THERE lie my Ideals, bruised and
broken on the battlefield of experience. All of them — there
is not one left — choked and withered by the poisonous gases
See them — they are funny,
Faith in mankind; faith in
God — friendship — woman — and the rest. The silly show!
Yet somehow, I feel there
must be one that has escaped — one that I do not comprehend.
How else could my heart sing with the poppies nodding in the
sunlight as I go about my daily tasks? Tom Sleeper Last
Season's Broadway Successes
THE season closed and Broadway is
preparing for its next year's musical successes. Is it clever
advertisement or is there nothing else to be said about these
musical comedies? But vainly did I scan the newspaper reports
and reviews of "music critics" in our daily papers, to find
out what these shows all are about. Thousands of dollars of
costumes, wonderful lighting effects, marvelous scenery,
beautiful girls, a chorus "imported" from some foreign country
noted for the beauty of its women — all this under the heading
of musical comedy. Where is the comedy and where is the music?
Reading these newspaper
reports of the opening nights, I am very much reminded of my
only trip to Coney Island, in those good old days of about ten
years ago; of the professor in front of a gorgeous monumental
building proclaiming "Here is the world, look at the world,
the whole world just as it is! The world with its beauty and
its ugliness. With its romances and its tragedies, with its
happiness and its misery! Here is the world, come and look at
it, don't miss it — it's only twenty-five cents!" And I paid
my twenty-five cents and seated myself comfortably in a
plush-covered opera chair among hundreds of others who paid
their quarters. The curtain rose upon a scene which was a
masterpiece of stage painting. A huge table was in the middle
of the stage, covered with black diamond-embroidered velvet. A
gentleman in immaculate dress elaborated in half an hour's
speech the assertions of the professor outside of the
show-house. Garlands of good looking girls whose dresses had
not climbed quite high enough, and not descended quite low
enough, were an interesting background back of the table.
Suddenly the house was darkened. The diamonds on the black
velvet cover sparkled in the brilliant spotlight. The music
stopped playing. Slowly and carefully the table was uncovered.
There lay the world before us — unquestionably the world with
all its tragedies and all its romances. The World, the dally
paper, you could have bought for a penny anywhere. Of course,
we were stung. But we liked to be stung. And we sent our
friends to be stung, too.
The makeup might be
different, but the show and the [music] are the least things
considered by our theatrical management when producing the
comedies of our new seasons. To look for a new plot in the
comedy or for a new motif in the music would be fruitless. But
our public is so accommodating, they know they are stung. They
are happy because they are stung, and therefore, they will
send their friends. And the musical comedy was a howling
success of last season of Broadway.
The operette is designed to
solve the tenseness imposed upon us by the routine of the day.
But it really is: an overture of ''a night out," the prelude
to all the happenings hereafter.
It isn't healthy. It is
foreign to the lives of most of us, it is too tense in itself
to afford us relaxation. It is an overdose of a stimulant
taken mostly by the wrong kind of people at the wrong time in
wrong places. Therefore, the musical comedy on Broadway is not
a popular institution of the masses. It is not, and never can
be, an important part in the lives of people. The American
people are healthy and morbidness in all its phases is hated
as well as an empty pocketbook.
Some day we will have a
distinctly "American show." And until that time our showhouses
will be costly curios and not popular institutions. G.B. Jingo I,
Emperor of Monkeydom
AMONG the monkeys was one named
Jingo, who was displeased with every kind of work. While the
others were working for their daily bread in the sweat of
their brows, he was lounging around lazily. And finally he
came to the conclusion that he was better than his fellow
monkeys, because he was not following the plough on hot days
and because his hands were not hard and horny from toil. It
seemed to him that he had been chosen by Nature to obtain his
food for nothing and to be master over all others. And to
confirm this opinion he placed a crown upon his head.
