his Greenwich farm — a property of not far from three hundred acres; which was a little increased, later, by a gift of land voted to him by the city in recognition of his achievement at Louisburg in 1745.

Pending the building of his country-seat, and probably also as a winter residence. Captain Warren occupied the Jay house near the lower end of Broadway. One of the historians of New York, falling violently afoul another historian of New York, has asserted hotly that Captain Warren built and lived in the house, known as the Kennedy house, which long occupied the site No. 1 Broadway. Heaven forbid that I should venture to thrust my gossiping nose (if so bold a metaphor may be tolerated) into this archeological wrangle; but, with submission, it is necessary for my present purposes to assert positively that Captain Warren had no more to do with the building of the Kennedy house than he had to do with the casting down of the walls of Jericho. ln the English Records, under the date of May, 1745, is this entry: "Ordered: That a straight line be drawn from the south corner of the house of Mr. Augustas Jay, now in the occupation of Peter Warren, Esquire, to the north comer of the house of Archibald Kennedy, fronting the Bowling Green in Broadway, and that Mr. William Smith, who is now about to build a house (and all other persons who shall build between the two houses) lay their foundations and build conformably to the aforeisaid line." This record, I ooncieve, fixes definitely Captain Warren's downtown residence, and also sufficiently confirms the accepted genesis of the Kennedy house.

Concerning the country-seat at Greenwich even the historians have not very materially disagreed. It was built by Captain Warren on a scale of elegance appropriate to one who had only to drop across to the Leeward Islands and pick up a Spanish plate ship, or a few French West-Indiamen, in order to satisfy any bills which the carpenters and masons might send in; and the establishment seems to have been maintained upon a footing of liberality in keeping with this easy way of secunng a revenue. The house stood about three hundred yards back from the river, on ground which fell away in a gentle slope toward the water side. The main entrance was from the east; and at the rear — on the level of the drawing-room and a dozen feet or so above the sloping hill-side —  was a broad veranda commanding the view westward to the Jersey Highlands and southward down to bay clear to the Staten Island hills. I like to fancy my round little captain seated upon this veranda of placid summer afternoons, smoking a comforting pipe after his mid-day dinner, and taking with it, perhaps, as sea-faring gentlemen often did in those days, a glass or two of substantial rum and water to keep everything down under hatches well stowed. With what approving eyes must he have regarded the trimly kept lawns and gardens below him, and with what eyes of affection the Launceston all a-taunto, lying out in the stream. Presently doubtless, the whiffs from his pipe came at longer and longer intervals, and at last entirely ceased — as the spirit which animated his plumply prosperous body, lulled by its soft and mellowing surroundings, sank gently into peaceful sleep. And then I fancy him, an hour or two later, wakened by Mistress Sue's playing upon the harpsichord; and his saying handsome things to her (in his rich Irish brogue) when she comes from the drawing-room to join him and they stand together— one of his stout little arms tucked snugly about her jimp waist — looking out across the gleaming river and the Elysian Fields, dark in shadow, at the glowing splendor of the sunset above the foot-hills of the Palisades.

It was in the year 1809 that Mr. Samuel Burling's highly injudicious offer to plant the principal street of New Yoric — from Leonard Street northward to the Greenwich Lane — with poplar trees was accepted gratefully by the corporation, "because it will be an additional beauty to Broadway, the pride of our city;" and the outcome of that particular piece of beautifying was to make Broadway look for a great many years afterwards like a street which had escaped from a Noah's ark.

But long before anybody had even dreamed that the Broadway ever would be extended to these remote northern regions, the Warren farm had passed from the possession not only of Sir Peter, but also from the possession of his three daughters
Charlotte, Anne and Susannah — who were his sole descendants and heirs. The admiral seems to have been but little in America during the later years of his life; and after 1747 — when he was elected a member of Parliament for the borough of Westminster — I find no authentic trace of him on this side of the Atlantic. But Lady Warren, while Sir Peter was spending the most of his time at sea blazing away with his cannon at the French, very naturally continued to reside near her father and brother here in New York; not until his election to Parliament, at which time he became a house-holder in London, did she join him on the other side.

