{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_sha256": "3e868291405743843a3732ec5dd6762552a49aabaf4ee44ffdadb702dee05fed", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaaq/issues/1916/09/02_01/bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaaq/issues/1916/09/02_01/bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "couv. 1", "page_fin": "couv. 1", "image_debut": 1, "image_fin": 1, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "Djuna Barnes", "titre_sommaire": "Djuna Barnes", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 155, "fin_caractere_exclue": 167, "texte": "Djuna Barnes"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "couv. 1", "page_fin": "couv. 1", "image_debut": 1, "image_fin": 1, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "The contents include :", "titre_sommaire": "The contents include :", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 169, "fin_caractere_exclue": 350, "texte": "The contents include :\nStephen Crane: A New York Poet, Who Through Starvation Achieved Success—But Too Late\nAmerican Ptyalism\nHaunted Vine\nGreenwich Village—The Romance of One Night"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[951]", "page_fin": "[951]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Verses", "titre_sommaire": "Verses", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[951]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 146, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1078, "texte": "Verses\n\nIn the Night\nGrey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,\nAnd the peaks looked toward God, alone.\n\"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.\n\"Grant that we may run swiftly across the zvorld,\n\"To huddle in worship at Thy feet \"\n\nIn the Morning\nA noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,\nAnd the little black cities were apparent.\n\"O Master, that knowest the wherefore of rain-\ndrops,\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.\n\"Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,\n\"That we may chant Thy goodness to the sun \"\n\nIn the Evening\nThe far valleys ivere sprinkled with tiny lights.\n((0 Master,\n\"Thou who knowest the value of kings and\nswallows,\n\"Thou has made us humble, idle, futile peaks.\nffThou only needest eternal patience;\n\"We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord-—\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks.\"\n\nIn the Night\nGrey, heavy clouds muff led the valleys,\nAnd the peaks looked toward God, alone.\nStephen Crane"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[951]", "page_fin": "[951]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.3.1", "titre_corps": "In the Night", "titre_sommaire": "In the Night", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[951]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 154, "fin_caractere_exclue": 414, "texte": "In the Night\nGrey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,\nAnd the peaks looked toward God, alone.\n\"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.\n\"Grant that we may run swiftly across the zvorld,\n\"To huddle in worship at Thy feet \""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[951]", "page_fin": "[951]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.3.2", "titre_corps": "In the Morning", "titre_sommaire": "In the Morning", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[951]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 416, "fin_caractere_exclue": 694, "texte": "In the Morning\nA noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,\nAnd the little black cities were apparent.\n\"O Master, that knowest the wherefore of rain-\ndrops,\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.\n\"Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,\n\"That we may chant Thy goodness to the sun \""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[951]", "page_fin": "[951]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.3.3", "titre_corps": "In the Evening", "titre_sommaire": "In the Evening", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[951]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 696, "fin_caractere_exclue": 969, "texte": "In the Evening\nThe far valleys ivere sprinkled with tiny lights.\n((0 Master,\n\"Thou who knowest the value of kings and\nswallows,\n\"Thou has made us humble, idle, futile peaks.\nffThou only needest eternal patience;\n\"We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord-—\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[951]", "page_fin": "[951]", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.3.4", "titre_corps": "In the Night", "titre_sommaire": "In the Night", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[951]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 971, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1078, "texte": "In the Night\nGrey, heavy clouds muff led the valleys,\nAnd the peaks looked toward God, alone.\nStephen Crane"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[951]", "page_fin": "953", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Stephen Crane: A New York Poet", "titre_sommaire": "Stephen Crane: A New York Poet", "signature_source": "Alfred Ernest Keet", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[951]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 1080, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5110, "texte": "Stephen Crane: A New York Poet\n\nWho Through Starvation Achieved Success—but too Late\n| T is a widely prevalent belief, especially among those\n* who have never missed a meal in their lives, that the\nliterary or other artist, to get his best work out of him,\nmust be squeezed, as the perfume is expressed from the\nflower—that he does his greatest things while starving.\nNo greater—more damnably tragic—mistake could be\nmade. The writer does his best work when well-fed, com-\nfortably housed and free from pecuniary worry. The\nearly work of most writers—the great Dryden, for ex-\nample—is usually inferior, because of the dire necessity\nthey are under of getting into print—and so into money—\nas. quickly as possible.\nIt is useless to surmise now as to what killed Stephen\nCrane at so early an age—3o. He was delicate and frag-\nile, physically, and it may have been the stress and storm\nof his early struggles for literary recognition—or it may\nhave been his hardships and shipwreck in the Cuban cam-\npaign as war-correspondent.\nThe son of a clergyman, Stephen Crane was born in\nNewark, N. J., in 1870, and educated at Lafayette Col-\nlege and Syracuse University. When only 16 he cor-\nresponded, from out-of-town, with New York papers.\nIn 1892 he came to New York experiencing rebuff after\nrebuff on Park Row. Later he wrote special articles and\nshort stories for the Sunday papers and Irving\nsyndicate, meantime reading omnivorously and acquiring\na style.\n\"I decided,\" he once said in Leslie's, \"that the nearer\na writer gets to life the greater he becomes as an artist,\nand most of my prose writings have been toward the goal\npartially described by that misunderstood and abused\nword, realism. Tolstoi is the writer I admire most of\nall.\"\nCrane in Bohemia\nFor many years he was a free-lance, living with some\nartists in a dilapidated building on East 23rd\ndreaming \"blood-red dreams of fame.\" They slept on\nthe floor, dined off buns and sardines, and painted on\ntowels and wrapping paper. It was hopeless, discourag-\ning work for a man of Crane's sensibility, and the iron\nof misery and the world's callous indifference sank deep.\nIt was during this straitened period that he wrote \"The\nRed Badge of Courage\"—\"an effort,\" he says, \"born of\npain—despair almost.\"\nHe Meets Hamlin Garland.\nHe took the first half of his MS. to Hamlin Garland,\nthe other half was\"in hock,\" as he told Mr. Garland, to\nhis typist for $15—and great was his tribulation! Mr.\nGarland helped him out to this extent, later bringing\nCrane to the attention of Mr. W. D. Howells and others\nof the discriminating—all men of keen literary dis-\ncernment.\nHis first book, \"Maggie: A Child of the Streets,\"\n(1891) he had to publish himself. It attracted no atten-\ntion from the reading public. But the \"Red Badge\"\n(1894) did, taking*the public fairly by storm. Its fresh-\nness, originality, vividness, were a new thing. In Eng-\nland it had a tremendous success, so in a little while he\ntook up his residence there, winning an immediate social\nvogue and visiting America occasionally.\nShipwrecked\nIn 1897 he went as war-correspondent to report the\nGraeco-Turko War, and then to Cuba to write of Cuban\nfilibusters. During his Cuban campaign he was wrecked,\nand his story \"The Open Boat\" (1898) is a vigorous,\nvivid description of this awful experience, and in H. G.\nWells' opinion, the \"crown of all his work.\" .\"That, and\n'Flanagan,' \" he told Wells, \"was all I got out of Cuba.\"\nThe last two years of Crane's life were spent in Sussex,\nEngland, and then he went to Baden to his untimely\ndeath (1900).\nBut his prose work still lives. His \"Red Badge of\nCourage\" yet wields its extraordinary fascination over\ncountless readers—new and old.\n\"I experienced the thrill of the editor as he falls un-\nexpectedly upon the work of a genius,\" said Mr. Garland.\n\"It was as if this youth in some mystic way had secured\nthe cooperation of the spirit of an officer in the Civil War.\nHow else could one account for his knowledge of war?\nSallow, yellow-fingered, small and ugly, I was"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "952", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5620, "texte": "unaßle to relate him in the slightest degree to the mar-\nvellous MS. he had placed in my hands.\"\nCrane a free-lance\nDuring his early free-lance period, which Crane once\nspoke of with such loathing, he worked and starved,\nstarved and worked, wandering day and night through\nthe East Side, and writing stories that never were printed,\nsingly. They later made a part of \"Maggie.\"\nHe was a student at first-hand of the seamy side of\nlife, an analyst of life's tragedies among the poor. He\npierced through artificialities to the heart and grim reality\nof things—-and he was a faithful, vivid reporter of things\nas they were. With extraordinary condensation and\nclarity he flashes the episodes before you; and his phrases\nand paragraphs have all the sudden and startling dis-\ntinctness of a film picture.\nHis insight, his imaginative and inductive faculties\nwere nothing short of marvellous—vide his convincingly\ntrue pictures of battles—of war—\"horrid War\"—which\nhe continued to produce up to his last hour. Among\nthese later sketches, acute and vivid, were \"The Black\nRiders,\" \"War is Kind.\"\nHe \"creates a new fashion in literature,\" commented\nthe Atlantic Monthly, and another authority grouped him\nwith the Symbolists of France and England.\nHis main theme, however, was the submerged tenth—\ntheir \"sins, shames, gaities, injustices\"—the world of\nmisery, of poverty as he limns it in \"Maggie\" and\n\"George's Mother.\" His \"Red Badge\" and \"Black\nRiders\" were thought by some, perhaps too unconventional.\nThere seemed, in these books, a bitter, ironic and despair-\ning—even unwholesome—tinge to his philosophy. But\nhe later wrote two charming love-stories—\"The Third\nViolet\" and\"In Active Service\"—whose setting was\nnot so sordid, not so uncheerful.\nCrane's poems—rhymeless rhythms—like his prose\nshowed extraordinary imaginative power. He wrote\nthem down, in beautiful script, rapidly, and in an en-\ntirely automatic, sub-conscious way, as if transcribing\nfrom a printed page.\n\"I have four or five more standing in a row up here\"\n—he quaintly told Mr. Garland, putting the tip of his\nfinger to his right temple—\"all they need is to* be drawn\noff.\"\n\"There is a ghost at your shoulder!\" was Mr. Gar-\nhalf-serious comment. Crane told him further\nthat the first pages of the \"Red Badge\" had come to\nhim in this way. He wrote them down as if from\ndictation!\n''The Black Riders\" was dedicated to his old friend\nand benefactor, Hamlin Garland, through whose kind\ninterest Crane's work secured just and proper recogni-\ntion, all of which quickly led to material prosperity for\nthe half-starved \"boy\"—as he seemed to so many.\nThe following rhymeless rhythm of Crane's was written\njust before he left America for England:\nI.\nThere was a man and a woman,\n! Who sinned.\nThen did the man heap the punishment\nAll upon the head of her\nAnd went away gaily.\nII.\nThere was a man and a woman\nWho sinned.\nAnd the man stood with her.\nAs upon her head, so upon his,\nFell blow upon blow,\nAnd all people screaming \"Fooll\"\nHe was an iron heart.\nIII.\nHe was a braver heart.\nWould you speak with him, friend?\nWell, he is dead,\nAnd there went our opportunity.\nLet it be your grief,\nThat he is dead,\nAnd our opportunity gone ;\nFor, in that, you were a coward.\nA Cuban Picture\nHere is a sample of Crane's prose. It will be seen how\nunromantically he viewed life. But he goes as far the\nother way. His men are men—mere clay; but he lays\nbare their souls—dissects them as does the surgeon:\n\" . . . . I sat on San Juan hill and watched Lawton's\ndivision come up where I could look into the faces\nof men who were trotting up under fire. There wasn't a high,\nheroic face among them. They were all men intent on business.\n.They were not of our shallow and preposterous fictions.\nThey stood out in a simply majestic commonplace. It was the\nbehaviour of men on the street. . . . Each man was just\npegging along at the heels of the man before him, who was\npegging along at the heels of still another man who— It was\nthat in the flat and obvious way. In another way it was\npageantry, the pageantry of the accomplishment of naked duty.\nOne cannot speak of it—the spectacle of the common man\nserenely doing his work, his appointed work. It is the one\nthing in the universe which makes one fling expression to the\nwinds and be satisfied to simply. feel.\"\nIn addition to the books already mentioned, Crane\nwrote \"Lines\" ('95) ; \"The Little Regiment,\" \"The\nMonster\" ('95), and two posthumous works—a novel\n\"The O'Ruddy,\" and a sheaf of children's stories. The\nauthor of scarce a dozen books when death cut him off,\nhad he lived he might have produced \"the great American\nnovel.\"\nRobert Barr, just before Crane's death, thought him\nof all living American authors, the only one destined to\nthis honor. His delicately analytical and, at times, excori-*\natingly penetrating social criticism, coupled with his other\nbrilliant gifts of style and imagination perhaps well fitted\nhim for such a magnum opus. But, like Keats, he was\ncut off before his time.\nHow photographically accurate are some of Crane's\ncharacterizations. Here are two the Greenwich Villager\nmust perforce recognize:\nA boy in Rum A'lley was ''throwing stones at howling urchins.\n. . . His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His\nsmall body was writhing in the delivery of great crimson oaths.\nHis features wore the look of a tiny insane demon.\"\n\"Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering, a lad of six-\nteen years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal m?nhood\nalready sat upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of\nchallenge over his eye. Between his teeth a cigar stump tilted"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "953", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3057, "texte": "at the angle of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of\nthe shoulders that appalled the timid.\"\nMelancholy and taciturn on an empty stomach, when,\nat the Garlands, he had had a square-meal, Crane\n\"chortled and sang as he strolled about the room, exactly\nlike a well-fed hen. At such moments he talked freely\nand well, always with precision and original tang.\"\nOne day when Crane was particularly depressesd—for\nwith all his strenuosity with his pen he remained as\nhungry as ever—Hamlin Garland said to him:\n\"You'll be famous in one year or two!\"\n\"You may be right,\" Crane replied gloomily, \"but it's\nno joke now. I'd trade my entire future for $23 in\ncash!\"\nA little later \"The Red Badge of Courage\" was pub-\nlished, taking two countries by storm, money rolled in\nupon the emaciated, hollow-eyed \"boy,\" and he was\nin great demand socially.\nBut too late!\nHis earthly task was done.\nCrane came of long Puritan ancestry, and his New\nEngland forbears were writers—of pious and theological\nbooks. He, himself, was a good type of the nervous,\nquick-thinking, very modern American. He was not much\nof a talker. His conversation was vivid—yet quaint—\nbut spasmodic. He was quiet, almost taciturn. When\nhe wrote, in the opinion of some, he used words with\nlittle regard to their fitness. But in this he seems to me\nto have been a pioneer—\"the first expression of the open-\ning mind of a new period\"—the progenitor of a new\nschool of writers; and his impress is still seen in American\njournalism.\nHis Homeric Characters\nHe had a i/narvellous imaginative power, a rare talent\nof word-painting, plus unusual clarity and concision; and\nhis characters with their \"Promethean woes and Homeric\npassions'\" stalk like Titans through his pages. They recall\nvividly to my mind Victor Hugo's \"Ninety-Three.\"\nCrane himself confessed to Tolstoi's influence, and this\nhis friend H. G. Wells guessed. But allowing for this\nWells thought \"there still remained something entirely\noriginal and novel,\" and that \"there is Whistler even\nmore than Tolstoi in 'The Red Badge of Courage.' \"\nEdith Wyatt said, felicitously: \"Endowed with a\ngenius for direct expression he (Crane) was able in his\n♦short existence to present a surprising number of pene-\ntrating ascertainments of American life with a high degree\nof clarity and power. In his static lines of verse, in the\nlyric movement of his stories, vibrate unforgettable and\nauthentic moods of the very nature of our country—the\nsmell of the wet turf along the shaded house-walls, the\npluming maple-tops, the muteness of neighbor and neigh-\nbor, the scorching breath of injustice, the air of war time\nmemories on cloudy bluff and valley, the wind's will\nblowing through the soul of youth, death in struggle\neverywhere, and the strength of love stronger than death,\nand the failures and the prides of our mortality.\"\nThere can be little doubt that as the years roll on, and\nwe can view his work in its true perspective, the place\nin literature of Stephen Crane will not by any means\nbe a minor one.\n\nAlfred Ernest Keet."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "953", "page_fin": "953", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Drawing by Aubrey Beardsley", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing by Aubrey Beardsley", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "953", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 3059, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3086, "texte": "Drawing by Aubrey Beardsley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "953", "page_fin": "956", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 8, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "American Ptyalism", "titre_sommaire": "American Ptyalism", "signature_source": "William Gaylord Clark", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "953", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 3088, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4354, "texte": "American Ptyalism\nBy William Gaylord Clark\n*7 HE\"American Ptyalism\" was written on November\n22nd, 1832, and is dated from Communipaw. It was\nnever before published. That ptyalism is a chief character-\nistic of our own day, as well as of seventy-five years ago, is\nwitnessed by the millions of signs displayed, not only in all\nour public buildings, on streets, in parks and in places of\namusement, but also in places where the necessity to remind\nus that it would be bad behavior to expectorate, seems to\nbe, but evidently is not, superficial, as in restaurants, in\neating-places and lunch rooms.\nDear reader, don t sniff at this (sniffing, too, is some-\nhow connected with ptyalism, and therefore should be\navoided.) Only a small percentage of Americans are in\nthe habit of eating and assembling in places where the\nmanagement will request you in a closed envelope, which\nis placed on a silver salver next to your plate, to abstain\nfrom bad habits. Look around the walls in your lunch\nroom, and you will find the ominous sign, \"Spitting\nProhibited\" or something to that effect. And because\nsuch a sign bears the signature of the Board of Health or\nof a sanitary commission, it does not lose its real signifi-\ncance. A fine reflection upon the habits in public and in"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "954", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6755, "texte": "one's own home is the sign in a lunch rQom in Greenwich\nVillage:\nIf you spit on the floor at home,\nSpit on the floor here—\nWe want you to feel at home.\nEven in the assembly of highly dignified and polished\ncircles, ptyalism is the means of the expression of approval\nand of rejection.\nThey hiss and whistle in Congress, in the Metropolitan\nOpera House and in the tabernacle of an evangelist. And\nI dare you to whistle without wetting your lips.\nD IG words, nowadays, are all the rage, and I flatter\nmyself that I have selected a pretty tall one for this\narticle. It stands as the expositor of an alarming epidemic\nwhich has long prevailed in our well-beloved country;\nand for which the land is cursed by travelling cockneys\nand cosmopolitan old women. Ptyalism, gentle reader,\nis 'the effusion of spittle,' as is worthily illustrated by\nthat venerable lexicographer, Sam Johnson; the prince\nof his tribe, and the sometime lion to that jackal, Boswell.\nThis is my theme; it is the evil whereupon I design to\nexpatiate; and I can say with my motto-maker, that it is\none which I have not undertaken out of any wanton\npleasure in mine own pen; nor truly without pondering\nwith myself beforehand, what censures I might incur; for\nI know that the object against which the lance of my\nreprobation is to be tilted, is grievously circumvested with\nthe affection of habit and the sanctity of time. I mean\nnot to be a sweeping opponent, but a commentator merely.\nTo advocate the ptyalism of this nation would be 'a sin\ntoman/ for an amendment in the custom is most im-\nperiously demanded.\nWhether the corporeal juices are more abundant in the\ncitizens of the United States than in the people of other\ncountries, it is not pertinent just now to inquire. At all\nevents, they are less regarded; for we are said to be the\nmost notoriously salivating nation on the face of the globe.\nBut the custom is as old as time. We hear of it in the\nfirst origin of our religion. It was by spittle that the\nblind man was healed with the lay which our Saviour\napplied to his eyes ; and in many countries it has been\ninvested with peculiar sanctity. In Scotland, as may be\nlearned from work relating to its popular superstitions,\nthe virtue of spittle has long been held in high estimation\nby that proverbially neat and thrifty people. Authors\nhave thrown much light upon this subject. They prove\nthat the properties of the human saliva have enjoyed\nsingular notice in both sacred and profane history. Pliny\ndevotes an entire chapter in describing its efficacy among\nthe ancient pagans, with whom it was esteemed an antidote\nto fascination, a preservative against contagion, a coun-\nteracting influence upon poisons, and a source of strength\nin fisticuffs. Some of these uses, the moderns retain.