A few monkeys who thought his
laziness super-fashionable kept him company and loafed with
him on working days. Jingo lauded them for this, and one day
he decided to make them princes and counts and barons, and he
arranged a special ceremony to solemnly make friendly loafers
members of his order.
This was the origin of
kingdoms and aristocracies among monkeys under Jingo the
First. They permitted their nails to grow long. They wriggled
their tails in a most peculiar fashion and they curled their
belly hair with curling irons. Now these distinctions would
have been very nice and pleasant if the working monkeys would
only have paid attention to them, but danger was imminent and
it seemed as if they would soon have to give up their doings
In this embarrassment the laziest among them all, monkey
Bimms, who later on called himself Fidelis, invented an
ingenious plan which enabled them to fill their paunches
gratuitously as long as they lived, and to pass their lives in
abundance of everything they desired. He said that they would
have to invent a god, to be placed supposedly above the
monkey-world, and that they would have to declare themselves
the special envoys and darlings of this god, and that the
people would have to be taught that only the greatest devotion
to themselves could make monkeys blessed, and that god's
darlings had to be fed as long as they lived, with the best
and most nutritious foods; that they had a right to every
tenth cocoanut and that they must not work under any
circumstances, as this would prevent them from praying and
Bimms, or Fidelis the First, undertook hereafter to be a
teacher of the people; he knew that monkeys could be made
dumbfounded by strange appearances and therefore he assumed a
holy-like air; cut his hair and shaved it off. Later he went
around shedding many tears and sighing deeply, and he spread
broadcast the story that he was commissioned by the mysterious
god to preach contrition among his fellow monkeys and to
educate them to be believing creatures. He painted with
glowing colors the terrible fate of such who would not believe
The poor monkeys, who were always busy and had no time to
think about such things, were terrified by the words and tears
of Bimms-Fidelis. And because they hoped to lead a more
beautiful life after their death, they were more than willing
to make it pleasant for the darlings of god during their
Everybody who consented to give the tenth cocoanut and
otherwise to help god's darlings to fill their paunches with
good things, was blessed by Bimms-Fidelis with specially
prepared words. They were publicly lauded and an amazingly
happy time promised them after their death. And so it came to
pass that soon many monkeys took the oath of everlasting
loyalty to Jingo and Bimms.
Of course there were still some left who resisted and who
would not believe, but the number of believers had become so
large that the doubters could be treated in a peculiarly
dreadful way. They kept their tails on burning coals until
they believed in the new god. They racked their limbs in
torture chambers; they hung them; they cut off their heads,
burned them and quartered them, until finally religion became
the common property of the monkeys.
And now there started a wonderful life for Jingo the First and
his nobility and also especially for Bimms-Fidelis and his
followers. They were laying around on silk pillows, had their
flies fanned off and their vermin removed.
They were not at all thankful for the gifts brought to them by
the working people but they were very severe and very hard on
their supporters in order to sustain their tyrannies.
Whenever they were suspicious that diligence and care were
slacking down, Bimms-Fidelis let his God lighten and thunder;
let him hail and rain stones, and he transformed every natural
event into a punishment of the offended deity. He also
smothered every desire of learning and declared stupidity a
In such a way, he, as well as Jingo the First, increased his
claim from year to year. And the poor working people now had
for their worst worry, the task of how to satisfy the demands
of the elected of god. Still harder was it for the progeny.
From childhood they had been reared in piety and reverence
before the mighty monkeys who ruled. Their origin had been
forgotten. Everybody had grown up in stupidity and therefore
the fear of the mysterious power increased. The sons of Jingo
became more aggressive and desirous of everything they could
get hold of. So did the disciples of the ingenious Bimms and
the progeny of the aristocracy.
They now themselves believed in all the idolatries of Fidelis;
they believed in their own exclusiveness and in both they
found justification to claim more and more.
They are still increasing their claims from day to day
somewhere in the Empire of Monkeydom.
After the German of
"Simplicissimus" in Simplicissimus, by Guido Bruno.
