From the Collection
of Patrick F. Madigan
This poem of G. K. Chesterton
appeared never before in print
PLAYERS will open their season on February 28th, in Charles
Edison's Little Thimble Theatre, No. 10 Fifth Avenue, with
August Strindberg's naturalistic drama, "Miss Julia." They are
a small group of actors and actresses that wish to interpret
Strindberg, Tchekoff, Wedekind, Artzibasheff and Gogol's works
in the simple and sincere way in which these playwrights
created their characters. Under the management of Guido Bruno,
who is assisted in the direction by Langdon Gillet, they will
play on three nights of the week, every Monday, Tuesday and
Wednesday, and on one afternoon, on Saturday, in the Thimble
Theatre, and later, the last three days of the week in an
uptown show house.
The performances of the Bruno Players will not interfere and
have no connection whatever with Mr. Charles Edison's work in
the Thimble Theatre, benefiting American musicians and
composers, which will be continued, and the free musicales
will take place on the evenings of Thursday, Friday and
Saturday of each week.
The Bruno Players do not intend to do anything startling,
unusual or sensational. Everything worth while in life is
simple and made of very humble substance. To view life as it
is, to see what is actually happening, one needs just a pair
of good eyes, and in order to understand what others say, the
things that they really mean to say, one needs knowledge of
the language and a pair of good ears. Therefore, there will be
nothing startling and unusual used in the theater of the Bruno
Players. No luxurious equipment for the audience. No new color
schemes, no unexpected effects or revolutionizing stage
features, no architecture, producing optical illusions on the
stage. It will be a show house in the realest sense of the
word. A house where something is shown.
The things which are put on show being the only reason for the
existence of the house, and its main and sole feature.
Only with physical comfort is the human mind susceptible to
new impressions, ready to listen, to like or dislike, to
approve of or to reject. An unprejudiced mind must be housed
in a comfortable-feeling, self-unconscious body. Therefore,
comfortable armchairs are provided with plenty of room to the
right and to the left, to enable one to change one's position
easily, and plenty of space between rows, so that the legs do
not feel step-motherly treated.
The stage is simple. Just an elevation, with no other purpose
than to expose the performers conspicuously to everybody
present. ACTING IS GOOD AS THE RESULT OF BEING ITSELF.
Therefore, stage settings of more or less conspicuous designs,
decorations of all kinds, the appliance of the science of
stage lighting are only irritating and distractive to the
Miss Julia by
MISS JULIA is
the strongest of the naturalistic dramas Strindberg wrote in
the best years of his life. He considered it himself the best
work that he had ever done. The Swedish censors prohibited its
production in Sweden, and it was acted in New York but once —
at a private performance, some years ago, before an invited
audience in the Forty-Eighth Street Theatre.
Strindberg is no playwright, from the standpoint of the modern
theatrical producer. He does not care for construction. He
does not build up situations carefully. There is no
painstaking architecture of actions. We do not admire the
objective correctness, or consequence of the characters he
paints; all we see is the gripping life and the brutal truth
of detail. Strindberg is not satisfied that we see the things
he chooses to show us, but we have to feel them on our skin.
We have to bump against them if we find ourselves unexpectedly
confronted with them. He is not a planner who builds up his
work before our eyes. He is not a painter of decorations who
provides for us illusions and perspective pleasures of the
eye; he is the magician who spills everything right under our
noses — too often, not over pleasantly, because he does not
always charm forth peaches and canaries.
"Miss Julia" is a consciously naturalistic tragedy, very
unreal in its construction. Strindberg has an uncanny power to
paint the wild and hunted life of the minute, and the
explosion of actions, the hissing vapors of wrath. He knows
better than anyone else how to show us everything animal and
primitive in the life of the soul, the hatred and anger, the
combat between hostile wills, but also resignation, weariness,
and dejection. But the naturalist with the clear and sharp
eyes, is also a mystic, following Swedenborg into his
translunaric world, one who knows how to charm before our
eyes, the dark plays of dreams and the abysses of the soul.
