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The Fire In Bruno's Garret

FIRE of some unknown cause destroyed, on the 12th of February, on Lincoln Day, that part of my garret which I used as a storage room and where I kept my files.

All back numbers of my magazines, Greenwich Village, Bruno Chap-Books and Bruno's Weekly were destroyed. Manuscripts of well-known authors, historical documents, rare books, pamphlets which never can be duplicated, material which I had collected for the last twelve years — all went up in the smoke.

And better than ever do I know today that there is no possession real which we do not carry with us constantly. Not in our pockets, but in our hearts. Not the property which we store in fireproof storehouses, or in safe deposit vaults; even that might be destroyed by earthquakes, or by Zeppelins, or other devices with which God and man manifest their existence unexpectedly.

But all we have in the eternal possession of our mind — all those things that we really know.

Knowledge is the power that cannot be destroyed.

Omnia mea mecum porto.

On Book Stall Row

AND so this, the first number after the fire which partly destroyed my garret, is the fitting occasion, dear reader, to invite you to take a walk through that part of the city which starts on the extremist boundaries of our village and whose important avenue leads to the Public Library — that supreme mausoleum of the citizens of the republic of letters; where are laid away, side by side, the remains of those who were worshipped during life and forgotten after their death and of those whom no one knew while they were among us and whose real life began after they had written the last page of their message to the world, a world which has ears now for the dead man's words.

Will you come with me and walk for half an hour on that Via Appia of New York where great men's work is put on shelves and bundled up and can be viewed by those who feel like worshipping where artists and writers found a friend who would plead their cause better than the newspaper critic, literary writer and the art editor. Let us go where the old worshipful building of the Astor Library still stands and whose closed shutters and deserted doorways and staircases remind one of that eternal truth — sic transit gloria mundi! And not long ago — scarcely eight years — all intellect of New York assembled here on old Astor Place, in the midst of the old landmarks of a New York of by-gone days. There they worked diligently, and like in a bee-hive, gathered the honey to give it to the world. And the world came to take the honey and carried it to newspaper offices, to magazine editors and used it for nourishing and for luxurious, dandy dishes and served it to millions as bread and as dessert.

In those days of the old Astor Library, Fourth Avenue was the leading booksellers' street of New York, and therefore, of the world.

And then the palace was built on Fifth Avenue, right in the heart of the city, to receive the remains of the august man of the world. The literary free-market, whose center for barter and exchange had been on Astor Place, moved up to the new comfortable quarters. Marble and big spaces, lackies in livery and modern commercial office devices took the places of the good old home-like library rooms. Railings did not separate there the reader from the book shelves and the tables were worn and ink-spotted; and where the authors of the books, in their old-fashioned attire, with their grandfather's manners, with their elegance and their "I don't care what you think of me, world!" seemed so near to us who leaned over their books.

But those booksellers — no less lovers of books because they sold them — remained in their shops on Fourth Avenue, in their basements and their little shacks with outlandish displays of book stalls and advertisements in old handwriting tacked to their doors which seem to belong to another age, which seem to be the remnants of another school of men. A good many of those old friends of the frequenters of the library are gone. High buildings are erected where they used to read books and sell them to you — if you managed to get into their good graces. Don't shake your head incredibly! Yes, such were those old booksellers, who treated their books as you would treat your friends, and who would introduce you to their friends only if you were one with their spirit, — if they found in you "that certain something" which invites lovers of books into a society of lovers of men.

Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis! Mr. Edison put the candle out of use. His electric rails brought space and time into relations which enable the individual to live a life of many interests.

Greek and Latin, the old essayists of yore, and the art of writing letters are foreign to most of us. To have read your Caesar and scanned your Homer makes you a scholar for lifetime today. And to have really read Horace and to have dived into Plato and Aeschylus entitles you to the highest honors newspapers, magazines and the country-at-large have to award. If you know how to write about these things and how to apply your knowledge so that the magazine editor can have it illustrated by some imitators of Bruneleschie or Bakst, that your work can appear serially in an unobjectionable family paper which is sold in two million copies by boys and girls who earn in such a way a "liberal education in business colleges;" — that it can be printed in book form to be bought by all public libraries and Carnegie and college and university libraries, and if it has such merits that the music of a Viennese operetta composer can be harmoniously combined with the words, making for a season's Broadway success.