Balloons — by Clara Tice Flasks and
Francis S. Saltus
is a power within the succulent grape
That made thee, stronger than all human
It baffles death in its exulting hour,
And leaves its victim fortune to escape.
Thy cheering drops can magically drape
Atrocious thoughts of doom with bloom and
Turning to laughing calm care's torment
And flooding dreams with many a gentle
Ecstatic hope and resurrection lie
In thy consoling beauty, and whene'er
Pale mortals sip thee bringing soothing
I see a blue and orange-scented sky
A warm beach blest by God's untainted air,
Circling the snowy parapets of Nice!
strange that thy enrapturing warmth should come
From the chill cloister of the prayerful
To cheer the desolate heart in misery sunk,
And warm the lips that sorrow has made
Thou bring'st the merry twitter of birds
The soul's sweet exodus of song, when
Expands again, when, all thy sweetness
Illumes the blood grown impotent and numb.
And when I see thee, I most fondly dream
Thou must have been the genius and the
That led Aladdin in the legend old
Down thro' dim passages to goals extreme,
And in the arcana of a hidden cave
Have shown him marvelous treasuries of
Discarded By Victor
SCENE I. —
In the Council Chamber
A UNION DEPUTY: — Gentlemen,
I shall go on with my proofs! The syndicalists are
incompetent, ignorant beings, lunatics! They do not know a
thing about Socialism. They claim to represent the working
class when in reality three-fourths of them have long ceased
to be workers. They practice Sabotage which is a monstrosity.
They incite workers to strike, which is an infamy. They
declare themselves unpatriotic, which is a crime. We wish to
have nothing in common with those people. (Lively applause
from the heart of the assembly.)
SECOND DEPUTY: —To be sure, I
hold the same views as my colleague. (Good! Good! from the
left.) I will go even further. By their criminal inciting, by
their inadmissible underhand dealings, the revolutionists, the
anarchists, the syndicalists this abominable gang become sport
for the bourgeois and are working against the Social
revolution which we want legal and pacific. No more strikes,
gentlemen, no more futile disturbances. We loudly repudiate
those faithless brothers. We no longer want to side with them.
Better still, we are decided to stand against them at every
opportunity. (The extreme left gives the speaker an ovation.)
THE VOICE OF THE MAN WITHOUT
A COUNTRY (From the depths of a cell): — Now, then! Are you
all mad? What ails you suddenly? How dare you indulge in such
criticism before your opponents? Do you not see that
notwithstanding the divergences of method and of tactics you
are all aiming toward the same goal? Come now! Let us have
union, let us have peace! All of you must unite if you wish to
avoid making yourselves inevitably a laughing stock. The
revolutionary syndicalists have their bad points, but they
also have their good ones. They teach the workingmen
organization on the economic basis and they train them to rely
entirely upon themselves, through violent methods. Instead of
attacking them, help them. It will be better, so . . . enough!
No more grudges. No more hatred! All unite for the Revolution!
FIRST DEPUTY: — Who is this
SECOND DEPUTY: — He is a poor
lunatic, a character of Blangui's and Pavashol's type who goes
on preaching the discarding of hatreds and manages to keep in
prison the whole year round.
THE MOB: — He annoys us! Down
with him! Spit on him! Down with him!
— At the Federation of Labor
THE SECRETARY OF SYNDICALISM:
— Comrades, I wish to proceed with my demonstration. The
elected Socialists are incompetent; they are ignorant beings,
lunatics. They don't know the first thing about the interests
of the proletarians. They claim to represent the interests of
Socialism, when in reality they are perfect bourgeois. They
make use of the ballot, which is ridiculous; they invent laws
which is hateful; sometimes they cast in a vote for the
Government and prove thereby their utter lack of
responsibility. We most highly desire to have nothing in
common with these people.
