Parisian Women During the
War Translated Extracts from a
letter to the Editor
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
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
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
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)
Robinson Dawley, Jr. Drawing by Aubrey Beardsley Flasks and Flagons By Francis S. Saltus
inspiring warmth pervades my frame,
the smiling Guadalquiver stray
Through Andalusia's fields of endless May,
Crowned by the ripe wheat like a golden name.
majos sport in many a wanton game
the soft setting of the ardent day,
in the Alameda's shadows gray,
lovers murmur their delicious shame.
then again, the vision will arise
Before me, of the worn Campeador
Draining thy fire beneath the Alhambra's stars,
with fierce Moslem-valor in their eyes,
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,
in conscious pleasure it doth seem
perfume hath a soul and can entreat.
suave unto the sense, so subtly sweet,
memories of pre-natal beauty teem,
haunt the ravished brain in ways supreme,
Making our life less dark and incomplete.
dram of the dim past, but not with pain;
suns of dead but resurrected years,
Glitter once more on Venice the divine!
the town in bridal robes again,
Crowned by the Doge amid his gondoliers,
eyes like Juliet's, softly seeking mine!
The Eternal Riddle
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
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.
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
The Girl From Nevada —
Broadway Star The Girl From Nevada
Farce Comedy in Three Acts The Skeleton Plot of Most
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
FIRST PLAYER. Well, we'd belter hurry away down the street, or
else we'll be late.
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.
Rosanna will be mine yet.
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.
Enter THEATRICAL COMPANY.
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
(Specialties by ROSANNA.)
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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: —
PLEASE DO NOT SHOOT THE
HE IS DOING HIS BEST.
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.