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Parisian Women During the War
Translated Extracts from a letter to the Editor

DO you remember that lot of night cafes and night restaurants on the Place Pigalle where they used invariably to take tourists and strangers before the war to show them how "real Parisians" danced tango? A shower of little rubber balls, happy laughter and gay music greeted you. And now, even in the Restaurant l'Abbaye, there is less noise and less light than before, and if you enter the half-darkened room, you notice on the red canopies along the walls, a number of women bent diligently over their sewing. Since the outbreak of the war the place was rented by "Le droit des femmes" and there are about half a hundred women who are out of work in steady employ. They give them a very frugal breakfast, and supper before they start for home in the evening, and they also pay them every fourteen days, a few francs. All kinds of women are asking here constantly for work, white-haired widows, wives of working men, but chiefly midinettes.

"Everybody who wishes to work is made welcome," said one of the patronesses whom I interviewed, "and it is of no consequence to us whether the women are decent or not. We are occupying the women with all kinds of sewing work and with the manufacture of dolls, especially of dolls in the uniforms of the Allies, like the picturesque Scots and Cossacks."

L'Abbaye is only one of the many working shops opened and successfully operated during the past year for women out of employment. And it can easily be understood where the tens of thousands of midinettes of Paris are keeping themselves since the outbreak of the war, who previously populated, during the breakfast hours, the boulevards and the Rue de la Paix. Many of them left for the country, but most of them found work in the sewing rooms, while only a small number accepted the offers of the Magdalene Sisters, who offered them shelter and board, if they were wiling to live according to the rules of the institution and to make bandages for the wounded.

A few days ago I paid a visit to this house of midinettes. It seemed to be a cage filled with singing birds and it would make a novel with many chapters, to write about those little midinettes working under the supervisions of nuns "pour la patrie."

While a good many of the society women of Paris are enwrapped in their charitable activities in l'Abbaye, in the bazaars, at the "boulevards des capucines," the ladies of the exclusive circle of Parisian society almost all joined the Red Cross. At the start of the war there was quite a bit of hesitation about the groups and patriotic societies they should join, but now the women of France are united in one league and in one union. For the society women, the Croix Rouge is the latest Parisian saloon where everyone meets everybody. But not everybody has access to this saloon. It is necessary — as they say in slang — to show "la patte blanche," and it has happened on different occasions, that divorced women were snubbed and not permitted to participate in the sewing work. As most of the ladies of the Red Cross are royalists and devout Catholics, one must not be surprised that the republican laws concerning divorce seem to be forgotten. But laws and morals are two entirely different things. Not very welcome guests among the ladies of the Red Cross are even women of republican circles, and therefore they have founded a so-called Green Cross which also takes care of the wounded and sick — to be differentiated from the Blue Cross which is caring for horses exclusively. Even now during the war, are the social contrasts in Paris so sharply marked that organizations of Crosses in all colors of the rainbow sprang up in no time.

Then there is "la petite bourgeoisie" — wives of radical physicians or lawyers or teachers, who never approved of militarism and who are trying their best to get accustomed to the prevailing conditions of the country.

The war has been a good teacher of geography. Only a little while ago it was not a singular occurrence in Paris to meet a lady of the best circles, educated in a cloister, who had only very vague ideas — not only about the geography of Europe, but of France.

The step from the society women to the woman of the half-world is not very big.

And surely this letter would not be complete if it did not mention the lady of the night cafe. The actress is the connecting link between her and good society. The little actresses all went to the country. They pretended to be going home to take care of a wounded brother or cousin, and they have not been seen again in Paris. All of them, nearly, came from the country. Their people own somewhere, a piece of land, are farmers and are glad to welcome back to their family circle the black sheep. All you can see in Paris now are the little trotinns, living on twenty-five sous per days, paid to the unemployed by the maire of each Arrondissement.

— How a Paris woman dresses during the war? I wonder if there is still a Parisian fashion existing? If there is, it is surely the so-called Scotch bonnet, used now by almost all Parisian ladies, and its old name, "bonnet de Police" is again in vogue. Not much is to be said otherwise about fashions. That the Russian blouse with Serbian embroidery will be worn by elegant Paris during the winter, seems to be assured. Scotch is favored very much, too. And the color schemes will combine the national colors of the belligerent allies. But not much is left of the light-heartedness of yore — not in fashions and not in the mode of living. Even the greeting on the streets and in public places has a grave, solemn character. Where is the jolly heart of the French woman? It is far away at the front! There are at present, more than four million women who are without husbands or whose brothers, sons or sweethearts are in the trenches somewhere out there in constant danger of life, that they call "at the front."