Strindberg might fail very often, as his adversaries claim
justly, to give us a deep psychological evolution of his
characters, but he never fails to show us through his
elementary dramatic actions, through his dialogues, to which
one has to listen and through his effects, which cannot be
ignored as less than explosions — real life.
To do on the stage what Strindberg did on paper is the
intention of the Bruno Players.
London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY,
18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
February 10th, 1916
THIS week I
think I will begin with a little chat on some of London's
literary bookshops — I mean the intimate interesting places
where an atmosphere of humanity and the humanities lingers. We
have our share of the other kind too — glittering parlors
where the new books are stacked in lifeless slabs, places full
of chaos and quantity. But there are perhaps as many as a
dozen or so little places which make for the pleasure and
worthiness of book buying in London. I scarcely know where to
begin or with whom. There is The Poetry Bookshop, and Dan
Rider's, well known to American literary men and artists, and
the Bomb Shop in Charing Cross Road, with its Socialist and
Anarchist literature, and Beaumont's, opposite, with the
delightful drawings by continental artists, and Reeves, by
Waterloo Bridge, who buys the reviewers' review copies, and
Mr. Shore's Book Parlor, off Holborn. There are the barrows in
the roadway in the Farringdon Road, where you may get a
beautiful text of Aeskhylos or Terence for a penny, or unearth
a neglected Aldine from a mass of rubbish, if you are lucky.
Harold Monro's Poetry Bookshop, in Devonshire street, has been
the subject of many articles, I fancy, some of which have
appeared in American journals. Yet, possibly the real reason
for the existence of such a shop has never been explained. In
planning his venture, Mr. Monro perceived what all modern
poets have had to face at one time or another of their careers
that the ordinary channels of approach between author and
public are closed for them. To the average bookseller all new
poetry is dead. To him its birth certificate is also its death
certificate. Under pressure he will order you a copy of a book
of contemporary verse, but he would rather not. It employs the
energies of his staff in an unprofitable adventure. As a
result, the author of a book of new poetry has to find an
opening for it himself. He must, when he has written it,
become commercial traveler for it and actual, if not nominal,
publisher as well. Mr. Monro saw this, as we have all seen it,
and the obvious deduction from it was that in order that
contemporary poetry may have a chance to exist, the public for
whom it is intended must be brought together. First, this
public, which, after the dissipation of the Yellow Book
movement and the art-culture of the nineties, was scattered
and lost, must be rediscovered. Monro set himself the task of
appealing directly to this lost public, this audience of
awakened and awakening souls. I am sure it was no easy task,
but in a measure it has been successfully accomplished. The
proprietor of The Poetry Bookshop was the man to carry the
scheme through. He had a genuine love of poetry for its own
sake, and in a sense he was incorruptible — that is, he would
not come down to publishing rubbishy verse because the author
of it was a wealthy person who could afford to offer a nice
bonus over the printing cost. Monro had a quarterly review, Poetry and Drama, which
he allowed to perish soon after the war began — too timidly, I
think. The Poetry Bookshop is now — even in war time — a
successful venture. Its danger, of course, is that it will be
too successful and prefer a good balance sheet to the austere
service of the Muses.
Everybody knows "Dan's," or Dan Rider's bookshop. Dan is "the
laughing bookseller," the friend of the impoverished artist,
the proprietor of the smallest and jolliest Bohemian club in
London, the first man American writers visit when they come to
London. In the little square room at the back of the shop many
projects have been hatched. There, at his table, covered with
books and papers, sits "Dan," dispensing advice or his
cheerful cynicism to whomsoever may look in. The place is an
institution often described in articles and novels, and I
cannot do justice to it.
At the Bomb Shop you buy Socialist and Anarchist literature,
Fabian wares, I.L.P. pamphlets, and suffrage literature. For
first editions, especially of modern poets, and perhaps
particularly of Francis Thompson, one would go to The
Serendipity Shop, so named after the word coined by Horace
Walpole. Everard Meynell, son of Alice Meynell, keeps this
charming little book snuggery. But, perhaps that is enough of
book-shops for today.