\nWhen they fight, they spit in their hands; and they indulge\nin the same process under the humiliation of defeat. Your\nIrish or English servant will spit on an eleemosynary\nshilling; for he. thinks that it blesses the coin. In the\ncountry of the former, it is said to be an invariable habit\namong the peasant girls, whenever they fling away the\ncombings of their hair. There is sometimes a dignity, or\ngrandeur, and sometimes a solemnity, in the custom. I\nalways think well of those ladies one meets in romances,\nwhen they express themselves in that way. Who has not\njoined in the feeling of Rebecca and Ivanhoe, when the\nlustful templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, invades her in\nher tower, to compass Tier dishonor, and when she, stand-\ning on the parapet, ready to spring from that lofty height\nin the court-yard below, says to the craven knight, with\na look of withering contempt: \"I spit at thee; I defy\nthee! Thanks to him who reared this dizzy tower so\nhigh, I fear thee not! Advance one step nearer to my\nperson, and I will leap, to be crushed out of the very\nform of humanity, in the depth beneath!\" The reader\nalmost sees the scornful foam escaping from the curled\nand beautiful lip of the Jewess, and is himself inclined to\nsuit his action to the thought. Our ideas of propriety\nare derived, to a greater extent than we are aware of,\nfrom novels; and if their pages may be relied on, their\nheroines (being always encompassed by scoundrels whom\nthey have much ado to keep at a proper distance) must\nhave been spitting at their detested supernumerary lovers\nabout half the time. Contempt is well expressed by that\naction, and by the word. There is innate disdain in the\nsaliva itself. It leaves the haughty lip of the offended one,\nand lies before the contemmed person—perhaps upon his\nbeard—like a gage of war, as potent as the glove in the\ndays of the Crusades.- In his work of England and the\nEnglish/' the author of Pelham alludes to one Westma-\ncott, (who seems a common libeller in London,) under\nthe name of Sneak, in the following expressive phrase:\n\"His soul rots in his profession, and you spit when you\nhear his name!\" Among the various and opposing in-\nferences derivable from the custom and the use of the\nword, one is, that saliva is inherently contemptible; and\nif so, is it not a noble proceeding to dispossess one's self as\nmuch as possible of that which is unworthy? Is this a\nnon sequitur?\nIn one of the remote islets of Scotland, spitting in the\ngrave forms a part of the funeral ceremony. Relations\nand friends gather round the narrow mansion of the\ndeparted, and each one ejects the salivary tribute of sor-\nrowful remembrance. \"Happy,\" says the old adage, \"is\nthe new grave that the rain rains on;\" and in the island\nof which I speak, perhaps the saying may be, \"Beloved\nis the dust that we spit upon.\" Anciently, the subject\nof Optics was illustrated only by those who possessed\nample knowledge in relation to the qualities of saliva.\nThe popular oculist was one who saw,\n—\"or fancied, in his dreaming mood,\nAll the diseases that the spittles know/\nEven modern opticians, in their discussions upon the eye,\nhave recommended a research of the old schoolmen's\ntomes, that it may be decided whether any \"solvent, sana-\ntive, or medicament,\" connected with saliva, and lost to\nthe oculists of the present day, was not in vogue of yore.\nBut I do not wish to discuss the virtue of that which I\nesteem the parent of vice.\nI look upon tobacco, in all its shapes and varieties, as\nthe prime cause of the very extensive ptyalism which pre-\nvails in this nation. It is passing strange that this article\never came to be beloved. It is wonderful, that a weed\nwhich is in itself, in its original state, acrid and disagree-\nable, and which contains poison as deadly as the sting of\na scorpion, should have pushed its way into use, until it\nhas become a matter of traffic in all quarters of the world*\nI can hardly imagine how it ever spread its magic beyond"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "956", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5279, "texte": "the wigwam of the Indian, or came to mingle its fumes\nwith anything but the council-smokes of the aborigines,\na the pathless forests of the west. It has encountered an 4\nconquered every obstacle; the book which James I. ful-\nminated against it; the opposition of Papal bulls, of\nTransylvanian edicts, of Persian anathemas; and by the\naid of Nicot, with Catherine de Medicis, (who may per-\nhaps have \"chawed\") and the great crowd of amateurs\nwho continue to patronize it, the whole eastern continent\nglories in its use, and is loud in its praise. Since the H&y-\ntien began to draw its blue wreaths through his derivative\npipe, as he watched the distant sea, dancing to the balmy\nwinds from the palm-groves of his native land, the world\nhas bowed to the Nicotian weed. From Iceland to the\ntropics, and from Jerusalem to the Pacific, it is in request.\nProtean in its forms, it intoxicates in pigtail, twist, or\nplug; in cigar or snuff. In the latter substance, how\nmany a lofty nostril has it pleased, how many old wom?n\nd great men has it delighted! It was the last comfort\nof Napoleon, when he cried \"Sauve qui peutT at Water-\nloo, and rode through bloody battalions of the wounded\nand dying, away from the victorious legions of Wellington.\nWhen an old Irish vixen in a London police-office was\ncharged by her husband, to whom she had been rebellious,\nin a row, with taking two ounces of snuff per diem, what\nwas her answer? \"Lawful powers, yer Warship! What\nis two ounces of blissid snuff, to a poor onfortinit woman,\nas gives suck to two childer?\" It was an appeal that\nwent home at once to the proboscis of the magistrate, and\nthe woman was discharged.\nMuch as tobacco has been lauded, snuff has perhaps\nreceived a greater share of eulogy. Even the organ to\nwhose pleasure it ministers has been addressed, among\nmany others, by the facetious author of \"Absurdities,\" as\nthe source of his supremest rapture. Hear him:\n\"Knows he that never took a pinch,\nNosey, the pleasure thence which flows?\nKnows he the titillating joy\nWhich my nose knows?\nOh, Nose! I am as proud of thee,\nAs any mountain of its snows:\nI gaze on thee, and feel the joy\nA Roman knows!\"\nBut this is an episode since snuff is not directly con-\nsociated with \"the effusion of spittle.\" Tobacco is. Who\nchews, and smokes, and salivates not? Who ever attended\na church, a theatre, a political meet, or any assembly,\nlegislatures even, and did not see the effects of tobacco!\nWho has not witnessed them at parties, at balls—any-\nwhere? How many divines and statesmen have I known,\nthe misanthropic corners of whose lips exhibited the stained\nand pursed-up wrinkles of tobacco! Your student and\nyour \"blood,\" (ruminating bipeds, who smoke or chew,)\nexpectorate themselves away, and look like old men before\nthey are forty.\nYet it is the abuse, rather than the use, of tobacco, of\nwhich I complain. Under the rose, I have some respect\nmyself for a cigar; and I do. not object to some kinds of\nscented snuff. It is pleasant to smell the airy whiffs,\ncircling around one's contemplative nose, and to enjoy\nthe excitement of a sneeze. But moderation should guide\nus in these matters; for ptyalism is so much of a habit,\nand in my opinion it might be abated two thirds in every\none of our countrymen; and I think that many valuable\nlives would thus be lengthened.\nWith regard to expectoration, I would say, that when\n'tis done, it would be well if it were done secretly. lam\nno advocate of the English custom of salivating into the\nhandkerchief, and carrying in a pocket the harvest of one's\npalatic department. Neither do I think that we should\ncare a tobacco-stopper what foreign zantippes or scribblers\nthink of the custom, only so far as their strictures may\nseem to be just. In truth, after the falsehoods with which\nthe European public has been deluged respecting our\nmanners, the mere sight of an English tourist, male or\nfemale, in this country, is enough to make an American\ncitizen spit from sheer disgust. We mean those tourists\nwho grumble when they land; grumble their six weeks'\ntransit through the republic, and then grumble themselves\ninto a packet-cabin, and go home to make a grumbling\nbook. It is not surprising that folk like these have seen\na good deal of ptyalism. Every such raven of passage is\na walking ptysmagogue, and excites the very discharges\nthat are so vehemently condemned.\nThere is a juste milieu in this habit, which* as a nation,\nwe have not hit as yet; though we are much nearer to it\nthan the spittle-pocketing kingdom which has furnished\nus with so many peripatetic philosophers on the subject.\nLet a general effort be made to touch this happy medium.\nTo use a pun of some longevity, we must expectorate less,\nbefore we can expect to rate as a polished nation. I ap-\npeal to all frequenters of public places, whether my advice\nbe not good. Let it be followed. Let it be henceforth\ndeclared no more, as it has been, that \"an American spits\nfrom his cradle to his grave; at the board of his friend,\nat the feet of his mistress* at the drawing-room of his\npresident, at the altar of his God; he salivates for three\nscore years and ten; and when the glands of his palate\ncan secrete no longer, he spits forth his spirit, and is\ngathered to his fathers, to spit no more.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "955", "page_fin": "955", "image_debut": 7, "image_fin": 7, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Four Drawings by I lonka Karasz", "titre_sommaire": "Four Drawings by I lonka Karasz", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "955", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 47, "texte": "Four Drawings by I lonka Karasz"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "956", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 8, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "London", "titre_sommaire": "London", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "956", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 5281, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6512, "texte": "London\nAs seen by Rev. (7. A. Wells, Chaplain of 6th Fort\nGarry s {Canada), who is now at Salisbury Plain, Eng-\nland, with the Canadian Contingent\nI DON'T like London. Too many contrasts. They\ncall it the \"heart of the empire.\" I don't believe it.\nIt is a parasite growth on the back of the empire. I\nwould almost say a cancer eating the vitals of the empire.\nWhy? Well, you see, I had never seen London before.\nThis is the first impression.\nSee with me those dreadful contrasts brought out so\nclearly by the lurid lights of war. See the brave young\nmen of London, bright as to socks and neckties, crowding\nto see others at one place nine thousand at another, seven\nthousand at another, and so on> all one day; all enthusiastic\nwatchers of the prowess of others, heedless to the call of,\nthe nation for men to uphold her honor and beat back the\nbarbarian from her shore. Theft turn from these manly\nfigures and watch Kitchener's army go by* Let me add\nsomething here: \"Kitchener's army of boys/' Poor little\nlads! Faces piteous in their boyishness, untouched with\na razor, How can they face the enemy's steel and check\nthe barbarian slaughter? These are to be the* defenders\nof the empire, while thousands of well-fed, well-clothed"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1535, "texte": "creatures, who in the category go as men, watch the game\nof football—festival to London's god.\nNow, come with me down the streets from \"Maximes\"\nto the Savoy, at nirfit, when, hy the dreadful economy of\nwar. the lights are out, See vice in it* most hideous form\nstrutting through the city, naked and unashamed;\nunreproved and unhindered. The policeman, that\nstrong arm of the law, so absorbed in watching the small\nboy, who, hungry-eyed, watches the \"curranty bun\" in the\nwindow; so anxious to protcet the property oi: an honest\ncitizen from the rapacity of a straviug child that he misses\nthe solicitings of those dreadful vultures of the night,\nthose miserable outcasts of society, whose life is death—\nand worse. )\nCome along to some large hotel and see an army of\nservile menials, cringing cads, failing over each other in\nwell-ordered confusion, to pander to the luxurious tastes\nof Belgian. French and English rich. See them sup with\nthe high-priced animals of their choice. The cost of a\nsupper would equip a regiment—and the male sex here\nwould almost fill the ranks. See at one table gowns and\njewels, the price of which would feed a family of ten for\n% year; while on the streets of the city hundreds beg for\nbread. Can these, indeed, be sons of France and Belgium,\nliving in ease and luxury, while brothers wade in seas of\nblood? Can these, indeed, be offspring of the British\nrace, drinking and making merry, while sisters weep and\nlive on tears? London, I hate you! City of contrasts, I\nhate you intensely!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "And I Shall Rest", "titre_sommaire": "And I Shall Rest", "signature_source": "Diamond Crisp", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 1537, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2440, "texte": "And I Shall Rest\nDiamond Crisp.\nThe east wind met the west wind on the open palm- of a god\nAnd suddenly—l was born.\nJ fell on a stretch of marshland, wide and bare and strangely\nlonesome\nAnd the winds blew strange music in the damp grass.\nAnd the time was neither night nor day.\nAnd there was just enough of the fading moonlight to fill me\nthereafter with a strange longing for unknown things.\nAnd just enough sunlight was visible to give me a love of the\nsunlit hills and a delight in the sun at all times.\nAs I came to earth, the winds blew wildly, and a waiting figure\nwas snatched from my sight.\nAnd always I have a sense of missing someone.\nAnd the winds have made me strong.\nAnd being born with space beneath my feet, I use it to store\nall the meanness, hurt, and disappointment I meet,\nThus building an ever rising monument which will in time\nraise me unhurt and strong to the hand whence I came."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Four Mushrooms", "titre_sommaire": "Four Mushrooms", "signature_source": "Alfred Kreymborg", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 2442, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2996, "texte": "Four Mushrooms\nBy Alfred Kreymborg\n\nCulture\nThere is only one.\nOnly one sun.\nOnly one moon.\nAnd you too.\nBe that.\n\nSwans\nThere are white swans,\neverywhere ;\nin the lake,\nand on all four hillsides.\nBut there are black swans as well—\nonly two;\nbut they are black.\n\nLuck\nNature is a lucky wench.\nHas more fun than an undertaker.\nHappy swain took his love some flowers.\nOn her door some crepe was dancing.\n\nVeils\nHabit makes it grow easy and easier.\nThis peeling of veils from my heart.\nOne of these davs FU have the brute naked.\n1, for one. want to see him."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.10.1", "titre_corps": "Culture", "titre_sommaire": "Culture", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 2478, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2555, "texte": "Culture\nThere is only one.\nOnly one sun.\nOnly one moon.\nAnd you too.\nBe that."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.10.2", "titre_corps": "Swans", "titre_sommaire": "Swans", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 2557, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2703, "texte": "Swans\nThere are white swans,\neverywhere ;\nin the lake,\nand on all four hillsides.\nBut there are black swans as well—\nonly two;\nbut they are black."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.10.3", "titre_corps": "Luck", "titre_sommaire": "Luck", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 2705, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2843, "texte": "Luck\nNature is a lucky wench.\nHas more fun than an undertaker.\nHappy swain took his love some flowers.\nOn her door some crepe was dancing."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.10.4", "titre_corps": "Veils", "titre_sommaire": "Veils", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 2845, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2996, "texte": "Veils\nHabit makes it grow easy and easier.\nThis peeling of veils from my heart.\nOne of these davs FU have the brute naked.\n1, for one. want to see him."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "A Fable", "titre_sommaire": "A Fable", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 2998, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3825, "texte": "A Fable\nA bear, the sole support of his master, was standing\napon his hind feet, and practising a dance in which he\nwas not quite perfect. Delighted with his own im-\nportance, he said to a monkey: \"What do you think of my\ndancing?\" The monkey was a connoisseur, and answered:\n\"You dance very ill.\" \"That,\" replied the bear, \"is all\nprejudice. What, can you deny that my air is graceful\nand all my steps perfect?\" A mule, that heard this\ndialogue, cried out, \"Bravo! bear; bravo! There never\nwas, nor ever will be, a better dancer.\" No sooner was\nthis eulogy uttered, than the bear's arrogance vanished;\nhe felt the reproof, and modestly exclaimed: \"When the\nmonkey disapproved of my performance, I began to doubt\nwhether he was not right : but, now that I am praised by\na mule, I am compelled to believe that I dance very ill.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "To-morrow is a fine gentleman, who makes many", "titre_sommaire": "To-morrow is a fine gentleman, who makes many", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 3827, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4159, "texte": "To-morrow is a fine gentleman, who makes many\npromises-—To-day is a plain man, who never breaks his\nword.\nHe who hopes for glory by new discoveries, must not be\nignorant of old ones.\nHe pays dear for his bread who lives by another's bounty.\nWhy is the tongue like a race-horse? Because the less\nweight it carries the faster it goes."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "957", "page_fin": "957", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 9, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "From an Old English Chap Book", "titre_sommaire": "From an Old English Chap Book", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 4161, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4190, "texte": "From an Old English Chap Book"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "958", "page_fin": "960", "image_debut": 10, "image_fin": 12, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "The Haunted Vine", "titre_sommaire": "The Haunted Vine", "signature_source": "Sadakichi Hartmann", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "958", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4486, "texte": "The Haunted Vine\nBy Sadakichi Hartmann\n\n\"T'HE little town in southern Louisiana had lost all its\n** former attraction to me- Returning to it after an\nabsence of years, the scenery failed to fascinate me as it\ndid of yore, there seemed to be no person I cared to asso-\nciate with, besides I was tired of loafing and in need of\nsome serious occupation. So I boarded at the hotel, if\nsuch it could be called, rented an old tumble-down planta-\ntion house at the crossroads for a studio, and tried to forget\nthe past.\nBut anyone who knows Louisiana—how full it is of\nghosts, in particular small and remote towns—will realize\nthat it was a vain endeavor. There are ghosts of voodoo\nbeating strange tomtoms in the morasses; vague shadowy\nsemblances of emigres in powdered periwigs wander about\nold French houses; in the former slave quarters there are\nspectres of black men sold down the river from Kentucky\nhomes; here and there roam phantoms of soldiers in grey\nuniforms rent with bullet holes; weird apparitions of\nlynched men rekindle their death fires to light the mid-\nnivht of lonely crossroads; and fever ghosts of all times\nclasses haunt bayous and backwaters even in broad\ndaylight. Tales of spirit encounters are served up to\ntravelers by big-eyed darky servant girls in unspeakable\ninns and poured into their ears when good luck brings\nthem as paying guests within the walls of a private house.\nAnd when they sit down in the morning to an unsavory\nbreakfast of thin coffee and heavy biscuits Madame, the\nhostess, will surely regale them with the tale of the neigh-\nborhood ghost. Many a time have I sat myself in my\nfourposted bed with my hand over my mouth and listened\nto strange noises about me, while the last drop of blood\nin my veins froze and the cold sweat of terror dripped\nfrom me.\nIt was an atmosphere where one anticipated meeting a\nghost in person. Also my studio had a sad uncanny air.\nNor made I any attempt to make it habitable, but just\nmoved in table and chairs, my easel and painting tools,\ninto the largest room downstairs. From the porticoed\nfront door I could overlook the crossroads. One of them\nwas deserted at all times, on the other occasionally a negro\nboy slouched by or a farmer's wagon crawled through the\naxle-high mud. Furthermore, the house stood quite a\ndistance back, there were trees, shrubbery and weeds\ngalore and the ground was sloping, so that the place was\nquite as isolated as it was rickety and unkempt. It was\nmy habit to leave the door unlocked. There was no\nchance for intruders and even if a knight of the road or\na village boy had invaded the quarters during my absence,\nmy paintings would have hardly proved a temptation.\nOne entire side of the house was thickly overgrown\nwith vine.l A quaint rustle stirred in it whenever the\nwind struck it, and, strange, it seemed to me that the\ncommotion never ceased, that a strange animation pervaded\nit even when there was no wind at all.\nMy thoughts in that year were constantly with Martha,\na young Swiss girl who had lived here one summer, and\nwho had committed suicide a short while after her return\nto Europe. It was really her memory that had brought me\nback. She appeared to me in my dreams and haunted me\nduring working hours- Busily painting, I would suddenly\nstop and turn around as if there was somebody in the\nroom. I knew I was alone and yet the impulse was irre-\nsistible. Have you ever felt the sensation as if you had\nseen a shadow (that did not explain itself) ? It may be\ncaused by a curtain moved by the wind, by some peculiar\nlight effect, or some unnoticed object that throws a\nshadow. There was nothing of the sort in my room.\nAnd yet it always seemed to me as if there was somebody\nmoving about, particularly in one corner between two\nwindows opening in the vine, and often when I stepped\nback to look at my canvas I felt as if some transparent\nshape of vague outlines stood between me and the easel.\nOther strange occurences took place that I could not\nexplain. It seemed as if objects were shifted about the\nroom. A stretcher that hung on the wall, fell and slid\na long distance across the floor. My turpentine and\nvarnish bottles tumbled from the table and broke. New\npainting rags were crumpled up. I placed my hat on the\ntable, it disappeared and I found it among rubbish in the\nyard. The door was difficult to open but shut with a bang\nas soon as I had entered, although there was no windgust\nand the hinges had not been greased for years. I must"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "959", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5217, "texte": "confess that I never saw any object actually move, but\nmore than once when I* had put down an oil tube on a\ncertain place of the table, and after a while wanted to\nuse it again, it seemed to be in another. There may have\nbeen plausible causes for these events, but their repetition\nmade me uneasy.