Otherwise you have the best chance to starve and to be looked upon as a strange sort of a chap.

A few are left of those old book dealers who used to dwell on Fourth Avenue and whom bookworms used to persuade to part with this or that precious tome. How those booksellers differed from those of our own times; they knew their Latin and their Greek, they knew not only first editions and standard editions from the catalogs of auction sales and "Book Prices Current" but they knew the contents of the books; they would give an equal chance to the well known author whom they liked and to the unknown man whose pamphlet they discovered; reading and "discovering" was their chief occupation, selling books a mere incident — a very necessary one, of course, but still an incident only. They all had their hobbies. One would be interested in Mark Twain and would have stored away in some obscure comer of his book shelves, as the kohinoor of his possessions, a rare pamphlet unknown to the world, and perhaps autographed by the author himself. Another one would be an enthusiast of Poe and would carefully gather precious items and show them to those he really liked — like a king who bestows upon the subject he wishes to honor a high order.

Authors and would-be authors found in these dingy shops lit by a flickering gas jet, in the atmosphere of dust and of old paper, congenial gathering places. O. Henry was a well-known habitué of the bookshops on Fourth Avenue, and especially one situated in a basement to which led rickety wooden stairs was his favorite one. He used to rummage around the French books its proprietor kept and ask for translations and explanations, but he rarely bought.

Did I say a few of those shops are still preserved? — and did I invite you to come along and take a walk on Book Stall Row? They are, but don't be disappointed. They all have electric lights and cash registers and only far back behind the dust covered desk of the proprietor — if you succeed in lifting the business mask from his face — will you find the book dealer after your heart, whose face beams because he has succeeded in getting this or that rare item. And if you have that "certain something" of the bookworm which finds a response in his heart, he will forget his "Book Prices Current" and he will talk to you just to your heart's delight. And his hands and your hands will rest on the mutual friend — the book.

Here, I said, in these shops, which, if the proprietor has business genius and progresses with the spirit of the time, will become types of the ready-to-order, department-store-like-conducted book stores, are the temporary interment places of litterateurs who are either dead and not yet discovered or who are alive and therefore not apt to be discovered, or who are both dead and discovered. But their works have not yet succeeded in bringing high auction prices and therefore are not purchased by the libraries in their palatial mausoleums where they will find their final resting-place some day. To these shops the litterateur pilgrimages if he wishes to dispose of his books — not because his shelves or his library are too crowded but because he has decided that a meal once in a while will be highly appreciated by his physical body. Down here to these basements or to these shacks crowded in by big business buildings he creeps stealthily and sells the books of his friends, given him in his better days with their inscriptions of friendship. He is ashamed of his act, but landladies have to get rent and Child's has a cash register which must record every sale of the day, even the most insignificant cup of coffee and the thinnest cheese sandwich.

Here to these shops the litterateur, who ventured into the field of being his own publisher and editor of a short-lived magazine brings bundles of unsold numbers of his publication which were returned to him with many regrets and the bill for "'return charges by the pound" from news dealers and from news companies. The book store buys them, and a dollar is a dollar — even if you have to procure it with five hundred or a thousand copies of something you put your greatest hopes upon.

No reflection is made upon the bookseller! He gives you more than you could get anywhere else. What other book dealer in this city would buy old paper — and it is nothing but old paper so long as "Book Prices Current" doesn't mention the magazine's name and its rarity, and therefore, the goodness of its contents.

Here, to these shops, landladies bring the trunks which they did not permit to leave their premises  because the unfortunate owner failed to pay his three dollars per week, and his literary future was too ample a security for her to continue to trust. And how many rejected manuscripts — often rejected because of their merit — will be found in that baggage hastily thrown together by her after she has locked the door upon him! How many letters will they contain showing the man in the light others saw him and wrote to him what to do and what not to do!