SECOND SECRETARY: — To be
sure, I hold the same views as my comrade (Bravo! Bravo!) I go
even further. By their insane caution, by their guilty
compromises the united ones, the elected as well as the
militant, the whole nameless gang, becomes sport for the
bourgeois and are working against the Social revolution, which
we will cause to take place as soon as we become the
strongest. No more ballot, citizens! No more deputies, no more
candidates! We loudly repudiate these so-called brothers, who
have broken faith. We do not want to be classed with them any
(The audience is in a
THE VOICE OF THE MAN WITHOUT
A COUNTRY (From the depths of a cell): — What ails you
suddenly? How dare you indulge in such criticism just when
your enemies are watching all your dissensions? Do you not see
that notwithstanding the divergences of method and of tactics
you are all aiming toward the same goal? Come now! Let us have
union! Let us have peace! All of you must unite if you wish to
avoid making yourselves, inevitably a laughing stock. The
socialist members of parliament have their bad points, but
they also have their good ones. They harass the bourgeois and
extort from them reforms, concessions, by which you profit.
Instead of attacking them, help them. It will be better so. No
more grudges! No more hatred! All unite for the Revolution.
FIRST SECRETARY: — Who is
SECOND SECRETARY: — A poor
fanatic of Christ and Jaure's type, who goes on preaching the
discardmg of hatred, and manages to keep in prison the whole
THE MOB: — Remove him! Down
with him! Hiss him! Drown him!
— Cast Him Aside!
THE MOB: — Bravo! Good!
Hurrah for So-and-So! Long live Somebody! No more hatred! Let
us throw down our arms! Hurrah! Hurrah!
A SECRETARY OF SYNDICALISM: —
Brothers! We all must unite!
A UNION DEPUTY: — Unite,
A SYNDICALIST: — Brother
A SOCIALIST: — Let us
embrace, brother anarchist!
THE MOB: — Hurrah! Hurrah!
Let us unite. Let us discard our hatred. Let us face our
common foe! A VOICE: — There is the
enemy! Just look at the scoundrel, he scurvy fellow who caused
us so much harm. Down with this bandit.
(The man without a country
enters. His beard and his hair are gray. He is bound with
fetters.) THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY: —
Brothers . . . Brothers, listen to me . . .!
THE MOB: — Down with him!
Death to him!
THE UNIONIST: — He criticized
A SYNDICALIST: — He attacked
THE MOB: — Down with him! The
bandit! The wretch! The maniac! Hang him! Kill him! Tear him
Commotion. They rush upon the
man without a country. They drag him by the hair. They cut off
his head and hold it up on a bayonet. Shouts of joy.
Socialists, liberals. syndicalists, united, stamp on his body.
Hatred is discarded.
CURTAIN (Translated for Bruno's Weekly by Renee de Lacoste) FIRST HOBO — "Yes, there is whiskey which makes you
happy and there is whiskey which makes you sad."
SECOND HOBO — "Sure thing,
but you give me the dough and every whiskey makes me happy." Patchin Place
IT was the afternoon of a gaudy
holiday. My tiny street was silent save for the thin cries of
a little group of children playing in the far end. All my
neighbors, possessed of new raiment or new patriotism, were
abroad for the day. I was alone save for the far prattle of
the children. My lithe, white-bodied little friend,
ruby-tipped between my fingers, burned low; reverie hung about
me. And I was appreciative of the peace and quiet of it all.