Doubtless, also, consideration for her daughters — in the matter of schooling, and with a look ahead toward match-making —   had much to do with her Ladyship's move. So far as matchmaking was concerned, the change of base enabled her to make a very fair score — two, out of a possible three. Charlotte, the eldest daughter, married Willoughby, Earl of Abingdon, and Ann, the second daughter, married Charles Fitzroy, afterward Baron Southampton: whereby is seen that real estate in New York, coupled with a substantial bank account, gave as firm assurance of a coronet seven-score years ago as it does today. Susannah, the youngest daughter, was indiscreet enough I fear, to make a mere love match. She married a paltry colonel of foot, one William Skinner — and presently died, as did also her husband, leaving behind her a baby Susannah to inherit her third of the chunky admiral's prize moneys and lands.

The names of the husbands of all three of these ladies became attached to the property in New York. Skinner Road was the present Christopher Street; Fitzroy Road ran north near the line of the present Eighth Avenue, from about the present Fourteenth Street to about the present Forty-second Street; and the Abingdon Road (called also Love Lane), almost on the line of the present Twenty-first Street, connected what now is Broadway with the Fitzroy Road and eventually was extended to the North River. The only survival of any of these names is in Abingdon Square.

The deeds for the property in the Greenwich region all begin by reciting
with the old-womanly loquacity of deeds — the facts in regard to Sir Peter's issue set forth above; and in addition tell how his estate was partitioned by a process in which the solemnity of legal procedure was mitigated by an agreeable dash of the dicing habits of the day: "In pursuance of the powers given in the said antenuptial deeds the trustees therein named, on March 31st, 1787, agreed upon a partition of the said lands, which agreement was with the approbation and consent of the cestui que trusts, to wit: Earl and Lady Abingdon, and Charles Fitzroy and Ann his wife, the said Susannah Skinner the second not then having arrived at age. In making the partition the premises were divided into three parts on a survey made thereof and marked A, B and C; and it was agreed that such partition should be made by each of the trustees naming a person to throw dice for and in behalf of their respective cestui que trusts, and that the person who should throw the highest number should have parcel A; the one who should throw the next highest number should have parcel B; and the one who should throw the lowest number should have parcel C — for the persons whom they respectively represented: and the premises were partitioned accordingly."

It was on the lines of the map made for this partition that Greenwich went along easily and peacefully until it was brought up with a round turn, in the year 1811, by the formation of the present City Plan.
                                    Thomas A. Janvier


Life: A Dream

LIFE is a dream in which figures appear with all the irrelevancy of fantastic designs in ancient tapestry. Friends, figures, passing shadows of people, come and vanish. All a dream, and we sleep on.

Realities come upon us in the most unexpected angles of life, but their effect passes, swiftly retreating as dream waifs flit across the edge of our fancy. Everything as in a dream.

Faces that meant so much to us, dear faces that contained the sum and all of our existence, — once so vivid, — go into the dim twilight of purple memories. All, as in a dream.

Then shadowy thoughts are re-awakened, and in a phantasmagoria of strange events, we have again all we had lost; all that had floated away in the mists of our imagination. All, as in a dream.

Weird combinations of people and things, as startling in their arrangement as exotic pictures in clashing colors, come upon us and we are overwhelmed by the bounty of our lives which can produce such arabesques. We almost wake.

But the dream goes on; and the rush of worlds in great cycles of perfection, make no stranger sound than the quiet currents of these episodes in the circles of our lives. We never awaken.
                                        Robert Swasey

A Woman's Revenge

By Guido Bruno

THE thin shadows of the dying day groped in hungry waves into the room. Their pointed tongues reached after the color of the pictures and the glitter of the polished furniture. The bevelled edges of the mirror gleamed steel blue and reflected the moving shadows of the wall, ghostly long and distorted.