Here, to these shops, the unfortunate woman travels if her husband — the writer or the artist — is sick and doctor bills have to be paid, and again, that curse of everybody's life — rent bills and board bills.

And here finally is sold the worldly possessions of him who has laid away his pen forever, whom the rent collector for the typewriter will not bother again. His most cherished books and letters from fellow sufferers on the hard road to literary success and those benevolent lines of those who "got there," his scrapbooks and perhaps his diary to contribute to the receipts of undertaker and cemetery company.

DEAR READER, we live in an age where figures are staring in your face wherever you turn. Churches, pass the baskets! Charity is standardized after the most efficient business methods of the country.

"Money, I want money!" is written in big, black broad letters over men and things. Therefore, it is up to you to eliminate money wherever you feel it a disturbing element. It is up to you to be the magician who charms away the things that can never "disappear'' as everybody knows. Don't think of the rent and of the bills and of the payrolls to clerks that these booksellers have to pay but see them as I do back there in the dark comer of their shops — unlighted by electricity, back of a paper-and-dust-covered desk, reading on quiet afternoons and evenings when business is at a standstill and book buyers do not require their services, — reading their favorites, those books they will not sell if you are not lucky and strike them at a time when bills are due, when rent has to be paid.
                                        Guido Bruno

Vaudeville Stars Tell Us Why They Act

I have not taken in a vaudeville show for quite a while. I have seen in the newspapers concerning the work of our vaudeville actors, several pages each week. And so I went to the Palace one night last week. The chairs are very comfortable and the ventilation is excellent. So it is possible to exist physically.

But how much humanity is wasted on the vaudeville stage! These men and women surely must have a reason for doing their silly acts over and over again for forty weeks every year!

There was Ruth St. Denis, for instance. Ella Wheeler Wilcox was down at my garret the morning after I had seen Ruth. The famous poetess adores Ruth; her husband adores Ruth, too. They saw her for the first time in Paris, some years ago. ''She is adoration, she is a prayer, she is a sermon,'' Mr. Wilcox remarked after the curtain had rung down. Mrs. Wilcox was of the same opinion. Sermons and sermons are different. So are prayers. Mine surely differ from those of the Wilcox couple.

"Why do they act?" I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. Here are the answers that I received from a few of the headliners at present features in Broadway theaters and vaudeville houses.

Gaby Deslys (in Stop! Look! and Listen! at the Globe) — "Because I love it — I like money much, but my art, ah, that is the thing I like very much, much more."

Harry Pilcer (also at the Globe) — "Because eight per doesn't hold any charms for me."

Harry Fox (in Stop! Look! and Listen also at the Globe) — "To get my hot meat. This is the life."

Joseph Santley (also at the Globe) — "Merely to keep me out of mischief."

And here are a few who appear at present at the Palace:

Harry Carroll: "To get out of a contract with a music publisher."

Paul Morton and wife, Naomi Glass (in a vaudeville sketch): "We need the cash — that's all!"

The Dolly Sisters (in a vaudeville sketch): "Because of our rapid success, because of the money that's in it, and because we can't keep our feet on the ground."
                                        G. B.

Any House in the Court

PAPA SUMMERFIELD is a very bad man. He loves his wife, or at least he loved his wife very tenderly, fourteen years before the curtain rose. In those days he had been a successful lawyer, with indisputable business integrity. And then — she died. He locked the chamber in which she had been an invalid before her death and it remained for years a closed room in the house. He kept the key in his pocket, and every member of his household tiptoed when passing this door, and nobody dared mention its existence, or the mother's name in his presence. Papa Summerfield killed his grief and his love in business ambition and anything that came along was good enough as long as it kept his mind busy and prevented him from thinking. He also developed into a house tyrant, forbidding the two daughters the men of their choice, and turning them coldly from house and hearth after they decided to become wives and mothers. But Papa Summerfield has a "better self.'' And this better self is of utmost importance to the play. It really is the nucleus of the play. The better self appears in a not any more unaccustomed way on the stage. It is Mr. Summerfield's double. It looks like Mr. Summerfield, it parts its hair in the same remarkable way that Mr. Summerfield parts his, from forehead to neck, it wears the same picturesque necktie and clothes, and appears at opportune moments in a spotlight and tries to reason with his "evil self."