My work did not attract me. I sat, idly dreaming, at the open
window. Suddenly, somewhat down the street, I heard sweet, gay
music. A violin, touched by a practiced artist's hand, singing
of old days in far lands. My eyes closed neath its arabesque
witchery, and my soul went out across boundless seas into new
worlds of beauty and light and joy. Swift, fresh winds caught
me up in their fragrant arms and carried me on and on through
myriads of earths and planets into a never-never place of
sheer delight. I was a child again, full of naive wonder at my
pleasure. I was a lover again, in the first full charm of
tender thought and feeling. I was a player again in the world
of paint and canvas. I sang as of old, the answering chorus of
the whispering melody. I danced with keen happiness. I swam in
opal seas beneath a crystal sky of summer blue. The song spun
on, and on, and on into the wild aisles of eternity, and did
not die. Oh, happy vision! When the music faded, I looked out
of my window. A brief distance away he stood, a ragged,
crippled, mendicant with a tarnished fiddle. Children danced
around him. James Waldo Fawcett In the Subway
RUSH and a crush resound
Forth with a bound
Leaps the sturdy steed.
A whirr and a halt . . .
They are bound.
A rush and a crush, they part
Whirr again, halt again —
It is "dear heart." Charles S. Sonnenschein Military Honour
WILLIAM, father of Frederick styled the Great, relates
Thiebault, having struck an officer on parade, the latter
stopped his horse, and drawing one of his pistols, said:
"Sire, you have dishonored me, and I must have satisfaction;"
at the same time he fired the pistol over the king's head,
exclaiming: "That is for you." Then drawing the other, and
aiming it at his heart, said: "This is for me; and shot
himself dead on the spot. The king never struck an officer
The height of wisdom is to
know the depth of your ignorance.
Its brightest scholars are
always satisfied with the briefest course in the school of
A bachelor girl, whatever her
career or renown, is as true to Nature's design as a barren
squabble seems to be just a case of "Much Ado About Nothing" —
much for Bacon to do, if he had Bill handy, and easy enough
for Bill anyway so long as he had bacon enough; so there's
really "Nothing much" to make any "Ado" about.
Your friend is he who flees
you not when your world is full of terrors and your soul is
full of fears.
The main trouble with
consistency is: it's as common as common sense. Julius Doerner On the
Sober Side of the Bar
stairway and the narrow halls are lined with men and women
talking in strange tongues and undoubtedly descendants of that
indestructible race which has been engaged during the last two
thousand years in accumulating all the silver pieces in
existence. In a room with many benches, the ideal corner of
the money-changers, as mentioned in the New Testament, seems
to have come to life again.
A greasy fat man, whose
features swam in the superfluous fat of his cheeks and of his
three chins, sat in the chair on a rostrum intended for a
justice-tender to dispense justice to man.
And there he sat sleeping.
Every once in a while he would jerk himself up and look with
his little pig's eyes contemptuously at some witness in the
witness box or at some Caiaphas, or he would listen to the
whisper of his helpers and nod his head, or lean his fingers
lazily against the fountain pen someone offered him, and he
would sign his name to a document, perhaps a scrap of paper
that would wreck a man's life and collect rent for the
landlord. And all the time complainants complained, and
defendants defended and witnesses took oaths, and then a
stenographer wrote it all down stupidly in his white little
book, and the air was filled with betrayal and with drudgery
and with slavery. The helper would knock with his hammer and
remind the money-changers that they were in the House of
Justice. Like a monster was he sitting there, that judge;
dozing, bored, silent, without interest, seemingly blank and
destitute of any human feelings; not betraying the slightest
attention to anybody or anything; dozing, fat, with a paunch
like a faun, hands stained with their deeds, eyes with empty
looks which didn't dare to meet the eyes of the defendant.
[He] is sitting there; honored, earning his daily bread.
And such bread!
No wonder he has a paunch and
three chins hanging down and sagging eyes, dozing — dozing —
until he meets his judge.
He will not meet him in
Money-Changers Dorado in an earthly House of Justice.
What a dreadful judgment will
be issued on this judge's Judgment day! Cat's Paw In Our Village
FRANK HARRIS is undoubtedly the
busiest man on the Square. While his recently finished two
volumes of "Oscar Wilde and his Confessions" are just about to
see the light of the world, he is engaging himself immediately
on writing a new book; one that is American and very
up-to-date. It deals with the Mexican problem on the American
border line. But it is the problem of one individual, such as
has to be solved by the individual himself. There are rumors
that "The Saturday Review," his famous London paper, noted all
over the English-speaking world for the important part it
secured for itself in the history of English letters of the
nineties, will be revived by him with new vigor in New York.
