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                                                                                                        From the Collection of Mr. Patrick F. Madigan

Lincoln's True Face

LINCOLN had a shield of honesty in his face, in which every man could see his own conscience; and Lincoln would judge from his embarrassment his character. This instantaneous knowledge of Lincoln rarely made a mistake.

I came to meet Lincoln in this way. I had nearly recovered from my wound when I returned to Washington to find I had been honorably discharged because of its severity. I decided to see Lincoln about it. With fear and trembling, I sent in my little card, stating I was a wounded soldier. He at once admitted me, leaving Generals, Senators and others waiting.

I asked him if there was not some way I could serve my country more. "Well, my boy, you are serving your country by being wounded. However, I am glad you want to serve your country more."

He was reading a letter as I entered. He looked at me over his spectacles, then lifting them above his eyes on his forehead, he looked at me searchingly, as if looking for my wound. Then he took off his glasses and laid them on the table. I remember it was a long table piled with maps and books. He arose and walked slowly around to where I stood — no longer with fear, but as if I had met my best friend. He put his hand on my shoulder. "And you would like to go back to the front? But you are too badly wounded for that! Wait a little. Go back home and get well and strong. We are thinking of organizing an Invalid Corps to displace able men now on guard duty, and when we are ready for wounded recruits, send in your name and you shall do more duty for your Country!" He then asked me where and when I was wounded. "Oh, yes, these bad bulls that ran, but the last was not so mad-bad as the first." He then asked me about the management of the second Bull Run battle. I told him I felt my commander, McDowell, had been sacrificed by the jealousy of other generals. And I had the pleasure of entertaining him quite a little, while the great men waited in the lobby. This illustrates the great good feeling of the man who gathered his wisdom from the lowly multitude.

And I, today, remember as if it were but yesterday, that benevolent face and the great hand that encompassed mine as he said, "My dear boy, don't forget to send in your name for the Invalid Corps. God bless you, good-bye!"

I sent in my name immediately and I was promptly appointed Second Lieutenant and ordered to Providence, R. I., where I was again mustered into the United States service, and from there ordered to Washington, appointed to First Lieutenant and placed in command of the 4th Company of this new corps, doing guard duty in the vicinity of the White House. And then I saw considerable of Lincoln until promoted to Captain and ordered with my company to this city to guard criminals. And then and here came the saddest duty of my life — to guard all that was mortal of the immortal man while he lay in state at the City Hall for the weeping multitude to gaze upon. Little thought I when I saw his face in life that I should so soon be called to guard his face in death. And now, at seventy-seven, I am devotedly trying to recall that sublime face, that the people may see it as I saw it then in life. And I have no help but my memory, for his face has been commercialized by artist and artisan until it has become a caricature, rather than a character. Even a death mask has been produced to vilify his gentle face in death; and one purporting to be a life cast leaving the mole off! If it had been from life, Robert T. Lincoln would have never written me: "As to a cast, I have none and have never wanted one, I don't like them." And God save the mark! Our halls and our parks are filled with Lincolns that never were.

This is a gullible age! But there is a time coming when the idealism of Lincoln will go into effect and nature will have her own in art as well as in life.

                                                Captain George Edward Hall

Reedy On Preparedness

PREPAREDNESS is the bold typed slogan on the front pages of our newspapers and in politics and a feature of our traveling President's speeches. In the current issue of his "Mirror," William Marion Reedy discloses himself as the only editorial writer in the United States who dares to look this question squarely in the face, writing his editorial so plausibly and so clearly that after reading it we are looking forward to the big politician or the big organizer who will accept circumstances as they are and find a way to "preparedness." Here is what Reedy says about the problems of preparedness:

"Reading most of the articles for preparedness you'd think it is going to be an easy thing to get prepared. But don't you believe it. First, it's easy to say 'Let us have a standing army of 500,000.' But where are we to get that many men? The army cannot be kept up to its present complement of men. Americans won't enlist in numbers, save in hard times, and the record of annual desertions is depressing. Well then, "Let us have the Government take over the militia of the states." But the consent of the individual states must be secured, and that is not going to be easy. The states will not want to bear the expense and give the Government control. 'Let us adopt the Swiss system, then.' Here, again is a difficulty. The Swiss system begins with training in the schools. The states support the schools. They won't want to pay their money to educate soldiers. Later it will take men from their work. They will have to be paid for their time. Who will pay, the states or the United States? Suppose we go to conscription. The people will not stand for that. The National Government cannot quickly do much of anything without the cooperation of the states and that cooperation will involve changes in the National Constitution. Secretary of War Garrison makes all these points clear, and the main point is that with regard to the military system there is no unity of authority, responsibility and control. Secretary Garrison plans a small regular army and a continental army, raised 133,000 men at a time, each to serve three years, until it reaches 400,000. The continental army is to be "recruited territorially," say 333 each year from each of the 400 Congressional districts. But if the men won't come? Compel them. It will be seen, that while the Secretary of War finds it easy to knock out all other plans of preparedness, his own plan is up against the objections to those other plans. Chiefly the individual states are in the way, and then the people are not wild for military service. Nor are they hot for centralization. The present Constitution is an obstacle. It will take time to change that and, considering the theory that there is no time to be lost, we cannot wait on that change. But can we proceed extra-constitutionally? It is not likely. Preparedness is easy — to talk about."

London Letter

                    London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY

                    18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington

                                                                                January 20th

RUSSIAN fiction and Russian literature indeed of almost every kind is the rage in London. No one knows how these things happen. Work is being done now in a few months which should have been spread out over the last twenty years. We have had to wait an absurdly long time for English translations of some of the best known Russian classics. Now the publishers — immoral sheep — are tumbling over one another in their efforts to be first with editions of Andreieff, Sologub, Dostoievsky, Pushkin, Gorki, Tcheckoff, Gontcharoff, Artibascheff, etc.

It is all very absurd and discreditable, and of course, as a consequence there will be a reaction when no one will look at a Russian book.

One might prophesy an interest in Belgian literature which has never received its proper attention in this country. Courrouble, Eekhoud, Lemonnier, Rodenbach and Demolder would translate well enough. Probably something will start off a Belgian translation boom one day.

I wonder if you have ever heard of Rutland Boughton and the Glastonbury Festival theatre which proceeds with its work in spite of the gloom and discouragement of the war. It is an interesting venture and I hope to give you an account of it some day. Last week "Bethlehem" was given at Glastonbury. This is a setting of the Coventry shearmen's nativity play. I understand the text was modernized and amplified in some respects, and that Zarathustra was added to the Kings, while the Warwickshire dialect was replaced by that of Somerset. Boughton is a most ambitious man, whose ideas on the development of musical drama were set out some time ago in a little book called The Music-Drama of the Future. One of his ideas is that it is impossible to develop any art in the unreal and commercial atmosphere of a great city such as London, which I think is true, if not self-evidently true. Boughton believes that as art has generally sprung out of a communal life, it becomes the first necessity of the artist to secure this communal existence to be the mother of his art work. Hence, he hopes that by building up in Glastonbury a communal village life he may at the same time provide the matrix for a national art of musical drama. But there is more than this in his plans — a great deal more, and I must return to it some day.

In connection with music, Madame Liza Lehmann's musical version of the old morality, Everyman, has just been given at the Shaftesbury Theatre, with Mr. Poel directing the scenic and fighting arrangements. It is doubtful if any music could add anything to the curious power of Everyman, and to destroy the artistic unity of the play by cuts and alterations in order to superimpose a mood of modern music on the mediaeval morality seems nothing less than ignorance or selfishness.