And there is that great big corporation committee that wishes to buy the honesty of Mr. Summerfield with a vice-presidency, and with fat fees, and there is the honest young man who cannot continue to be secretary to Mr. Summerfield because he cannot bear the idea that his revered master will do something dishonest. This secretary also has a little side interest which his heroic standpoint brings to a happy conclusion. David, that is his name, has won the heart of the youngest daughter of Mr. Summerfield, and now, in the sublime moment when she realizes the "evil self" of Papa, she decides to follow David and take up with him the struggles of life. And then, there is a highly melodramatic private conversation between "better self" and "evil self" of Papa Summerfield in the death-chamber of the departed wife. It is one of those scenes that are enjoyed by cooks and chambermaids, digested after working hours from those ominous paper covered thick volumes known ordinarily as dime novels, whose price has been raised to twenty-five cents. It would be enjoyed as a scene commonly known as one "that gives you the creeps," that "starts the goose-flesh."

Papa Summerfield leaves the mysterious death-chamber of his wife and returns to his library.

Enter all persons in question as there are: the honest secretary with the youngest daughter ready to leave forever, the disinherited daughter, who has a baby at home and the son-in- law "who shall never cross this threshold again." They expect a parting for life. But lo! Old man Summerfield is his "better self" again. "You all can remain," says he; "I have thought the matter over and I am going to join forces with my sons-in-law. Honesty will lead us to success. David, I welcome as the husband of my youngest daughter______."

One looked expectantly toward the door; but the nursemaid with the baby upon her arm did not appear.

Owen Davis and Robert Davis are the "two selves" that manufactured this show piece. One might be a very successful magazine editor, and an expert in selecting and purchasing the kind of stuff that people are supposed to like in our popular magazines. But a successful career of this sort is poor experience to write a drama for American theater-goers. Even such features as there were on the program, "that the curtain never rises and never is rung down between the acts and scenes of 'Any House'," is an insufficient feature after the street exterior of the house is lifted and the living room of this fashionable mansion is right next to the sidewalk. The appearance of the personified better self of a man is as old as the development of stage tricks. It was used in France and Germany to much better advantage early in the Eighteenth Century.

Papa Summerfield saved the situation temporarily by excellent acting. He was "the evil self" of a man as well impersonated as it is in real life. But that "better self" was just a poor attempt at something unknown. At what? Ask Mr. Davis!

One must be a creator and a critic, and sincere in everything in life and in art in order to be able to write a drama.

The editor, the able editor of popular magazines, might do well to follow his real métier: to write vaudeville sketches.
                                        G. B.

Hassan and His Wives

AND it was at the hour of the full moon, the doors of the castle were pushed open and there entered silently into the garden, Hassan and his seven wives, who crossed over to the melodiously splashing fountain, disrobed, and seated themselves in a semi-circle.

And Hassan Bedr-ed Din said:

"I am your master, creatures of the curved rib, but verily rather would I be a hunchback beggar than your master solely! Because my soul is thirsty for love."

And he looked into the deer-like eyes of Butheines:

"What is the utmost that you can do for me, woman?"

"Singing and dancing will I do for thee, oh lord!"

Hassan shrugged his shoulders and turned to Kuttel Kulub:

"And you also, only singing and dancing?"

"I will tell you a thousand fairy tales: About the Prince who was turned to stone, about the veziers of the King Junan, and Isrit and about the old Scheichs."

"What can you give me, Scherczade?"

"Every lust of the body, lord! My blood boils like the wind of the desert!"

Nushet-es-Saman said: "I can be true to you, from the bottom of my heart, oh Hassan! And not because I have to!"

And Sophia: "I can relate to you the works of the Prophet, and I can explain them, and I know the secrets of the stars!"

And the dark-haired Dunjaisaid, the one with the queen-like figure, fell to the feet of Hassan, covering them with kisses, and her voice vibrated like leaves in a hurricane: "I could die for thee, oh lord!"