A few are fortunate enough to have their male relatives still at home — those whose husbands and sons are employed in the offices of the military administrations. She, "la femme de l'embusque" is a pathetic little figure. All day long she is visiting her friends while her husband is in the office telling them that he doesn't wish anything better than to be transferred to the front. And while her poor heart is paralyzed by the idea that he may be commanded to the front, she feigns eagerly her desire to see her husband, too, among the fighters for France's freedom.

But all of them — no matter what their social or political or religious convictions may be — the ladies of the Red and of the Blue Cross, the republican women of the Green Cross and the wife of the workingman who is trying to keep her family going during her husband's absence in the field — every one of them consecrates her heart to the army. No matter if the distinguished aristocratic woman snobs a "newly rich" during a meeting of the Red Cross, her heart goes out in sympathy to the wounded and to the suffering. And the countess leaves in the most terrific heat or in streaming rain, her comfortable quarters, to walk among the people on the boulevards collecting sous for soldiers. It is the same desire to help that causes the society woman in her limousine as well as the poor woman in the bus, to knit useful things for the soldiers for their winter campaign. Knitting needles and yarn can be seen in Paris everywhere, even on the narrow. benches in the moving picture show.

American Generals
I — Major-General Frederick Funston, U. S. A.

WHEN I see his name — my recollection goes back apace twenty years. Fred Funston, a little sawed-off chap, came to New York from the wild and woolly west, looking for a job. He was broke and so was I. My meanderings took me down to Harper's Weekly, then a publication of weight and merit, and to its amiable managing editor I sold some of my literary vaporings. Then I landed a job. It was to go to Cuba and write war stuff.

Following closely upon my heels, Fred Funston landed two jobs. New York was then rife with Cuban patriotism, and stories of Spanish cruelty and oppression, sufficient to make any red-blooded man's blood boil, and there was hardly one of us who did not want to go down to Cuba and help lick those Spaniards. We all were willing to fight for a cause, and the Cuban cause seemed a good one.

Fred being of the right stuff, and his blood fired by tales of Cuba's struggle for freedom, offered his services, not having any sword to offer, to the Cuban Junta at their offices down in New Street. One of the bunch of Cuban generals, sizing him up, and not wanting to hurt his feelings, told him that they were not sending any more Americans to Cuba, but the office boy, being a good American and not a very large man himself, tipped Funston off that an expedition was being fitted out for Cuba with a couple of Hotchkiss field pieces, and that there was not a damned Cuban in the whole cigar making oufit, that was being sent down to the island to fight for his liberty, who knew a gun from a water main.

That was enough for Freddie. All he had to do was to ascertain who sold those guns, and the office boy informing him, away he hiked up to Hartley and Graham's on Broadway, and boldly announced that he was going to Cuba; for men with red blood, when they make up their minds to do a thing, usually do it. He may have stretched a point or two, but that does not matter. He was shown the twelve pounder that was being purchased for the Cuban expedition. An expert explained its mechanism, and he was allowed to fondly handle the formidable looking piece, take it apart and put it together again, and half an hour's instruction was given him in finding the range, priming, firing, etc. When Funston returned to the Junta, he was theoretically a full fledged artilleryman, and so anxious was the Cuban general to whom he applied for service in the Cuban army this time, to secure a gunner for the field pieces that were being sent to Cuba, that it did not occur to him to size up the applicant's soldierly looking qualities, and the little sawed-off future general was engaged at once. But the Cuban Junta wasn't paying out any money for either soldiers or artillerymen. It took all the money they could raise to buy their arms and ammunitions, so Funston hunted another job which he thought would bring him the much needed funds.

Like myself, he meandered into the office of Harper's Weekly, and there he impressed the editor with his ability to send him real life stuff from the field in Cuba, so that he landed his other job. And thus, with two jobs, the war-like hobo from the West, embarked for Cuba and began his military career which has landed him in the United States Army with the rank of Major-General.

He made good in Cuba as far as the Cuban artillery was concerned. For with the very field piece which he was allowed to so fondly handle in New York, he knocked the spots out of the Spanish block-house at Cascorra, helped take the town of Guaimaro, peppered the town and fortifications of Jiguani, and finally blew up the Infantry barracks of Las Tunas and helped beat that town into surrender. But by this time, the Cuban army had exhausted itself. The country was without food, and the followers of Carlixto Garcia were literally starving. Funston starved with them until there was nothing else to do, and he did it — one of the nerviest things in his life.