\nOne afternoon when I had closed doors and windows\nand painted at one of my favorite themes, \"a rudderless\nboat at the bank of a creek at early morn\" when the dew\nlies white upon the grass, I simply could not continue\nto paint. It was as if somebody held my hand. I had\nheard that spirits draw their energy for materializations\nfrom plants in or about the house. I am not a believer\nand yet there was something that afternoon which made\nme tremble and ask myself whether this house was really\nhaunted and whether there were spirits moving about.\nI have the habit of talking to myself, and frequently in-\ndulged in long drawn monologues those days. Was it\nthe spirit of Martha! Why should spirits do such foolish\nantics as breaking and moving about things? Is it be-\ncause they have no power over the subtler conditions of\nlife. They want to make their presence known and find\nno other means than these crude communications.\nIt seemed as if a mist was gathering in the corner be-\ntween the two windows. It seemed to emanate from\nthe vine and to float inward, as if a vague light whirled\nabout the rooiii and a hollow murmur came creeping\ntowards me. I rushed out of doors. Not a trace of wind.\nThe foliage of the trees was not motionless yet the vine\nrustled as if by some mysterious force of its own. I was\nstrangely shaken as I re-entered the room. It seemed to\nme as if I saw distinctly for a moment, a familiar face,\na vision of some white form and marred countenance with\na light breaking faintly from the eyes. I stretched my\narms into the gloom of the twilight atmosphere and mur-\nmured :\nMartha, is that you ? Why do you come to me in this\nsad light as the day goes out behind the hills? Do you\nblame me for what has happened? I could not prevent\nit. Did you really love me so much that you could not\nlive without me? You loved me, no doubt, but why so\ndesperately. I thought your affection at the time merely\na passing fancy, a play with love's golden gifts. I thought\nyou were still enamored with Paul, tall handsome Paul,\nin Germany, the reason why your stepfather had sent\nyou to America. I should have known it from your\nfeverish fingers, your hungry kisses though, from that chill\npassionless night on the creek (the windings of which I\ncould trace in the far distance from the window). True,\nI had not much to give you, though I liked your company\nabout as well as anybody else's. Could you not be satis-\nfied with that? I am not a lavish giver. Besides I loved\nWilda, that -passionate friend of yours to whom\nyou introduced me. We indulged in a calmer passion,\nless flame writhen though smouldering for aye. Could I\nhelp that ? Forgive me. I would give a part of my life\nto see you back again on earth and hear you laugh, laugh\nthrough jasmine and oleander thickets.\nThe only picture I have of you—a strange coincidence\n—is the one I took among the cypress out in the cemetery.\nDeveloped, it showed you standing near a tombstone on\nwhich was inscribed in large letters \"Martha died—\nWas it an omen of your early doom? Perhaps there is a\nsomething within us which always knows the future but\ncan not tell us. And why did you, a nineteen year old\ngirl, a blossom unbleached by the rain or sun, always carry\na revolver, and why did you try to commit suicide even\nbefore you knew me. After all, I may not have played\nsuch an important part in the tragedy of your life as some\nbusy-bodies believe. How you wept when the steamer\nsailed away with you to the Mediterranean. Only two\nletters followed, the first of good cheer in a mischievous\nspirit, the other full of despair, imploring me to have you\ncome back. As if I, a poor artist, had power over such\nmaterial things. Then the sad report of your death,\nfound at the shore of one of the beautiful Swiss lakes,\ndrowned and shot with the familiar weapon.\nAnd now have you become a fourth dimensional being,\ncan you occupy the same space at the same time with\nsolid matter, and enter my recluse without opening a\ndoor or window, or breaking the wall? Can you just\nstep in without touching any part of the building, and\njust as easily disappear from view and reappear the next\nmoment outside? If so, give me a sign and tell me the\nfatal truth.\nMockery and deceit, the hallucinations of a fevered\nbrain! I groped into empty space.\nI sat there brooding for a long time, my head buried in\nmy arms on the table. It was quite dark when I looked\nup again. I started up wildly.\nThe question I ask will never be answered in this world.\nIt will drive me crazy if I do not cease to ask it. As\nlong as there is no better way found for spirit communica-\ntion, as long as departed spirits enjoy no freer exercise of\nsuperior gifts, if they can span the bridge from the beyond\nonly in meaningless actions, it is best to discard all further\nattempts. It is too obtuse a problem for brains that con-\nsider a straight line circle or the mysteries of non-Euclidean"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "960", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1361, "texte": "geometry as uncanny violations of natural laws. One can\nnot turn a rubber ball inside out without tearing it.\nMartha will live forever and anon in my memory. From\nthat she can not be effaced- That must suffice. ,\nI went out of doors determined to end this spirit farce.\nThe vine was like the surface of a lake rippled by a com-\ning storm. I tore at it furiously, and pulled it down;\nthe whole mass fell and almost buried me in its entangled\ncreepers. The next day I had it cut and removed. The\ndisturbances ceased. This evanishment, if such it was,\nmay have been caused by the long habit of materialization\nfrom the ivy. When the force was gone the poor disem-\nbodied spirit did not know what else to utilize.\nYet I was worried for many days. Did I assist a\nsecond time involuntarily in Martha's death, for was this\nstrange experience not a proof, an indication at least that\nspace is not exhausted by our finite conceptions of height,\nbreadth and thickness? That there may be, beyond our\ncomprehensions and conceptions, another vastly superior\nfield of activities where actions, which to us, appear im-\npossible or miraculous, become the commonplaces of every\nday existence. And may there not be messages from the\nInfinite, wonderful ineffable messages, always sweeping\nour beings, though in ways which our intelligence is too\nblind to unravel."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "958", "page_fin": "958", "image_debut": 10, "image_fin": 10, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.14.1", "titre_corps": "Drawing by Fritz Schnitzler", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing by Fritz Schnitzler", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "958", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 4488, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4515, "texte": "Drawing by Fritz Schnitzler"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "960", "page_fin": "960", "image_debut": 12, "image_fin": 12, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Replated Platitudes", "titre_sommaire": "Replated Platitudes", "signature_source": "Julius Doerner", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "960", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 1363, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1981, "texte": "Replated Platitudes\nJulius Doerner\nA fool's dare is only a coward's snare.\nMany happenings in society do not necessarily mean\nmuch happiness in society.\nOnly a good steak-beef can furnish good beef-steaks.\nMother-love is the only justifiable form of self-love.\nMost human improvements on nature seem to be but\nmasked efforts of the devil to defeat nature.\nWhere women rule, man's a fool's fool.\n\"Get-rich-quick schemes\" mostly harness up their pro-\nmoters in get-caught-slick teams.\nAnything concerning women is something that concerns\nall women.\nThe price of folly seems to be one of the devil's most\ntempting prizes."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "960", "page_fin": "961", "image_debut": 12, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "The One Who Did Penance", "titre_sommaire": "The One Who Did Penance", "signature_source": "Samuel Loveman", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "960", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 1983, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6000, "texte": "The One Who Did Penance\n\nT HERE was a Man who repented him of his sin and\nA he came to the Woman who had sinned with him\nand he said to her, \"Lo! what is passed is passed, I shall\nsin with thee no more. Do thou as thou likest but I go\nout into the world as the white flame of an inspiration, a\nspark to that light of holiness which may peradventure\nyet win me a place in innermost Heaven forever.\"\nAnd the Woman bared her garment that was the colour\nof hyacinth and showed her carven breasts enticingly\".\n\"Behold,\" she said, \"are these not fair enough for thee?\nAm I not all rose and alabaster and are not my lips likest\nto poppies in the summer fields?\n\"Gave I not thee all manner of strange delight and\nsaidest thou not we should grow old in love together?\"\nAnd he gazed at her sorrowfully and answered, \"Thou\nart all of this and thou hast been good to me in thy way.\nYet ever, in the heart of our joy do I hear a voice that\ncries, Thou art chosen but thou heedest not. Still art\nthou chosen and My word will yet lead thee forth tri-\numphing among mankind. Wouldst thou keep me with\nthee against my will?\"\nThen the Woman laughed scornfully and cried, \"Fool,\nthe joy of Life lies in the forgetting, else hadst thou\nperished for fear long ago. Thinkest thou that the world\nwill hail thee as prophet and succour thee in their innocent\ncredulity? But go thy way, for thou shalt indeed know\nthe truth in the end, if to thy enduring folly there be an\nend.\"\nAnd he left her and passed into foreign parts attired\nin the simple gray garb of a holy man. And he preached\nhis word to all that were concerned but his prayer fell as\nrain in a sea of dust, for the world had long wearied of\nits prophets and their homily of moaning wisdom.\nAnd after a time he came to a land which was riotous\nwith wickedness, with a vice made gilded and pleasurable\nfor the inhabitants.\nAnd he said to them, \"Why do ye sin?\"\nAnd they answered, \"Because we fear Death and the\nsleep that knoweth no waking. We strive to forget that\nour end is night and oblivion.\"\nAnd he rebuked them sternly, crying, \"Alas! for ye.\nKnow ye not what cometh hereafter? Have ye no fear\nof Hell and of eternal torment?\"\nAnd they laughed at him, saying, \"Not we, nay! Ask\nof the subtle and discerning worm which is our uninvited\nguest!\"\nBut he was silent and pondered over their intent.\nThen they said to him beguilingly, \"Come, be one of\nus. What profits it that thou waylay palsied old with\nthy hoary word of an uncertain god ? Take thee a chaplet\nof vine-leaves and a garment of violet cloth. We have\nyellow liquor in goblets of scarlet chalcedony and honey\nsweeter than was ever fabled of old. Our women are\nblood and ivory and of these thou mayest have any for\nthy delectation. We have need of thee, therefore be of\nour cofnpany.\"\nSo he was persuaded and abiding with them partook\nof their ways.\nAnd it chanced after a while that the Woman also re-\npented and seeking the Man, came at last to the folk\nwith whom he abided. For she had hidden her beauty\nand her vanity had departed with her sin.\nAnd when she halted at the gates of the city the watch-\nman cried to her, \"Thou must not enter for here is the\nplague newly come. Seven have I buried this hour and\nstill they fall as thick as flies to a honey-pot. God knows,\nwhich of us will go next, not I!\"\nAnd she answered, \"Open, for I come in mercy.\"\nAnd he opened the gates wide to see what manner\nof person so dared to brave death. And he said to her,\n\"Surely, thou art mad to enter in the face of this peril.\"\nAnd she answered him, \"I have no fear save of God.\"\nSo she passed into the city and ministered that night\nand for many nights to the sick and dying. For the dead\nmultiplied and there seemed no abatement to the destruc-\ntion.\nAnd there came to her one day a painted eunuch who\ncried out in a shrill voice. \"The King of Pleasure Is sick!\nThe King of Pleasure is sick unto death! Wilt thou not\ncome and minister to the King of Pleasure? Whosoever\n.cureth him shall have what he wills, even to the world's"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "961", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 107, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1485, "texte": "desire, which is the treasure of gold and emeralds beneath\nthe foundations of this marvellous city. But make haste!\nmake haste! make haste!\"\nAnd she said, \"Take me to thy master.\"\nAnd when she perceived him she knew that it was the\nMan who had loved her in the past, and she said, \"Dost\nthou not know me?\" \\\nAnd he answered, \"Elsewhere have I seen thee but I\ndare not think on what occasion. Mayhap, it was at a\nbetter time of life than this.\"\nAnd she gave a little cry, saying, \"Thou didst know\nme of old and I returned thy love!\"\nThen he knew her and wept, crying, \"Hast thou come\nto single me out in my wretchedness? Behold, I am King\nof Pleasure who must die even as other folk. Oh! but\nwhile it was dawn I feasted and drank deep!\"\nAnd the Woman said sadly, \"But thou didst plight thy\nservice to God. Where was thy Conscience?\"\nAnd he ansKvered her wildly, \"Thou shalt find my\nconscience after I die, thou shalt find it, I swear!\" And\nso saying, he closed his eyes and lay stark in death.\nThen the Woman bade the mutes take his body and\ndivest him of his raiment. And she wept when he lay\nbefore her, for behold! there was no part of him that was\nnot seared with torture and agonized with mutilation.\nAnd she kissed his mouth and cried aloud in her grief,\nsaying, \"Would that thou hadst stayed in thy lesser sin,\nO my Love, and I in my happier unrepentance!\"\n\nSamuel Loveman"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "961", "page_fin": "961", "image_debut": 13, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.16.1", "titre_corps": "Pen and ink sketch by Joseph Pennel, from the original in the possession of J.F. McCarthy", "titre_sommaire": "Pen and ink sketch by Joseph Pennel, from the original in the possession of J.F. McCarthy", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "961", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 105, "texte": "Pen and ink sketch by Joseph Pennel, from the original in the possession of J.F. McCarthy"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "961", "page_fin": "961", "image_debut": 13, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "An Awakening", "titre_sommaire": "An Awakening", "signature_source": "Flora H. Wandell", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "961", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 1487, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1910, "texte": "An Awakening\nFlora H. Wandell\nO, sing us a stirring song\nThat will quicken our sluggish pulse;\nThat will spur the world along\nAnd give us a fresh impulse.\nA song our souls to awake;\nWhich will burn like a great wildfire;\nBreathe hope we will never forsake;\nAnd ring of a lofty desire.\nTfiat will give a new lease of life,\nIn which wefd join as a choir;\nTo bankh earths' anguish and strife;\nA song that our hearts will fire."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "962", "page_fin": "962", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 14, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Why and How I Got Married", "titre_sommaire": "Why and How I Got Married", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "962", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 457, "texte": "Why and How I Got Married\nMany hundred stories, brief and lengthy accounts, arrive every week at the desk of our Contest Editor. Most\nof them testify that marriage, even in our commonplace age, preserves its old romance and that to relate a story of\nhow Grandfather took Grandmother urges the pen into hands not otherwise ambitious of literary achievement. A\nhandful of these stories will be chosen every week for the perusal of our readers."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "962", "page_fin": "962", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 14, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Long, Long Ago", "titre_sommaire": "Long, Long Ago", "signature_source": "I.S. (Los Angeles, Cal", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "962", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 459, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2219, "texte": "Long, Long Ago\nI.S. (Los Angeles, Cal.)\nTHE thirty years since it happened, seems but yesterday, so\nvividly has memory engraved that time upon my heart.\nI was eighteen when first we met, just the ordinary type of\nAmerican girl-hood, grey-eyed and fresh-cheeked. He, twenty-\nthree and just arrived from his native France.\nWidely traveled, speaking several different languages,\n(English not included) immaculately dressed, this handsome\nstranger with his courtly attentions, thrilled me as the blunt\nkindness of my jovial American boy friends had never done.\nI have always possessed a strong sense of humor (most in-\nconvenient at times) and some of the absurd blunders which the\npoor fellow made in his attempts to speak correctly, would set\nme to laughing uncontrollably. Whereupon he would look be-\nwildered and beg to be corrected, never taking offense at my\nmost impolite outburst. He spent hours with the dictionary and\n-\"First lessons in English,\" however., learning very quickly,\n.and at the time of our marriage, two years later, could speak\nEnglish well.\nHe had cared for me from our first meeting, but it was long\nbefore I could regard him as other than a friend. But one\nflight it came to me very suddenly that I cared, cared for him\nas he did for me, and so—we were married.\nOur wedding took place one night in September, during a\nheavy thunderstorm. As it was a home wedding, I wore no\nveil, but my heavy, white silk dress was made with a long\ncourt-train.\nIn the midst of the ceremony, while lightning flashed and\nthunder roared, two white Angora cats, decked bv my little\nsister, with bright green ribbons in honor of the occasion,\nmarched gravely in and sat upon the opposite corners of my\nlong train, remaining there until the service was over."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "962", "page_fin": "962", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 14, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Real Love", "titre_sommaire": "Real Love", "signature_source": "L.M. (Chicago", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "962", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 2221, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3854, "texte": "Real Love\nL.M. (Chicago)\nIT was a second class boat, but the best I could afford. The\ntall young English army officer was the most conspicuous\nJigure on board, and much sought after by all the girls until\nhe refused all their overtures. Then they began to make\nsneering remarks. \"My God, he wears a decoration, how could\nhe be expected to speak to us?\" So we were both ostracized,\nhe, because they thought him a snob and I because they were\nsnobs—and my clothes were more than shabby. It was this\nsituation which drew us together.\nHe said I looked sympathetic and so started to tell me the\n■story of how he happened to be aboard this obscure vessel.\nIt was a pathetic tale. It started in India where he had met\nand become engaged to a fair Canadian heiress. Two weeks\nbefore he had come over to Montreal to marry her. They were\nmuch entertained and deluged with gifts. On the eighteenth of\nJuly a message came from the War Office. He must take the\nnext boat home. There were rumors of war. He must report\nat once.\nOur little second rater sailed at ten o'clock on the nineteenth.\nThe wedding was to be at high noon. She would not marry\nhim one second earlier, if he did not disobey his orders she\nwould not marry him at all. He told the story with so much\nfeeling that when he finished, I was weeping softly. He was\nsure she would never relent—his he,art was broken—but my\nsympathy helped.\nI felt sure that she was sorry already and would soon try to\nbe reconciled; but I also knew the impression my generous\nsympathy had made. I was his wife when her letter came,\nasking forgiveness. I am confident he has never regretted his\nchoice."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "962", "page_fin": "962", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 14, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "A Minister's Daughter", "titre_sommaire": "A Minister's Daughter", "signature_source": "V.McD. (New York", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "962", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 3856, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5538, "texte": "A Minister's Daughter\nV.McD. (New York)\nA FLASH of ai£ introduction, and with all my heart and\nsoul I loved the man who, eight months later, became my\nhusband! Because he is still my devoted one I recount with\npride the story of our love and marriage.\nThe daughter of a Presbyterian minister is not always cal-\nculated to be a demure and saintly creature, nor was I. One\nJune afternoon found me riding out to Target Practice. A\nsimple pull at the latch string of a big gate brought my steed,\nwith me atop, into the most wonderful farm yard I have ever\nseen. There in company with friends, stood the man of my\ngirlhood dreams. We had been introduced and were engaged\nin conversation before the old farm gate had swung full back\non its hinges. Later I learned that my Romeo was the rightful\npossessor of a fiancee. The one query which entered my mind\nwas \"how to get rid of her !\" Fate loitered around the Target\nand to win there meant to win from her, the prize.\nI had not yet been considered an excellent marksman, but I\nhad never before felt the incentive to try. I opened the sports\nby hitting the \"bull's eye\" three times in succession!\nMy future husband rode home with me. We were too much\nabsorbed in affectionate thought to talk, but we signed a heart\ncontract that day which has never been broken. In the winter\nwe were married; my own dear father performed the ceremony.\nMinisters' children are always married in the Church, so we,\ntoo, marched thru' the long aisles and knelt before the Altar.\nEighteen years have passed but with them has gone out none\nof the sweetness of life. Two beautiful children came during\nthe early years of companionship to complete our happiness."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "962", "page_fin": "963", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 15, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Rather Unconventional For a New England Maiden", "titre_sommaire": "Rather Unconventional For a New England Maiden", "signature_source": "M.M. (Boston", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "962", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 5540, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6454, "texte": "Rather Unconventional For a New England Maiden\n\n'T'RUTH is stranger than fiction, they say, and since romance\nof the truest type came into my life, I am inclined to be-\nlieve it. After reading what follows, every word of which is\ntrue, you will not wonder that I feel like the heroine of a\n\"Best Seller.\"\nFour years ago. the teachers of a little country town near\nBoston, tired of boarding, and determined to adopt radical\nmeasures. Six banded together, hired a seven room apartment,\nfurnished it, with things of their own, things loaned by in-\nterested friends, and some few things which had to be purchased.