The French edition of the book I mentioned in my last letter, Romain Rowland's Au-Dessus de la Melee is receiving considerable attention here at the hands of the reviewers. In a long article in the New Witness, entitled The Impartial Mind, Mr. V. Y. Eccles writes of Rolland, "he is a citizen of the world, and perhaps the last of the French romantics. Only it is a pity that he cannot think, or that he cannot be silent."

The English and American editions will not be long in appearing now I fancy.

                    Edward Storer

"All Right; I'll Be a Crook," said Rich

MR. PHIL RICH, day laborer, was betrayed shamefully by his betrothed. With the explanation that his income was too uncertain to risk upon it a marriage, she handed him, after seven years courtship, his walking papers. Mr. Rich was hurt to the roots and he vowed revenge. A very peculiar one. He decided to become a criminal. Not a very desperate criminal, but still one whom they would lock up. And if his betrothed would have only the slightest inkling of a conscience and recognize that it was she who had caused his downfall, her tortures would be terrible. At the same time he wished to combine the pleasant with the useful and to have as good a time as he could. Therefore he chose the profession of a crook and started upon his new activities by entering an automobile factory, He said: "My name is Rich, formerly day laborer. I wish to get an automobile with as many horsepower as you can put in it."

"Just as you please," replied the very polite salesman, "Do you wish to pay in cash for it?"

"Not right now," replied Mr. Rich frankly. "At first I would wish to get it on credit. I just happen to be out of work, you know."

The polite salesman was very sorry not to be able to oblige Mr. Rich and advised him to go to the competitor across the street. He followed the advice but here, too, they did not seem to be very eager to count him among their customers. Everybody simply refused to trust. This astounded Mr. Rich. He always had heard and read how easy it was to get credit, and still two people had refused already to sell him an automobile. But this could not discourage him. He went to a bank. He introduced himself as Mr. Rich, day laborer, and asked for a loan of ten thousand dollars. But here, too, the result of his expedition was very sad. The manager of the bank gave him even a lackey who should show him out of the building. But that was all he was willing to give him.

In the meantime, his monthly room rent became due. Mr. Rich was not able to pay and informed Mrs. Mclntyre, the keeper of his boarding house, to that effect. He assured her at the same time, that he was willing to take from now on in addition to the breakfasts included in his rental, dinner and supper with her. Mrs. Mclntyre didn't seem to approve of this new business arrangement.

"The devil git ye!" did she scream at the top of her voice, "Do yez think Oim crazy?" and she gave him a push and down the stairs he went. All four flights at once. His possessions she forwarded to the sidewalk where he had landed, through the window.

"It's just my luck," he philosophized. And now it had become most urgent to turn some trick or another because his thirst for revenge was diminishing from day to day.

His last recourse was the cook. These beings are supposed to have savings. He wanted to get a hold of them, promise marriage, he wanted to have a good time and then he wanted to welcome his fate no matter what might come. But nothing came. Mr. Rich, day laborer, remained an honest man. Even the cooks wouldn't give him anything. And so he was at the end of his wits. He knew nothing more! To take away the pennies from little children which they kept in their hands, if sent to buy something in the nearby grocery store, seemed even to him in his desperate mood, too dastardly.

And again he become a day laborer. But if ever anybody mentions to him how dead easy it is to get the best of credulous people, he will declare it emphatically as pure invention and just newspaper talk.

After the German, author not named, by Guido Bruno

Three Things by Tom Sleeper



        WHERE the sullen sea is sounding

                    Throbbing, moaning, ever pounding

            Where alone save for the sea birds

            There I wooed you, Elenore.


            In an abbey long deserted

            Ruined arches, ivy-skirted

            Underneath the vault of heaven

            There I wed you, Elenore.


            How exquisite were those hours

            Spent among the tangled flowers,

            Alone with you, the birds, the flowers,

            Ah, I loved you, Elenore.

To a Buttercup

            DAINTY waitress, pretty maid

                    Your actions are demure and staid
            Is it that you fear abuse

            That you can find no excuse

            For serving me with delicatessen

            And in that way incur my blessing?