After the German of Stanislav Przybyszewsky, Author of "Homo
By Guido Bruno
beginning there was sex. . . .
Out of the voice box of the human being sex tore the first
long-stretched sounds, it directed them to the tact of the
pulsing heart, it formed them into rhythm and melody, it
shaped them into the neighing, howling and growling of pain,
into the snarling and grinning of hatred, into the murmuring
and whispering of love, into the smuttered, heaven-high joyful
shouts of gladness of the organism and of ecstasy:
Sex gave birth to the world:
And sex diffused itself with super-power into the muscles of
the human body; it handed man the club as it came upon him to
destroy his rival in the contest for his mate, it increased
his powers unto the indefinite when he had to protect the life
of his mate and of his brood. It helped him to clear forests,
to tear apart the womb of the earth, to direct into new beds
rivers and lakes, to subdue seas and to conquer mountains; sex
awakened the brain from its slumber, forcing it into
incomprehensible suffering and into the labors of
never-heard-of work and into cunning and into the sly
betraying with which he stole the fire from the gods and into
audacious daring so that he mounted the Pelian upon the Ossa,
and so that he broke open the doors of the kingdom of heaven.
Sex gave birth to the deed.
And sex forced its way into the heart of man. It filled it out
completely. It awaked in man the desire to see everybody as
happy as sex itself was in its sacred elevation of happiness.
It incended in him the powerful wish to play music for the
whole world to a joy-dance, so that everybody might become
self-conscious in blissful play and might join in the great
sacred hymn of life. To the tables of richest banquets did it
invite all, and therefore sex created pity and consolidation,
it created father and mother, brother and sister, it united
the human sex through bonds of blood and of friendship. But at
the same time it became the origin of revengefulness and of
inordinate desire of murder and of crime; it separated and
crushed to every wind the seed of the Abel, of the Seth and of
And so created sex the family, the clan, the nation. And then
it tore open widely its eyes and looked back with
inexpressible longing and looked far, far back towards its
Millions and millions of years had it been staring into the
sacred fire whose luster meant life to all worlds and all
animals on which it lived.
Sex craved for divinity!
And it expanded the chest of man with fervent longing, it
saturated his heart with the sweet poison of weakness and of
trust, it stole one beam after another from out of the
aboriginal fire until it had incended in the soul of man a
heart-flame through which it started to dissolve and to
diffuse completely and forget its own self-subsisting ego.
In the love!
And there came to pass the miracle: Amorphos Hyle united with
The Holy Spirit descended upon sex and thus sex created —
And now the bars broken down and the doors of the human soul
opened wide to the stars, to the heaven, to the sun; the beams
of mercy and the most incomprehensible wonders sprouted
suddenly from invisible origins; a thousand unknown feelings,
comprehensions and perceptions expanded the human soul,
expanded it to the bigness of the divine being; the arms were
stretched out toward never-thought-of worlds; it bowed the
knees before gruesome mysterious powers and man rooted up dust
in terror, in trembling and in reverence; hidden forebodings
became certainties and the certainty did hide in the deep,
unlit darkness of the unknown — the unknown which was so
indefinitely near. Mindful of its divine origin, sex nestled
in the heart of man with the glad tidings:
Sex was the first one to talk to man of God! The super-power
of sex grew with love and the consciousness of its divinity.
A hot stream poured out into the darkest hiding places and the
most secret faults of the soul; it illuminated the darkest
abysses with the sunny glow of light; it inflamed rocks so
that they were glowing in blazing flames; it reorganized the
worlds and created them into its shapes and in new forms. All
instincts were directed into its broad bed; all forebodings,
all lust and all pain, hatred and the blessed ascension of man
to heaven, the whole life's struggle of a boundless and
unrestrained soul, and it carried the foaming waves to the
opposite shore and threw them down at the feet of God so that
He might rejoice in his image.