\nThen they proceeded t° do their own house-keeping, taking the\ncooking and kitchen work in week shifts of two each. The plan\nwas such a success, financially and socially, that next year,\nthree more joined the Club, a ten room house was rented, and\na woman hired for the kitchen work. A dear friend of mine"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "963", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1625, "texte": "has been in the writing game for several years, thought\nour plan had a story in it, and wrote us up. The story found\nfavor with an editor of a woman's magazine, and appeared\nindue season, fully illustrated with photographs. Within a\nweek from the time the article appeared, the club received\nthe surprise of its life in the shape of a frank and friendly letter\nfrom a mining engineer in California, admiring our energy and\ncommon sense, and desiring a correspondence. The letter re-\nceived recognition with a general letter from the Club Secre-\ntary, no names being given. A very pleasant and instructive\nanonymous correspondence sprang up, ideas on every topic under\nthe sun were exchanged, and five of us wrote personally, still\ngiving no names. I soon decided that the unknown writer was\na man of the type of ideas and ideals which I respected and\nadmired, and he arrived at the same conclusion from my letters,\nand before long asked frankly for my name and address. - Then\nI did the first unconventional thing of my life, smashed the\nrules of New England conventionality to bits, and gave them.\nWell, to make a long story short, the more ideas we ex-\nchanged, the better we found we agreed, he came east, and in\nfive weeks we were married. We have the same ideals of home\nlife and the same plans for making a permanently happy home,\n—and we have it.\"And they lived happy ever after?\" Well,\nin spite of incredulous smiles and sniffs from friends and rela-\ntives, it is the truth that our first disagreement is yet to come—\nand never expected to arrive!\nIs that not Romance with a capital R?\n\nM.M. (Boston)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "963", "page_fin": "963", "image_debut": 15, "image_fin": 15, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "A Doctor her Hero", "titre_sommaire": "A Doctor her Hero", "signature_source": "H.C.M.B. (N. Y", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "963", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 1627, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3256, "texte": "A Doctor her Hero\nH.C.M.B. (N.Y.)\nALTHOUGH I was only twenty-four years old I was be-\nginning to get a little fidgety for fear I might be an \"old\nmaid.\" Good, kind fate came to my rescue in form of sickness.\nI was truly ill that summer day of some six years ago. Hav-\ning lived in the city a short time, we did not have a family\nphysician. A young doctor in the neighborhood who was very\npopular and so far successful, was recommended by a friend.\nMother, who was a bit old-fashioned, did not seem enthusiastic\nabout calling him in. I had seen a certain physician occasionally\nand liked his looks. I was determined to be attended by him-\nMy illness proved to be appendicitis. An operation followed.\nMy doctor, although kind and sympathetic, did not show any\nfurther feeling toward me, but during those days of con-\nvalescence I began to become interested in him. It was a\npleasure to know that the time for the doctor was due and\nwhen he began to skip a day, I missed him.\nI was well again. It seemed as though something was gone\nout of my life. Two months passed. By mere accident I was\ninvited to complete a bowling party. My partner proved to be\nthe doctor whom I felt was never to be found by me, only in\ncase of illness. He seemed pleased and as the evening pro-\ngressed, his interest in me increased.\nHe began to call at my home. He was in love and wanted\nme in his presence as much as possible. Three months after\nthe bowling party, he asked me to be his wife. At the end\nof the next six months, my doctor-lover took me proudly to\nthe altar before a large assemblage of friends. Everybody\nseemed happy on that wedding day."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "963", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 15, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "The Romance of One Night by Guido Bruno", "titre_sommaire": "The Romance of One Night by Guido Bruno", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "963", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 3258, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6316, "texte": "Two People\nThe Romance of One Night by Guido Bruno\nIT is not given to everyone to take a bath of multitude:\nthe enjoyment of crowds is an art: and he alone can\nhave a bout of vitality at the expense of humanity to whom\na fairy has inspired, in his cradle, a taste for travesties and\nmasquerades, the hatred at koine and the passion for travel.\nMultitude, solitude: terms equal and convertible by the\nactive and fruitful poet. He who knows not how to\npeople his solitude, knows not how to be alone in a busy\ncrowd.\nWho wrote this beautiful truth? I tortured my mind\nto think where 1 had read it and whose original thoughts\nthey were. Was it Baudelaire? Or was it CX Henry?\nOr was it Theodore de Banville?\nWhenever I am broke, wandering about the streets,\nstanding still at some busy corner and reviewing the\ncrowds passing me, I think of these words and think\nhow true they are. But I never have taken the trouble\nto find out who really their author was.\nIt was a cold October night and I was broke. No—\nnot that way. I had a home, if you can call an apartment\nconsisting of a couple of rooms, a kitchenette and bath-\nroom. a home. And there was nothing abov.t me that\nwould have prevented taxi-xl:trees, seeing a prospective\nfare in me or the head-waiter ot the most exclusive hotel\nfrom conducting me personally to a table I might have\nindicated with rny eyes. I was well-dressed, I had signed\nmy tab for a good dinner in my club and had unfortunately\nforgotten to provide myself with cigarettes.\nI realized my oversight shortly after leaving the club-\nhouse but X did not feel like walking back. And so I\nhurried to my apartment, searched for something smokeable\non tables, in drawers, in the pockets of all my suits. With\nno result. Now there is nothing worse in the world than\nto want to smoke, knowing you can't have it. It made\nme restless. lam not a cigarette fiend: I often pass days\nand weeks without smoking. But the thought not to have\nten cents to purchase the cheapest pack of cigarettes\nbrought me face to face with facts—well I never had\ndared to face them. What kind of an existence is it that\nI was leading all these years ? How could it happen that\nI was practically penniless? I have gone through times\nof this kind so often that I took them for granted. Some-\nthing always happened to relieve the situation. A check\nwould come in, I would pay off my house account in the\nclub: if there was any back rent, I would pay it, too.\nStrengthening so my credit, I looked forward to the\nmeager weeks to come with the same confidence as the\nman who deposits in the bank a substantial sum of money\nfor rainy days.\nNo, it was not the desire to reform, or to turn a new\nleaf. I knew myself too well and I am accustomed to\nbe sincere with myself. But whenever I am broke, a\nphilosophical mood takes possession of me. For hours I\nhad been trying to solve the problem: why am I without\na cent?\nMy desire to smoke increased every minute. I re-\nmembered that a friend of mine who lived at the McAlpin\nHotel was attending a performance at Wallack's Theatre."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "964", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6652, "texte": "1 forgot to mention thai 1 never borrow money from any\nprivate individual and I often had rather walked miles in\nsituations as at present than to ask some of my friends for\na personal loan. I decided to walk up to the McAlpin,\nto post myself on the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and\nSixth Avenue and take my chance of meeting him in\ncase he returned immediately after the show to his room.\nI wanted to ask him for a cigarette.\nIt was about eleven o'clock. I was standing at that\ncorner and reviewing the dense crowds that passed. How\nalone and forlorn I felt among all this chattering, smiling\nand tacit throng of men and women. /'Multitude: soli-\ntude!'' and I tortured my mind to think of the man who\nhad expressed this supreme truth in such a wonderful\nway. If I had had a cigarette I would have enjoyed look-\ning at the well dressed men with clean-shaven face4s and\nthe women in their evening gowns with soft vrraps. in\ndainty slippers and silk stockings of all colors. What a\nmarvellous symphony! those stockings and slippers cross-\ning over from Broadway. And what a discord the faces of\nthe people who wore them!\nThere was the placid self-contented matron, with her\nbread—and pleasure providing husband, walking side by\nside, both with serious faces, both thinking: they had\nnothing to say to each other. A studious looking fellow\nwith clean cut features linked arms with a fresh-looking\ngirl: the eyes of both are shining, intensely interested in\ntheir conversation. They hurried to the tunnels. A\nprosperous manufacturer—he must be a manufacturer—\nwith a young woman. He is old and she is young. He\nis proud of her and she is like one of those fashion designs\nof Bakst: pretty, a wonderful color scheme, but with\ndead eyes: a striking impersonation of \"I-don't-care.\" If\nI only had a cigarette I could enjoy this, enjoy it more\nthan the people who paid two dollars to see a show.\n.What a wonderful drama is Life! and how well it is\nacted by us! What an actor are you—and I—and our\nfriends.\nAnd here are the proper backgrounds! Little newsboys\nscreaming at the top of their voices—\"All about the mur-\nder!\" And on the grotesquely illuminated board in front\nof the Herald building, the latest war reports. Pompously\ndressed women following their profession: a troup of\nSalvationists with drum and flying banners returning to\ntheir citadel: the surface cars passing hither and thither:\nthe elevated thundering over its structure—an ambulance\nannoyingly persistent—the hoot-hoot of automobiles—oh,\nwhat a drama! If I only had a cigarette!\nI felt an arm thrust gently through mine. \"Walk over\nwith me to the depot.\" It was a woman's voice, a melodi-\nous voice but one that evidently knew how to give com-\nmands. I didn't make the least resistance. We made\nour way through the crowds on the sidewalk, passed to\nthe other side of the street and walked towards the depot.\nShe spoke quietly, continuously and very impressively.\n\"I watched you for a while. I think you will be game.\nDon't look at me now please. Keep a natural face so\nthat the few people that perhaps might have noticed us\nthink you were waiting for me, and I simply joined you\ncoming out of the hotel. Please carry my satchel.\"\nIn front of one of the windows of a big department\nstore she handed me her grip. She was a young woman.\nShe had on a purple evening coat and very small white 4\nsatin slippers. I saw her face for the fraction of a second.\nI could not notice any details but felt instinctively that\nshe must be beautiful. She had no hat but I thought I\nnoticed an aigrette standing out of the masses of her\nblonde hair. \"Please don't look at me, as it might arouse\nthe suspicion of those that perhaps follow me,\" she said,\ntaking a firm grip on my arm in such a manner that I\ncould not have turned without swinging her completely\naround. She was not quite as tall as lam and all I could\nsee by turning my head was her white aigrette and her\nblonde hair. If I only had a cigarette! We reached the !\ndepot and I thought it best to keep silent.\n\"Please promise you won't look at me,\" she said, after\nwe reached the well lighted waiting hall, \"will you\npromise?\" she asked,1 necessitating my answer.\n\"Of course I won't look at you,\" I said.\n\"That is very sweet of you, was her reply. We walked\ndown the steps, and I was obsessed by two thoughts. \"I\nmust not look at her and how could I get a cigarette?\"\n\"And now I will have to ask you to give me my satchel,\"\nI heard her say, \"you promised not to look at me. It is\nmost essential that you keep your promise, no matter if\nyou will accept my proposition or not. I shall leave you\nnow and go into the women's waiting room for a few\nminutes. Will you please manage honestly not to look\nat me, and still not arouse the curiosity of the people\naround while I leave you?\" N\n\"I think I can manage that,\" I answered. I fixed my\neyes upon one of the maps high up on the walls of the\nstation. It was a map of Central America and I tried\nto find the Porto Rican Island while I handed her her 1\nsatchel.\n\"I am so happy I singled you out,\".it sounded like a\nsigh of relief. \"I'll be back instantly.\" 1\nI waited a few minutes before I cast my eyes in the\ndirection of the women's waiting room. I just saw her\ndisappear in one of the doors. She had an exquisite figure\nbut there was nothing especially distinctive about her.\nAfter I had lost sight of that purple evening wrap, I am\nsure I could not have differentiated her from a few other\nwomen that passed in succession through the same door.\nI strolled up and down through the crowd of people\nhurrying to the ticket-offices, to the baggage room. Every-\nbody around me seemed to have some definite goal he was\nanxious to reach. I always feel so superior in a crowd\nof people who are obsessed by the idea that they have a\nduty to get somewhere and are trying their best tc get\nthere. I know I have no destination whatever, but I\nknow I will \"get there.\" Where? Who knows? I will\nknow soon enough after I have arrived. How about this\nwOman! If I only had a cigarette I could enjoy this '\nsituation that would have puzzled a good many or would\nhave made them suspicious, and that would have thrilled\nto participate in such a strange adventure.\nWe meet adventures daily on the streets and romance\nis watching around every corner. There are two kinds\nof women in the \"Bagdad on the subway\" that most\npossibly might accost us on the street. Both are ad-\nventuresses. The one makes adventure her life profession.\nThe other is passing through some tragedy, through some-\nthing that disturbs her, so elementary, that convention and\ncustoms produced during two thousand years crumble to"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2120, "texte": "pieces: she simply sees in you the brother sufferer, the\nbrother that might be willing to help, that perhaps can\nhelp. And so she asks you ior a night's lodging, or for a\nnickel to buy a glass of beer, or to carry her satchel and\nnot look at her. If I only had a cigarette, how happy I\nwould be!\n\"Well, here I am, my knight sans peur and sans re-\nproche.\" I instinctively turned around and if I had not\nrecognized her voice, I surely would not have recognized\nmy purple companion of a few minutes ago. She wore\na heavy green and red-brown checked ulster and a white\nveil over a black-sailor hat that made it impossible to\nrecognize her features. She was girlishly slender, and\nputting on her gloves. She had the most wonderful hands\nI had ever seen. They were long and slim, the nails well-\ncared for, pink and oval. The knuckles strong. \"I had\nthe things in my grip. I checked the grip. Please take\nthe check and keep it for me.\"\n\"I think you are wonderfully composed. You seem\nto have self-control and I appreciate what you did for\nme to-night more than you can ever understand. Even\nif you don't think you can accept my proposition, please\ndo not ask any questions. All that is necessary for you\nto know, I shall tell you.\"\nI kept silent. She didn't speak for a few seconds. We\nJiad walked toward the Seventh Avenue back. I felt that\nthe one who was uncomfortable and uneasy in this strange\nsituation was not myself, but her. But I did not intend\nto ask any questions or encourage her in any way to tell\nme her story. You can't coax a bird to sing. He must\nfeel like it and do it voluntarily with all the enthusiasm\nhe is capable of: and then it is worth while listening.\n\"Would you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars\nin one week?\" she started. I felt her eyes scrutinizing my\nface. A true daughter of New York, I thought, bred and\nraised in the home town of the dollar-hunter. But at the\nsame time, most striking proof of the existence of heredity.\nSome of her early ancestors must have been fighters or\nrobbers, explorers or pirates or something of that kind. I\nkept silent.\n(To be continued)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "Fille de Joie", "titre_sommaire": "Fille de Joie", "signature_source": "Herman S. Gorman", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 2122, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3379, "texte": "Fille de Joie\nHerman S. Gorman.\n\n1\nA woman stops beneath a lamp.\n*** Have I not not seen her face before\nIn misty legends where the floor\nOf earth is shaken with the tramp\nOf legions by an ancient shore?\n\n2\nHer throaty, husky laugh rings out\nAcross the trouble of the night.\nHer painted lips beneath are white\nKnowing some miserable doubt . .\nHer eyes are aching with the light.\n\n3\nWas she not Helen on a day,\nBeneath whose bright dishevelled hair\nAnd scarlet-fruited mouth so rare,\nThe Trojan Paris laughing lay\nAnd watched the midnight cressets flare?\n\n4\nOr was she Cleopatra when\nThe tawny priests of Isis bowed\nBefore her in a shaven crowd,\nAnd her strong lips with blood of men\nWas dimmed as with a crimson cloud?\n\n5\nAh, Guenevere, Iseult, Elaine,\nDead queens of beauty, down the years\nThy loveliness a temple rears\nIn this frail creature full of pain\nAnd scalding sacrificial tears.\n\n6\nYea, splendid courtesan and saint\nHave gone into the subtle thread\nThat wove her flesh uncomforted . . . •\nBeneath her bleachen hair and paint\nThere lurks the soul of all the dead.\n\n7\nGreat empires have gone down to dust\nAnd darkness, there to make their camp\nBecause her regal foot did stamp\nIn anger once. Kings put their trust\nIn this tired thing beneath a lamp!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25.1", "titre_corps": "1", "titre_sommaire": "1", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 2155, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2325, "texte": "1\nA woman stops beneath a lamp.\n*** Have I not not seen her face before\nIn misty legends where the floor\nOf earth is shaken with the tramp\nOf legions by an ancient shore?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25.2", "titre_corps": "2", "titre_sommaire": "2", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 2327, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2500, "texte": "2\nHer throaty, husky laugh rings out\nAcross the trouble of the night.\nHer painted lips beneath are white\nKnowing some miserable doubt . .\nHer eyes are aching with the light."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25.3", "titre_corps": "3", "titre_sommaire": "3", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 2502, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2675, "texte": "3\nWas she not Helen on a day,\nBeneath whose bright dishevelled hair\nAnd scarlet-fruited mouth so rare,\nThe Trojan Paris laughing lay\nAnd watched the midnight cressets flare?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c040", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c040", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25.4", "titre_corps": "4", "titre_sommaire": "4", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 2677, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2840, "texte": "4\nOr was she Cleopatra when\nThe tawny priests of Isis bowed\nBefore her in a shaven crowd,\nAnd her strong lips with blood of men\nWas dimmed as with a crimson cloud?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c041", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c041", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25.5", "titre_corps": "5", "titre_sommaire": "5", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 2842, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3010, "texte": "5\nAh, Guenevere, Iseult, Elaine,\nDead queens of beauty, down the years\nThy loveliness a temple rears\nIn this frail creature full of pain\nAnd scalding sacrificial tears."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c042", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c042", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25.6", "titre_corps": "6", "titre_sommaire": "6", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 3012, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3194, "texte": "6\nYea, splendid courtesan and saint\nHave gone into the subtle thread\nThat wove her flesh uncomforted . . . •\nBeneath her bleachen hair and paint\nThere lurks the soul of all the dead."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c043", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c043", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "965", "page_fin": "965", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.25.7", "titre_corps": "7", "titre_sommaire": "7", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 3196, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3379, "texte": "7\nGreat empires have gone down to dust\nAnd darkness, there to make their camp\nBecause her regal foot did stamp\nIn anger once. Kings put their trust\nIn this tired thing beneath a lamp!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c045", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c045", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "966", "page_fin": "966", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "Two Stories About Dutchmen from the Boston Gazette for July, 1809", "titre_sommaire": "Two Stories About Dutchmen from the Boston Gazette for July, 1809", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "966", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 380, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1605, "texte": "Two Stories About Dutchmen from\nthe Boston Gazette for July, 1809\nIt Was Not the Dog\nA FEW years ago, a couple of Dutchmen upon the\nhigh hills of Limestone, though very friendly, had\na dreadful falling out about one killing the other's dog,\nfor which he sued for damages. They were called into\ncourt, and the defendant in the case was asked by the\njudge, if he killed the dog? \"Pe sure I kilt him,\" said\nthe Dutchman, \"but let him proof it.\" This being quite\nsatisfactory, the plaintiff in the case was called on to an-\nswer a few questions; he was asked by the judge, to what\namount he estimated his damages? He did not under-\nstand this question so well, so to be a little plainer, the\njudge asked him what he thought the dog to be worth?\n\"Pe sure,\" said he,\"the dog was wot noting; but since he\nwas so mean as to kill him, he shall pay de full walue of\nhim.\"\nWatering Milk\nA Dutchman in Albany some time back, went out to\nhis milkman in the street with a dish in each hand,\ninstead of one as usual. The dispenser of attenuated milk\nasked if he wished him to fill both vessels? The Dutch-\nman replied, suiting the action to the word, \"Dis is for\nde milluk, and dis for de waiter—and I will mix dem so\nas to shute mineself.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c046", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c046", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "966", "page_fin": "966", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "966", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 1607, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2247, "texte": "TO YOU, GENTLE READER\nKindly give your standing order for Bruno's\nWeekly to your newsdealer, if you do not\nwish to send us directly a subscription. The\npresent paper prices are such that it proves\ndisastrous for a magazine to print more\ncopies needed for its regular sub-\nscription circulation and for a supply of\nunreturnable orders of news companies and\nmagazine agencies.