Village in History
(I am indebted for this story to Mr. Henry Collins
Brown, who gave me permission io exctract it from his
beautiful ''Book of Old New York," printed by him
privately for collectors.)
ADMIRAL SIR PETER
WARREN was in New York in 1744. He had then returned from
Martinique, where he captured many French and Spanish prizes
with his squadron of sixteen sailing craft. These were sold
for him by Stephen De Lancey & Co., arid netted him a
considerable fortune, and it is said that he bought his
Greenwich farm of three hundred acres with a part of the
money. At any rate, the rise of Greenwich is attributed to
Sir Peter, who married the daughter of his sales agent,
Susannah De Lancey. Abingdon Square, with its little park,
is a memento of the Warren farm, the oldest of Sir Peter's
three daughters having married the Earl of Abingdon for whom
the Square is named. Abijah Hammond became the owner of the
farm after the death of the vice-admiral, and in 1819 Mr.
Van Nest purchased from him the mansion, with the square
bounded by Fourth, Bleecker, Perry and Charles Streets. In
1865 the house was torn down, and most of the present houses
were erected on its site.
No more bewildering
confusion of street formation exists anywhere than in this
section of the city, where was once old Greenwich. An
example is Fourth Street, which crosses Tenth, Eleventh and
Twelfth Streets at very nearly right angles. Other streets
start all right, run for a block or two with regularity, and
then take unreasonable turns, or else bring up one before a
brick wall. This condition may be attributed to the
fantastic ideas of the owners of land in that section in the
early period of the city's growth. When a short cut from one
place to another was desired they cut a lane, and perhaps
another to some part of the farm land, leaving, with what
improved conditions the city had made in street making
there, a tangled network of the old and the new that will
Greenwich Road followed the
line of the present Greenwich Street, along the shore front,
and led to Greenwich Village. While in dry weather most of
the route was good ground, in wet weather, especially in the
region of the Lispenard salt meadows, which then lay north
and south of the present Canal street, and of the marshy
valley of Minetta Creek (about Charlton street), it was
difficult of access. An inland road was therefore approved
in 1768 from the Post Road (the present Bowery) to what is
now Astor Place, then to Waverly Place, then to Greenwich
Avenue. Two sections of this road exist today: Astor Place
and Greenwich Avenue between Eighth and Fourteenth streets.
The rest is obliterated.
The open space at Astor
Place is a part of the road to Greenwich known as Monument
Lane, or "road to the Obelisk,'' because at its northern
extremity, or which is now Eighth Avenue and Fifteenth
Street. General Wolfe, the hero of Quebec, had a memorial
erected to him. The lane extended from the Bowery to
Washington Square, turned north-west and skirted Greenwich
Village. At Jefferson Market, where Greenwich Avenue joins
Sixth Avenue, the reader will find the last section of the
No more healthful location,
exists in New York than what was once the site of the
village. The epidemics of virulent diseases that attacked
the old city found no lodgement in Greenwich. This
healthfulness is due to the fact that the underlying soil of
the district to a depth of at least fifty feet is a pure
sand, and provides excellent natural drainage.
Bank Street is reminiscent
of the yellow fever epidemic in 1798, in that the Bank of
New York and a branch of the Bank of the United States
purchased two plots of eight city lots each in Greenwich
Village, far away from the city proper, to which they could
remove in case of being placed in danger of quarantine. In
1799 two houses were erected on them, and in September of
the same year the banks were removed to the village, and
gave the name to the present street, which was then a lane.
The year 1822 saw another influx of population to Greenwich
Village because of its healthfulness. "The town fairly
exploded and went flying beyond its borders, as though the
pestilence had been a burning mine. The city presented the
appearance of a town besieged. From daybreak till night one
line of carts, containing merchandise and effects, were seen
moving toward Greenwich Village and the upper parts of the
city. Carriages and hacks, wagons and horsemen, were
scouring the streets and filling the roads. Temporary stores
and offices were erecting. Even on Sunday carts were in
motion, and the saw and hammer busily at work. Within a few
days thereafter (September) the Custom House, the Post
Office, the bank, the insurance offices and the printers of
newspapers located themselves in the village, or in the
upper part of Broadway, where they were free from the
impending danger, and these places almost instantaneously
became the seat of the immense business usually carried on
in the great metropolis." This epidemic "caused the building
up of many streets with numerous wooden buildings, for the
uses of the merchants, banks, offices, etc." An old
authority says that he "saw corn growing on the present
corner of Hammond (West Eleventh) and Fourth Streets on a
Saturday morning, and on the following Monday Sykes and
Nible had a house erected capable of accommodating three
hundred boarders. Even the Brooklyn ferryboats ran up here
Three remnants of Greenwich
Village are the two old frame dwellings at the southwest
corner of Eleventh Street and Sixth Avenue, and the
triangular graveyard near the corner, the second place of
burial owned by the Jews on the island. When Eleventh Street
was opened almost the whole of the Jewish burial ground was
swept away. The street went directly across it, leaving only
the corner on its south side and a still smaller corner on
its north side.