A table with bric-a-brac seemed a miniature graveyard with tombstones and monuments and hovering clouds above. The slender pine trees out of the window and the dark heavens with the yellow shimmer of the departing sun, suggested a fantastic painting by some Japanese artist.

She stood at the window. She pressed her forehead against the glass till it became clouded from her breath and she looked at the sky. She observed how the deep yellow of the farthest horizon changed into a violet gray, how it was losing constantly its color; how the oncoming darkness defined itself; and the clear deep blue of the heavens stood out creating for the constellations a fabulous Oriental background . . . . And the evening star blazed up and sparkled like a solitary diamond in the black hair of a beautiful woman. She observed hurrying mists like zealous couriers rushing hither and thither, and she waited until a great misshapen cloud that had completely covered the entire picture swept away and was gone.

She listened to the murmuring voices of the physicians in the next room where her husband lay dying. She felt that they were consulting together how to break the truth to her as gently as possible. The little watch in her girdle ticked on and the beat of each second meant to her a step nearer the realization of her one desire — nearer the moment for whidi she had been longing a lifetime.

Often at night, lying in bed, she had folded her hands like a pious child and had prayed: "Dear God! Let me be with him in his last hour and let me reckon with him!"

It had happened just as she had imagined it would in her tormenting dreams. He lay in the next room wounded to death by one of the many husbands that he had betrayed. And again she folded her hands and prayed: "Let me reckon with him. Oh Lord! Don't let him die without my telling everything! Let me tell him how I hate him!"

"I hate him, I hate him," thrilled every nerve of her excited brain. Her ears listened enviously for the sound of steps in the next room and her eyes were fixed on the door knob which would turn before they could come out. Would she be able to speak to him — to the man that had destroyed her body, that had tormented her soul, that in every act of his life had offended her. Would he regain consciousness if only for a little while? Yes! Yes! . . . . He must! It would be too terrible; she had waited a lifetime for just this moment. She knew what she was going to say. In many sleepless nights she had rehearsed it; like a part in a play, she had repeated it over and over again. And she hated him! A thousand times more than she had ever loved him. And how she had loved him!

She was ashamed of this love and her hate and the consciousness of her rejected devotion mounted to fury.

The physicians had pressed her hand, had spoken to her in a quiet, professional way. The door stood open. She crossed the threshold. She closed the door behind her. She thrust the portieres aside.

The clear light of the five-branched chandelier flooded peacefully over the white bed. The Smyrna carpet that served as a plumeau softened the severity of the linen sheet

The long, high-bred fingers of his blue-veined hands played with the knotted fringe of the rug. He raised his head from the pillow; she saw how he tried to hide the signs of acute suffering. He even forced himself to smile and nodded to her. "Come! Come nearer to me," he breathed, scarcely audibly.

He was conscious!

She could speak! The lines about his eyes that had always fascinated her were more strongly marked than ever. He was very handsome. She looked away up to the white fceiling.

"For the others he had had love. For her indifferent aloofness, polite rejection . . . . ."

She stepped nearer to the bed. She did not see the hand extended to her. She looked him straight in the eyes.

He drew back as the helpless one does when he gazes in the eyes of his merciless, determined murderer.
(To be continued)

In Our Village

IT sounds more like a tale of something that might have happened some time in another age, somewhere — but surely far remote from America — this story of Capt. George Edward Hall, who painted Abraham Lincoln from life, who gave up his art for the sake of a woman who had married him upon this condition. Who went through the years of excitement during the War of Seccesion, as soldier and officer, who was a pioneer of California — the father of orchards — in that part of the country which he had chosen for his home, and who finally in the evening of his life, resumed the ambitions of his youth and became again a painter.

Half a century ago he had been in Greenwich Village and now an old man, almost eighty years of age, with snow-white hair and venerable beard, but unhampered in vigor and enthusiasm he came back; and his paintings, marvelous creations from out there where he tilled the soil, where he felt one with the bigness of God's own country, will be on exhibition in Bruno's Garret on Washington Square.