\nAlso we cannot supply you with back num-\nbers which you have missed on the news-\nstands.\nTherefore, if you like the contents of\nBruno's Weekly, release your clutches from\na two-dollar bill and send in your check\nto-day or give a standing order to your news-\ndealer."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c047", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c047", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "966", "page_fin": "966", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "966", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 2249, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3193, "texte": "READERS OF BRUNO'S WEEKLY ARE ASKED TO BECOME SUBSCRIBERS\n52 ISSUES, TWO DOLLARS\nSEND YOUR CHEQUE TO-DAY\n58 WASHINGTON SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY\nROSSI BROTHERS\n58 Washington Square\nUnderneath the Garret\nICE CREAM AND TOBACCO\nThe Mad Hatter Has a Tea Party Every Afternoon\nFrom 3 to 6 at\n150 WEST FOURTH STREET\nJust Down the Rabbit Hole From Washington Square\n\"Take Some More Tea\"\n\"I've Had Nothing Yet So I Can't Take More\"\n\"You Mean You Can't Take Less, It's Very Easy to\nTake More Than Nothing.\"\nNobody Asked Your Opinion\" Edith UGger.\nu\nI BUY BOOKS\nSingle volumes, small lots, and libraries; autograph letters of known literary men Mid\nartists, drawings, pictures and engravings. Address\n\"COLLECTOR,\" Care of Kruno's Weekly, 58 Washington So\nEdith Haynes Thompson\nHER SHOP\nContaining Many Quaint and Beautiful Things\n58 WASHINGTON SQUARE SOUTH\nHours: 1 to 5.30 P. M.\nj. 112. McCarthy\nPAINTINGS AND\nANTIQUES\n30 WEST 46th STREET\nIBMW'IMi X •amy. i"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c048", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c048", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[967]", "page_fin": "[967]", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 19, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "[967]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4527, "texte": "Bruno Chap Books\n4. Tahiti, by Robert Carlton Brown\n5. Four Letters, by Oscar Wilde\n6. Anarchists, by Guido Bruno\n7. To My Mother, by Alfred Kreymborg\n8. Vignettes, by Hubert Crackanthorpe\nMr. Crackanthorpe had three chief gifts:\nskill in dramatic narration—a sense of sit-\nuation, a lively feeling for the value of inter-\npretation of gesture, posture, circumstance;\nsecondly, analytic skill in the conception and\npresentation of character; thirdly, descriptive\nand pictorial power, readiness of vision, with\na faculty of sifting and selecting its reports.\nLionel Johnson, in Acad., March 20, 1897. .\n9. Tanka and Haika, by Sadakichi Hartmann\nThe son of a German father and a Japa-\nnese mother, of a burgomaster's son from\nMecklenburg, the only European state with-\nout a Constitution, and the daughter of a\nronin, a roving soldier of Old Japan. Sada-\nkichi is much more Japanese than German.\nHis style is extravagant but suave. Some of\nhis short stories are as excessive and intense\nas Poe's, on strictly realistic lines. The ut-\nmost bounds of expression are reached, even\nhis originality is aggressive\nRichard Wagner, the Egoist, by Guido Bruno\nEdna, the Girl of the Street, by Alfred Kreymborg\nCause: our social conditions.\nMotive: just to live.\nProblem: eternal.\nSolution: none\nSongs of the Cosmos, by Charles Keeler\nLike the weaver of wonderful brocades, he\nselected thread after thread and up loomed\nthose wonderful pictures before my eyes,\ncreations of simple words, dipped in red\nblood, tinted by the golden sun, formed and\nshaped by hands who know the labors and\npains of millions scented with good-will\ntowards everybody and emitted with pure love\n.25\n.25\n.25\n.25\n.50\n.25\n.25\n.25\nNo.\n13.\n14.\n15.\n1. The Harlot's House, by Oscar Widle\nThe first American reprint of one of the\nmost wonderful poems of the author $ .25\n2. Setting Hens, Frogs' Legs, by D. Molby\nD. Molby, passes the white elephant un-\nremarked, but writes an essay on the mos-\nquito's neck and the rhythm of his little\nwings before he stings and annoys .25\n3. Mushrooms, by Alfred Kreymborg\nMr. Kreymborg* s Mushrooms are recog-\nnized poetry. The Mushroom stands for a 16.\nsimple expression of thought in simple mu-\nsical rhythm. Mr. Kreymborg is one man\nwho speaks to his fellow-men—just to the\none who might find in four or six simple\nlines of rhythm the revelation of the rhythm\nand the harmony of his own simple life. . . . .50\n17.\n18.\n19.\n20.\n21.\n22.\n23.\n24.\n25.\n.25 26.\nTeaspoons and Violet Leaves, by Guido Bruno 1.00\nThe Tragedy in the Birdhouse, by Guido Bruno\n.50\nExotics, by John W. Draper\nIt lay a luscious yellow band\nCreaming upon umbrageous green\nThe spray was satin to the hand;\nAnd to the eye a topaz bright,\nAnd dazzling as the noonday sand.\nFrom\"The Yellow Orchid'* .25\nImagists, by Richard Aldington\nOne of the original group of the English\nImagists tells all about Imagism and its aims.\nThis paper deals a severe blow to all imita-\ntors and producers of vers libre who think\nthemselves poets of the \"new group\" because\nthey don't write in rhyme ,25\nLord Alfred Douglas—Salome: A Critique,\nthe Beauty of Unpunctuality: an Essay and\nThree Poems\nThere was a time when Lord Alfred\nDouglas would have laughed at the idea that\nhe would write a book explaining away his\nfriendship with Oscar Wilde. As editor of\nThe Spirit Lamp,\" a magazine published\nby James Thornton, High Street, Oxford,\nand edited by Lord Alfred Douglas, he\nseemed to be a diligent imitator of his friend\nOscar. He imitated his style in prose and in\npoetry. Whenever he received a contribu-\ntion from Oscar Wilde it was the main and\nleading feature of the issue .25\nSadakichi Hartmann—Permanent Peace: Is It a\nDream ?\nCharles Kains-Jackson—John Addington Symonds\nA Portrait\nThe life-long friend of the English poet\ngives a vivid picture of the personality and\nlife and life-work of Symonds. This essay\nwritten a few days after the death of Sy-\nmonds, on the 19th of April, 1893, and was\nfirst published in the Quarto , a since for-\ngotten literary periodical of England, in\n1897 .25\nDjuna Barnes—The Book of Repulsive Wo-\nmen—Rhythms and 5 Drawings .25\nEdna W. Underwood—The Book of the White\nPeacocks 25\nH. Thompson Rich—Lumps of Clay—l 6 Rhythms\n.25\nD. Molby — Hippopotamus Tails —28 Every-day\nMusings .25\nH. Thompson Rich—The Red Shame—l 7 War\nPoems ,25\nTheodor Schroeder, Erothogenesis of Religion, a\nbibliography ,50\nSadakichi Hartmann, My Rubayat .50\nAccompany each order with Cheque, small amounts, one-cent stamps\nBRUNO'S WEEKLY\n58 WASHINGTON SQUARE, N. Y. C."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-09-02-01-c049", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01#c049", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-09-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[968]", "page_fin": "[968]", "image_debut": 20, "image_fin": 20, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "[968]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1228, "texte": "Rare Books First Editions\nExtra Illustrated Books. Early Printed Bodes. Association Books. Books for Christmas Gifts.\nPwchased singly or in sets for people whs hare neither time nor opportunity to select for thsmssSves,\nm far those who have not access to the best hook marts. Why not begin collecting now?\nAddress, E. V. Boston Transcript, Boston, Mass,\nBefog a hook\nIN WHICH\nwe say jest what we tkmk. Published every unauth by Nermsa Isl Geddes at 171 Wilson Avenue\nId Deceit, hfirhtgan It is a little heck arofywfr illustrated. Write hr sample eepy.\nHOTEL BREVOORT CAFE LAFAYETTE\nFifth Arenas University Place\nRAYMOND ORTEIG, INC.\nThe Two French Hotels and Restaurants of New York\nGONFARONE'S\n} 40 West tth Street\nTABLE D'HOTE\n\"Eating places are literary landmarks** said O. Hairy, speaking of Gonfarone*s hi one of his\nwencalied Greenwich Village Stories.\nThere can be no pleasantcr place to hear that remarkable\nEdison Record Number (82536) than\nTHE DIAMOND DISC SHOP\nat Number 10 Fifth Avenue\ni\ni\nIn this store, at least, the delightful atmosphere of Old Greenwich Village has not been\non the altar of commercialism\nA postal will bring you, with\nan interesting little biography of Mr. line. A.\nPhone: Stuyvesant 4570 Edison"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.1", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n100 Dollars for the Story of Your Marriage\nEDITED BY GUIDO BRUNO IN HIS GARRET ON\nWASHINGTON SQUARE\nFive Cents September 2nd, 1916\nW. & G.\n\nDjuna Barnes\n\nThe contents include :\nStephen Crane: A New York Poet, Who Through Starvation Achieved Success—But Too Late\nAmerican Ptyalism\nHaunted Vine\nGreenwich Village—The Romance of One Night"}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[950]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.2", "texte": "Copyright by Gutdo Bruao, Sept. 2nd* Ul6. Original matter,\nincluding aU drawings, may not bo reproduced without permiwoa\nof Guide Bruno; but that permiNioa may be assumed if credit\nit civea to author aad Bruno's Weekly.\nOne Hundred Dollars for the\nStory of Your Marriage\n*\n*\nBruno's Weekly will pay one hundred dollars for the best story setting\nforth why and how you were married.\nWe don't want literary masterpieces or extraordinary stories of adven-\nture. But there is a lot of romance and fragrance about those days\nwhen you two met. You know you like to recall those times even if\neverything has changed since.\nWrite down your story just as simply as it happened. We shall nod\nuse your name if you do not wish us to do so.\nThere is no better fiction than the one Fate writes upon the pages of\nour lives. We know your story will be enjoyed by lots of others. Write\nit down to-day and address it to the Editor,\" Bruno's Weekly,\nSS Washington Square, New York City.\nEvery *week|those stories which are printed will be paid for at space\nrates. The contest will close on October Ist, 1918, and the stories\nshould be limited to three hundred words.\nSEND YOUR STORY TO-DAY"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "[951]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.3", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nEdited by Guido Bruno in His Garret on Washington Square\nNo. 12\nSEPTEMBER 2nd, MCMXVI\nVol. 11l\nCo fry right t<yr 6 by Guido Bruno\n\nVerses\n\nIn the Night\nGrey heavy clouds muffled the valleys,\nAnd the peaks looked toward God, alone.\n\"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.\n\"Grant that we may run swiftly across the zvorld,\n\"To huddle in worship at Thy feet \"\n\nIn the Morning\nA noise of men at work came the clear blue miles,\nAnd the little black cities were apparent.\n\"O Master, that knowest the wherefore of rain-\ndrops,\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.\n\"Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,\n\"That we may chant Thy goodness to the sun \"\n\nIn the Evening\nThe far valleys ivere sprinkled with tiny lights.\n((0 Master,\n\"Thou who knowest the value of kings and\nswallows,\n\"Thou has made us humble, idle, futile peaks.\nffThou only needest eternal patience;\n\"We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord-—\n\"Humble, idle, futile peaks.\"\n\nIn the Night\nGrey, heavy clouds muff led the valleys,\nAnd the peaks looked toward God, alone.\nStephen Crane\n\nStephen Crane: A New York Poet\n\nWho Through Starvation Achieved Success—but too Late\n| T is a widely prevalent belief, especially among those\n* who have never missed a meal in their lives, that the\nliterary or other artist, to get his best work out of him,\nmust be squeezed, as the perfume is expressed from the\nflower—that he does his greatest things while starving.\nNo greater—more damnably tragic—mistake could be\nmade. The writer does his best work when well-fed, com-\nfortably housed and free from pecuniary worry. The\nearly work of most writers—the great Dryden, for ex-\nample—is usually inferior, because of the dire necessity\nthey are under of getting into print—and so into money—\nas. quickly as possible.\nIt is useless to surmise now as to what killed Stephen\nCrane at so early an age—3o. He was delicate and frag-\nile, physically, and it may have been the stress and storm\nof his early struggles for literary recognition—or it may\nhave been his hardships and shipwreck in the Cuban cam-\npaign as war-correspondent.\nThe son of a clergyman, Stephen Crane was born in\nNewark, N. J., in 1870, and educated at Lafayette Col-\nlege and Syracuse University. When only 16 he cor-\nresponded, from out-of-town, with New York papers.\nIn 1892 he came to New York experiencing rebuff after\nrebuff on Park Row. Later he wrote special articles and\nshort stories for the Sunday papers and Irving\nsyndicate, meantime reading omnivorously and acquiring\na style.\n\"I decided,\" he once said in Leslie's, \"that the nearer\na writer gets to life the greater he becomes as an artist,\nand most of my prose writings have been toward the goal\npartially described by that misunderstood and abused\nword, realism. Tolstoi is the writer I admire most of\nall.\"\nCrane in Bohemia\nFor many years he was a free-lance, living with some\nartists in a dilapidated building on East 23rd\ndreaming \"blood-red dreams of fame.\" They slept on\nthe floor, dined off buns and sardines, and painted on\ntowels and wrapping paper. It was hopeless, discourag-\ning work for a man of Crane's sensibility, and the iron\nof misery and the world's callous indifference sank deep.\nIt was during this straitened period that he wrote \"The\nRed Badge of Courage\"—\"an effort,\" he says, \"born of\npain—despair almost.\"\nHe Meets Hamlin Garland.\nHe took the first half of his MS. to Hamlin Garland,\nthe other half was\"in hock,\" as he told Mr. Garland, to\nhis typist for $15—and great was his tribulation! Mr.\nGarland helped him out to this extent, later bringing\nCrane to the attention of Mr. W. D. Howells and others\nof the discriminating—all men of keen literary dis-\ncernment.\nHis first book, \"Maggie: A Child of the Streets,\"\n(1891) he had to publish himself. It attracted no atten-\ntion from the reading public. But the \"Red Badge\"\n(1894) did, taking*the public fairly by storm. Its fresh-\nness, originality, vividness, were a new thing. In Eng-\nland it had a tremendous success, so in a little while he\ntook up his residence there, winning an immediate social\nvogue and visiting America occasionally.\nShipwrecked\nIn 1897 he went as war-correspondent to report the\nGraeco-Turko War, and then to Cuba to write of Cuban\nfilibusters. During his Cuban campaign he was wrecked,\nand his story \"The Open Boat\" (1898) is a vigorous,\nvivid description of this awful experience, and in H. G.\nWells' opinion, the \"crown of all his work.\" .\"That, and\n'Flanagan,' \" he told Wells, \"was all I got out of Cuba.\"\nThe last two years of Crane's life were spent in Sussex,\nEngland, and then he went to Baden to his untimely\ndeath (1900).\nBut his prose work still lives. His \"Red Badge of\nCourage\" yet wields its extraordinary fascination over\ncountless readers—new and old.\n\"I experienced the thrill of the editor as he falls un-\nexpectedly upon the work of a genius,\" said Mr. Garland.\n\"It was as if this youth in some mystic way had secured\nthe cooperation of the spirit of an officer in the Civil War.\nHow else could one account for his knowledge of war?\nSallow, yellow-fingered, small and ugly, I was"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "952", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.4", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nunaßle to relate him in the slightest degree to the mar-\nvellous MS. he had placed in my hands.\"\nCrane a free-lance\nDuring his early free-lance period, which Crane once\nspoke of with such loathing, he worked and starved,\nstarved and worked, wandering day and night through\nthe East Side, and writing stories that never were printed,\nsingly. They later made a part of \"Maggie.\"\nHe was a student at first-hand of the seamy side of\nlife, an analyst of life's tragedies among the poor. He\npierced through artificialities to the heart and grim reality\nof things—-and he was a faithful, vivid reporter of things\nas they were. With extraordinary condensation and\nclarity he flashes the episodes before you; and his phrases\nand paragraphs have all the sudden and startling dis-\ntinctness of a film picture.\nHis insight, his imaginative and inductive faculties\nwere nothing short of marvellous—vide his convincingly\ntrue pictures of battles—of war—\"horrid War\"—which\nhe continued to produce up to his last hour. Among\nthese later sketches, acute and vivid, were \"The Black\nRiders,\" \"War is Kind.\"\nHe \"creates a new fashion in literature,\" commented\nthe Atlantic Monthly, and another authority grouped him\nwith the Symbolists of France and England.\nHis main theme, however, was the submerged tenth—\ntheir \"sins, shames, gaities, injustices\"—the world of\nmisery, of poverty as he limns it in \"Maggie\" and\n\"George's Mother.\" His \"Red Badge\" and \"Black\nRiders\" were thought by some, perhaps too unconventional.\nThere seemed, in these books, a bitter, ironic and despair-\ning—even unwholesome—tinge to his philosophy. But\nhe later wrote two charming love-stories—\"The Third\nViolet\" and\"In Active Service\"—whose setting was\nnot so sordid, not so uncheerful.\nCrane's poems—rhymeless rhythms—like his prose\nshowed extraordinary imaginative power. He wrote\nthem down, in beautiful script, rapidly, and in an en-\ntirely automatic, sub-conscious way, as if transcribing\nfrom a printed page.\n\"I have four or five more standing in a row up here\"\n—he quaintly told Mr. Garland, putting the tip of his\nfinger to his right temple—\"all they need is to* be drawn\noff.\"\n\"There is a ghost at your shoulder!\" was Mr. Gar-\nhalf-serious comment. Crane told him further\nthat the first pages of the \"Red Badge\" had come to\nhim in this way. He wrote them down as if from\ndictation!\n''The Black Riders\" was dedicated to his old friend\nand benefactor, Hamlin Garland, through whose kind\ninterest Crane's work secured just and proper recogni-\ntion, all of which quickly led to material prosperity for\nthe half-starved \"boy\"—as he seemed to so many.\nThe following rhymeless rhythm of Crane's was written\njust before he left America for England:\nI.\nThere was a man and a woman,\n! Who sinned.\nThen did the man heap the punishment\nAll upon the head of her\nAnd went away gaily.\nII.\nThere was a man and a woman\nWho sinned.\nAnd the man stood with her.\nAs upon her head, so upon his,\nFell blow upon blow,\nAnd all people screaming \"Fooll\"\nHe was an iron heart.\nIII.\nHe was a braver heart.\nWould you speak with him, friend?\nWell, he is dead,\nAnd there went our opportunity.\nLet it be your grief,\nThat he is dead,\nAnd our opportunity gone ;\nFor, in that, you were a coward.\nA Cuban Picture\nHere is a sample of Crane's prose. It will be seen how\nunromantically he viewed life. But he goes as far the\nother way. His men are men—mere clay; but he lays\nbare their souls—dissects them as does the surgeon:\n\" . . . . I sat on San Juan hill and watched Lawton's\ndivision come up where I could look into the faces\nof men who were trotting up under fire. There wasn't a high,\nheroic face among them. They were all men intent on business.\n.They were not of our shallow and preposterous fictions.\nThey stood out in a simply majestic commonplace. It was the\nbehaviour of men on the street. . . . Each man was just\npegging along at the heels of the man before him, who was\npegging along at the heels of still another man who— It was\nthat in the flat and obvious way. In another way it was\npageantry, the pageantry of the accomplishment of naked duty.\nOne cannot speak of it—the spectacle of the common man\nserenely doing his work, his appointed work. It is the one\nthing in the universe which makes one fling expression to the\nwinds and be satisfied to simply. feel.\"\nIn addition to the books already mentioned, Crane\nwrote \"Lines\" ('95) ; \"The Little Regiment,\" \"The\nMonster\" ('95), and two posthumous works—a novel\n\"The O'Ruddy,\" and a sheaf of children's stories. The\nauthor of scarce a dozen books when death cut him off,\nhad he lived he might have produced \"the great American\nnovel.\"\nRobert Barr, just before Crane's death, thought him\nof all living American authors, the only one destined to\nthis honor. His delicately analytical and, at times, excori-*\natingly penetrating social criticism, coupled with his other\nbrilliant gifts of style and imagination perhaps well fitted\nhim for such a magnum opus. But, like Keats, he was\ncut off before his time.\nHow photographically accurate are some of Crane's\ncharacterizations. Here are two the Greenwich Villager\nmust perforce recognize:\nA boy in Rum A'lley was ''throwing stones at howling urchins.\n. . . His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His\nsmall body was writhing in the delivery of great crimson oaths.\nHis features wore the look of a tiny insane demon.\"\n\"Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering, a lad of six-\nteen years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal m?nhood\nalready sat upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of\nchallenge over his eye. Between his teeth a cigar stump tilted"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "953", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.5", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nat the angle of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of\nthe shoulders that appalled the timid.\"\nMelancholy and taciturn on an empty stomach, when,\nat the Garlands, he had had a square-meal, Crane\n\"chortled and sang as he strolled about the room, exactly\nlike a well-fed hen. At such moments he talked freely\nand well, always with precision and original tang.\"\nOne day when Crane was particularly depressesd—for\nwith all his strenuosity with his pen he remained as\nhungry as ever—Hamlin Garland said to him:\n\"You'll be famous in one year or two!\"\n\"You may be right,\" Crane replied gloomily, \"but it's\nno joke now. I'd trade my entire future for $23 in\ncash!\"\nA little later \"The Red Badge of Courage\" was pub-\nlished, taking two countries by storm, money rolled in\nupon the emaciated, hollow-eyed \"boy,\" and he was\nin great demand socially.\nBut too late!\nHis earthly task was done.\nCrane came of long Puritan ancestry, and his New\nEngland forbears were writers—of pious and theological\nbooks. He, himself, was a good type of the nervous,\nquick-thinking, very modern American. He was not much\nof a talker. His conversation was vivid—yet quaint—\nbut spasmodic. He was quiet, almost taciturn. When\nhe wrote, in the opinion of some, he used words with\nlittle regard to their fitness. But in this he seems to me\nto have been a pioneer—\"the first expression of the open-\ning mind of a new period\"—the progenitor of a new\nschool of writers; and his impress is still seen in American\njournalism.\nHis Homeric Characters\nHe had a i/narvellous imaginative power, a rare talent\nof word-painting, plus unusual clarity and concision; and\nhis characters with their \"Promethean woes and Homeric\npassions'\" stalk like Titans through his pages. They recall\nvividly to my mind Victor Hugo's \"Ninety-Three.\"\nCrane himself confessed to Tolstoi's influence, and this\nhis friend H. G. Wells guessed. But allowing for this\nWells thought \"there still remained something entirely\noriginal and novel,\" and that \"there is Whistler even\nmore than Tolstoi in 'The Red Badge of Courage.' \"\nEdith Wyatt said, felicitously: \"Endowed with a\ngenius for direct expression he (Crane) was able in his\n♦short existence to present a surprising number of pene-\ntrating ascertainments of American life with a high degree\nof clarity and power. In his static lines of verse, in the\nlyric movement of his stories, vibrate unforgettable and\nauthentic moods of the very nature of our country—the\nsmell of the wet turf along the shaded house-walls, the\npluming maple-tops, the muteness of neighbor and neigh-\nbor, the scorching breath of injustice, the air of war time\nmemories on cloudy bluff and valley, the wind's will\nblowing through the soul of youth, death in struggle\neverywhere, and the strength of love stronger than death,\nand the failures and the prides of our mortality.