(To be continued)
Forgotten American Journalist
AMONG old manuscripts in a
second-hand bookshop in Philadelphia, I found on a recent
trip, letters and articles written by an American journalist
and editor of the Fifties, by Willis Gaylord Clark. So
original and so progressed were his ideas on men and things
in these old yellow sheets, offered for sale at a pittance,
that I tried to find out a little more about this satirist,
whose name seems to be given to oblivion. His brother, Lewis
Gaylord Clark, published in 1844, a little volume of the
literary remains, and that was about all I could find. In
the preface to this collection a letter of Washington Irving
is reproduced in which Irving expresses his sympathy with
the family of the deceased newspaperman, and closes with
"And he has left behind him
writings which will make men love his memory and lament his
Willis Gaylord Clark was
born in Otisco, in the county of Onondaga, in the state of
New York. He was the son of a soldier in the days of the
Revolution, and writing for newspapers and periodicals since
the age of fourteen. He was editor of the Colombian Star, in
South Carolina, and later took over the editorship of the
Philadelphia Gazette. He wrote for the New York
Knickerbocker Magazine a series of amusing papers under the
quaint title of Ollapodiana. The permanent value of Mr.
Clark's newspaper feuilletons in the daily American Press is
pointed out in an extended notice in the American Quarterly
Review; in the Editor's Table of the Knickerbocker Magazine
for July, 1841, an account of his life is given on three
pages. He was a poet and a few of his poems can be found in
the "Poets and Poetry of America."
He seems to me the only
American representative of that branch of journalism which
is unknown in the newspapers of the United States: the
feuilleton, a happy combination of narrative, instructive,
satirical, about something that happened today or yesterday,
with a touch of intimacy in a milieu, familiar to every
Among the many articles he
wrote, a few are especially interesting because they seem so
far ahead of their own times. There is, for instance,
"Leaves from an Aeronaut," the humorous, but most likely
imaginary ascension in a dirigible balloon and the travel
through the air.
Then there is a series of
short sketches which appeared in the Philadelphia Gazette,
1830 and 1831, as fictitious correspondence from New York,
"Mephistopheles in New York."
His critical paper,
"American Poets and their Critics," is a most remarkable
rebuke to the poets of the Forties, men and women who had
created social centres in New York and were at their best
proclaiming the fame of English poetry and of English men of
letters, denying that there was any literature of importance
in America. This article, "American Poets and Their
Critics," had been refused by most of the reputable American
literary journals, but appeared subsequently in London. I
would like to quote a passage which will illustrate how
decidedly American Clark wished to see American letters and
art. "The fact is as undeniable as it is generally
acknowledged, that since the death of Lord Byron, the best
fugitive poetry of the United States has been greatly
superior to that of England. We have bards among us whose
productions would shine by the side of seven-tenths even of
the authors collected in those ponderous tomes entitled the
'British Classics,' of 'Selected British Poets.' Let any
reader of taste look over those collections, and see how
much matter there is in them, of no superior merit, floating
down the stream of time, like flies in amber, only because it is bound up with productions
of acknowledged and enduring excellence."
From an old
English Chap Book
Two Tales by
from The Russian by M. W.
I, MADLY loved a musical-comedy
actress. It seemed that she loved me too.
She was constantly
"Why don't you write a play
in which I should have the main part."
I sat down and wrote a
Now I am in love with a
I think, she loves me, too.
She constantly repeats:
"Why don't yon write a
drama in which I should play the main part."
I sat down, and I am
writing — a farce.
week's time we met in a restaurant.
course, we talked about women.
"In my life women cut no figure!"
very unfortunate! declared I with regret.
week's time we met in a restaurant.
conversation, of course, was about women.
life women cut no figure!"
lucky fellow! exclaimed I, with envy.
week's time we talked about women again.
life women cut no figure!" said I, throwing myself back of
very unfortunate!" exclaimed he, with sorrow.
met in a week's time.