Only once in my life have I felt similarly looking at works of art. It was on the day that I viewed for the first time paintings by Cesanne. There is something strange to my eye on his canvases. It seems realer and realer the longer we look at it. It seekns to live, all at once, and if we turn and walk out into life, the things on the street seem different, they seem realer than ever before.

Captain Hall painted several portraits of Lincoln as he knew him, after sketches made years and years ago from life. There is a portrait of Nancy Hanks, Lincoln's mother. There are marine scenes and sunsets, and then his forests, the trees he loved so much and the house which he built with his own hands from trees he had chopped down himself.  Captain Hall's exhibition comprises twenty paintings which will be on view from January 10th, until January 24th.
 

Sadakichi Hartmann will shortly make an appearance in Greenwich Village and will read two of his dramas on January 18th and January 19th, in Bruno's Garret. He will read his "Christ," on January 18th, and his "Buddha," on January 19th. Both plays created great sensation in the early '90s, and it was mostly due to the persecution to which Sadakichi was exposed after publishing "Christ." That he did not have a universal success prophecied his talent and genius. There are only fifty seats reserved for each of these readings and those who desire to hear Sadakichi are advised to communicate, at their earliest convenience, with Bruno's Garret.
 

The first exhibition of "The Eclectics," a group of sculptors and painters of Greenwich Village, is on view at present at the Folsom Galleries. Marie Apel, she who did the Astor baby in bronze and a good bust of Sadakichi, is represented with some of her late work and most assuredly her best work.

Kirk Towns, of Dallas, Texas and formerly of Chicago, spent the Christmas holidays in New York, and the greater part of his time in the Village. Mr. Towns, who is the best known baritone in the west, was one of the victims at a certain New Year's Evening party which had been supposed to be a fancy dress ball, and was not in reality. Was it a joke or was it a misunderstanding of some sort? — but this is what happened: two women and three men — and Kirk Towns was one of them — were, all New Year's day, feverishly engaged in finishing some costumes designed by Clara Tice, and succeeded in getting them ready just in time to be a little bit late at the fancy dress ball.

Well, it wasn't. It was a very correct reception, and it was a rather delicate situation: the small fancy dressed party among old ladies and gentlemen and some young ones too, who had come to attend a social function.

Edison To American Musicians

THERE surely must be among the thousands of musicians in New York— and it is safe to say hundreds of thousands in the United States
men who are taking the old masters of the world for fundamental knowledge and worshipful reverie but feel the throbbing life around them — who feel its music, its tragedy, its romance, and who are endeavoring to express themselves through their medium: music. The far west, the Bad Lands, the deserts, that wonderful quiet and peace, the grandeur of nature, the solitude of a man, a lone traveler; then again the buzzing life of the busy industrious city. Shouldn't the noises, the roaring and the roaring which fill the air of our cities impress the creative genius of a musician, shouldn't all that that is distinctively American call forth an echo in the soul of the artist? There surely must be American music, right at this moment. It only has not had a chance to find its way to its right possessor: the American public.

The Little Thimble Theatre invites every American composer and musician to take advantage of its opportunities. Everybody will be considered equally seriously.

The Little Thimble Theatre does not endeavor to produce masterpieces or to detect geniuses, in other words, to create sensational successes. The artist is equally free to step before the public, as the people — his audience — are free to come and to like or to dislike. To have an audience must be the most cherished desire of every artist, and he who takes his art seriously will welcome his audience as his critics. Because there is no admission fee charged and everybody is welcomed as long as there are seats and standing capacity, the audience is comprised of a combination of people who resemble truly the American people at large to whom every artist wishes to appeal finally.