A happy smile passed over the face of the master, and he kissed Dunjaisaid.

The seventh woman sat still unquestioned, near the fountain. And she opened her mouth and said: "Why should I keep silent and make a secret of my love, because you, oh Hassan, do not look at me?"

Hassan smiled snobbishly: "Arise! What on earth could you do for me after Dunjaisaid is ready to die for me?"

"I could live for you, oh Lord!"
                                        After the Persian by Guido Bruno


A BLACK crow flapped his wings in a dead tree.

At that moment I was born.

A camel awoke, stretched and wandered away over the desert; just then my mate came into being.

We met quite accidentally at Dajeeling, married, raised five children, built a house and kept a cat.

Later, we died and were buried in the same grave.

This completes our history . . .

Not that it does anybody any good.
                                        — Tom Sleeper

By Richard Aldington


WHEN I was hungry and implored them, they said: "The sun-beetle eats dung: imitate him."

I implored them for my life's sake and they replied: "Last year's roses are dead; why should you live?"

(Three years later)

THEY came to me and said: "You must aid us for the sake of our God and our World."

I replied: "Your god is a beetle and your world a ball of dung."

But they returned and said: "You must give your life to defend us."

And I answered: "Though a million of you die, next spring shall not lack roses."
                                        — From The Egoist, London


            SHE walked, an Eve,
                Created not, mankindness to deceive.
            And lo!
            Quoth she, "Why are they draped so?
            God made me,
            Is it then,
            Fit I should upholstered be by men?"

London Letter
                                        London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY,
                                        18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington

                                                                                January 31st, 1916

MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT is doubtless a brave woman, but is she discreet? Undeterred by her great age or her physical infirmity she insists on appearing in public. There should be, as in Russia, a law forbidding actresses over forty-five or fifty from sacrificing their reputations, their beautiful memories to a foolish vanity.

Of course, the great public here doesn't take this view. Anyone to whom it has once given admiration or affection is forever sacred to it. We have comedians in London who have lived successfully for a dozen years on one good joke or play. Bernhardt has been at the Coliseum this week with her voice — still marvelous to say, not without magic — and — poor thing! — her artificial limb. She recited Les Cathidrales, sitting in a great throne-like chair the while, and then acted in Du Theatre au Champ d' Honneur, a little war piece. The latter was rather dreadful, but the Coliseum audience, one of the stupidest and most sentimental in London, was apparently enthralled.

At the Shaftesbury Theatre we have had another interesting though not quite successful entertainment this week. It is another case of a musician endeavoring to digest a literary masterpiece much in the way that Liza Lehmann did with Everyman, as I mentioned in my last letter. This time it is Sir Charles Stanford who has endeavored to turn Sheridan's Critic into a kind of music play or comedy with music. The result is not spontaneously successful. Sir Charles has no very light gift of musical humor and some of his musical jokes are very heavy indeed. The composer has mixed original music with parodies of Wagner, Strauss, Debussy and the old style of Italian opera like Trovatore. Sheridan is good and Sir Charles Stanford is good in his own way as a composer of light academic work and a professor of distinction, but the combination is unsatisfactory.

Quite a number of French and Belgian books and reviews continue to be printed and published in England. The Paris firm of Figuiere has a printing works at Cardiff — "The Welsh Outlook Press." There is a company of publishers in London, issuing new novels and other books in French, in the ordinary French format with yellow paper covers. Belgian and French novelists in veile issue their works in this way. Et jai vouler la Paix, by Andre Spire, is just published by the Egoist. Spire, who has passed most of the time since the outbreak of the war in Nancy, close to the firing line, has been recently engaged in buying leather for the French Government, and a little while ago paid a business visit to London. I did not see him, but he was taken to the Café Royal, I believe, to meet the poets and painters, and now, chiefly through the instrumentality of my friend, Richard Aldington, I fancy, we have this little volume of verse. The following is taken from a poem called Images, written at Nancy in September 1914:

        Mais pentends le canon aux portes de ma ville;
        Je vols sur nos canaux, nos places et nos rues
        Tes troupeaux de blesses;
        Je vois tes carbillards suivis de Veterans et de drapeaux.
        Et tes paysans fuir avec leurs fourrageres
        Pleines de matelas, de femmes et d'enfants
        Et je m'asseois. I'attends.
        Oh! Silence! Silence! . . .
        Jusqu'an jour ou ces corps defaits, ces visages hagards,
        Ces cris, ces pleurs, ces lignes, ces pus, ces puanteuos,
        Une plus imperieuse image: la Victoire,
        Les aura deloges de nos zeux, de nos coeurs.