"In my life women cut no figure!"
lucky fellow!" filtered he, with envious irritation.
talked about women.
the use of raising this question!" said he indolently, "it
is a perpetuum mobile!"
perpetuum immobile," — I corrected him.
night; and silent. The mist is still beside the frozen dykes; it lies
on the stiff grass, about the poplar trunks. The last star
The gulls are coming up
from the sea, crying and drifting across like pieces of
mist, like fragments of white cloth. They turn their heads
and peer as they pass. The sky low down glows deep purple.
The plovers swirl and dart
over the ploughed held beyond; their screams are sorrowful
and sharp. The purple drifts up the pale sky and grows
redder. The mist stirs.
The brass on the harness of
the plough-horses jingles as they come into the field. The
birds rise in scattered knots. The mist trembles, grows
thinner, rises. The red and gold sky shines dully on the
The men shout across the
thawing clods; the ploughs creak; the horses steam in the
cold; the plovers and gulls have gone; the sparrows twitter.
The sky is gold and blue,
very faint and damp.
It is day.
Images —Old and New. The Four Seas Co., Boston, 1916.
Tom Sleeper's Spring Song
An Ode to Spring
bloomin' buds are bustin' on all the bally trees
And down the robins coma a wheezin' amd a
snortin' down the breeze
The donkeys are a brayin' and the jays begin to sing
'Cause they know without our tellin' 'em
It's Spring — Sweet
The fishes in the ocean are a jukpin' and a splashin'
And the water bugs are actin' in a most peculiar fashion
The cats are yowlin' choruses a sittin' in a ring
'Cause they know about tellin' 'em
It's Spring — Sweet
The mushrooms in the cellar'll be blooming pretty soon
And the neighbor's puppies whinin' and a yapping at the moon
The April skies are leakin' and a wettin' everything
So come on and join the chorus — Here's to
Spring — Sweet Spring.
In Memoriam: Dick Davis
Richard Harding Davis had his foible of vanity, but he was a
man of quality, too. His courage was never questioned and
his integrity as a reporter of events as he saw them was
flawless. Moreover, he could write real romance. And only O.
Henry has things to his credit that surpass in short-story
craftsmanship "Gallegher" and "The Bar Sinister," while the
"Van Bibber" sketches are as true to life as they are happy
in spirit. "Dickie" Davis was a pretty high type of American
and not the less high because he did good work although
possessed from the beginning of means that would have
prevented many another young man from doing anything. They
are a little breed who attempt to belittle the achievements
of Richard Harding Davis.
HIS LIFE AND
By FRANK HARRIS
The next issue of Bruno's Weekly will contain a review and a
few of the most remarkable passages from the latest work of
The work is the most important human document of the
twentieth century. It is not merely the life of a man. It is
the evolution of an epoch in English life and letters. It is
a romance as it could be written only by Life itself with
the half-blood of men and woman.
It is a supreme tragedy because none of its actors ever
thought it could be one. It shows men at their worst while
they were forgetting pity and compassion, reveling in
inhumanity and cruelty for the defense of that image of a
wrong Christian humanity they had made for themselves. It
shows man at his nearest to God: humble, resigned, in the
confessional; drinking to the dregs the bitterest cup;
voluntarily — at the gate of the new, of a real life.
The gate opens. Pity above all, and love even as punishment,
is the driving power of this new life.
Friendship is written in this book upon each page; unselfish
love even towards the one who was the Judas Iscariot; who
had ruined a life unknowingly; who had caused pains and
condemnation and had driven a man to soul suicide. Love and
pity for the very man who would not allow the dead to sleep
And then the end.
And end with terror.
The man died as he had lived!
That last chapter of the book!
Eternal Justice has been dispensed and the dead are being
put to rest with loving reverence. There is left only a
sweet memory; a fragrance of the beautiful in a man's life
and pity and love.
Frank Harris has written a true life of Oscar Wilde.
But incidentally, a wonderful book for humanity.
A big man has written about a fellow man in a big way.
Love was his guardian angel.
Love led to victory.
Wilde — about 1900
By Francis S. Saltus
delectable, I love thy brown
Deep-glimmering color like a wood-nymph's tress;
Potent and swift to urge on Love's excess,
Thou wert most loved in the fair Aztec town.