Passing Paris
                                        Paris, December 1st
 
GENERAL GALLIENI, our new Minister of War, chases after such citizens as may still be "embuscaded," like a terrier after rats. He is supported in his zeal by those people who in their claim for justice may commit many injustices and who call what is really, perhaps, envy and revenge by that mock term which is served up to all purposes: "equality." Many a delicate young constitution has been irrevocably compromised, lost perhaps, owing to the next door neighbor's or concierge's craving after "equality," expressed through anonymous letters addressed to the Ministry or corps commander. In the slacker regime favouritism may or may not be responsible for the acquittal of some culpable ones, in the severer many innocent ones are condemned. Which is the better rule?

I know a young man who, after having been wounded on active service, has been given some post in the rear. He dare not come home to spend Sundays with his wife and two little children because of the neighbours wanting so much to know "why" he has so many holidays, "why" he is not at die front, etc. So they have to meet in secret in some district where he is not known to the shrews prying at their windows.

And yet those — few, it is true, they are— who are influenyially connected and want to "get off" do. The Intransigeant asked openly the other day why the son of a celebrated poet— apparently sufficiently able-bodied, if not for active service, at least for a post at the rear — found nothing better to do than to perform in his father's plays for the benefit of wounded, etc. A certain sturdy looking actor, son of an actor, seems equally immune from the general rule. But the position of these is not to be envied either now or in the future.

The men whose health keeps them in the so-called auxiliary service have, notwithstanding, a very hard time. Long presence hours, as is the custom in other spheres of French life, are demanded of them; those working in offices, for instance, have ten-hour days (at 2
½ d). Sometimes the labour is manual, sometimes clerical. The discipline is as severe as in the active ranks, perhaps even more so, and life in the barracks is anything but luxurious. Though they may be spared from peril, these men do their duty in proportion to their physical capacities. It is a monotonous round indeed to which thy are harnessed and bringing neither "sport" nor glory.
                                        Muriel Ciolkewska       
Extract from a letter to "The Egoist," London.


Smiles

SHE was with me last night smiling across the table. Her eyes had been moist when, earlier, she had told me that "never, never, — come what might" would she forsake me.

The waiter came with the coffee and afterwards I gave her a little Chinese coin. This, too, she would "alwairs" keep with her as a love token. But quite accidentally it slipped out of her hand while I was showing her another bubble, a sea-green emerald brought from India, the gift of Rajah Mahil. The little coin went bounding away over the tile floor and was lost forever in some crack.

A thought crossed my mind for a half a moment  . . . then I smiled at her again across the table.
                                        Tom Sleeper


TWO DESERT SONGS

The Stars are white fire                       Once I stood very near
That hat died and crumbled,                A pale intense presence
Into a thousand pieces                       That was Love
Clear and unimpassioned                    Very
near
Yet even they falter                            My very speech was gone
I felt,
And fall                                             And now
Let them, what does it matter?            I am lonely.
                                        Florence Lowe

Books and Magazines of the Week

WILLIS T. HANSON, Jr., has written an early life of John Howard Payne with contemporary letters heretofore unpublished. There is just one objection I have to the remarkable work Mr. Hanson did in tiie vindication of that American genius who gave us our most loved home song, who was one of the greatest American actors and the iirst American dramatist whose work found appreciation and success in England: the book is printed privately in a very limited edition and only for complimentary distribution. Very much persecuted by his contemporaries, grossly misunderstood by those who formulated the opinion of future generations, Payne was and is — like Poe — a much abused and misunderstood personality. And just his early life shows us the struggles and heartaches of the boy whose later life we can understand now so much better.

Of great interest are his experiences as editor, publisher and proprietor of a dramatic and literary paper in New York, which he founded at the age of thirteen and conducted anonymously. He succeeded in being taken seriously by the leading newspapers and magazines, and even by Mr. William Coleman, the severe editor of the Post.

"In Boston, when Payne had been deprived of his favorite amusement he had had recourse to his pen; so, in New York, when he found a like condition awaiting him he decided to meet it as he had in Boston; and on December 28, 1805, anonymously appeared the first number of a little weekly publication, entitled the Thespian Mirror, printed for the Editor by Southwick and Hardcastle, No. 2 Wall Street."