Thus there emerges from the poem the triumphant motive: which, perhaps, America, happy in the possession of peace, does not quite understand. I find in many American papers and reviews a frequent expression of commiseration for us in Europe with our terrible war. It is true that it is a horrible enough affair and that the amount of misery and tragedy in Europe is something fearful to contemplate, but there is, at the same time, an acceptance of it, a recognition that it is the eventable contrast against which joy shines, a kind of pride in it, in fact.

Among new novels, Arnold Bennett's These Twain, calls for a line, though since it has probably been published simultaneously in America, you will have heard all about it long before this letter appears.

An absurd book though of which probably you will not hear has just been issued in honor of Hilaire Belloc, who has risen to considerable eminence of late, owing to his false prophesies on the subject of the war. Two young men who should know better have perpetrated this fatuity — C. Creighton Mandell and E. Shanks. The book is divided into chapters such as Mr. Belloc and the Public, Mr. Belloc and Europe, Mr. Belloc and the Future, and so on. Perhaps you don't even know who Hilaire Belloc is?

But that I should not seem to give you notice only of bad or foolish books let me end by mentioning one that is excellent — Professor G. Baldwin Brown's Arts in Early England, of which Volumes III and IV have just appeared. It is full of learning and imaginative appeal.
                                        Edward Storer

Books and Magazines of the Week

RUSSIAN literature translated originally during the Crimean War and refreshed sporadically during the Russo-Japanese struggles is being warmed up and rehashed and served on toast in England since the outbreak of the European struggles. As the good old boarding-house woman knows well what to do with her Sunday chicken on Monday, Tuesday and the subsequent days, so the publishers on Fleet Street fish out from their morgues hurried translations and then they are reprinted cheaply and fed to the populace.

The modem authors, of whom there exist a German or French translation, are being done into English by translators now "from the original Russian." Just look at these translations which arrive with every English boat. I daresay that at least two-thirds of these books came to England via France and via Germany. Russian can be translated into English. But only by such as have an excellent knowledge of English and a fair knowledge of Russian. There is too much German and French flavor and spirit in these Russian translations of our days. The wonderful primitive way of expressing situations by comparisons, of picturing life through the most difficult mosaic of life in detail is lost.

The American translations are far better. Russia is nearer to the heart of America than to the heart of England. Russia is to America the representative of everything Slavic in Europe. The Slavic element is very vital in our everyday life. The melancholy of those struggling for freedom — no matter if spiritual or financial — is well known to us. The technical knowledge of the language has a big assistant: the sympathy of translator and of reader.

The Russia of a Gogol, the Russia of an Arzibasheff with the struggling minority against the tyrannies of a Czardom by "God's grace" against oppressors who want Russia's financial downfall, who want slaves in spirit and meek servants instead of free men, must find a sympathetic echo in the hearts of free Americans.

These translations, as published during the past year by Mr. Huebsch, and lately by Mr. Knopf (whose address, by the way, is in no directory, and letters to whom are being sent back as undeliverable constantly), are not only superior from a technical standpoint or from the standpoint of a linguist, but they really carry to us THE message. The great Russian authors, who are artists, apostles of a new and better era for their beloved Russia, and leaders of their people at large at the same time, speak to us in their own language. In most of the English translations they seem to be using a megaphone.