Where Cortes, battling for Iberia's crown,
First found thee, and with rough and soldier guess,
Pronounced thy virtues of rare worthiness
And fit by Madrid's dames to gain renown.
When tasting of thy sweets, fond memories
Of bygone days in Versailles will arise;
Before the King, reclining at his ease
I see Dubarry in rich toilet stand,
A gleam of passion in her lustrous eyes,
A Sevres cup in her jeweled hand!
berry! where may mortals find
Nectars divine that can with thee compare,
When, having dined, we sip thy essence rare.
And feel towards wit and repartee inclined?
Thou wert of sneering, cynical Voltaire
The only friend; thy power urged Balzac's mind
To glorious effort; surely Heaven designed
Thy devotees superior joys to share.
Whene'er I breathe thy fumes, 'mid Summer stars,
The Orient's splendent pomps my vision greet.
Damascus with its myriad minarets gleams!
I see thee, smoking, in immense bazaars,
Or yet in dim seraglios, at the feet
Of blonde Sultanas, pale with amorous dreams!
Shriveled up in a deep chair, her closed hands twitching
nervously between her knees, the young wife.
The husband is seated at the writing table.
He smokes cigarettes, walks up and down, resumes his seat,
walks up and down, again resumes his seat.
They never look one at the other.
A long suspended scene.
The husband opens the drawer of his writing table.
He takes out a small, long box, and opens it.
He holds a gun in his hands.
The young wife watches him intensely.
She shrinks back and watches him again; motionless.
THE HUSBAND: "To the telephone, Nelly!"
She rises, walks over to the telephone upon the table.
The husband hands her the receiver; he turns the mouthpiece
towards her face.
"What's your lover's number?"
"What — is — your lover's — number?"
Following the peremptory look of her husband, she calls the
number into the instrument; "5712."
THE HUSBAND whispering, but it sounds more like hissing,
into her ear: "This is Nelly __ __ __."
A little silence; evidently somebody speaks at the
other end of the line.
THE HUSBAND: "I'm so lonesome for you, I am so wretched
without you __ __ __."
She repeats these words.
THE HUSBAND: If you only were here __ __ __."
THE HUSBAND: "My husband went away this morning quite
unexpectedly. He will stay away for three days. Won't you
come, dear __ __ __?"
She is silent.
He looks at her
She is silent __ __ __.
He points the gun at her.
She speaks the words into the telephone.
An inaudible answer at the other end of the wire.
She screams into the instrument:
"Don't come! He is here! He knows everything!"
The husband places his finger on the trigger.
She stares boldly into his face, erect, ready to die, but so
He has let go the gun.
It crashes to the floor.
He walks over to the writing desk.
He is seated.
A long silence __ __ __.
Then he speaks very slowly: "So it is then; if a woman
really loves a man? Nelly go! __ __ __ and go in peace!"
After the German of Peter
Altenberg by Guido Bruno
on Suicide — IV
By Martin Brown
SCATTER the rose-leaves, let
the petals fall
They'll serve as
actors in my little play.
Each one a tear, a
hope, or best of all
The sunshine sweetness
of a golden day.
The hour grows late,
yet still the purple wine
Invites a parting
toast — let us agree
To drink to those dead
days when you were mine
When I was yours,
first, last and utterly.
You frown — alas my
heart is sorrow-sore,
Your husband too has
set his glass aside.
Let's pass it then for
I have many more
How's this? A health
unto the virgin bride.
You will not drink? My
glass is all prepared.
You will not stay? How
sad that word good-bye.
If they had known it
how they would have stared,
A toast to death —
'tis done, and I can die.
The Roman Way
A bath of clouded glass or gleaming
A perfumed powder
brought from Araby,
Clear crystal water
warm enough to still
Pulsating nerves that
An ethered drink to
make it more a dream,
A jeweled knife that
The big blue veins
that cross upon each wrist.
Sharp stinging pain
that slowly dies away.
eyes that vaguely watch
The crimson spirals
A growing faintness
and a cynic's smile,
A bath of blood — a
soul gone utterly.
As neighbours you will only see in us
the, one-thousandth part of our real self
Could you see the whole of us you surely
would not recognize us.
"Please do tell me what is grotesque?"
It is that, part of our real nature which
the necessity of life makes us give up.
To be able to play with life is artistic
Plentiful are your hours of rest for your
Without masks we are only distorted to
simplicity and too easy to be understood by common sense.
I am just grace and dignity.