He rode up to a Spanish blockhouse and surrendered. The Spaniards, instead of cutting his throat, as he expected they would do, and as he deserved, took him in, fed him and sent him to Havana, where he was turned over to Consul General Fitzhugh Lee, and sent back to New York, broke again. Here he had his Harper's Weekly job in reserve. He wrote "The Battle of La Machuca," and that provided him with funds to travel homeward, where upon the strength of his military career in Cuba, he was appointed Colonel of the Twentieth (Kansas) Volunteers.
                                        Thomas Robinson Dawley, Jr.

Aubrey Beardsley DrawingDrawing by Aubrey Beardsley

Flasks and Flagons
By Francis S. Saltus


            WHEN thy inspiring warmth pervades my frame,
            I see the smiling Guadalquiver stray
            Through Andalusia's fields of endless May,
            Crowned by the ripe wheat like a golden name.

            The majos sport in many a wanton game
            At the soft setting of the ardent day,
            And in the Alameda's shadows gray,
            Fond lovers murmur their delicious shame.

            And then again, the vision will arise
            Before me, of the worn Campeador
            Draining thy fire beneath the Alhambra's stars,
            While with fierce Moslem-valor in their eyes,
            I see bejeweled Caliphs, red with gore,
            Battle to death in moated Alcazars!


            THERE is a charm thy essences secrete
            Peopling the mind with many an airy dream,
            Until in conscious pleasure it doth seem
            Thy perfume hath a soul and can entreat.

            So suave unto the sense, so subtly sweet,
            That memories of pre-natal beauty teem,
            And haunt the ravished brain in ways supreme,
            Making our life less dark and incomplete.

            I dram of the dim past, but not with pain;
            The suns of dead but resurrected years,
            Glitter once more on Venice the divine!
            I see the town in bridal robes again,
            Crowned by the Doge amid his gondoliers,
            And eyes like Juliet's, softly seeking mine!

The Eternal Riddle

ONE evening the adorable Gladys said: ''Because you are so very unhappy on account of your affection not being returned, I shall let you kiss at least my bed, my pillow and my slipper, poor, poor Peter — — —."

She let me up into the little room which served her and her friend Olive as bedchamber. She said: "This one to the right is my bed — — —."

I knelt down and I kissed the beloved sheet and the coverlet. I embraced with inexpressible tenderness the beloved cushion still fragrant from her hair. I kissed passionately her slipper — — —."

She was looking at me and started to giggle. She giggled, she laughed, she screamed, she was quite out of sorts with merriment. "Why, this is Olive's bed, my dear, you are rewarding all this affection — — — ."

I was deeply hurt to have been mislead so mischievously and I replied as quietly as I could: "And if so, isn't your friend Olive a beautiful and attractive girl too?" Sweet Gladys paled at these words. She said: "Come on, let us go, you are an actor and anyhow I was too wise to you, you little fool — — —."

Later on, I said to Olive: "Olive dear, which one is really your bed in your little bedchamber; the one on the left side or the one on the right side?"

"The one on the right — —— ." "But Gladys asked me to tell you in case you enquired, that it is the one to the left from the door. What is the matter with you two people?"

Later on I said to Gladys: "Darling, I think you really care more for me than you want to make me believe you do — — —." Infuriated she replied: "So you really believe, you idiot, that it was my bed?"

"Yes that's exactly what I believe." I answered emphatically.

She smiled. She seemed completely satisfied, and in quite a kind way, she said: "Poor, poor Peter. I'm so sorry that I love another one, and that you don't like Olive — — —."

"But are you sure that you really and honestly don't care for her?"
                                        After the German of Peter Altenberg, by Guido Bruno

Scattered Thoughts
Tram cars and Broken Hearts
THE noise a tram car makes when it stops isn't the noise of the brakes so much as it is like the noise made by a broken heart. A friend whom I don't care for any more told me that. Who can blame me? She is a fool! You can't hear a broken heart grind.

ONCE there was a man who had read the Rubaiyat so many times that he knew it by heart. Then he recited it to himself so many times that he began to understand it. Now this man was a great chemist as well as a great thinker, and after the fifty-eighth recitation, the idea of dying became such a horror and injustice to him, that he decided not to die.