\"\nThere can be little doubt that as the years roll on, and\nwe can view his work in its true perspective, the place\nin literature of Stephen Crane will not by any means\nbe a minor one.\n\nAlfred Ernest Keet.\n\nDrawing by Aubrey Beardsley\n\nAmerican Ptyalism\nBy William Gaylord Clark\n*7 HE\"American Ptyalism\" was written on November\n22nd, 1832, and is dated from Communipaw. It was\nnever before published. That ptyalism is a chief character-\nistic of our own day, as well as of seventy-five years ago, is\nwitnessed by the millions of signs displayed, not only in all\nour public buildings, on streets, in parks and in places of\namusement, but also in places where the necessity to remind\nus that it would be bad behavior to expectorate, seems to\nbe, but evidently is not, superficial, as in restaurants, in\neating-places and lunch rooms.\nDear reader, don t sniff at this (sniffing, too, is some-\nhow connected with ptyalism, and therefore should be\navoided.) Only a small percentage of Americans are in\nthe habit of eating and assembling in places where the\nmanagement will request you in a closed envelope, which\nis placed on a silver salver next to your plate, to abstain\nfrom bad habits. Look around the walls in your lunch\nroom, and you will find the ominous sign, \"Spitting\nProhibited\" or something to that effect. And because\nsuch a sign bears the signature of the Board of Health or\nof a sanitary commission, it does not lose its real signifi-\ncance. A fine reflection upon the habits in public and in"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "954", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.6", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\none's own home is the sign in a lunch rQom in Greenwich\nVillage:\nIf you spit on the floor at home,\nSpit on the floor here—\nWe want you to feel at home.\nEven in the assembly of highly dignified and polished\ncircles, ptyalism is the means of the expression of approval\nand of rejection.\nThey hiss and whistle in Congress, in the Metropolitan\nOpera House and in the tabernacle of an evangelist. And\nI dare you to whistle without wetting your lips.\nD IG words, nowadays, are all the rage, and I flatter\nmyself that I have selected a pretty tall one for this\narticle. It stands as the expositor of an alarming epidemic\nwhich has long prevailed in our well-beloved country;\nand for which the land is cursed by travelling cockneys\nand cosmopolitan old women. Ptyalism, gentle reader,\nis 'the effusion of spittle,' as is worthily illustrated by\nthat venerable lexicographer, Sam Johnson; the prince\nof his tribe, and the sometime lion to that jackal, Boswell.\nThis is my theme; it is the evil whereupon I design to\nexpatiate; and I can say with my motto-maker, that it is\none which I have not undertaken out of any wanton\npleasure in mine own pen; nor truly without pondering\nwith myself beforehand, what censures I might incur; for\nI know that the object against which the lance of my\nreprobation is to be tilted, is grievously circumvested with\nthe affection of habit and the sanctity of time. I mean\nnot to be a sweeping opponent, but a commentator merely.\nTo advocate the ptyalism of this nation would be 'a sin\ntoman/ for an amendment in the custom is most im-\nperiously demanded.\nWhether the corporeal juices are more abundant in the\ncitizens of the United States than in the people of other\ncountries, it is not pertinent just now to inquire. At all\nevents, they are less regarded; for we are said to be the\nmost notoriously salivating nation on the face of the globe.\nBut the custom is as old as time. We hear of it in the\nfirst origin of our religion. It was by spittle that the\nblind man was healed with the lay which our Saviour\napplied to his eyes ; and in many countries it has been\ninvested with peculiar sanctity. In Scotland, as may be\nlearned from work relating to its popular superstitions,\nthe virtue of spittle has long been held in high estimation\nby that proverbially neat and thrifty people. Authors\nhave thrown much light upon this subject. They prove\nthat the properties of the human saliva have enjoyed\nsingular notice in both sacred and profane history. Pliny\ndevotes an entire chapter in describing its efficacy among\nthe ancient pagans, with whom it was esteemed an antidote\nto fascination, a preservative against contagion, a coun-\nteracting influence upon poisons, and a source of strength\nin fisticuffs. Some of these uses, the moderns retain.\nWhen they fight, they spit in their hands; and they indulge\nin the same process under the humiliation of defeat. Your\nIrish or English servant will spit on an eleemosynary\nshilling; for he. thinks that it blesses the coin. In the\ncountry of the former, it is said to be an invariable habit\namong the peasant girls, whenever they fling away the\ncombings of their hair. There is sometimes a dignity, or\ngrandeur, and sometimes a solemnity, in the custom. I\nalways think well of those ladies one meets in romances,\nwhen they express themselves in that way. Who has not\njoined in the feeling of Rebecca and Ivanhoe, when the\nlustful templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, invades her in\nher tower, to compass Tier dishonor, and when she, stand-\ning on the parapet, ready to spring from that lofty height\nin the court-yard below, says to the craven knight, with\na look of withering contempt: \"I spit at thee; I defy\nthee! Thanks to him who reared this dizzy tower so\nhigh, I fear thee not! Advance one step nearer to my\nperson, and I will leap, to be crushed out of the very\nform of humanity, in the depth beneath!\" The reader\nalmost sees the scornful foam escaping from the curled\nand beautiful lip of the Jewess, and is himself inclined to\nsuit his action to the thought. Our ideas of propriety\nare derived, to a greater extent than we are aware of,\nfrom novels; and if their pages may be relied on, their\nheroines (being always encompassed by scoundrels whom\nthey have much ado to keep at a proper distance) must\nhave been spitting at their detested supernumerary lovers\nabout half the time. Contempt is well expressed by that\naction, and by the word. There is innate disdain in the\nsaliva itself. It leaves the haughty lip of the offended one,\nand lies before the contemmed person—perhaps upon his\nbeard—like a gage of war, as potent as the glove in the\ndays of the Crusades.- In his work of England and the\nEnglish/' the author of Pelham alludes to one Westma-\ncott, (who seems a common libeller in London,) under\nthe name of Sneak, in the following expressive phrase:\n\"His soul rots in his profession, and you spit when you\nhear his name!\" Among the various and opposing in-\nferences derivable from the custom and the use of the\nword, one is, that saliva is inherently contemptible; and\nif so, is it not a noble proceeding to dispossess one's self as\nmuch as possible of that which is unworthy? Is this a\nnon sequitur?\nIn one of the remote islets of Scotland, spitting in the\ngrave forms a part of the funeral ceremony. Relations\nand friends gather round the narrow mansion of the\ndeparted, and each one ejects the salivary tribute of sor-\nrowful remembrance. \"Happy,\" says the old adage, \"is\nthe new grave that the rain rains on;\" and in the island\nof which I speak, perhaps the saying may be, \"Beloved\nis the dust that we spit upon.\" Anciently, the subject\nof Optics was illustrated only by those who possessed\nample knowledge in relation to the qualities of saliva.\nThe popular oculist was one who saw,\n—\"or fancied, in his dreaming mood,\nAll the diseases that the spittles know/\nEven modern opticians, in their discussions upon the eye,\nhave recommended a research of the old schoolmen's\ntomes, that it may be decided whether any \"solvent, sana-\ntive, or medicament,\" connected with saliva, and lost to\nthe oculists of the present day, was not in vogue of yore.\nBut I do not wish to discuss the virtue of that which I\nesteem the parent of vice.\nI look upon tobacco, in all its shapes and varieties, as\nthe prime cause of the very extensive ptyalism which pre-\nvails in this nation. It is passing strange that this article\never came to be beloved. It is wonderful, that a weed\nwhich is in itself, in its original state, acrid and disagree-\nable, and which contains poison as deadly as the sting of\na scorpion, should have pushed its way into use, until it\nhas become a matter of traffic in all quarters of the world*\nI can hardly imagine how it ever spread its magic beyond"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "955", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.7", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nFour Drawings by I lonka Karasz"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "956", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.8", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nthe wigwam of the Indian, or came to mingle its fumes\nwith anything but the council-smokes of the aborigines,\na the pathless forests of the west. It has encountered an 4\nconquered every obstacle; the book which James I. ful-\nminated against it; the opposition of Papal bulls, of\nTransylvanian edicts, of Persian anathemas; and by the\naid of Nicot, with Catherine de Medicis, (who may per-\nhaps have \"chawed\") and the great crowd of amateurs\nwho continue to patronize it, the whole eastern continent\nglories in its use, and is loud in its praise. Since the H&y-\ntien began to draw its blue wreaths through his derivative\npipe, as he watched the distant sea, dancing to the balmy\nwinds from the palm-groves of his native land, the world\nhas bowed to the Nicotian weed. From Iceland to the\ntropics, and from Jerusalem to the Pacific, it is in request.\nProtean in its forms, it intoxicates in pigtail, twist, or\nplug; in cigar or snuff. In the latter substance, how\nmany a lofty nostril has it pleased, how many old wom?n\nd great men has it delighted! It was the last comfort\nof Napoleon, when he cried \"Sauve qui peutT at Water-\nloo, and rode through bloody battalions of the wounded\nand dying, away from the victorious legions of Wellington.\nWhen an old Irish vixen in a London police-office was\ncharged by her husband, to whom she had been rebellious,\nin a row, with taking two ounces of snuff per diem, what\nwas her answer? \"Lawful powers, yer Warship! What\nis two ounces of blissid snuff, to a poor onfortinit woman,\nas gives suck to two childer?\" It was an appeal that\nwent home at once to the proboscis of the magistrate, and\nthe woman was discharged.\nMuch as tobacco has been lauded, snuff has perhaps\nreceived a greater share of eulogy. Even the organ to\nwhose pleasure it ministers has been addressed, among\nmany others, by the facetious author of \"Absurdities,\" as\nthe source of his supremest rapture. Hear him:\n\"Knows he that never took a pinch,\nNosey, the pleasure thence which flows?\nKnows he the titillating joy\nWhich my nose knows?\nOh, Nose! I am as proud of thee,\nAs any mountain of its snows:\nI gaze on thee, and feel the joy\nA Roman knows!\"\nBut this is an episode since snuff is not directly con-\nsociated with \"the effusion of spittle.\" Tobacco is. Who\nchews, and smokes, and salivates not? Who ever attended\na church, a theatre, a political meet, or any assembly,\nlegislatures even, and did not see the effects of tobacco!\nWho has not witnessed them at parties, at balls—any-\nwhere? How many divines and statesmen have I known,\nthe misanthropic corners of whose lips exhibited the stained\nand pursed-up wrinkles of tobacco! Your student and\nyour \"blood,\" (ruminating bipeds, who smoke or chew,)\nexpectorate themselves away, and look like old men before\nthey are forty.\nYet it is the abuse, rather than the use, of tobacco, of\nwhich I complain. Under the rose, I have some respect\nmyself for a cigar; and I do. not object to some kinds of\nscented snuff. It is pleasant to smell the airy whiffs,\ncircling around one's contemplative nose, and to enjoy\nthe excitement of a sneeze. But moderation should guide\nus in these matters; for ptyalism is so much of a habit,\nand in my opinion it might be abated two thirds in every\none of our countrymen; and I think that many valuable\nlives would thus be lengthened.\nWith regard to expectoration, I would say, that when\n'tis done, it would be well if it were done secretly. lam\nno advocate of the English custom of salivating into the\nhandkerchief, and carrying in a pocket the harvest of one's\npalatic department. Neither do I think that we should\ncare a tobacco-stopper what foreign zantippes or scribblers\nthink of the custom, only so far as their strictures may\nseem to be just. In truth, after the falsehoods with which\nthe European public has been deluged respecting our\nmanners, the mere sight of an English tourist, male or\nfemale, in this country, is enough to make an American\ncitizen spit from sheer disgust. We mean those tourists\nwho grumble when they land; grumble their six weeks'\ntransit through the republic, and then grumble themselves\ninto a packet-cabin, and go home to make a grumbling\nbook. It is not surprising that folk like these have seen\na good deal of ptyalism. Every such raven of passage is\na walking ptysmagogue, and excites the very discharges\nthat are so vehemently condemned.\nThere is a juste milieu in this habit, which* as a nation,\nwe have not hit as yet; though we are much nearer to it\nthan the spittle-pocketing kingdom which has furnished\nus with so many peripatetic philosophers on the subject.\nLet a general effort be made to touch this happy medium.\nTo use a pun of some longevity, we must expectorate less,\nbefore we can expect to rate as a polished nation. I ap-\npeal to all frequenters of public places, whether my advice\nbe not good. Let it be followed. Let it be henceforth\ndeclared no more, as it has been, that \"an American spits\nfrom his cradle to his grave; at the board of his friend,\nat the feet of his mistress* at the drawing-room of his\npresident, at the altar of his God; he salivates for three\nscore years and ten; and when the glands of his palate\ncan secrete no longer, he spits forth his spirit, and is\ngathered to his fathers, to spit no more.\"\n\nLondon\nAs seen by Rev. (7. A. Wells, Chaplain of 6th Fort\nGarry s {Canada), who is now at Salisbury Plain, Eng-\nland, with the Canadian Contingent\nI DON'T like London. Too many contrasts. They\ncall it the \"heart of the empire.\" I don't believe it.\nIt is a parasite growth on the back of the empire. I\nwould almost say a cancer eating the vitals of the empire.\nWhy? Well, you see, I had never seen London before.\nThis is the first impression.\nSee with me those dreadful contrasts brought out so\nclearly by the lurid lights of war. See the brave young\nmen of London, bright as to socks and neckties, crowding\nto see others at one place nine thousand at another, seven\nthousand at another, and so on> all one day; all enthusiastic\nwatchers of the prowess of others, heedless to the call of,\nthe nation for men to uphold her honor and beat back the\nbarbarian from her shore. Theft turn from these manly\nfigures and watch Kitchener's army go by* Let me add\nsomething here: \"Kitchener's army of boys/' Poor little\nlads! Faces piteous in their boyishness, untouched with\na razor, How can they face the enemy's steel and check\nthe barbarian slaughter? These are to be the* defenders\nof the empire, while thousands of well-fed, well-clothed"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "957", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.9", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\ncreatures, who in the category go as men, watch the game\nof football—festival to London's god.\nNow, come with me down the streets from \"Maximes\"\nto the Savoy, at nirfit, when, hy the dreadful economy of\nwar. the lights are out, See vice in it* most hideous form\nstrutting through the city, naked and unashamed;\nunreproved and unhindered. The policeman, that\nstrong arm of the law, so absorbed in watching the small\nboy, who, hungry-eyed, watches the \"curranty bun\" in the\nwindow; so anxious to protcet the property oi: an honest\ncitizen from the rapacity of a straviug child that he misses\nthe solicitings of those dreadful vultures of the night,\nthose miserable outcasts of society, whose life is death—\nand worse. )\nCome along to some large hotel and see an army of\nservile menials, cringing cads, failing over each other in\nwell-ordered confusion, to pander to the luxurious tastes\nof Belgian. French and English rich. See them sup with\nthe high-priced animals of their choice. The cost of a\nsupper would equip a regiment—and the male sex here\nwould almost fill the ranks. See at one table gowns and\njewels, the price of which would feed a family of ten for\n% year; while on the streets of the city hundreds beg for\nbread. Can these, indeed, be sons of France and Belgium,\nliving in ease and luxury, while brothers wade in seas of\nblood? Can these, indeed, be offspring of the British\nrace, drinking and making merry, while sisters weep and\nlive on tears? London, I hate you! City of contrasts, I\nhate you intensely!\n\nAnd I Shall Rest\nDiamond Crisp.\nThe east wind met the west wind on the open palm- of a god\nAnd suddenly—l was born.\nJ fell on a stretch of marshland, wide and bare and strangely\nlonesome\nAnd the winds blew strange music in the damp grass.\nAnd the time was neither night nor day.\nAnd there was just enough of the fading moonlight to fill me\nthereafter with a strange longing for unknown things.\nAnd just enough sunlight was visible to give me a love of the\nsunlit hills and a delight in the sun at all times.\nAs I came to earth, the winds blew wildly, and a waiting figure\nwas snatched from my sight.\nAnd always I have a sense of missing someone.\nAnd the winds have made me strong.\nAnd being born with space beneath my feet, I use it to store\nall the meanness, hurt, and disappointment I meet,\nThus building an ever rising monument which will in time\nraise me unhurt and strong to the hand whence I came.\n\nFour Mushrooms\nBy Alfred Kreymborg\n\nCulture\nThere is only one.\nOnly one sun.\nOnly one moon.\nAnd you too.\nBe that.\n\nSwans\nThere are white swans,\neverywhere ;\nin the lake,\nand on all four hillsides.\nBut there are black swans as well—\nonly two;\nbut they are black.\n\nLuck\nNature is a lucky wench.\nHas more fun than an undertaker.\nHappy swain took his love some flowers.\nOn her door some crepe was dancing.\n\nVeils\nHabit makes it grow easy and easier.\nThis peeling of veils from my heart.\nOne of these davs FU have the brute naked.\n1, for one. want to see him.\n\nA Fable\nA bear, the sole support of his master, was standing\napon his hind feet, and practising a dance in which he\nwas not quite perfect. Delighted with his own im-\nportance, he said to a monkey: \"What do you think of my\ndancing?\" The monkey was a connoisseur, and answered:\n\"You dance very ill.\" \"That,\" replied the bear, \"is all\nprejudice. What, can you deny that my air is graceful\nand all my steps perfect?\" A mule, that heard this\ndialogue, cried out, \"Bravo! bear; bravo! There never\nwas, nor ever will be, a better dancer.\" No sooner was\nthis eulogy uttered, than the bear's arrogance vanished;\nhe felt the reproof, and modestly exclaimed: \"When the\nmonkey disapproved of my performance, I began to doubt\nwhether he was not right : but, now that I am praised by\na mule, I am compelled to believe that I dance very ill.\"\n\nTo-morrow is a fine gentleman, who makes many\npromises-—To-day is a plain man, who never breaks his\nword.\nHe who hopes for glory by new discoveries, must not be\nignorant of old ones.\nHe pays dear for his bread who lives by another's bounty.\nWhy is the tongue like a race-horse? Because the less\nweight it carries the faster it goes.\n\nFrom an Old English Chap Book"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "958", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.10", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nThe Haunted Vine\nBy Sadakichi Hartmann\n\n\"T'HE little town in southern Louisiana had lost all its\n** former attraction to me- Returning to it after an\nabsence of years, the scenery failed to fascinate me as it\ndid of yore, there seemed to be no person I cared to asso-\nciate with, besides I was tired of loafing and in need of\nsome serious occupation. So I boarded at the hotel, if\nsuch it could be called, rented an old tumble-down planta-\ntion house at the crossroads for a studio, and tried to forget\nthe past.\nBut anyone who knows Louisiana—how full it is of\nghosts, in particular small and remote towns—will realize\nthat it was a vain endeavor. There are ghosts of voodoo\nbeating strange tomtoms in the morasses; vague shadowy\nsemblances of emigres in powdered periwigs wander about\nold French houses; in the former slave quarters there are\nspectres of black men sold down the river from Kentucky\nhomes; here and there roam phantoms of soldiers in grey\nuniforms rent with bullet holes; weird apparitions of\nlynched men rekindle their death fires to light the mid-\nnivht of lonely crossroads; and fever ghosts of all times\nclasses haunt bayous and backwaters even in broad\ndaylight. Tales of spirit encounters are served up to\ntravelers by big-eyed darky servant girls in unspeakable\ninns and poured into their ears when good luck brings\nthem as paying guests within the walls of a private house.\nAnd when they sit down in the morning to an unsavory\nbreakfast of thin coffee and heavy biscuits Madame, the\nhostess, will surely regale them with the tale of the neigh-\nborhood ghost. Many a time have I sat myself in my\nfourposted bed with my hand over my mouth and listened\nto strange noises about me, while the last drop of blood\nin my veins froze and the cold sweat of terror dripped\nfrom me.\nIt was an atmosphere where one anticipated meeting a\nghost in person. Also my studio had a sad uncanny air.\nNor made I any attempt to make it habitable, but just\nmoved in table and chairs, my easel and painting tools,\ninto the largest room downstairs. From the porticoed\nfront door I could overlook the crossroads. One of them\nwas deserted at all times, on the other occasionally a negro\nboy slouched by or a farmer's wagon crawled through the\naxle-high mud. Furthermore, the house stood quite a\ndistance back, there were trees, shrubbery and weeds\ngalore and the ground was sloping, so that the place was\nquite as isolated as it was rickety and unkempt. It was\nmy habit to leave the door unlocked. There was no\nchance for intruders and even if a knight of the road or\na village boy had invaded the quarters during my absence,\nmy paintings would have hardly proved a temptation.\nOne entire side of the house was thickly overgrown\nwith vine.l A quaint rustle stirred in it whenever the\nwind struck it, and, strange, it seemed to me that the\ncommotion never ceased, that a strange animation pervaded\nit even when there was no wind at all.\nMy thoughts in that year were constantly with Martha,\na young Swiss girl who had lived here one summer, and\nwho had committed suicide a short while after her return\nto Europe. It was really her memory that had brought me\nback. She appeared to me in my dreams and haunted me\nduring working hours- Busily painting, I would suddenly\nstop and turn around as if there was somebody in the\nroom. I knew I was alone and yet the impulse was irre-\nsistible. Have you ever felt the sensation as if you had\nseen a shadow (that did not explain itself) ? It may be\ncaused by a curtain moved by the wind, by some peculiar\nlight effect, or some unnoticed object that throws a\nshadow. There was nothing of the sort in my room.