Never should I feel or think.
It degrades my class, but I have to live,
too —, and therefore I have to be — of course very privately
— a sensible woman.
Of course poets break the hearts of their
heroines. To vulgar pains do I have to concentrate myself,
hypocritically. But my tragedies occur every hour of the day
and they cannot be acted. And my poets are not born yet.
When I am silently in thought, I am
really a poetess!
It is at the shortcomings of human art
that the divine soul begins to speak audibly.
In me lives the Divine Painter, my eye,
reflecting the things of the world.
But long is the way from eye to hand —
The Woman of the World
"Look at me!" sobs eternally an abused
little child —
But the rustling of my silks sounds
louder in my ears.
Do you see in us only a daring play of
colors? We cannot change it.
If we do it with taste, we live even
without an idea.
After the German of Peter
Allenberg by Guido Bruno
IT is a bit
of a river that flows between — between the strip of land on
this and the strip of land on that side. Thousands of
honeyless hives bury the strip on this; thousands the strip
on that side — honeyless hives choked by honeyless
two-legged lives — but what of these? It is night.
It is night, but a song, borne by a friendly wind, steals
across the river across from yonder side to this, across to
me. It is not a song of night's; it is not a song of
Nature's; it is not a song of the gods'. It is — but stay.
It is not for you. Your name is Profanation; you are of the
honeyless two-legs that choke the honeyless hives that bury
the earth; you are —
It is a bit of a river that flows between. It is night. A
song steals across to me. And only the river 'twixt singer
some rat's little child?
I won't love you if you are.
Impressions of America
By Oscar Wilde
This interesting account
of Oscar Wilde's tour through America was printed
privately in a little booklet for circulation among his
friends, by Stuart Mason, and on account of the scarcity
of this private print, was not accessible to the public.
It it not contained in his collected works.
I fear I cannot picture America as altogether an Elysium —
perhaps, from the ordinary standpoint I know but little
about the country. I cannot give its latitude or longitude;
I cannot compute the value of its dry goods, and I have no
very close acquaintance with its politics. These are matters
which may not interest you, and they certainly are not
interesting to me.
The first thing that struck me on landing in America was
that if the Americans are not the most well-dressed people
in the world, they are the most comfortably dressed. Men are
seen there with the dreadful chimney-pot hat, but there are
very few hatless men; men wear the shocking swallow-tail
coat, but few are to seen with no coat at all. There is an
air of comfort in the appearance of the people which is a
marked contrast to that seen in this country, where, too
often, people are seen in close contact with rags.
The next thing particularly noticeable is that everybody
seems in a hurry to catch a train. This is a state of things
which is not favourable to poetry or romance. Had Romeo or
Juliet been in a constant state of anxiety about trains, or
had their minds been agitated by the question of
return-tickets, Shakespeare could not have given us those
lovely balcony scenes which are so full of poetry and
America is the noisiest country that ever existed. One is
waked up in the morning, not by the singing of the
nightingale, but by the steam whistle. It is surprising that
the sound practical sense of the Americans does not reduce
this intolerable noise. All Art depends upon exquisite and
delicate sensibility, and such continual turmoil must
ultimately be destructive of the musical faculty.
There is not so much beauty to be found in American cities
as in Oxford, Cambridge, Salisbury or Winchester, where
there are lovely relics of a beautiful age; but still there
is a good deal of beauty to be seen in them now and then,
but only where the American has not attempted to create it.
Where the Americans have attempted to produce beauty they
have signally failed. A remarkable characteristic of the
Americans is the manner in which they have applied science
to modern life.
This is apparent in the most cursory stroll through New
York. In England an inventor is regarded almost as a crazy
man, and in too many instances invention ends in
disappointment and poverty. In America an inventor is
honoured, help is forthcoming, and the exercise of
ingenuity, the application of science to the work of man, is
there the shortest road to wealth. There is no country in
the world where machinery is so lovely as in America.
I have always wished to believe that the line of strength
and the line of beauty are one. That wish was realised when
I contemplated American machinery. It was not until I had
seen the water-works at Chicago that I realised the wonders
of machinery; the rise and fall of the street rods, the
symmetrical motion of the great wheels is the most
beautifully rhythmic thing I have ever seen.
(In a poem published in an American magazine on February
15th, 1882, Wilde wrote:
"And in the throbbing engine room
Leap the long rods of polished steel.")