He was a man of singularly sincere purpose, and so he went honestly and sincerely to his laboratory, and mixed four powders in a chopping bowl. He then lit a bunsen burner, for all the world the way they do in physics classes, and heated a green liquid. When the liquid began to bubble, he threw in the powders and recited Lamb's essay on poor relations backward. He then removed the vessel from the fire, and after locking the seven doors that led into his laboratory and filling seven small bottles with the liquid it contained, he raised it to his lips, and swallowed the remainder — and nothing happened. — Except that when he died at the ripe old age of eight-one, his heirs discovered that the liquid made splendid furniture polish. Besides, some of the best people attended the old man's funeral.
                                        Florence Lowe

The Girl From

The Girl From Nevada — Broadway Star

The Girl From Nevada
Farce Comedy in Three Acts
The Skeleton Plot of Most Broadway Successes

Act I

SCENE.   A garden with practicable gate.

SPARKLE McINTYRE (entering through gate.) Well this is a prelty state of affairs. Roaanna Harefoot lived only for me until that theatrical troupe came to town; but now she's stuck on singing and dancing and letting those actor men make love to her that I can't get a moment with her. Hello! here comes the whole company. I guess they're going to rehearse here. I'll hide behind this tree and watch them do their acts.
Enter company of PLAYERS.

FIRST PLAYER. Well, this is a hot day; but while we're trying to keep cool Miss Kitty Socks will sing "Under the Daisies."
(Specialties by the entire company.)

FIRST PLAYER. Well, we'd belter hurry away down the street, or else we'll be late.
                                                                                                                                                                                                (Exeunt OMNES.

SPARKLE McINTYRE (emerging from behind tree). That looks easy enough. I guess I'll see what I can do myself.

FIRST PLAYER. (entering with company). Now that rehearsal is over, we'll have a little fun for a few moments.

SPARKLE (aside). Rosanna will be mine yet.
(Grand Finale.)

Act II

SCENE.   Parlor of SPARKLE McINTYRE'S house; Sparkle discovered seated at table with brilliant dressing gown on.

SPARKLE. I invited all that theatrical company to spend the evening with me; but I'm aftraid they won't come. I just wanted to surprise them with that new song and dance of mine. Ah! here they come now.

FIRST PLAYER. We are a little late, Mr. Mclntyre, but the fact is I had to go to the steamer, to meet some friends of mine who were coming over to try their luck in glorious America; and as they're all perfect ladies and gentlemen, I took the liberty of bringing them along. Allow me to introduce them to you: Mr. and Mrs. Lorenzo Sirocco and the Miss Siroccos from the Royal Alhambra in Rooshy.

SPARKLE. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm pleased to meet you; and now, if you'll favor us with an act, we'll be greatly obliged.
(Specialties by everybody, and Finale.)

SCENE.   Same as Act I.

ROSANNA. This is the very garden where I used to meet my own true Sparkle. In fact, it's right here that he used to spark me. Well, while I'm feeling so downhearted, I'll do a little dance just to cheer myself up.
(Specialties by ROSANNA.)

Sparkle (entering). What! you here, Rosanna. Then you must love me.

Rosanna. Yes, Sparkle, I do.

SPARKLE. (embracing her). Then, darling, we will be married this very day. Call the neighbors all in, and we will sing, dance, and be merry.

Replated Platitudes

Coming necessities cast their clamors before.

Unfortunately, the woman who lives to become beautiful to look at, generally becomes merely beastly to live with.

Poetry is the product of that art which understands how to wed the visions of the soul to the music of fit words, so that syllabic sequences shall spell, not only sense, but a symphony as well.

Fashion seems to he the fitful froth borne upon a sickly brew of feeble, wits and doubtful morals.

A grafter is a rogue who'd be a thief if he had the moral courage.
                                        Julius Doerner

Greenwich Village in History
(Concluded from last issue)

I am indebted for this story to Mr. Henry Collins Brown, who gave me permission to extract it from his beautiful "Book of Old New York," printed by him privately for collectors.

A walk through the heart of this interesting locality — the American quarter, from Fourteenth Street down to Canal, west of Sixth Avenue — will reveal a moral and physical cleanliness not found in any other semi-congested part of New York; an individuality of the positive sort transmitted from generation to generation; a picturesqueness in its old houses, "standing squarely on their right to be individual" alongside those of modern times, and above all else, a truly American atmosphere reminiscent of the town when it was a village.

Elsewhere in this book we have given an extended account of Richmond Hill, Aaron Burr's home in old Greenwich Village. Perhaps the next most notable name which would occur to us would be Thomas Paine, who lived at 58 Grove Street, where he wrote his famous pamphlets "The Age of Reason" and "Commonsense." The latter contribution to the then current literature touching on questions pertaining to the Revolution did more than all other efforts to unite and solidify public opinion on the questions of final separation, which up to that time had only been considered by a few of the most virulent radicals.