While reading a few days ago in a Bohemian magazine that Oscar Wilde's Reading Gaol had been translated into Bohemian and into Serbian recently and sent in thousands of copies to military concentration camps, I remembered another singer amid prison walls — one who suffered in Russian prisons and such torture houses as the Schluesselburg, twenty-five years of his life for the gravest crime one can commit in Russia; he was an independent editor of a paper that should tell his readers the truth and nothing but the truth. Nicholas Alexandrovitch Morosow, son of a nobleman and a peasant woman, after a liberal education in colleges and universities, decided, at the age of nineteen, to join the group of young Socialists which went, in 1874, preaching through the country, trying to make men and women see the real value of life.

He went to St. Petersburg and was editor in quick succession of those three journals that were severely persecuted by the Russian Government. He left Russia, warned by a good friend that there was a warrant out against him. But he would not have been a Russian, a real Russian, if he could have kept out of his country for the rest of his life. And he came back.

Everything might be rotten in Russia, systems and administrations; but the filing-index on which are kept the names of those that offend the ''sacrosanct person of the Czar" or dare to suggest a better Russia, free of graft and injustice, is kept in constant working order. Morosow was arrested the same second he crossed the boundaries of Holy Russia. He was sentenced to life imprisonment.

Longing for freedom, for the freedom of his nation, had been the impetus of his life. After he lost his own personal freedom, he knew so much better how his nation in bondage suffered, how it was destined to suffer for centuries to come.

All his strength, all his sentimentality, all his love for his nation, for clean, pure air and for blue skies, and all the hopes and imagination of a new, of a free Russia are the threads with which he wove that wonderful Gobelin, his life work, that he started, worked upon and finished in the hopeless leaden misery of Russian prisons: his prison song.

Contemporary Verse

One distinction has the second number of this magazine which is everything but contemporary; the bad poet, who made a name for himself in a weekly book-trade paper, unjustly called Book Review, by interviewing similarly bad poets, is not among their contributors. Eleven names were contained in the initial issue of this new poetical gift that Washington, D. C. has bestowed upon us and if it loses every month one contributor, the December issue will be up to the highest expectations.

The Spotlight

This is a new periodical, whose Volume 1, Number 1, has arrived at our desk. "Edited and owned by the people," it says. It contains effusions against the policy of preparedness. Who is this "people?"


The general issue of this psychic magazine contains valuable information for our poets.

"Those who scoff at the thought that Spirit, or spirits, respond to special invitation to be present at gatherings of mortals at specific times and places may explain why a number of Alethian Students who had never previously produced a line of verse, have spontaneously delivered commendable poetry at our lecture classes."

The Colonnade

"The essence of Strindberg," by Harold Berman, is an interesting attempt to understand and to appreciate "the deep-rooted mysticism with an original and dual outlook upon life as the motives underlying the enigmatic personality of August Strindberg."

"The Threefold Admonishment" is another one of Arthur Schnitzler's stories, translated from the German, by Pierre Loving. The efforts of Mr. Loving to introduce to us this eminent Viennese writer are very laudable, but he chooses Schnitzler's early work. Why not try to give us some of his best? Those bits, full of life, and still of a rare quietness of which he has proved master?

In Our Village

FLORENCE GOUGH and Lindsey Cooper joined the small shop movement in the Village and opened a costume shop for the designing and creating of fancy dress costumes and modern clothes. Miss Gough is doing the designing. She has an unique color sense and she is proud of the wide opportunity she had for expression, not only in costuming, but in spectacular stage setting! "She also claims priority right to the daring color combinations regarded dubiously by the Academicians before the coming of Bakst."

And daring is the interior of the shop. The floor is tomato red, the walls are black, yellow and turquoise, the color is splashed on the walls as by the ire of genius. Of genius that simply must express itself in vivid glaring colors and that wouldn't care to sit even in a chair or on a stool which does not carry the flaming message to its organism in repose. Therefore, orange and lavender seating occasions.

Two large figures of yellow cambric, with disarranged anatomies, stand in the show window, like heralds of a new sartorial apostle.

And Miss Cooper, the director of the institution, assures that the faithful came from the first day, immediately after the yellow cambrics had hit their eyes. A large number of costumes, worn at the recent Censors Ball and the Beaux Arts' party emanated from here, and the Liberal Club Ball and the Masses' Ball will be vivid and glaring witnesses of this new shop in Our Village.