\nAnd yet it always seemed to me as if there was somebody\nmoving about, particularly in one corner between two\nwindows opening in the vine, and often when I stepped\nback to look at my canvas I felt as if some transparent\nshape of vague outlines stood between me and the easel.\nOther strange occurences took place that I could not\nexplain. It seemed as if objects were shifted about the\nroom. A stretcher that hung on the wall, fell and slid\na long distance across the floor. My turpentine and\nvarnish bottles tumbled from the table and broke. New\npainting rags were crumpled up. I placed my hat on the\ntable, it disappeared and I found it among rubbish in the\nyard. The door was difficult to open but shut with a bang\nas soon as I had entered, although there was no windgust\nand the hinges had not been greased for years. I must\n\nDrawing by Fritz Schnitzler"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "959", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.11", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nconfess that I never saw any object actually move, but\nmore than once when I* had put down an oil tube on a\ncertain place of the table, and after a while wanted to\nuse it again, it seemed to be in another. There may have\nbeen plausible causes for these events, but their repetition\nmade me uneasy.\nOne afternoon when I had closed doors and windows\nand painted at one of my favorite themes, \"a rudderless\nboat at the bank of a creek at early morn\" when the dew\nlies white upon the grass, I simply could not continue\nto paint. It was as if somebody held my hand. I had\nheard that spirits draw their energy for materializations\nfrom plants in or about the house. I am not a believer\nand yet there was something that afternoon which made\nme tremble and ask myself whether this house was really\nhaunted and whether there were spirits moving about.\nI have the habit of talking to myself, and frequently in-\ndulged in long drawn monologues those days. Was it\nthe spirit of Martha! Why should spirits do such foolish\nantics as breaking and moving about things? Is it be-\ncause they have no power over the subtler conditions of\nlife. They want to make their presence known and find\nno other means than these crude communications.\nIt seemed as if a mist was gathering in the corner be-\ntween the two windows. It seemed to emanate from\nthe vine and to float inward, as if a vague light whirled\nabout the rooiii and a hollow murmur came creeping\ntowards me. I rushed out of doors. Not a trace of wind.\nThe foliage of the trees was not motionless yet the vine\nrustled as if by some mysterious force of its own. I was\nstrangely shaken as I re-entered the room. It seemed to\nme as if I saw distinctly for a moment, a familiar face,\na vision of some white form and marred countenance with\na light breaking faintly from the eyes. I stretched my\narms into the gloom of the twilight atmosphere and mur-\nmured :\nMartha, is that you ? Why do you come to me in this\nsad light as the day goes out behind the hills? Do you\nblame me for what has happened? I could not prevent\nit. Did you really love me so much that you could not\nlive without me? You loved me, no doubt, but why so\ndesperately. I thought your affection at the time merely\na passing fancy, a play with love's golden gifts. I thought\nyou were still enamored with Paul, tall handsome Paul,\nin Germany, the reason why your stepfather had sent\nyou to America. I should have known it from your\nfeverish fingers, your hungry kisses though, from that chill\npassionless night on the creek (the windings of which I\ncould trace in the far distance from the window). True,\nI had not much to give you, though I liked your company\nabout as well as anybody else's. Could you not be satis-\nfied with that? I am not a lavish giver. Besides I loved\nWilda, that -passionate friend of yours to whom\nyou introduced me. We indulged in a calmer passion,\nless flame writhen though smouldering for aye. Could I\nhelp that ? Forgive me. I would give a part of my life\nto see you back again on earth and hear you laugh, laugh\nthrough jasmine and oleander thickets.\nThe only picture I have of you—a strange coincidence\n—is the one I took among the cypress out in the cemetery.\nDeveloped, it showed you standing near a tombstone on\nwhich was inscribed in large letters \"Martha died—\nWas it an omen of your early doom? Perhaps there is a\nsomething within us which always knows the future but\ncan not tell us. And why did you, a nineteen year old\ngirl, a blossom unbleached by the rain or sun, always carry\na revolver, and why did you try to commit suicide even\nbefore you knew me. After all, I may not have played\nsuch an important part in the tragedy of your life as some\nbusy-bodies believe. How you wept when the steamer\nsailed away with you to the Mediterranean. Only two\nletters followed, the first of good cheer in a mischievous\nspirit, the other full of despair, imploring me to have you\ncome back. As if I, a poor artist, had power over such\nmaterial things. Then the sad report of your death,\nfound at the shore of one of the beautiful Swiss lakes,\ndrowned and shot with the familiar weapon.\nAnd now have you become a fourth dimensional being,\ncan you occupy the same space at the same time with\nsolid matter, and enter my recluse without opening a\ndoor or window, or breaking the wall? Can you just\nstep in without touching any part of the building, and\njust as easily disappear from view and reappear the next\nmoment outside? If so, give me a sign and tell me the\nfatal truth.\nMockery and deceit, the hallucinations of a fevered\nbrain! I groped into empty space.\nI sat there brooding for a long time, my head buried in\nmy arms on the table. It was quite dark when I looked\nup again. I started up wildly.\nThe question I ask will never be answered in this world.\nIt will drive me crazy if I do not cease to ask it. As\nlong as there is no better way found for spirit communica-\ntion, as long as departed spirits enjoy no freer exercise of\nsuperior gifts, if they can span the bridge from the beyond\nonly in meaningless actions, it is best to discard all further\nattempts. It is too obtuse a problem for brains that con-\nsider a straight line circle or the mysteries of non-Euclidean"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "960", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.12", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\ngeometry as uncanny violations of natural laws. One can\nnot turn a rubber ball inside out without tearing it.\nMartha will live forever and anon in my memory. From\nthat she can not be effaced- That must suffice. ,\nI went out of doors determined to end this spirit farce.\nThe vine was like the surface of a lake rippled by a com-\ning storm. I tore at it furiously, and pulled it down;\nthe whole mass fell and almost buried me in its entangled\ncreepers. The next day I had it cut and removed. The\ndisturbances ceased. This evanishment, if such it was,\nmay have been caused by the long habit of materialization\nfrom the ivy. When the force was gone the poor disem-\nbodied spirit did not know what else to utilize.\nYet I was worried for many days. Did I assist a\nsecond time involuntarily in Martha's death, for was this\nstrange experience not a proof, an indication at least that\nspace is not exhausted by our finite conceptions of height,\nbreadth and thickness? That there may be, beyond our\ncomprehensions and conceptions, another vastly superior\nfield of activities where actions, which to us, appear im-\npossible or miraculous, become the commonplaces of every\nday existence. And may there not be messages from the\nInfinite, wonderful ineffable messages, always sweeping\nour beings, though in ways which our intelligence is too\nblind to unravel.\n\nReplated Platitudes\nJulius Doerner\nA fool's dare is only a coward's snare.\nMany happenings in society do not necessarily mean\nmuch happiness in society.\nOnly a good steak-beef can furnish good beef-steaks.\nMother-love is the only justifiable form of self-love.\nMost human improvements on nature seem to be but\nmasked efforts of the devil to defeat nature.\nWhere women rule, man's a fool's fool.\n\"Get-rich-quick schemes\" mostly harness up their pro-\nmoters in get-caught-slick teams.\nAnything concerning women is something that concerns\nall women.\nThe price of folly seems to be one of the devil's most\ntempting prizes.\n\nThe One Who Did Penance\n\nT HERE was a Man who repented him of his sin and\nA he came to the Woman who had sinned with him\nand he said to her, \"Lo! what is passed is passed, I shall\nsin with thee no more. Do thou as thou likest but I go\nout into the world as the white flame of an inspiration, a\nspark to that light of holiness which may peradventure\nyet win me a place in innermost Heaven forever.\"\nAnd the Woman bared her garment that was the colour\nof hyacinth and showed her carven breasts enticingly\".\n\"Behold,\" she said, \"are these not fair enough for thee?\nAm I not all rose and alabaster and are not my lips likest\nto poppies in the summer fields?\n\"Gave I not thee all manner of strange delight and\nsaidest thou not we should grow old in love together?\"\nAnd he gazed at her sorrowfully and answered, \"Thou\nart all of this and thou hast been good to me in thy way.\nYet ever, in the heart of our joy do I hear a voice that\ncries, Thou art chosen but thou heedest not. Still art\nthou chosen and My word will yet lead thee forth tri-\numphing among mankind. Wouldst thou keep me with\nthee against my will?\"\nThen the Woman laughed scornfully and cried, \"Fool,\nthe joy of Life lies in the forgetting, else hadst thou\nperished for fear long ago. Thinkest thou that the world\nwill hail thee as prophet and succour thee in their innocent\ncredulity? But go thy way, for thou shalt indeed know\nthe truth in the end, if to thy enduring folly there be an\nend.\"\nAnd he left her and passed into foreign parts attired\nin the simple gray garb of a holy man. And he preached\nhis word to all that were concerned but his prayer fell as\nrain in a sea of dust, for the world had long wearied of\nits prophets and their homily of moaning wisdom.\nAnd after a time he came to a land which was riotous\nwith wickedness, with a vice made gilded and pleasurable\nfor the inhabitants.\nAnd he said to them, \"Why do ye sin?\"\nAnd they answered, \"Because we fear Death and the\nsleep that knoweth no waking. We strive to forget that\nour end is night and oblivion.\"\nAnd he rebuked them sternly, crying, \"Alas! for ye.\nKnow ye not what cometh hereafter? Have ye no fear\nof Hell and of eternal torment?\"\nAnd they laughed at him, saying, \"Not we, nay! Ask\nof the subtle and discerning worm which is our uninvited\nguest!\"\nBut he was silent and pondered over their intent.\nThen they said to him beguilingly, \"Come, be one of\nus. What profits it that thou waylay palsied old with\nthy hoary word of an uncertain god ? Take thee a chaplet\nof vine-leaves and a garment of violet cloth. We have\nyellow liquor in goblets of scarlet chalcedony and honey\nsweeter than was ever fabled of old. Our women are\nblood and ivory and of these thou mayest have any for\nthy delectation. We have need of thee, therefore be of\nour cofnpany.\"\nSo he was persuaded and abiding with them partook\nof their ways.\nAnd it chanced after a while that the Woman also re-\npented and seeking the Man, came at last to the folk\nwith whom he abided. For she had hidden her beauty\nand her vanity had departed with her sin.\nAnd when she halted at the gates of the city the watch-\nman cried to her, \"Thou must not enter for here is the\nplague newly come. Seven have I buried this hour and\nstill they fall as thick as flies to a honey-pot. God knows,\nwhich of us will go next, not I!\"\nAnd she answered, \"Open, for I come in mercy.\"\nAnd he opened the gates wide to see what manner\nof person so dared to brave death. And he said to her,\n\"Surely, thou art mad to enter in the face of this peril.\"\nAnd she answered him, \"I have no fear save of God.\"\nSo she passed into the city and ministered that night\nand for many nights to the sick and dying. For the dead\nmultiplied and there seemed no abatement to the destruc-\ntion.\nAnd there came to her one day a painted eunuch who\ncried out in a shrill voice. \"The King of Pleasure Is sick!\nThe King of Pleasure is sick unto death! Wilt thou not\ncome and minister to the King of Pleasure? Whosoever\n.cureth him shall have what he wills, even to the world's"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "961", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.13", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nPen and ink sketch by Joseph Pennel, from the original in the possession of J.F. McCarthy\n\ndesire, which is the treasure of gold and emeralds beneath\nthe foundations of this marvellous city. But make haste!\nmake haste! make haste!\"\nAnd she said, \"Take me to thy master.\"\nAnd when she perceived him she knew that it was the\nMan who had loved her in the past, and she said, \"Dost\nthou not know me?\" \\\nAnd he answered, \"Elsewhere have I seen thee but I\ndare not think on what occasion. Mayhap, it was at a\nbetter time of life than this.\"\nAnd she gave a little cry, saying, \"Thou didst know\nme of old and I returned thy love!\"\nThen he knew her and wept, crying, \"Hast thou come\nto single me out in my wretchedness? Behold, I am King\nof Pleasure who must die even as other folk. Oh! but\nwhile it was dawn I feasted and drank deep!\"\nAnd the Woman said sadly, \"But thou didst plight thy\nservice to God. Where was thy Conscience?\"\nAnd he ansKvered her wildly, \"Thou shalt find my\nconscience after I die, thou shalt find it, I swear!\" And\nso saying, he closed his eyes and lay stark in death.\nThen the Woman bade the mutes take his body and\ndivest him of his raiment. And she wept when he lay\nbefore her, for behold! there was no part of him that was\nnot seared with torture and agonized with mutilation.\nAnd she kissed his mouth and cried aloud in her grief,\nsaying, \"Would that thou hadst stayed in thy lesser sin,\nO my Love, and I in my happier unrepentance!\"\n\nSamuel Loveman\n\nAn Awakening\nFlora H. Wandell\nO, sing us a stirring song\nThat will quicken our sluggish pulse;\nThat will spur the world along\nAnd give us a fresh impulse.\nA song our souls to awake;\nWhich will burn like a great wildfire;\nBreathe hope we will never forsake;\nAnd ring of a lofty desire.\nTfiat will give a new lease of life,\nIn which wefd join as a choir;\nTo bankh earths' anguish and strife;\nA song that our hearts will fire."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "962", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.14", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nWhy and How I Got Married\nMany hundred stories, brief and lengthy accounts, arrive every week at the desk of our Contest Editor. Most\nof them testify that marriage, even in our commonplace age, preserves its old romance and that to relate a story of\nhow Grandfather took Grandmother urges the pen into hands not otherwise ambitious of literary achievement. A\nhandful of these stories will be chosen every week for the perusal of our readers.\n\nLong, Long Ago\nI.S. (Los Angeles, Cal.)\nTHE thirty years since it happened, seems but yesterday, so\nvividly has memory engraved that time upon my heart.\nI was eighteen when first we met, just the ordinary type of\nAmerican girl-hood, grey-eyed and fresh-cheeked. He, twenty-\nthree and just arrived from his native France.\nWidely traveled, speaking several different languages,\n(English not included) immaculately dressed, this handsome\nstranger with his courtly attentions, thrilled me as the blunt\nkindness of my jovial American boy friends had never done.\nI have always possessed a strong sense of humor (most in-\nconvenient at times) and some of the absurd blunders which the\npoor fellow made in his attempts to speak correctly, would set\nme to laughing uncontrollably. Whereupon he would look be-\nwildered and beg to be corrected, never taking offense at my\nmost impolite outburst. He spent hours with the dictionary and\n-\"First lessons in English,\" however., learning very quickly,\n.and at the time of our marriage, two years later, could speak\nEnglish well.\nHe had cared for me from our first meeting, but it was long\nbefore I could regard him as other than a friend. But one\nflight it came to me very suddenly that I cared, cared for him\nas he did for me, and so—we were married.\nOur wedding took place one night in September, during a\nheavy thunderstorm. As it was a home wedding, I wore no\nveil, but my heavy, white silk dress was made with a long\ncourt-train.\nIn the midst of the ceremony, while lightning flashed and\nthunder roared, two white Angora cats, decked bv my little\nsister, with bright green ribbons in honor of the occasion,\nmarched gravely in and sat upon the opposite corners of my\nlong train, remaining there until the service was over.\n\nReal Love\nL.M. (Chicago)\nIT was a second class boat, but the best I could afford. The\ntall young English army officer was the most conspicuous\nJigure on board, and much sought after by all the girls until\nhe refused all their overtures. Then they began to make\nsneering remarks. \"My God, he wears a decoration, how could\nhe be expected to speak to us?\" So we were both ostracized,\nhe, because they thought him a snob and I because they were\nsnobs—and my clothes were more than shabby. It was this\nsituation which drew us together.\nHe said I looked sympathetic and so started to tell me the\n■story of how he happened to be aboard this obscure vessel.\nIt was a pathetic tale. It started in India where he had met\nand become engaged to a fair Canadian heiress. Two weeks\nbefore he had come over to Montreal to marry her. They were\nmuch entertained and deluged with gifts. On the eighteenth of\nJuly a message came from the War Office. He must take the\nnext boat home. There were rumors of war. He must report\nat once.\nOur little second rater sailed at ten o'clock on the nineteenth.\nThe wedding was to be at high noon. She would not marry\nhim one second earlier, if he did not disobey his orders she\nwould not marry him at all. He told the story with so much\nfeeling that when he finished, I was weeping softly. He was\nsure she would never relent—his he,art was broken—but my\nsympathy helped.\nI felt sure that she was sorry already and would soon try to\nbe reconciled; but I also knew the impression my generous\nsympathy had made. I was his wife when her letter came,\nasking forgiveness. I am confident he has never regretted his\nchoice.\n\nA Minister's Daughter\nV.McD. (New York)\nA FLASH of ai£ introduction, and with all my heart and\nsoul I loved the man who, eight months later, became my\nhusband! Because he is still my devoted one I recount with\npride the story of our love and marriage.\nThe daughter of a Presbyterian minister is not always cal-\nculated to be a demure and saintly creature, nor was I. One\nJune afternoon found me riding out to Target Practice. A\nsimple pull at the latch string of a big gate brought my steed,\nwith me atop, into the most wonderful farm yard I have ever\nseen. There in company with friends, stood the man of my\ngirlhood dreams. We had been introduced and were engaged\nin conversation before the old farm gate had swung full back\non its hinges. Later I learned that my Romeo was the rightful\npossessor of a fiancee. The one query which entered my mind\nwas \"how to get rid of her !\" Fate loitered around the Target\nand to win there meant to win from her, the prize.\nI had not yet been considered an excellent marksman, but I\nhad never before felt the incentive to try. I opened the sports\nby hitting the \"bull's eye\" three times in succession!\nMy future husband rode home with me. We were too much\nabsorbed in affectionate thought to talk, but we signed a heart\ncontract that day which has never been broken. In the winter\nwe were married; my own dear father performed the ceremony.\nMinisters' children are always married in the Church, so we,\ntoo, marched thru' the long aisles and knelt before the Altar.\nEighteen years have passed but with them has gone out none\nof the sweetness of life. Two beautiful children came during\nthe early years of companionship to complete our happiness.\n\nRather Unconventional For a New England Maiden\n\n'T'RUTH is stranger than fiction, they say, and since romance\nof the truest type came into my life, I am inclined to be-\nlieve it. After reading what follows, every word of which is\ntrue, you will not wonder that I feel like the heroine of a\n\"Best Seller.\"\nFour years ago. the teachers of a little country town near\nBoston, tired of boarding, and determined to adopt radical\nmeasures. Six banded together, hired a seven room apartment,\nfurnished it, with things of their own, things loaned by in-\nterested friends, and some few things which had to be purchased.\nThen they proceeded t° do their own house-keeping, taking the\ncooking and kitchen work in week shifts of two each. The plan\nwas such a success, financially and socially, that next year,\nthree more joined the Club, a ten room house was rented, and\na woman hired for the kitchen work. A dear friend of mine"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "963", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.15", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nhas been in the writing game for several years, thought\nour plan had a story in it, and wrote us up. The story found\nfavor with an editor of a woman's magazine, and appeared\nindue season, fully illustrated with photographs. Within a\nweek from the time the article appeared, the club received\nthe surprise of its life in the shape of a frank and friendly letter\nfrom a mining engineer in California, admiring our energy and\ncommon sense, and desiring a correspondence. The letter re-\nceived recognition with a general letter from the Club Secre-\ntary, no names being given. A very pleasant and instructive\nanonymous correspondence sprang up, ideas on every topic under\nthe sun were exchanged, and five of us wrote personally, still\ngiving no names. I soon decided that the unknown writer was\na man of the type of ideas and ideals which I respected and\nadmired, and he arrived at the same conclusion from my letters,\nand before long asked frankly for my name and address. - Then\nI did the first unconventional thing of my life, smashed the\nrules of New England conventionality to bits, and gave them.\nWell, to make a long story short, the more ideas we ex-\nchanged, the better we found we agreed, he came east, and in\nfive weeks we were married. We have the same ideals of home\nlife and the same plans for making a permanently happy home,\n—and we have it.\"And they lived happy ever after?\" Well,\nin spite of incredulous smiles and sniffs from friends and rela-\ntives, it is the truth that our first disagreement is yet to come—\nand never expected to arrive!\nIs that not Romance with a capital R?\n\nM.M. (Boston).\n\nA Doctor her Hero\nH.C.M.B. (N.Y.)\nALTHOUGH I was only twenty-four years old I was be-\nginning to get a little fidgety for fear I might be an \"old\nmaid.\" Good, kind fate came to my rescue in form of sickness.\nI was truly ill that summer day of some six years ago. Hav-\ning lived in the city a short time, we did not have a family\nphysician. A young doctor in the neighborhood who was very\npopular and so far successful, was recommended by a friend.\nMother, who was a bit old-fashioned, did not seem enthusiastic\nabout calling him in. I had seen a certain physician occasionally\nand liked his looks. I was determined to be attended by him-\nMy illness proved to be appendicitis. An operation followed.