And thus sex became the confidant of God and carried Him glad
messages of how man had been drawn nearer to HIM through Art.
Sex gave birth to Art.
And so sex is the Androgyne, "father-mother" of all that is,
that was, that will be: the powerful original fountain of
might, of eternal strength, of enthusiasm and intoxication, of
the most sacred attempt to storm the heavens and of the
gravest, most detestable Pall of Man, of the highest virtue
and of the most devilish crime. There is no power that can
compare itself with sex, and as such it is the extreme beauty
and the only link uniting us with the Absolute, because there
it originated and to thence will it return.
It is the hot gulf which melts the ice and which fructifies
the earth, creating an Eden or a hell for the generation of
It is that ocean which encircles the whole universe, embracing
it with loving arms. It is the one pledge and the one
certainty of the divine in man.
By Aleksei Remizov
Translated from the Russian by John
THREE years a
lad played with a lass, three autumns. Countless were the
words spoken in whispers. That was how Maria loved Ivan!
Who, among us, nowadays, loves like that?
The time came to put blossoms in the hair. And Maria was given
to another, she was not given to Ivan!
Quickly the parents made the match between them. A nice,
well-to-do son-in-law was found; the old folk were pleased
And there was no more honey in life for her; dark grew the
face of Maria, even darker than an autumnal night. Only her
eyes flickered, flickered like two candles.
Her soul was weary, a frosty cold congealed her heart.
Desolate, she sang in the evening her dolorous songs. Death
itself would have been welcomed. Yet bravely she resigned
herself, and bravely endured.
Three years Maria lived with the ungracious one, three
autumns. And one day she fell ill. She did not pine a long
time, but died during the feast of Kuzma and Demian.
And then they buried Maria.
O ho! the winter had come, with its frosts; white snow covered
the grave! And Maria lay under the white snow; no longer
flickered those eyes, the eyelids were sealed over them.
One night Maria rose from her grave; she went to her husband.
A sign of the cross made he, Feodor her husband, the
"What does she want, the accursed one?" and he would not let
his wife in.
Maria then went to her father, to her mother she went.
"At whom are you gaping?" said her father.
"Where, witch, are you going?" said her mother.
The father was frightened, the mother was frightened, they
would not let their daughter into the house.
Maria went to her godmother.
"Get you away, soul of a sinner, where you will, there is no
room for you here," and away sent the godmother her godchild.
And Maria was now left alone, a stranger in this wide world;
no other roof had she than the sky.
"I will go to him, to my first one, my earlier one," thought
Maria suddenly, "he will take me in!"
And she appeared before Ivan's window.
Near the window she could see Ivan sitting; he was painting a
picture of the Virgin Mary.
She knocked on the window.
Then Ivan wakened his servant. It was night, and together they
went out with hatchets.
The servant, when he saw Maria, was frightened. Without
looking round once he ran away.
She looked at Ivan.
"Take me in, I will not harm you."
Ivan was overjoyed; he approached her, and he embraced her.
"Stop!" she cried, "don't press me so tightly, my bones have
lain for some time."
And she herself kept looking at him, she could not tear her
eyes away; she caressed him, and could not caress him enough.
That was how Maria loved Ivan!
Who, among us nowadays, loves like that?
Ivan took Maria into his house, he did not show her to anyone;
he gave her dresses, also food and drink. And thus they lived
until Christmas together.
On Christmas Day they went to church. In the church all began
to look at Maria — her father and her mother, her husband
Feodor and her godmother.
When the service ended Maria went over to her mother.
"Yes, I am your own," said Maria. "You will remember that one
night I came to you, and none of you would let me in, and so I
went to my first one, my earlier one, and he took me in."
And they all acknowledged Maria, and they gave judgment: they
gave her not to her old husband Feodor, but they gave her to
O ho! the spring had come, the snow had thawed away, the green
grass sprang up, and upon the little red hill were wedded Ivan
Here is an end to my tale, an end to my novel.