One is impressed in America, but not favourably impressed,
by the inordinate size of everything. The country seems to
try to bully one into a belief in its power by its
I was disappointed with Niagara — most people must be
disappointed with Niagara. Every American bride is taken
there, and the sight of the stupendous waterfall must be one
of the earliest, if not the keenest, disappointments in
American married life. One sees it under bad conditions,
very far away, the point of view not showing the splendour
of the water. To appreciate it really one has to see it from
underneath the fall, and to do that it is necessary to be
dressed in a yellow oil-skin, which is as ugly as a
mackintosh — and I hope none of you ever wears one. It is a
consolation to know, however, that such an artist as Madame
Bernhardt has not only worn that yellow, ugly dress, but has
been photographed in it.
Perhaps the most beautiful part of America is the West, to
reach which, however, involves a journey by rail of six
days, racing along tied to an ugly tin-kettie of a steam
engine. I found but poor consolation for this journey in the
fact that the boys who infest the cars and sell everything
that one can eat — or should not eat— were selling editions
of my poems vilely printed on a kind of grey blotting paper,
for the low price of ten cents.
(Poems by Oscar Wilde. Also his lecture on the English
Renaissance. The Seaside Library, Vol. lviii. No. 1183,
January 19th, 1882. 4to. Pp 32. New York: George Munro,
A copy of this edition was sold by auction in New York last
year for eight dollars.)
Calling these boys on one side I told them that though poets
like to be popular they desire to be paid, and selling
editions of my poems without giving me a profit is dealing a
blow at literature which must have a disastrous effect on
poetical aspirants. The invariable reply that they made was
that they themselves made a profit out the transaction and
that was all they cared about.
It is a popular superstition that in America a visitor is
invariably addressed as "Stranger." I was never once
addressed as "Stranger." When I went to Texas 1 was called
"Captain"; when I got to the centre of the country I was
addressed as "Colonel," and, on arriving at the borders of
Mexico, as "General." On the whole, however, "Sir," the old
English method of addressing people is the most common.
It is, perhaps, worth while to note that what many people
call Americanisms are really old English expressions which
have lingered in our colonies while they have been lost in
our own country.
(To be continued)
STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT,
CIRCULATION, ETC ., REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF CONGRESS OF
AUGUST 24 1912.
Of Bruno's Weekly published Weekly at New York, N. Y., for
April 1, 1916.
State of New Jersey
County of Essex— as.
Before me, a Notary Public, in and for the State and county,
aforesaid, personally appeared Charles Edison, who, having
been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that he
is the publisher of the Bruno's Weekly and that the
following is, to the best of his knowledge and belief, a
true statement of the ownership, management (and if a daily
paper, the circulation), etc., of the aforesaid publication
for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act
of August 24, 1912, embodied in section 443, Postal Laws and
Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form, to wit:
1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor,
managing editor, and business managers are: Publisher:
Charles Edison; Llewellyn Park, W. Orange, N. J.; Editor,
Guido Bruno, 58 Washington Square. New York, N. Y.; Managing
Editor, Guido Bruno, 58 Washington. Square, New York, N. Y.;
Business Manager, Guido Bruno, 58 Washington Square, New
York, N. Y.
2. That the owners are: (Give names and addresses of
individual owners, or, if a corporation, give its name and
the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1
per cent or more of the total amount of stock.) Charles
Edison, Llewellyn Park, West Orange, N. J.; Guido Bruno, 10
Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.
3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other
security holders owning or holding 1 per cent or more of
total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are:
(If there are none, so state.) None.
4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of
the owners, stockholders, and security holders, if any,
contain not only the list of stockholders and security
holders as they appear upon the books of the company but
also, in cases where the stockholder or security holder
appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any
other fiduciary relation, the name of the person or
corporation for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also
that the said two paragraphs contain statements embracing
affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances
and conditions under which stockholders and security holders
who do not appear upon the books, of the company as
trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than
that of a bona fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to
believe that any other person, association, or corporation
has any interest direct or indirect in the said stock,
bonds, or other securities than as so stated by him.
5. That the average number of copies of each issue of this
publication sold or distributed, through the mails or
otherwise, to paid subscribers during the six months
preceding the date shown above is
(This Information is required from daily publications only.)
Signed, CHARLES EDISON,
Sworn to and
subscribed before me this 29th day of March, 1916.
Signed, FREDERICK BACHMANN, Notary Public.
(My commission expires July 2, 1917.)
Bruno's Weekly, 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,