O' Quae Mutatio Rerum

"OF course you can go" — and I had told her so on many occasions. She always kissed me and went, leaving me to my books and researches. It was pleasant to feel that her youth was enjoying the things she craved . . . . and Sam was really quite a delightful fellow . . . .

Ah, yes, books and researches. My mail reaches me now at the University Club.

A Fable

ONE summer evening a moth flew into the lamp of a student who sat reading by the open window of his garret.

While the insect's legs and wings were being withered to ashes it screamed frantically: "I am burning to death," and perished.

"Wasn't that terrible?" said the June bug.

"Frightful," answered the gnat.

"Plague upon all lamps!" said the mosquito.

"But," asked the spider, running to greet a fly that had become tangled in his web, "whose fault was it?"

                     Ralph Johnson


As I Walk Out On the Street

In the ice cream parlor where I buy my cigarettes and stamps every day, I noticed a big yellow tin box where one can insert money as donations. The red inscription — a happy color combination of red and yellow — says thousands of Belgian soldiers have nothing to smoke. A few nights ago the "Sun" gave away one thousand loaves of bread in half an hour "to one thousand Americans who had nothing to eat."

Lying back in the barber's chair, while Henri stropped the razor, listening to the animated war discussions of the fat man in the next chair, who was having his hair curled, I thought: "My brothers and friends are perhaps just now, at this second, killing or being killed somewhere in the European trenches."


In the Playhouses

The Weavers, at the Garden Theatre

Just what Gerhardt Hauptmann's "The Weavers," means to the German in Germany it is, of course, quite impossible for a New York audience to know and therefore, to feel.

A storm in Germany may be only a draft here. So it is that in spite of ignorance of the German tongue one senses that great things are being striven for. Sincerity, the passion of pain and despair, though all three emotions are a little shop worn when at last we get them from overseas.

"The Weavers," like any other flat-footed play, that is, a play that was originally intended for the whole, the entire surface of the foot, has been plunged into a mincing patter of Fifth Avenue buskins — slightly soiled.

Shaking dust onto a high hat has as yet, failed to make a high hat into a cap, and lime or dust on a pump has failed to make that pump into a slipper, into that heel less thing that the poorest and the most heartbroken of us wear.

Sorrow, great tragedy and desolation have always rested on broken arches. Traditional poverty and the heritage of tears are never heel high from mother earth. Thus it is that at the start, a play with immense fatality and fathomless depths, has been lamed with false sincerity.

It may seem small to pick on shoes, and it is. In self defense, let me say: keep the story of Cinderella intact only substitute brogans.

Is the picture the same? No.

Still, one forgets to remember, sometimes, the tremendous quality of the under voice that rises throughout all the high  pitched cries of the weavers.

What old Baumert was ignorant of old Hilse knew: that birth is swifter than death, that death itself is not only the penalty of life but also the penalty of death.

What Moritz, because of his youth, shouted, those older quieter men, who "must once in a life time show what we feel" suffered, aye and knew too that which none of the New World can — the genius of scientific starvation. Making it something that they do not only well, but superbly.

"What grows, grows," said Hornig the dealer, "And what dies, dies," says Hauptmann.

When it shall be and how is left in the lives of these weavers, entirely to the dictates of their hunger. It is an ignominious death, indeed — death by the pit of the stomach.

There is no dispute, however, that the play written for the troubles of an older age, are more than applicable to nineteen-hundred and fifteen, when one remembers only Bayonne, Perth Amboy, but also Colorado and its past.

The only question is: can a Reicher production be a Reicher production, with some one playing Reicher's part anonymously?