From the Egoist, London
nights after the beginning, the moon came up through the dark
appearing unusually sleepy.
When the stars who were envious of the moon's superior light,
saw her worn-out condition they thought this an excellent
opportunity for the wind to extinguish her as he had promised
to do, and, calling to a comet who was visiting his friends in
the heavens, ordered him to tell the wind that he now has a
chance to fulfill his contract with them.
The comet fell through space till he came to the region of
gales and told the wind what was wanted of him.
"All right" said the wind, and, whispering to the stars to
steady themselves, filled his gigantic cheeks and blew a
tremendous breath in the direction of the moon, expecting to
see her totter and fall, black and lifeless, in the gloom.
Now the moon was utterly unconscious of the fact that an
attempt to annihilate her had been made, and, slowly turning
to the stars, who were shrieking and gripping at the sky in
abject terror, said very blandly and without malice: "Say,
little freckles of the night, what's all this fuss about?"
Twelve years old and old
Shall I sing of thee
Tenant of my lonely mat.
If I did, what should I
As a subject thou art
Go away and — play; nay
simply physical exertions divorced from a utilitarian purpose;
for if any utility inhere to the exertions, it at once becomes
just vulgar labor, and no gentleman will have anything to do
with it. Thus: playing golf is athletic exercise: but hoeing
potatoes is vulgar labor: ergo gentlemen don't hoe potatoes.
Where a will won't make a wag, a wag-ward will sometimes will.
Hind-sight is to find out what was the matter with foresight.
SONG! and a beam:
and a flower:
Death! and a dream:
Scorn! and the hour.
Joseph L. French
As I Walk Out on
A LONG chain
of carriages, delivery wagons and automobiles blocked Fifth
Avenue on one of the sunny and mild afternoons we had last
week, and among other pedestrians that wished to cross over to
Thirty-Fourth street, I waited patiently until the green sign,
"Go," should be substituted by the policeman for the
peremptory red, "Stop." The policeman stood amidst all this
moving and waiting mass of humanity of harnessed animals and
of rattling automobile engines like a rock of safety or like a
potentate among his subjects.
It took a long time. A very long time.
The imperative ringing of a bell, as is used on ambulances and
the fire chiefs' automobiles, made me look into the direction
whence these sharp sounds interrupted the monotony of my
waiting and of my obeying. Human misery has something
majestic, something that seems to give it a right to disobey
laws. It was not an ambulance, and I also, could not espy the
flaming red-painted touring car in which the commander of his
fire squads hurries to their temporary places of action.
It was a big, green, what seemed to be, a delivery wagon,
driven by a policeman, and a few policemen were at the other
end of the wagon. It was a patrol wagon. On benches alongside
its walls behind bars, which admitted light and air into it,
flanked by two policemen, sat a girl.
The patrol wagon, too, had to obey the orders of the traffic
policeman. It stopped.
It stopped right next to a snow white limousine, with purple
curtains, and with 9 footman next to the chauffeur's seat.
Both automobiles were side by side. I am tall. I could easily
look into the vehicle:
A girl between two policemen. The charge against her was
written upon her face.
The girl in the limousine, between two gentlemen. But a charge
was also written upon this woman's face.
"In uniforms, they guide the one to her earthly fate," I
"Plain clothes men look after the other."
A VERY large
American flag was exhibited on Washington's Birthday, in a
tremendous show window on Fifth Avenue. The Stars and Stripes
were draped around a life-sized painting of Washington and
around painted signs, which told in big, black letters what
"Washington had said about Preparedness," and what "President
Wilson had said about Preparedness," and there was all over
the window, in big black letters, the question directed to you
or to me: "What will YOU do to defend your flag?"
A half an hour later, I was sitting in a spaghetti house on
Sixth Avenue, where one can get an eight course dinner for
fifty cents, and a breath of "Bohemian atmosphere."
Washington's Birthday was celebrated there by an addition of a
biscuit tortoni to the regular dinner. It was served in
flaming red paper, together with the black coffee. A little
American flag was stuck upon it!