"As noted in his introduction, it was the purpose of the editor in presenting the sheet to the 'enlightened citizens of New York,' to exhibit, a specimen in matter and manner of work, which on sufficient encouragement, would be issued in
the metropolis; the work to comprehend a collection of interesting documents relative to the stage, and its performers; chiefly intended to promote the interests of the American Drama, and to eradicate false impressions respecting its nature, objects, design and tendency of Theatrical Amusements."

"It had at first been Payne's plan to issue a literary paper, and without communicating his plan he had composed a prospectus for a publication to be known as the Pastime, intended for the perusal of youth only. After some reflection, considering the existing number of papers called 'literary,' and believing the habits of the citizens of New York— as stated in No. XIV, of the Thespian Mirror, better calculated to encourage a work more intimately connected with the prevailing thirst for pleasure, he had recourse to his favorite topic, and struck the plan of the Thespian Mirror. He seems to have secured pecuniary supplies which enabled him to enter upon the work; the printers were applied to; and it was but three days from the moment of the first projection to that of publication — a period more inconsiderable when it is remembered that the only time at his command was before eight in the morning and after eight in the evening. These young gentiemen, two of them fellow clerks in the store, were alone entrusted with the secret.

"Following the issue of the first number a few subscribers appeared and such complimentary notice was given to the Mirror by the newspapers, that Payne was encouraged to proceed."

In Which

The little monthly in which Norman Geddes, in Detroit "says just what he thinks," contains a good reproduction of Van Dyck's famous painting, ''St. Martin Cutting his Mantel and Sharing it with a Poor Man." The masterpiece is a gift to the people of the United States from Mr. Charles Leoon Cardon, the noted artist and connoisseur of Brussels, Belgium, in recognition of the generous sympathy and relief which has poured from the American people during the last year. It was presented to the United States Minister, Brand Whitlock, a short time ago and will be presented to this country on Washington's birthday. According to the wishes of the government, it will be exhibited in the large cities of the country and then find its permanent home in the beautiful Toledo Museum of Art, of which Mr. Whitlock was a trustee during his residence there.

The Wild Hawk

Hervey White, the editor's poem "Ave Maria," in the December issue, is a masterpiece. Its spirit is a unique combination of the wonderful devotion of a Catholic and a frank admiration of a twentieth century man.

The Philosophy of Health

"A Stuffed Club" appears under a new name but edited by its old publisher. Dr. Tilden.

Our Town

Our namesake, the Greenwich in Connecticut, has a new magazine, a weekly which calls itself "The Magazine Newspaper of America's Ideal Suberb." Norman Talcoft wrote in the current issue an interesting comparison between Greenwich Village and Greenwich Town, and a fragrant bouquet did he hand to our little weekly in one of his November issues. Belated Thanks!

Book Plate Auction

A well known resident of Greenwich Village, Mr. Henry Blackwell, disposed last week of his collection of book plates, comprising the richest representation of very scarce early American book plates in an auction held in the "Collectors' Club." Many originals by American engravers and artists of fame were in the collection. Mr. Blackwell is writing at present a book on American Book-Plates previous to the War of Secession.

Newark Wishes To Attract Poets

THE Committee of One Hundred offers a series of prizes, aggregating $1,000 for poems on Newark and its 250th anniversary and plans to publish the best of the poems submitted in a volume to be entitled, "Newark's Anniversary Poems."

In this competition all the poets of our country are invited to participate.

The prize poem on Newark and its anniversary may touch on any or all of such topics as, the city's historic aspects, its rapid industrial development as well as its civic and educational features, the chief purpose of its celebration, — which is to develop a wider and deeper public spirit.