                       D. B.

The Boomerang, at the Belasco

The great success of "The Boomerang" in the Belasco Theatre, can be easily understood. No exaggerations. Just people on the stage as in every day's life. All these characters could be your friends or your neighbors. Nothing unexpected happens. Joy is joy and sadness is sadness. And then there is that natural jealousy and that healthy foolishness which we hate occasionally in our own make-up. And therefore this play is a success. Therefore the houses are sold out daily and therefore again the great truth is established once more: that the theater-going American does not crave for exotic sceneries and impossible stage effects, not for depraved characters or fool saints, nor for half-clothed women and shocking situations. But he enjoys a little bit of everyday truth, characters male and female whom he would not hesitate to introduce to his own family and a solution which is similar to that in life: no need for a deus ex machina before the last curtain drops.

Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre

Estelle Robinson who has entered upon an operatic career in New York will sing "J'ai pleure en reve" by Georges Hue, "Der Asra" by Rubenstein, and ''The Elf-Man" by John Barnes Wells, this week Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

Mrs. Percy J. Smith, a ballad singer, will convince the audience that the good old ballads of yore are still touching our hearts and flattering our ears even today, in the distinct age of ragtime.

Kathryn Wilton Walton, the youngest toe dancer in New York, will interpret, through the spoken word and through the dance, W. Aletter's "Rendez-Vous" and Strauss' "Pizzicato Polka."

A vocal and instrumental selection on the Diamond Disc will conclude the program.

The artists who appear this week are taking advantage of Mr. Charles Edison's offer to American singers, musicians and interpreters of rhythm to appear upon the stage of his Thimble Theatre and offer their art to their supremest critics —the American audience.

Cowley Brown Is the Man

Alexander Harvey in the current issue of his "Bang" makes anonymous mention of an old friend and brother wayfarer on the hard road which leads the writer to become a publisher and subsequently an editor and then a writer again, just a writer.

"For a long time now 'A Non,' whoever that may be, has conducted in the Chicago Musical Leader, a page headed "Major and Minor."

Cowley Stapleton Brown is "that whoever it might be." He is also editor of the Ten Story Book of Chicago, and his editorial column "Reading and Rot" is about the best book criticism written today in the United States. And while I am saying "best criticism," I am thinking of two or three other men whom I admire for their brilliancy and their understanding. But Cowley is the only one who always dares and dares to write and to say exactly what he thinks.

He is about forty years, in the prime of his life, in that age where one has digested one's books and where one sets out with the new vigor of full manhood to achieve the ideals of boyhood days. With other words, he knows the world as it is, has no illusions about anything and has decided that the good old ideals of an old world humanitarian education, leaving out its little hypocrisies and substituting cosmos for sect, is about the real thing. In the early '90s he arrived on the friendly shores of America. He had antagonized his English contemporaries in London by being an enthusiastic admirer of Oscar Wilde. His little magazine The Anti-Philistine had created a season's sensation. During the Chicago World's Fair he took daily sun baths in our literary firmament of the '90s. Eugene Field, Opie Read, Bill Reedy, Michael Monahan, Darrow and many others were contributors to that bold and fearless freelance sheet he started, The Goose Quill. A few numbers are lying right before me while I am writing these lines. Marvelous seems the clear foresight he had twenty years ago. In a powerful language, quite forgotten since literature has ceased to be taken seriously by others than such as are commercially connected with it or who handle it as a commodity similar to other manufactured goods in order to sell it to best advantage, he denounced men who have been denounced since by sincere men of letters. He called Kipling "dead" for ten years, and that was twenty years ago. He took Hall Caine as a joke, and that was the flourishing period of Caine's short-lived glories. He admired Ambrose Beirce while nobody else paid attention to this most powerful American writer and critic who has not been long enough dead to have been discovered yet. He went with fighting sarcasm after McCutcheon and Ham Garlin. And both had just started out on their career as geniuses and everybody seemed to expect from them wonders. And they seem to be "best sellers of last season."