How was I to defend this much abused flag?
WE HAVE a new
chambermaid in our hotel since the declaration of the war. She
is a nice woman, slender, blonde, with a snub nose. She is not
really a trained and experienced chambermaid, but for the last
four years, the wife of one of our waiters, who was called to
the colors. They took her in mostly out of charity, and she is
helping out here and there. I gave her one krone, one day,
which I had kept for years as a pocket-piece, and then, later
on, I gave her several more krones, which I had not kept as
pocket-pieces, and told her to buy some better food for
herself. She was pale, and I thought that she needed better
food than they served in the maids' dining-room.
One day I said: "Mathilda, you are not using my krones for
better food and for little luxuries, but you are sending it to
your husband in the trenches!"
She blushed, and answered: "Isn't that food and luxury for
The next day after this little sketch had appeared in a local
paper the young wife accosted me in the hallway where she had
been busy on some errand or other, and said:
"I am so ashamed and so hurt because you brought me into the
"Ashamed? Hurt! It was an honor, Mathilda!"
"You poet, and you dreamer you! But I did not send the money
at all to my husband. I ate it all myself! And not even that,
I bought myself a new waist with it! How do I look now to you
and to the world?"
After the German of Peter
Ahenberg by Guido Bruno
A Poem by
All men are wretched;
Some too rich,
Most too poor —
Happiness eludes them.
We have books and talk.
Women (not many)
And rich imaginings.
Let us pardon the gods
Who made us men
For they have made us poets!
Magazines of the Week
BRENNAN, of the Medical Science Department of the John Crerar
Library, of Chicago, has done tobacco in general and the much
abused cigarette, especially, a great service. His book,
"Tobacco Leaves," just published by the Index Office, Inc., in
Wenasha, Wisconsin, contains the history of tobacco, in all
the forms it is being used, from the standpoint of a
scientist, from the standpoint of a manufacturer, of a
salesman and of a consumer. There are chapters devoted to the
botanical evolution of the tobacco plant and to the
cultivation of the tobacco plant. There are a lot of
statistics which are really a little bit dry for the average
tobacco lover and tobacco user. But there are such relieving
chapters as "Cigarettes," "Snuff," "Psychological Effects of
Smoking." And then there is a vast amount of quotations from
medical journals, and from the pages of the best books of our
best authors. Here is one, that should be read by those who
always advocate the cigarette as one of the causes of a
national decadence. It is from the New York Medical Journal of
July 25, 1914, an editorial: "Particularly do the uninformed
enjoy an attack on the cigarette; it is small, and its
patrons, numerous as they are, yet form an insignificant
minority in our immense population. Therefore, the cigarette
and its users are fair game for cheap and silly sneers; sneers
which are capable, however, of cowing an entire legislature,
as in Georgia, at this moment. Yet, beyond cavil, it has been
proved scientifically that of all methods of using tobacco,
CIGARETTE SMOKING IS THE LEAST HARMFUL. Some months ago, the
"Lancet" undertook a careful laboratory study of the various
ways of consuming tobacco, with the result that it was found
that cigarettes, Egyptian, Turkish and American, yielded the
least amount of nicotine to the smoke formed; the cigar came
next in point of harmfulness, while the pipe overshadowed the
cigar to the extent that from 70 to 90 percent, of nicotine
was said to exist in its smoke.
"As to the paper of cigarettes, the attacks are simply
preposterous. Men are well within their rights in forbidding
cigarette smoking and other pleasures and distractions to
their employees; it is another matter when they seize an
opportunity to compound with vices they have a mind to, by
damning one they're not inclined to, especially when the
latter affords solace and recreation to millions perfectly
capable of judging what is and what is not good for them. In
Europe, where a good deal of logical thinking still prevails,
there is probably not one smoker of distinction in any walk of
life who does not include the cigarette in his nicotine
Alfred Knopf and "Homo
I do not know whether it is true, but if the rumors that Mr.