Newark is not all industries, smoke, rush and din. It is a great center of production and in its special field of work is alert and progressive. But it has also beautiful homes, fine parks, admirable schools and a useful library. Its thousands of
shade trees are the envy of many cities. The cleanliness of its highways surprises even the Newarker himself. It has a good government, churches in plenty and many worthy clubs and societies. Art and science, even, are not altogether neglected here. Newark is an old town, solid and conservative and tenacious of certain old time peculiarities. Newark, with 400,000 people, the largest city in New Jersey, though known to all the world as a producer of honest goods, is still to that same world quite unknown as to its own special quality among American cities. Will the poet, the man of insight and of prophecy, kindly come forth and discover her to the world and to herself?

There are many interesting phases in Newark's life and in its celebration. All are within the field of the inspiration of the poet we are seeking. To make our volume interesting, its verses should touch on a wide range of subjects. The wits
as well as the philosophers have their opportunity here. We think our city already quite worthy! Now we seek a poet who shall make us famous! If with him comes one who makes us ludicrous — and he does it well — to him also we can award a prize!

Replated Platitudes

The penalty of being a generation ahead of your time, is to become the fool of your generation, to become perchance, the prophet of all future generations.

Those who, having no business, make a business of pursuing activities which have no purpose and give a purpose to those who make a business of pursuing those whose life has no purpose.

Yes, "knowledge is power" if whoever has the knowledge also has the power to correlate that knowledge to the needs of the world; especially so much of the world as has the power to pay for the satisfaction of its needs.
                                        —Julius Doerner


Number 2
                  Illustration

Prayer
By H. Thompson Rich

        Europe is all one tomb! The awful words
        Make the most hardened ones among us sigh;
        And still the soldier multitudes come by,
        Cold legions with their life-blood turned to curds.
        For they have seen their fellows' desperate herds
        Stumble upon the stricken plain and die;
        And they have known the buzzards' long, harsh cry -—
        And they have missed the music of the birds.

        God send us healing pity of green grass,
        And heartening of flowers, and help of trees,
        To bury The Red Shame forever more;
        And they whose bodies perish, they who pass
        Out of the World and over unknown seas —
        Send them forgetfulness of Death and War.

From "The Red Shame" — Bruno Chap Books for January

Phantasies
By Heroichiro K. Myderco
 

A Guest

ONLY yesterday a guest came and praised the flower of our humble garden; today the guest is no more with us. We see the tiny quilt upon which he sat, the tea cup from which he drank his tea, the square fire box in which he dropped the ashes from his pipe, and upon them all the sad airy shower of cherrry blossoms.

Shall we call Death a mystery? Then, surely, our guest's life consecrated to art and its love, is far more mysterious than his death. Whereof we stretch our vain hands and stare at the abyss of Eternity, claiming for a trifle more token of his heart, we gain naught but a grave and sunburned wreath tattered in shreds. We must turn to ourselves to love him. Such a sympathetic guest was he that after he was gone we all became conscious of ourselves, and our life became full-limbed and whole-souled. Out of a thousand who came from the West, he alone remained with us, virtuous, brave and smiling. If his love to us were noble and manly, if his death were sad and heroic, what did we give him as the token of our soul's gratitude? We are ashamed to disclose our face before him, save in one instance, when we know that he is still loving us beyond the maze of Death. Such was the coming and passing of a guest to our garden, and the flowers are lonelier now without him.

The rain beats against the boughs of trees, and the roof is wet; I come down from my seat and pick up a name card from the empty quilt upon which he sat yesterday. It is heavy like a leaf of seaweed. On its surface I read the name of our guest    .   .   .   Lafcadio Hearn!

Maude: A Memory

By Guido Bruno
(Continued from last issue)

The lights of the skyscrapers of Chicago reminded us of the end of our trip. I was a new man. I longed for the city — to go back to those surroundings I had left, a few hours ago, dissatisfied with myself — not contented with my lot and no prospects for a change for the better at all.

But now I wanted to go back to do things and there were lots of things I wanted to do. I felt instinctively that there was in me just the thing that she seemed to lack. With the sharp knowledge of the physician I realized what she needed to achieve the success at which she was aiming. She needed a strong man who would be able to create the concentration in her which she did not have — who could make her see things as they ought to be seen by other people. All my life I had collected beautiful things and guarded them — pictures and precious stones and bric-a-bracs. How I wished I could let her see those things because I knew she could appreciate them. She wanted to know everything about myself and she had such a fine understanding that she guessed what I didn't care to speak about. She didn't know my name. I didn't know hers.