Goodness knows that we are in sore need of an ably edited
critical review, which deals with life, art and letters of our
day, untainted by faction politics and uninfluenced by the
troubles of other nations; in short of an American paper which
reflects our own times and our own contemporaries without
benevolent supervision from across the water.
The Fifth Avenue Coach
Company is using Washington Square, the entire area from Fifth
Avenue down to Thompson Street, including the children's
playgrounds back of the fountain, as a terminal station and
car park. I don't know if their franchise grants them the
right to rope off our park into sections and assemble there
hundreds of prospective fares in waiting line, until they get
a chance to occupy one of the twenty-four seats on top of each
bus. Thirty-five thousand children of Greenwich Village have
as playground only Washington Square, and it doesn't seem fair
to deprive them, especially on Sundays and holidays, of the
few hours outdoor play granted them by our city
Mrs. Thompson's shop on
Thompson Street, right around the corner of the Garret, will
not close its doors for the summer, but will afford the
opportunity to the many tourists and strangers who visit the
Village to see the quaint and artistic things Mrs. Thompson
assembles on the walls and the shelves of her little store.
Heloise Haynes, she of the
"Wardrobe," left last week [text missing] wrote her letters
from prison (Little Review, Chicago) she voiced her
experiences of a fortnight in prison whenever she had a chance
orally or in writing and her magazine is devoted to her new
cause entirely. Dr. Ben Reitman, her lieutenant and advance
agent, shares the tribulations of his mentor in the seclusion
of his prison cell. He was more unfortunate, as a penalty of
two months was imposed upon him.
A List of
Daniel B. Fearing compiled a
checking list of Angling Book-Plates, the very first one ever
attempted. "Angling Ex Libris," he explains in his
introduction "should exhibit one or several of the following:
An angler, or a fisherman. Rod, or rod case. Line, leader, or
tin for leaders. Float. Hook, or hooks. Flies, Fly-hook. Bait.
Bait-box, or can. Creel. Landing-net. Gaff-hook. Walton's
Angler. An angling quotation. A Flask, or a jug."
A new magazine, edited by
Joseph Kling, and a good one. The May and June issues are on
our desk and they contain translations of a comedy by Arthur
Schnitzler, and a novelette by Sologub. The editorial comments
are quite feasible and in reach of everybody's mentality. Get
a sample copy; it is worthwhile to see this individual effort
of a group of enthusiasts who chose with taste the contents of
these two numbers. The Storosh By Otto
"BROTHER" said Vlastmil Gerastimov,
the storosh, to Luka Lukashevitch "my aunt Vera Nicoliavna is
sick, very sick. I doubt if she will live very much longer.
Today might be the last chance I have to see her. Take my
place as watchman tonight. God will bless you for it and here
is something to keep up your courage during the long night
watch. It is good stuff. It will just burn your tongue."
"Go, in God's name" replied
the farmer, taking the whiskey bottle, the lantern and the
heavy fur-lined watchman's coat. "Try to be back again
tomorrow. You will have a pleasant journey. The night is
clear. I will just go home for a moment to tell my wife that
I'll be storosh tonight. God be with you!"
The farmer disappears into
his house and the storosh mounts the troika. He "gees up" the
horses and starts them on their journey.
The air is quiet and cold.
The light dips out in the far west. The nightly wayfarers of
the heavens are shining brightly. — Muffled in his fur coat,
armed with lantern and stick, Luka Lukashevitch emerges from
his home. He looks around in all directions just to make sure
that Nature is in order and then he consults for quite a while
the bottle of the storosh. A last look at his home and he
starts upon his rounds. [Remainder of issue is missing]