Knopf, who was arrested by Sumner, at present America's
Anthony Comstock, for publishing Przbyszewski's "Homo Sapiens"
has pleaded guilty, he did something which commands even more
respect than to publish the book in question.
I do not know who this Mr. Knopf is; letters I have written
him have come back as undelivered; but if he really has the
courage of conviction to sacrifice the publicity connected
with such a process in court, and would rather suffer
financial loss than to drag a work of art, which is
unquestionably high above suspicion, through the sewers of our
yellow journalism in order to sell a good many copies to
seekers after the obscene, he must command the respect of
everybody who knew Przbysewski. ''Homo Sapiens" was written in
the Berlin days of the then exiled Pole. All of his works
written in German in his best years, are more vigorous and
more methodical and convincing than anything he did in later
years in Polish.
Harry Turner, the editor of this fortnightly, which carries
Shakespeare on its front cover and a champagne ad on its back
cover, uses on the pages of his fortnightly mostly drawings,
articles, poems and stories which he has lifted from exchange
copies sent to him by Bruno's Weekly, Greenwich Village, and
Bruno Chap Books. We find in the issue of February 17th, a
drawing by Coulton Waugh, which was used several weeks ago as
cover design for Bruno's Weekly. Harry Turner has used a lot
of other drawings by the artists known to the readers of this
journal. He not only abstains from giving credit to the
publications, but does not even mention the name of either
author or artist.
This is the most detestable and the cheapest way of editing a
magazine. It is like selling stolen goods.
Herwarth Walden, the editor of this only international review
appearing at present in Germany, publishes as the leading
editorial of the current issue what he calls "The Song of
Songs of Prussianism," a fine satire upon the Prussianism as
it was hated before the war in all intellectual Germany, upon
that militarism which appeared in caricature and sarcastic
criticism in the leading art papers of Germany.
Bulletin of the New York
The January issue, just off the press, contains a very
interesting impression of the New York Public Library upon
Roman Jaen, translated from the Spanish by George M. Russell,
first lieutenant, cavalry, U. S. A. The same issue contains a
list of works upon American Interoceanic canals, which can be
found upon the shelves of the library. It is compiled by John
The second number of this new literary venture, fostered in
and sent to the world from Weyauwega, Wisconsin, offers
special prices of $5 each for the best articles not to exceed
five hundred words in length, answering that eternal question,
"Why Suffrage Should be Equal!" It is very safe to offer even
a large price for the correct answer to this question in five
This new magazine from Washington, D. C, develops, under the
joint editorship of Herbert Bruncken, of Shaemus O. Sheel, and
of Harold Hersey, into a very interesting contemporaneous
miscellany. The February issue contains "The Railroad
Attorneys," another one of "Silhouettes of the City," by
I WAS down at
Alice Palmer's "Village Store," right next to my Garret, where
Aunt Clemmie used to have a dining-room last year and sell
such excellent Southern food.
It was late in the afternoon, and the villagers were very busy
sewing costumes for the Pagan Rout, the annual blow-out of the
Liberal Club. The store was deserted. Alice Palmer, in a big
chair, sat before the dying-out grate fire, busily knitting
shoes that must have been intended for a costume too. It is a
nice place to rest in this new venture in the small shop
movement in Greenwich Village.
Alice Palmer is also a self-styled post-mistress. Anybody that
resides in the village can have his letters addressed to the
Village Store. The general delivery regulations are done away
with here, and questions are not being asked. If there is a
letter for you, you simply get it.
But I was a bit disappointed to find on the shelves and tables
brass and pottery only, and on the walls only a picture here
and there. Why not sell some foodstuffs? We haven't a decent
grocery shop above Sixth Avenue, and there are always days
when we wish to "dine in."
Arthur H. Moss also entered upon a business career in
Greenwich Village. He will sell in his Modern Art Shop
"distinctly other things than other shops sell. Artists'
supplies and art stationery" will be his specialty, and the
dyeing of silks by Violet Trafford a side line.