The time for parting came.

"Shall we meet again?" I asked.

"Shall we? yes, we shall," she said. Tomorrow if it rains I shall be at the Ashland Drug store at 2 o'clock. When it rains I have a headache and I'll need those tablets and also you might help me if you wish to. I don't want to know your last
name and don't you ever ask me mine. And now, here's my baggage check. Please assist me in getting off the steamer and then promise not to look when I go."

That night I went home and prayed fervently that it might rain the next day. I felt like a young boy. I have hated the name of Maude as long as I can remember. When a little boy, I once had a governess — the most dreadful old maid you can imagine. Her name was Maude — and she knew how to make me perfectly unhappy. That night I started to love that name. I acted very silly. I was thinking of all the things I wanted to show her, that I wanted to talk to her about and I awoke the next morning and glorious sunshine poured into the room. When I raised the curtain, I felt dreadfully unhappy.

I performed my duties as usual that day but everything seemed to carry a greater happiness, the day was brighter, after I remembered the cheerful and original remarks Maude had made about my work the previous day.

I had a very important appointment for two o'clock in the afternoon. I arranged to have it postponed. It was the finest day you could imagine. There were no signs of coming rain. But I believed with all my heart that there would be rain because I could not grasp the thought that I would never see her again. And as there was no rain, I went up anyhow. I entered the store and there she was. She seemed embarrassed for a second. I could not make out why. Because
I had come in spite of the sunshine? Or because she was there herself?

"I just dropped in to telephone and have purchased a slug," she said, "but I don't care to phone now" and she showed me the slug to show me there was no other purpose in her entering the store. And I thought, "how silly," and took the slug out of her hand and put it in my pocket. I wanted to keep it. I like little things with a lot of memories attached to them. I am still keeping it in my pocket now.

"That was yesterday, Kenneth, and you don't know how charming she was, and how I felt the more that she was the woman made for me. Made for me so that we could perfect one another! And again we parted, not knowing who we really were. But we wanted to meet tomorrow and spend the afternoon in one of those quaint little suburbs near Chicago. Can you imagine, Kenneth, what I felt when you purchased that horrid pink newspaper? And there I saw the face I had dreamed of all day. And the line telling me her name? And those sincere looking eyes that had lied to me? That she had not only played for a pastime with the most sacred feeling of a man, but had lowered herself to forget that she was the wife of another man? And do you know what I must have felt to know that this woman — who was my constant thought since I met her, for whom I wished to do all the things we think of doing for those whom we wish to see happy — that this woman was at the present time in her home somewhere in Chicago, paralyzed with pain, uncertain about the safety of her husband?"

"I wonder, Kenneth, if she is sitting right now in a dark corner of an unlighted room somewhere and living through dreadful hours of remorse. Through those hours when man and woman who never have believed in a God, wonder whether there is not a punishment of sin. Does she not think that this is a punishment for her sin?"

"The loveliest women are charming liars. But why did she tell me all those things? How rotten her soul must be. If she is able to talk about the most sublime, about the highest things, looking into the admiring eyes of a man — listening to his devoted speeches and knowing in the bottom of her heart, I have no right to look and listen! How vile she must be."

''My dear fellow," said Kenneth, looking his friend in the eyes after listening intently, and without having dared to change his position, "I would not judge her too quickly. Are you not mistaken? Are you sure it is she you met? Pardon me — it seems to be rude, but I don't believe you when you say she is vile. I know you too well and when you speak about someone as you spoke about her, she must possess exceptional qualities. You did not even tell me that she is beautiful! But you told me her aim in lie. Do you really believe that a woman such as you describe could change as quickly in reality as in your own mind? I think you do her an injustice."
(To be continued)