Another old landmark was the New York University Building, where Theodore Winthrop wrote his "Cecil Greene."

The Richmond Hill Theatre, Aaron Burr's old home, was not the only contribution to the New York Stage made by Greenwich Village. At Greenwich Avenue and Twelfth Street there was the once popular Columbia Opera House. Polly Smith, who was known to everyone as the village tomboy, won the Adam Forepaugh prize of ten thousand dollars for the most beautiful girl in America. She then changed her name to Louise Montague and made a big hit at Tony Pastor's and as the captain's daughter in "Pinafore." Leonard Dare, a trapeze performer, lived in Abingdon Square before she went to London and married into the nobility. Johnny Hart, a famous old minstrel, was also a resident. His brother Bob was the prize drinker of the neighborhood, but when he was sober (and broke) he gave temperance lectures and passed the hat for collections.

There were many other old characters in the village that can be easily recalled — Crazy Paddy, who never missed a fire and who was a familiar figure sprinting down the street in front of the "Department;" Johnny Lookup, who had an uncontrollable penchant for attending funerals and considered it his burden duty to accompany the remains of any villager to its last resting place. Then there was Susy Walsh, the school teacher, who was so pretty that all the boys hung around her desk waiting for the chance to carry her books home.

Old-timers recollect the Jefferson Market Bell Tower and the bell they used to ring for fires; all had a book that gave the location of the fire as indicated by the strokes of the bell, and all would run with the machine.   Then there was

Drawing by Coleman

the old slaughter house on the southwest corner of Bank and Hudson Streets, where the boys used to look over the old fashioned half door and see them hoist up the beeves with block and fall, and hit them in the head with an axe. Directly opposite on the northwest corner was the old Village House where the "boys" used to play billiards, drink "Tom and Jerrys" and swap stories.

West Tenth Street was called Amos Street, and where the brewery now is, between Greenwich and Washington Streets, stood the old state prison where many were hanged. In the ice house of Beadleston & Woerz's they still point out the old beam used for this function of the law. West Eleventh Street was called Hammond Street, and what is now Fourth Street Park, at the end of Fifth Avenue, was the old Washington Parade Ground, where all the troops drilled and paraded to their hearts' contents. The grounds were surrounded by a high iron railing and there were large iron gates which were opened for the entrance of the troops and closed to keep the crowds out while the regiments were parading.

Delameter's iron works and foundry were at the foot of West Thirteenth Street, where the boys used to dive off the big derrick into the clean water of the Hudson — not dirty as it is now. The old Hudson Street burying grounds (St. John's) were at Leroy, Qarkson, Hudson and Carmine Streets, and at one end was the caretaker's old fashioned house, who cultivated quite a large farm on the unused portion of the cemetery. It is now called Skerry's Grove on account of the tough characters that infest the vicinity. The old marble yard where they cut huge blocks of marble with swing saws, was on Bank Street between Hudson and Bleecker Streets.

The different social clubs held their receptions and dances, and the politicians in turn held forth in the old Bleecker building, situated on Bleecker Street. In this hall Frederick House, now Judge House, was nominated for the Assembly and John W. Jacobus — "Wes" Jacobus — formerly Alderman of the Ward and leader of the district, later U. S. Marshal, held forth as boss of the political meetings. Other unique features of interest were the Tough Club, the oyster boats at the foot of Tenth Street, Jackson Square and Tin Can Alley. In his father's bakery at the corner of Jane Street and Eighth Avenue, John Huyler, of Huyler's candy fame, started his fortune. In connection with the bread business they started making old fashioned molasses candy, and from that modest beginning sprang the immense present candy enterprise. The bakery is still standing. A curious feature of the village is the Northern Dispensary, which occupies a who!e block. The block is triangular in shape and is about eighteen or twenty feet on each side. It is bounded by a small park, by Christopher Street and by Waverly Place on the other two sides. It may seem strange that this building is bounded on two sides by Waverly Place, yet such is the case. Waverly Place being a street with three ends. Gay Street is also located in the Ninth Ward.