Mark Dix and Alexander Saas feel spring even before the first
swallow has arrived. "Window Boxes" is their slogan for the
oncoming warm season. They have very handsome ones in front of
their windows and cannot see how other people can exist
without window boxes. They are contemplating to form a new
society with the sole purpose of inducing everyone who has a
window to hang a box with evergreen and geraniums and smilax
in front of it
Ella Wheeler Wilcox was the last one to view Bruno's Garret
before its partial destruction by fire. She and Mrs. Davis,
the playwright, were the last visitors to write their names
into the Guest Book. Here is her letter meditating upon the
My dear Mr. Bruno:
I have always been considered a Mascotte and have been told I
brought good luck to people. Therefore it was a great shock to
my self-conceit to think you had a fire in your Garret so soon
after my call.
Mrs. Davis, who is also a good-luck-talisman-sort of person,
was struck amidship by the news of your misfortune.
We enjoyed our call so much. We hope you really do not see any
relation between our call and the fire.
In those prehistoric days when I first published "Poems of
Passion" (before you were born) the paragrapher would have
found great food for jests on this incident, but I am sure it
doesn't apply to my present self.
An Evening With
the supremely tragic figure which we meet so often in daily
life, the woman whose life is a constant struggle against
powers she is trying to control, filled with longings no one
appears able to satisfy; the valet, Jean, who is a bad
servant, and therefore can never be a master; and Christine,
to whom religion means self-confidence, a self-confidence
which enables her to walk her own way, undisturbed by
tragedies which mean destruction to others; these three, on
midsummer eve, the mystical night of the Scandinavian
countries — a few hours only.
Unspeakable pains are suffered, cruelties committed, sweet
dreams dreamed — and then, in the morning, a new day has
started and everything is just as it was before.
Little Thimble Theatre
The last three nights of the week are devoted as hitherto to
the furtherance of American musicians and singers. There will
be no admission fee charged for the musicales on Thursday,
Friday and Saturday evenings, on which American musicians and
composers will have a chance to appear before a public
Miss Suzanne Michod, who aspires to become a concert singer,
and who came recently to New York to complete her studies,
will sing this week Ronold's "Down in the Forest" from "A
Cycle of Life"; "Across the Hills" by Rummel, and "The
Nightingale Has a Lyre of Gold" by Whepley.
Mrs. Frances E. Gilmore, contralto, well known as a church
singer in Brooklyn and the Queens, will appear on the same
evening, for the first time before a New York audience. Her
program includes Kursteiner's "Invocation to
Eros," Brown's "The Gift," and Saint Saens's "My Heart at Thy
of Fulton street, Manhattan, in the so-called financial
district, and you will hear everyone asking "What is the
matter with the Market?"
A spirit of apprehension — a fear of something direful that
may happen seems to be in the minds of people. Has it a basis,
or are we merely "seeing things" and giving ourselves the
America is making money faster than ever — every mill is at
working capacity; railroads have more than they can handle,
and January was a record-breaker for traffic. Labor is more
generally employed — the idle are those who will not work.
Money never was so cheap — largest bank deposits and greater
facilities for meeting unusual demands; why this dancing a
What then is back of this one depression we know today; the
depression of stocks? Nothing but our imagination. There is no
profit in gloom — but there is profit in confidence. Rails are
a good purchase. Steel and coppers most attractive. Wall
Street presents a great opportunity for a bull leader, and
when he appears the Market will boom.
A prominent stock exchange house has been flooding the country
with advertisements and circulars about Argentine rails, a
security so-called "wonderful opportunity." They have been on
the London Exchange for years offered at 85, with practically
Forewarned is forearmed; make a thorough investigation of
these so-called wonderful opportunities, even if they are
presented by the big ones.
If Wall Street has a deadline, financial fakirs have found a
way to stumble over it without attracting attention.
A group of young Russian painters are exhibiting a
representative selection of their paintings in Bruno's Garret.
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.
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.