Real jewels of aphorisms and criticisms are contained in those few numbers of the Goose Quill he succeeded in publishing. And later, after he had left the West and tried his luck as publisher in New York! How he characterizes and paints with true pictures the puppets and make-believers who in those days were the featured gods of Sunday supplements and magazines. Dear old Cowley! He is contented with his lot. He edits the Ten Story Book every month once and he writes his page of "Major and Minor" . . . . and then he reads. He reads modern books and his Latin classics, and he looks through the English and German and French magazines he can get a hold of. How often did we spend a pleasant hour in a certain dingy Chicago office reading aloud Homer or Horace, and he translating wonderful passages of the Iliad, in hexameters . . . . and the elevated was thundering on its nearby structure, and we were at the top floor of a twentieth century office building.

He, as many other literary men, is not a man of letter writing. "Out of sight out of thought," is most likely his motto . . . . but never out of heart," I am quite sure. If his eye's meet these lines, a good spirit might move his pen to write us some of his everyday thoughts which are occasional Sunday — too often anniversary — thoughts of the average being.

Books and Magazines of the Week

Contemporary Verse

It surely is not contemporary verse which this new literary (sic) venture of Washington, D. C. offers to us. There is not one among all the poems of its sixteen page quarto that possibly could have been written by a contemporary who lives among us. Its poets seem to be readers of books and absorbers of verse written two thousand years ago. They seem like a class in school — these eleven people whose names appear as contributors, and each of them brings along his composition on some theme or another. Their real lives have nothing whatever to do with their school lives. There is a two page poem by the distinguished interviewer of poets for the trade paper of American book publishers, which sounds like the yearning of little Mary after this year's West Point hop — so elated and so sentimental and so nice jingles!

The Bla

This too is a new magazine. It appears in Greenwich Village. It out-stieglitzes Mr. Stieglitz' "291." It's only one sheet. Here is a reproduction. See what you can make of it.

The Bla

Branch Library News

The current issue contains a list, in alphabetical order, of interesting books on Shakespeare. At all branches of The New York Public Library there are now displayed special collections of books about Shakespeare.

In Which

Norman Geddes enlarged his picturesque magazine with its January issue, considerably. Of interest is his article on the one popular art museum in America. "The Toledo Museum of Art," he says, "is visited by three-fourths of the city; big Chicago is nearest it with an average of forty percent and New York is lower still."

In Our Village

"Some" Literati

Verne Hardin Porter should really have taken a walk down to the village before writing his story "Naughty! Naughty!"' for the February Green Book. He calls it "poor old Bohemia," and it is really sickening to read how he draws special attention to all those places which the newspapers all through the last months have featured, unfeatured and refeatured. I wouldn't be surprised if he actually paid a visit to Greenwich Village. But most likely — as all these Bohemia hunters — in the evening, and then just making the rounds. From one "ultra-Bohemian" place to another. Had he chosen the daylight, he never could have written about MacDougal Alley as follows:

"MacDougal Alley offered us short shrift. It was filled with rubbish barrels, Italian children, teams and evidently, tenants. High rents — for even Bohemian Washington Square has its elite districts — seemed not to have frightened off budding or budded genius. Not a studio was for rent. Bedelia sighed — if from disappointment or relief, I did not know."

He means Washington Mews, evidently — the prolongation of the Alley, this aristocrat among all our streets and thoroughfares on the other side of Fifth Avenue right through to University Place. But that's how it happens. They come down here and drink red ink and eat roast chicken, admire a few short-haired women and a few long-haired men; they think it is a characteristic of Bohemia to be served on yellow tables and to sit on blue chairs . . . . and they write and tell to the world in its "popular" magazines: What? Nothing. After you have read one of those stories you know just as much as before, and you were not even entertained while you were at it. But then there are some equally valuable caricatures and such a combination is irresistible, and even to you, it looks like something which it really is not.