Alice Palmer, she of the Sunflower Shop, has opened The Village Store and announces that its mission will be a ''Gift Shop." She will sell odd bits of brass, china, wood, furniture and souvenirs, at reasonable prices.

A frequent visitor to the Village during the past weeks has been Joseph Louis French, the poet. He contemplates a new edition of his corrected works, poems that have appeared during the past twenty years in magazines and periodicals in the United States and England.

Charles Keeler has united many of his poems in a volume that will soon be published by Laurence Gomme, "in his little shop around the comer." They are called "Victory," and contain some of Mr. Keeler's best work.

Bernhardt Wall, the etcher, has conceived the idea of a series of preparedness pictures, to be produced as movie cartoons. He is hard at work at them and contemplating: the acceptance of one of the many offers he has received from film companies.

Monkey Sketch
Heloise Haynes plans for her many friends and admirers an informal dance for Saturday, the 19th, which will take place in her "Wardrobe."

Bruno's Garret

A group of young Russian painters will exhibit a representative selection of their paintings in Bruno's Garret. The exhibition opens on Thursday, the 17th, and will last until the 25th of February. The poetry readings and Monday evening lectures have to be interrupted on account of the fire until March the 5th. Upon this day, the necessary restoration work will have been finished and Bruno's Garret will welcome everybody that wishes to attend its house warming.

Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre

VIRGINIA O. MADIGAN, who was heard last week in her recitation to music of Victor Sardou's "Leah the Forsaken," has remarkable talent to interpret with her strong resonant voice, the words of the author. Music and spoken word seem to grow to a unit which does not fail to act upon our senses. Our eyes and our ears are similarly attracted. Miss Madigan, who just completed her eleventh year, will continue her dramatic studies.

Thursday, Friday and Saturday of this week the program will include a selection of songs by Miss Sara S. Broughton, known as a church singer and who aspires to enter upon a concert career. Her program includes: The Star, by Rogers; Where my Caravan Has Rested, by Lohr; The Years at the Spring, by Beach.

Miss Lila Van Kirk will give three of her Italian illustrated travelogues, "Two Weeks in Rome," "A Walk Through the Streets of Florence," and "Naples, Pompeii, Vesuvius, Venice (by moonlight) and Italian Lakes." This series is arranged as a trip through Italy, on this side of the ocean and Miss Van Kirk has sought to make her individuality that of a purely conversational tone of delivery, thereby tendering the atmosphere of her historic subject.


TRINITY CHURCH stands at the head of Wall Street. Facing East, it represents God. At the foot is the East River oblivion. The Stock Exchange is between, the Temple of Mammon; the, Custom House is beside. It is the place of the law. We have here the channel and its ports. In the daytime a human tide here ebbs and flows. At certain seasons the flow is well defined; on the eve of panic from Mammon to God, as the herd gathers before the storm; in the panic the Street is in flood. Some are pushed into oblivion, but the Street remains full — Curious paradox. — In the time of plenty, the tide sets to the place of the law. Man is mindful of its comforts in the hour of fortune; Gold has its concomitants; noblesse oblige. In the Temple of Mammon all is Babel. No tongue is of the Pentecost. They cry aloud and dance to the music of their throats. Then comes a hush. The place empties like a sigh. But after all is said and done the trend is up and down; some to the churchyard, some to the river. There is rest.

And old Trinity smiles down equally upon the mob and the dead. They are alike, incidents.
                                        — G. E. M.


        SHE came like a falling star,
                    Sudden, and swift, and bright,
            From the heaven of heavens afar
                On the wilderness of night.

            She came like a falling star,
                Flashed by, and was no more;
            But the wilderness where lost lovers are
                Is darker than before.
                                        — O. T. M.

Replated Platitudes

NATURALLY, people who never stop to trouble about the Truth, object to have the Truth stop to trouble about them, especially when the trouble about the Truth is: It never stops their troubles.

The man who needs a bracer, better brace up against the town-pump.

A world menace: the unteachable self-taught.
                                        Julius Doerner

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, 1916. under the Act of March 3d, 1879.

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