\nMy doctor, although kind and sympathetic, did not show any\nfurther feeling toward me, but during those days of con-\nvalescence I began to become interested in him. It was a\npleasure to know that the time for the doctor was due and\nwhen he began to skip a day, I missed him.\nI was well again. It seemed as though something was gone\nout of my life. Two months passed. By mere accident I was\ninvited to complete a bowling party. My partner proved to be\nthe doctor whom I felt was never to be found by me, only in\ncase of illness. He seemed pleased and as the evening pro-\ngressed, his interest in me increased.\nHe began to call at my home. He was in love and wanted\nme in his presence as much as possible. Three months after\nthe bowling party, he asked me to be his wife. At the end\nof the next six months, my doctor-lover took me proudly to\nthe altar before a large assemblage of friends. Everybody\nseemed happy on that wedding day.\n\nTwo People\nThe Romance of One Night by Guido Bruno\nIT is not given to everyone to take a bath of multitude:\nthe enjoyment of crowds is an art: and he alone can\nhave a bout of vitality at the expense of humanity to whom\na fairy has inspired, in his cradle, a taste for travesties and\nmasquerades, the hatred at koine and the passion for travel.\nMultitude, solitude: terms equal and convertible by the\nactive and fruitful poet. He who knows not how to\npeople his solitude, knows not how to be alone in a busy\ncrowd.\nWho wrote this beautiful truth? I tortured my mind\nto think where 1 had read it and whose original thoughts\nthey were. Was it Baudelaire? Or was it CX Henry?\nOr was it Theodore de Banville?\nWhenever I am broke, wandering about the streets,\nstanding still at some busy corner and reviewing the\ncrowds passing me, I think of these words and think\nhow true they are. But I never have taken the trouble\nto find out who really their author was.\nIt was a cold October night and I was broke. No—\nnot that way. I had a home, if you can call an apartment\nconsisting of a couple of rooms, a kitchenette and bath-\nroom. a home. And there was nothing abov.t me that\nwould have prevented taxi-xl:trees, seeing a prospective\nfare in me or the head-waiter ot the most exclusive hotel\nfrom conducting me personally to a table I might have\nindicated with rny eyes. I was well-dressed, I had signed\nmy tab for a good dinner in my club and had unfortunately\nforgotten to provide myself with cigarettes.\nI realized my oversight shortly after leaving the club-\nhouse but X did not feel like walking back. And so I\nhurried to my apartment, searched for something smokeable\non tables, in drawers, in the pockets of all my suits. With\nno result. Now there is nothing worse in the world than\nto want to smoke, knowing you can't have it. It made\nme restless. lam not a cigarette fiend: I often pass days\nand weeks without smoking. But the thought not to have\nten cents to purchase the cheapest pack of cigarettes\nbrought me face to face with facts—well I never had\ndared to face them. What kind of an existence is it that\nI was leading all these years ? How could it happen that\nI was practically penniless? I have gone through times\nof this kind so often that I took them for granted. Some-\nthing always happened to relieve the situation. A check\nwould come in, I would pay off my house account in the\nclub: if there was any back rent, I would pay it, too.\nStrengthening so my credit, I looked forward to the\nmeager weeks to come with the same confidence as the\nman who deposits in the bank a substantial sum of money\nfor rainy days.\nNo, it was not the desire to reform, or to turn a new\nleaf. I knew myself too well and I am accustomed to\nbe sincere with myself. But whenever I am broke, a\nphilosophical mood takes possession of me. For hours I\nhad been trying to solve the problem: why am I without\na cent?\nMy desire to smoke increased every minute. I re-\nmembered that a friend of mine who lived at the McAlpin\nHotel was attending a performance at Wallack's Theatre."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "964", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.16", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\n1 forgot to mention thai 1 never borrow money from any\nprivate individual and I often had rather walked miles in\nsituations as at present than to ask some of my friends for\na personal loan. I decided to walk up to the McAlpin,\nto post myself on the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and\nSixth Avenue and take my chance of meeting him in\ncase he returned immediately after the show to his room.\nI wanted to ask him for a cigarette.\nIt was about eleven o'clock. I was standing at that\ncorner and reviewing the dense crowds that passed. How\nalone and forlorn I felt among all this chattering, smiling\nand tacit throng of men and women. /'Multitude: soli-\ntude!'' and I tortured my mind to think of the man who\nhad expressed this supreme truth in such a wonderful\nway. If I had had a cigarette I would have enjoyed look-\ning at the well dressed men with clean-shaven face4s and\nthe women in their evening gowns with soft vrraps. in\ndainty slippers and silk stockings of all colors. What a\nmarvellous symphony! those stockings and slippers cross-\ning over from Broadway. And what a discord the faces of\nthe people who wore them!\nThere was the placid self-contented matron, with her\nbread—and pleasure providing husband, walking side by\nside, both with serious faces, both thinking: they had\nnothing to say to each other. A studious looking fellow\nwith clean cut features linked arms with a fresh-looking\ngirl: the eyes of both are shining, intensely interested in\ntheir conversation. They hurried to the tunnels. A\nprosperous manufacturer—he must be a manufacturer—\nwith a young woman. He is old and she is young. He\nis proud of her and she is like one of those fashion designs\nof Bakst: pretty, a wonderful color scheme, but with\ndead eyes: a striking impersonation of \"I-don't-care.\" If\nI only had a cigarette I could enjoy this, enjoy it more\nthan the people who paid two dollars to see a show.\n.What a wonderful drama is Life! and how well it is\nacted by us! What an actor are you—and I—and our\nfriends.\nAnd here are the proper backgrounds! Little newsboys\nscreaming at the top of their voices—\"All about the mur-\nder!\" And on the grotesquely illuminated board in front\nof the Herald building, the latest war reports. Pompously\ndressed women following their profession: a troup of\nSalvationists with drum and flying banners returning to\ntheir citadel: the surface cars passing hither and thither:\nthe elevated thundering over its structure—an ambulance\nannoyingly persistent—the hoot-hoot of automobiles—oh,\nwhat a drama! If I only had a cigarette!\nI felt an arm thrust gently through mine. \"Walk over\nwith me to the depot.\" It was a woman's voice, a melodi-\nous voice but one that evidently knew how to give com-\nmands. I didn't make the least resistance. We made\nour way through the crowds on the sidewalk, passed to\nthe other side of the street and walked towards the depot.\nShe spoke quietly, continuously and very impressively.\n\"I watched you for a while. I think you will be game.\nDon't look at me now please. Keep a natural face so\nthat the few people that perhaps might have noticed us\nthink you were waiting for me, and I simply joined you\ncoming out of the hotel. Please carry my satchel.\"\nIn front of one of the windows of a big department\nstore she handed me her grip. She was a young woman.\nShe had on a purple evening coat and very small white 4\nsatin slippers. I saw her face for the fraction of a second.\nI could not notice any details but felt instinctively that\nshe must be beautiful. She had no hat but I thought I\nnoticed an aigrette standing out of the masses of her\nblonde hair. \"Please don't look at me, as it might arouse\nthe suspicion of those that perhaps follow me,\" she said,\ntaking a firm grip on my arm in such a manner that I\ncould not have turned without swinging her completely\naround. She was not quite as tall as lam and all I could\nsee by turning my head was her white aigrette and her\nblonde hair. If I only had a cigarette! We reached the !\ndepot and I thought it best to keep silent.\n\"Please promise you won't look at me,\" she said, after\nwe reached the well lighted waiting hall, \"will you\npromise?\" she asked,1 necessitating my answer.\n\"Of course I won't look at you,\" I said.\n\"That is very sweet of you, was her reply. We walked\ndown the steps, and I was obsessed by two thoughts. \"I\nmust not look at her and how could I get a cigarette?\"\n\"And now I will have to ask you to give me my satchel,\"\nI heard her say, \"you promised not to look at me. It is\nmost essential that you keep your promise, no matter if\nyou will accept my proposition or not. I shall leave you\nnow and go into the women's waiting room for a few\nminutes. Will you please manage honestly not to look\nat me, and still not arouse the curiosity of the people\naround while I leave you?\" N\n\"I think I can manage that,\" I answered. I fixed my\neyes upon one of the maps high up on the walls of the\nstation. It was a map of Central America and I tried\nto find the Porto Rican Island while I handed her her 1\nsatchel.\n\"I am so happy I singled you out,\".it sounded like a\nsigh of relief. \"I'll be back instantly.\" 1\nI waited a few minutes before I cast my eyes in the\ndirection of the women's waiting room. I just saw her\ndisappear in one of the doors. She had an exquisite figure\nbut there was nothing especially distinctive about her.\nAfter I had lost sight of that purple evening wrap, I am\nsure I could not have differentiated her from a few other\nwomen that passed in succession through the same door.\nI strolled up and down through the crowd of people\nhurrying to the ticket-offices, to the baggage room. Every-\nbody around me seemed to have some definite goal he was\nanxious to reach. I always feel so superior in a crowd\nof people who are obsessed by the idea that they have a\nduty to get somewhere and are trying their best tc get\nthere. I know I have no destination whatever, but I\nknow I will \"get there.\" Where? Who knows? I will\nknow soon enough after I have arrived. How about this\nwOman! If I only had a cigarette I could enjoy this '\nsituation that would have puzzled a good many or would\nhave made them suspicious, and that would have thrilled\nto participate in such a strange adventure.\nWe meet adventures daily on the streets and romance\nis watching around every corner. There are two kinds\nof women in the \"Bagdad on the subway\" that most\npossibly might accost us on the street. Both are ad-\nventuresses. The one makes adventure her life profession.\nThe other is passing through some tragedy, through some-\nthing that disturbs her, so elementary, that convention and\ncustoms produced during two thousand years crumble to"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "965", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.17", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\npieces: she simply sees in you the brother sufferer, the\nbrother that might be willing to help, that perhaps can\nhelp. And so she asks you ior a night's lodging, or for a\nnickel to buy a glass of beer, or to carry her satchel and\nnot look at her. If I only had a cigarette, how happy I\nwould be!\n\"Well, here I am, my knight sans peur and sans re-\nproche.\" I instinctively turned around and if I had not\nrecognized her voice, I surely would not have recognized\nmy purple companion of a few minutes ago. She wore\na heavy green and red-brown checked ulster and a white\nveil over a black-sailor hat that made it impossible to\nrecognize her features. She was girlishly slender, and\nputting on her gloves. She had the most wonderful hands\nI had ever seen. They were long and slim, the nails well-\ncared for, pink and oval. The knuckles strong. \"I had\nthe things in my grip. I checked the grip. Please take\nthe check and keep it for me.\"\n\"I think you are wonderfully composed. You seem\nto have self-control and I appreciate what you did for\nme to-night more than you can ever understand. Even\nif you don't think you can accept my proposition, please\ndo not ask any questions. All that is necessary for you\nto know, I shall tell you.\"\nI kept silent. She didn't speak for a few seconds. We\nJiad walked toward the Seventh Avenue back. I felt that\nthe one who was uncomfortable and uneasy in this strange\nsituation was not myself, but her. But I did not intend\nto ask any questions or encourage her in any way to tell\nme her story. You can't coax a bird to sing. He must\nfeel like it and do it voluntarily with all the enthusiasm\nhe is capable of: and then it is worth while listening.\n\"Would you like to make twenty-five thousand dollars\nin one week?\" she started. I felt her eyes scrutinizing my\nface. A true daughter of New York, I thought, bred and\nraised in the home town of the dollar-hunter. But at the\nsame time, most striking proof of the existence of heredity.\nSome of her early ancestors must have been fighters or\nrobbers, explorers or pirates or something of that kind. I\nkept silent.\n(To be continued)\n\nFille de Joie\nHerman S. Gorman.\n\n1\nA woman stops beneath a lamp.\n*** Have I not not seen her face before\nIn misty legends where the floor\nOf earth is shaken with the tramp\nOf legions by an ancient shore?\n\n2\nHer throaty, husky laugh rings out\nAcross the trouble of the night.\nHer painted lips beneath are white\nKnowing some miserable doubt . .\nHer eyes are aching with the light.\n\n3\nWas she not Helen on a day,\nBeneath whose bright dishevelled hair\nAnd scarlet-fruited mouth so rare,\nThe Trojan Paris laughing lay\nAnd watched the midnight cressets flare?\n\n4\nOr was she Cleopatra when\nThe tawny priests of Isis bowed\nBefore her in a shaven crowd,\nAnd her strong lips with blood of men\nWas dimmed as with a crimson cloud?\n\n5\nAh, Guenevere, Iseult, Elaine,\nDead queens of beauty, down the years\nThy loveliness a temple rears\nIn this frail creature full of pain\nAnd scalding sacrificial tears.\n\n6\nYea, splendid courtesan and saint\nHave gone into the subtle thread\nThat wove her flesh uncomforted . . . •\nBeneath her bleachen hair and paint\nThere lurks the soul of all the dead.\n\n7\nGreat empires have gone down to dust\nAnd darkness, there to make their camp\nBecause her regal foot did stamp\nIn anger once. Kings put their trust\nIn this tired thing beneath a lamp!"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "966", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.18", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nBruno's Weekly, published weekly by Bruno's Weekly, Inc. Charles Edison, Pres.; Guido Bruno, Vice-Pres.;\nWalter Ij. Eckert, Sec. and Treas., at 58 Washington Square, New York City. Edited and written toy Guido\nBruno. Subscription $2 a year.\nEntered as second class matter at the Post Office of New York, N. Y., October 14th, 1915, under the Act\nof March 3d, 1897.\n\nTwo Stories About Dutchmen from\nthe Boston Gazette for July, 1809\nIt Was Not the Dog\nA FEW years ago, a couple of Dutchmen upon the\nhigh hills of Limestone, though very friendly, had\na dreadful falling out about one killing the other's dog,\nfor which he sued for damages. They were called into\ncourt, and the defendant in the case was asked by the\njudge, if he killed the dog? \"Pe sure I kilt him,\" said\nthe Dutchman, \"but let him proof it.\" This being quite\nsatisfactory, the plaintiff in the case was called on to an-\nswer a few questions; he was asked by the judge, to what\namount he estimated his damages? He did not under-\nstand this question so well, so to be a little plainer, the\njudge asked him what he thought the dog to be worth?\n\"Pe sure,\" said he,\"the dog was wot noting; but since he\nwas so mean as to kill him, he shall pay de full walue of\nhim.\"\nWatering Milk\nA Dutchman in Albany some time back, went out to\nhis milkman in the street with a dish in each hand,\ninstead of one as usual. The dispenser of attenuated milk\nasked if he wished him to fill both vessels? The Dutch-\nman replied, suiting the action to the word, \"Dis is for\nde milluk, and dis for de waiter—and I will mix dem so\nas to shute mineself.\"\n\nTO YOU, GENTLE READER\nKindly give your standing order for Bruno's\nWeekly to your newsdealer, if you do not\nwish to send us directly a subscription. The\npresent paper prices are such that it proves\ndisastrous for a magazine to print more\ncopies needed for its regular sub-\nscription circulation and for a supply of\nunreturnable orders of news companies and\nmagazine agencies.\nAlso we cannot supply you with back num-\nbers which you have missed on the news-\nstands.\nTherefore, if you like the contents of\nBruno's Weekly, release your clutches from\na two-dollar bill and send in your check\nto-day or give a standing order to your news-\ndealer.\n\nREADERS OF BRUNO'S WEEKLY ARE ASKED TO BECOME SUBSCRIBERS\n52 ISSUES, TWO DOLLARS\nSEND YOUR CHEQUE TO-DAY\n58 WASHINGTON SQUARE, NEW YORK CITY\nROSSI BROTHERS\n58 Washington Square\nUnderneath the Garret\nICE CREAM AND TOBACCO\nThe Mad Hatter Has a Tea Party Every Afternoon\nFrom 3 to 6 at\n150 WEST FOURTH STREET\nJust Down the Rabbit Hole From Washington Square\n\"Take Some More Tea\"\n\"I've Had Nothing Yet So I Can't Take More\"\n\"You Mean You Can't Take Less, It's Very Easy to\nTake More Than Nothing.\"\nNobody Asked Your Opinion\" Edith UGger.\nu\nI BUY BOOKS\nSingle volumes, small lots, and libraries; autograph letters of known literary men Mid\nartists, drawings, pictures and engravings. Address\n\"COLLECTOR,\" Care of Kruno's Weekly, 58 Washington So\nEdith Haynes Thompson\nHER SHOP\nContaining Many Quaint and Beautiful Things\n58 WASHINGTON SQUARE SOUTH\nHours: 1 to 5.30 P. M.\nj. 112. McCarthy\nPAINTINGS AND\nANTIQUES\n30 WEST 46th STREET\nIBMW'IMi X •amy. i"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "[967]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.19", "texte": "Bruno Chap Books\n4. Tahiti, by Robert Carlton Brown\n5. Four Letters, by Oscar Wilde\n6. Anarchists, by Guido Bruno\n7. To My Mother, by Alfred Kreymborg\n8. Vignettes, by Hubert Crackanthorpe\nMr. Crackanthorpe had three chief gifts:\nskill in dramatic narration—a sense of sit-\nuation, a lively feeling for the value of inter-\npretation of gesture, posture, circumstance;\nsecondly, analytic skill in the conception and\npresentation of character; thirdly, descriptive\nand pictorial power, readiness of vision, with\na faculty of sifting and selecting its reports.\nLionel Johnson, in Acad., March 20, 1897. .\n9. Tanka and Haika, by Sadakichi Hartmann\nThe son of a German father and a Japa-\nnese mother, of a burgomaster's son from\nMecklenburg, the only European state with-\nout a Constitution, and the daughter of a\nronin, a roving soldier of Old Japan. Sada-\nkichi is much more Japanese than German.\nHis style is extravagant but suave. Some of\nhis short stories are as excessive and intense\nas Poe's, on strictly realistic lines. The ut-\nmost bounds of expression are reached, even\nhis originality is aggressive\nRichard Wagner, the Egoist, by Guido Bruno\nEdna, the Girl of the Street, by Alfred Kreymborg\nCause: our social conditions.\nMotive: just to live.\nProblem: eternal.\nSolution: none\nSongs of the Cosmos, by Charles Keeler\nLike the weaver of wonderful brocades, he\nselected thread after thread and up loomed\nthose wonderful pictures before my eyes,\ncreations of simple words, dipped in red\nblood, tinted by the golden sun, formed and\nshaped by hands who know the labors and\npains of millions scented with good-will\ntowards everybody and emitted with pure love\n.25\n.25\n.25\n.25\n.50\n.25\n.25\n.25\nNo.\n13.\n14.\n15.\n1. The Harlot's House, by Oscar Widle\nThe first American reprint of one of the\nmost wonderful poems of the author $ .25\n2. Setting Hens, Frogs' Legs, by D. Molby\nD. Molby, passes the white elephant un-\nremarked, but writes an essay on the mos-\nquito's neck and the rhythm of his little\nwings before he stings and annoys .25\n3. Mushrooms, by Alfred Kreymborg\nMr. Kreymborg* s Mushrooms are recog-\nnized poetry. The Mushroom stands for a 16.\nsimple expression of thought in simple mu-\nsical rhythm. Mr. Kreymborg is one man\nwho speaks to his fellow-men—just to the\none who might find in four or six simple\nlines of rhythm the revelation of the rhythm\nand the harmony of his own simple life. . . . .50\n17.\n18.\n19.\n20.\n21.\n22.\n23.\n24.\n25.\n.25 26.\nTeaspoons and Violet Leaves, by Guido Bruno 1.00\nThe Tragedy in the Birdhouse, by Guido Bruno\n.50\nExotics, by John W. Draper\nIt lay a luscious yellow band\nCreaming upon umbrageous green\nThe spray was satin to the hand;\nAnd to the eye a topaz bright,\nAnd dazzling as the noonday sand.\nFrom\"The Yellow Orchid'* .25\nImagists, by Richard Aldington\nOne of the original group of the English\nImagists tells all about Imagism and its aims.\nThis paper deals a severe blow to all imita-\ntors and producers of vers libre who think\nthemselves poets of the \"new group\" because\nthey don't write in rhyme ,25\nLord Alfred Douglas—Salome: A Critique,\nthe Beauty of Unpunctuality: an Essay and\nThree Poems\nThere was a time when Lord Alfred\nDouglas would have laughed at the idea that\nhe would write a book explaining away his\nfriendship with Oscar Wilde. As editor of\nThe Spirit Lamp,\" a magazine published\nby James Thornton, High Street, Oxford,\nand edited by Lord Alfred Douglas, he\nseemed to be a diligent imitator of his friend\nOscar. He imitated his style in prose and in\npoetry. Whenever he received a contribu-\ntion from Oscar Wilde it was the main and\nleading feature of the issue .25\nSadakichi Hartmann—Permanent Peace: Is It a\nDream ?\nCharles Kains-Jackson—John Addington Symonds\nA Portrait\nThe life-long friend of the English poet\ngives a vivid picture of the personality and\nlife and life-work of Symonds. This essay\nwritten a few days after the death of Sy-\nmonds, on the 19th of April, 1893, and was\nfirst published in the Quarto , a since for-\ngotten literary periodical of England, in\n1897 .25\nDjuna Barnes—The Book of Repulsive Wo-\nmen—Rhythms and 5 Drawings .25\nEdna W. Underwood—The Book of the White\nPeacocks 25\nH. Thompson Rich—Lumps of Clay—l 6 Rhythms\n.25\nD. Molby — Hippopotamus Tails —28 Every-day\nMusings .25\nH. Thompson Rich—The Red Shame—l 7 War\nPoems ,25\nTheodor Schroeder, Erothogenesis of Religion, a\nbibliography ,50\nSadakichi Hartmann, My Rubayat .50\nAccompany each order with Cheque, small amounts, one-cent stamps\nBRUNO'S WEEKLY\n58 WASHINGTON SQUARE, N. Y. C."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "[968]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19160902-01.1.20", "texte": "Rare Books First Editions\nExtra Illustrated Books. Early Printed Bodes. Association Books. Books for Christmas Gifts.\nPwchased singly or in sets for people whs hare neither time nor opportunity to select for thsmssSves,\nm far those who have not access to the best hook marts. Why not begin collecting now?\nAddress, E. V. Boston Transcript, Boston, Mass,\nBefog a hook\nIN WHICH\nwe say jest what we tkmk. Published every unauth by Nermsa Isl Geddes at 171 Wilson Avenue\nId Deceit, hfirhtgan It is a little heck arofywfr illustrated. Write hr sample eepy.\nHOTEL BREVOORT CAFE LAFAYETTE\nFifth Arenas University Place\nRAYMOND ORTEIG, INC.\nThe Two French Hotels and Restaurants of New York\nGONFARONE'S\n} 40 West tth Street\nTABLE D'HOTE\n\"Eating places are literary landmarks** said O. Hairy, speaking of Gonfarone*s hi one of his\nwencalied Greenwich Village Stories.\nThere can be no pleasantcr place to hear that remarkable\nEdison Record Number (82536) than\nTHE DIAMOND DISC SHOP\nat Number 10 Fifth Avenue\ni\ni\nIn this store, at least, the delightful atmosphere of Old Greenwich Village has not been\non the altar of commercialism\nA postal will bring you, with\nan interesting little biography of Mr. line. A.\nPhone: Stuyvesant 4570 Edison"}]}