Or, take for instance, that celebrated sage of The Cosmopolitan, Samuel Merwin. He, too, followed the vogue of the times and wrote a Greenwich Village novelette. Of course, in installments. It is the only thing that really pays. To say nothing in generously measured amount of words and to continue to say nothing in several issues will make you the man whose name appears on subway advertisements. So Samuel Merwin left his Forrest Hills home and took quarters in the Judson Hotel, on Washington Square. There he was closeted in his rooms with his genius and his contract for a Greenwich Village novelette. And lo, behold! The Greenwich Village story was born, the January installment of his "Trufflers," which really should be called Les Toughs.

In his "Remnants of Bohemia," the third installment of his "New York of the Novelists," Arthur Bartlett Maurice tells you in The Bookman, about as much of Greenwich Village's great past, about its landmarks which are today, and might be torn down tomorrow, as is known to even well-informed sources and it is good to know that this interesting series will appear shortly in book form.

Captain Hall's Exhibit

Captain Hall's Exhibition of paintings, marine scenes and forest scenes, including portraits of Abraham Lincoln and of Nancy Hanks, Lincoln's mother, will be continued until February 15th. Especially in this month, the birth month of our great president, his portraits of Lincoln and of Nancy Hanks will be of special interest. Captain Hall claims that there is not one picture or sculpture of Lincoln in existence today which really is a portrait of the great man, in immediate proximity to whom he was for quite a while during the Civil War and whose features he studied and impressed lastingly upon his mind. Captain Hall has a letter from Robert Lincoln, in which Lincoln's son agrees with him that the monuments and paintings erected as a tribute to the Union's preserver are creations of their artists but not preservations of those dear features that were. Among other interesting material Captain Hall has in his possession to prove that his conception of Lincoln is the true one are photographs by Brady, the war photographer, whose chemical and optical reconstruction shows the uncovered mole as can be seen on Captain Hall's paintings, and not that familiar wart which, as he claims, was not a wart but the twitch of a very prominent muscle. The widely circulated story of a death-mask taken from the president on his deathbed he disavows as fake, and in the face of the authenticity of this story claimed even by historical and semi-historical books and magazines, he is able to produce the testimony of Robert Lincoln to the contrary.

Poetry Readings

On Monday, the 7th, H. Thompson Rich will read a selection of his poems, including his war poems, at 8:15 in Bruno's Garret. Admission is by ticket only. Write for reservations. There are only forty-two chairs.

On Monday, the 14th of January, Guido Bruno will speak about "Greenwich Village: what it was, what it is and what it means to me." Tickets can be reserved for this evening, by addressing the Garret.

The Liberal Club at 135 MacDougal street announces an exhibition of paintings by artist members. The doors will be open to the public until February 13th, every afternoon and every evening. Glenn Coleman is among the exhibitors. His pen and ink sketches of Greenwich Village will be remembered by the readers of this paper. His street scene paintings and still life from quaint courtyards street corners disclose in him the same sincerity which made his black and white sketches real and alive to us.

The Washington Square Bookshop arranges every Tuesday afternoon in February, a poetry reading in its attractive quarters.

On the 18th of February, the Liberal Club will have its annual ball. A big pageant, in which the winners in the recent beauty prize contest of Greenwich Village femininity will be the main figures, is the midnight event. The Liberal Club affair of last year — if I remember, the Arabian Nights — was a much talked-of success, and participants and guests are looking forward eagerly to the ball.

Coulton Waugh designed several book plates very successfully and all he demurs, in executing commissions of this sort, are the ideas of the people who wish to own the book plates. But that's how it is in this world. Song birds in gold cages can't sing in the night. Their mistress wishes to sleep and therefore covers them with a nice silk handkerchief.

Tom Sleeper's Awakening

Judging from my mail, Tom Sleeper's speckled hen caused a good many of the "flock" to scratch their heads. It will be up to the sleeper from the New Jersey hills and plains to say what he really meant. If it is worthwhile to scratch and to lay eggs to make more speckled chickens or not. Even D. Molby looked up from his microscope and after careful macrocosmic and microcosmic consideration decided to draw a picture of the hen so Tom might see her at work. The other letters I received I referred to the society for city and country economics and for sociological research. They will make good material for papers to be read in Junior Leagues and dramatic sewing circles.