Sadakichi Hartmann — A Life-long Struggle

THE sight — or rather the apparition — for such he is as he rises to begin — of Sadakichi Hartmann on the platform of the assembly rooms of the Ferrer Centre in New York reading his "Buddha" the other evening, operated on myself in several ways. First it stirred up wonder at the weird look of the man, rising pale, like an Afrite, in his black dress-clothing — a feeling that thrilled every one of his auditors to the core. I have seen a young woman, as he rose to give his ["Poem"?] years ago, throw up her hands, shriek and faint at the sight of him. Here is a man who looks like the ghost of the dreams he is about to interpret. His message, his mission are all in his manner. You cannot look upon this tall, gaunt ashy-pale spectre of a man wtthout feeling that you are going to get something sincere — exotic — you are never disappointed. My second thought, for I had not seen Sadakichi in some time, carried me back at once to a little room in a poverty-stricken fiat in New York and an evening seventeen years before when I heard the words of Buddha as they came fresh from the brain of the young poet. The auditors were myself and his wife "the Madonna," the children — who bore East Indian names, had been packed away to bed for the occasion. I never knew a man in those days that lived so completely in his dreams as Sadakichi Hartmann. He was the typical dreamer of our great metropolis; known as such everywhere from the sanctums of Stedman and Howells to the poorest purlieus of the East Side. His soul at that time was wrapped up in his great cyclus. He had already written "Christ" in Boston (and suffered for it) and here was "Buddha" to which I listened

"with a rapt surmise"

feeling that a new planet had indeed "swum into my ken." "Mohammed" was to come and "Confucius." Where the bread was to come from for himself and family meanwhile, Sadakichi knew not and cared not. It came, although there were times when the poetic fire was dimmed by starvation. I never knew one, and I have known poets and dreamers by the score, who were so possessed by the spirit of self-abnegation as this man. He cared not for the world when he was writing these four wonderful dreams — he asked nothing of it. He did not even presume that a publisher would look at his work. He was satisfied as only the real artist is, with the inner vision and he listened only to her voice. Two of the dramas —they can hardly be called plays — as their effects transcend all stage art — were published at his own expense. The others, "Mohammed" and "Confucius," the public knew only through his own recitals.

From great free-thinkers like Walt Whitman, John Burroughs, James Huneker, Stephane Mallarme, Theophile Beutzon, came a chorus of praise that must have warmed the heart of the poet. This was what he expected. This was what he cared for. I remember with what suppressed ecstasy he showed me the letter of Stephane Mallarme with whose fame all Paris was just then ringing and who is one of the immortals. Other tasks claimed him; he could not live on the thunder and honey and spicery of these works. And so the world heard little of them except when now and then some enthusiastics dragged him forth to read one to a select audience. He has in this way presented them to the elite of intellectual America. Something of the worth of what they were going to get must have stirred the air for Francisco Ferrer followers, for they turned out in force for four consecutive evenings. I do not think any one of them will ever forget the scene. Here was poet, philosopher, prophet, artist, combined in one, pouring forth words that held their souls ravished as though they strayed in an enchanted garden. If this world were not after all this world, and the limitations of kettle. It is decorated by the only native artist, arid he has treated religious subjects in the naive; spirit of the early Florentine painters, representing people of our own day in the dress of the period side by side with people of Biblical history who are clothed in some romantic costume.

The building next in importance is called the Amelia Palace, in honor of one of Brigham Young's wives. When he died the present president of the Mormons stood up in the Tabernacle and said that it had been revealed to him that he was to have the Amelia Palace, and that on this subject there were to be no more revelations of any kind.

From Salt Lake City one travels over the great plains of Colorado and up the Rocky Mountains, on the top of which is Leadville, the richest city in the world. It has also got the reputation of being the roughest, and every man carries a revolver. I was told that if I went there they would be sure to shoot me or my travelling manager. I wrote and told them that nothing that they could do to my travelling manager would intimidate me. They are miners — men working in metals, so I lectured to them on the Ethics of Art. I read them passages from the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini and they seemed much delighted. I was reproved by my hearers for not having brought him with me. I explained that he had been dead for some little time which elicited the enquiry "Who shot him?" They afterwards took me to a dancing saloon where I saw the only rational method of art criticism I have ever come across. Over the piano was printed a notice: —


The mortality among pianists in that place is marvellous. Then they asked me to supper, and having accepted, I had to descend a mine in a rickety bucket in which it was impossible to be graceful. Having got into the heart of the mountain I had supper, the first course being whiskey, the second whiskey and the third whiskey.

I went to the Theatre to lecture and I was informed that just before I went there two men had been seized for committing a murder, and in that theatre they had been brought on to the stage at eight o'clock in the evening, and then and there tried and executed before a crowded audience. But I found these miners very charming and not at all rough.
(To be continued)

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, tinder the Act of March 3d. 1879.

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