A War Play in Bruno's Garret

Vida Ravenscroft Sutton read last Monday in Bruno's Garret her war play in two scenes, "Kingdom Come," which will be produced in the near future on an up-town private stage. Miss Sutton is a very good reader. She has a pleasant voice and no matter what she reads one could listen to her with pleasure for hours. She has been in Russia and she pictures in her play the Russian life. She really creates an atmosphere which keeps on being sympathetic even after we realize the crudeness of it.

Theodore Schroeder, of Cos Cob, Conn., lectured last week in New York and in Brooklyn and paid his visit to the village.

Children's Hour on the Square

THE change in the weather — even last week's snowfall doesn't change the program of the Children's Hour on Washington Square. Mr. Charles Edison plays now in the winter as well as in the past summer months, the part of the music man of the children of Greenwich Village. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons bring them music and dancing, real joy and merriment.

Near the Arch, around the fountain, facing the west, are children's playgrounds, closed to the traffic. The Diamond Disc is furnishing them music and the little boys and girls have a chance to get acquainted with dancing etiquette. Under the supervision of competent teachers and women who have volunteered their services as chaperones and dames de garde open air social dances will be arranged in the near future.

The Story of Oscar Wilde's Life and Experience in Reading Gaol

By His Warder


(I am indebted for this story to Mr. Patrick F. Madigan, who has the original, in the handwriting of Oscar Wilde's warder, and also the two manuscripts mentioned in this story.


"Unknown to Wilde his wife had accompanied the solicitor, but she did not wish her husband to see her."

"The interview with the solicitor took place in the consultation room, and Wilde sat at a table with his head on his hands opposite the lawyer."

"Outside, in the passage with me, waited a sad figure in the deepest mourning. It was Mrs. Wilde — in tears."

"Whilst the consultation was proceeding in the 'solicitor's room,' Mrs. Wilde turned to me and begged a favor. 'Let me have one glimpse of my husband,' she said, and I could not refuse her."

"So silently I stepped on one side, and Mrs. Wilde cast one long lingering glance inside, and saw the convict-poet, who, in deep mental distress himself, was totally unconscious that any eyes save those of the stern lawyer and myself witnessed his degradation."

"A second later, Mrs. Wilde, apparently laboring under deep emotion, drew back, and left the prison with the solicitor."

"I fancy Wilde, when she saw him, was putting the final signature to the divorce papers, and I do not know if she ever saw her unhappy husband again. I do not think she ever did."

"At exercise, when he tramped what he called 'The Fools' Parade' with his companions of 'The Devil's Own Brigade,' he would pace along with bended head as though deep in thought and usually muttering snatches of prose or verse from his favorite authors."

"He took a most sympathetic interest in the sorrows and troubles of other prisoners, and commented fiercely on what he called the brutality of the prison system when a warder was suspended and finally dismissed for putting biscuits in the cell of a young prisoner whom Wilde believed to have been crying from hunger."

"The monotony of the life seemed appalling to Wilde, and when he was released he wrote, you remember:"

        I know not whether laws be right

            Or whether laws be wrong;

        All that we know who be in gaol

            Is that the walls are strong,

        And that each day is like a year,

            A year whose days are long.

"I have good reason to know that Oscar Wilde was satisfied with the way two of the warders treated him."

"After his release he sent us through the Governor, copies of his soul-stirring poem, 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol.' "

"My copy is inscribed 'From his friend, the author, Naples, February, 1898.' "

"You remember the masterly way in which Wilde worked out the theme of that wonderful poem which told of the last days in prison of Trooper C. T. Woolridge, of the Royal Horse Guards, who was hanged for the murder of his wife at Clewer, near Windsor.

"Wilde, of course, never saw the murderer after his condemnation, but he heard the bell tolling for the execution, and it made a terrible impression on his mind.
(To be Continued)