{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_sha256": "9e2b6dac8024476e4da848e510ed95ccf85175fe825c3bfd25c8b8539b351daa", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaaq/issues/1916/11/01_01/bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaaq/issues/1916/11/01_01/bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "F. Couiton Waugh", "titre_sommaire": "F. Couiton Waugh", "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 45, "fin_caractere_exclue": 61, "texte": "F. Couiton Waugh"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[1180]", "page_fin": "[1180]", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "On a Poem by Don Marquis", "titre_sommaire": "On a Poem by Don Marquis", "signature_source": "John Black", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[1180]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 140, "fin_caractere_exclue": 543, "texte": "On a Poem by Don Marquis\nJohn Black\n'I\"1 HE 'wind was in it, and the rain,\nLaughter and sorrow, hope and pain,\nAnd I was sure, then, as I heard,\nIt was a bird.\nBut then the note grew rich and strong.\nThe carol deepened to a song.\nAt once I knew the 'voice and motion—\nIt was the Ocean.\nHow vain my idle guesses! Love\nIVhispered it was the music of\nThe lute that knows no counterpart—\nA warm, true heart!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[1180]", "page_fin": "[1180]", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "About Masters, About Strikers and About Children.", "titre_sommaire": "About Masters, About Strikers and About Children.", "signature_source": "Guido Bruno", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[1180]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 545, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4056, "texte": "About Masters, About Strikers and\nAbout Children.\nGuido Bruno\nCOLIDARITY of action, if sincere, must be the sequence of\nharmony of mind. To sacrifice one's individuality is jus-\ntified only by the good it will bring to all and to everybody.\nTo give up individual thinking and the control over one's own\nactions should be the extreme act to manifest brotherly love,\na last resort to maintain one's own self respect.\nTo act blindly upon somebody's request, without the direct\nimpulse in one's own self is the sheep act of following the bell\nweather, is an expression of weakness, of a decadence of self-\nrespect. Good will result for the world if good results for\nyou. If your gain is a farthing, the gain of the world is a\nnegative one—is loss.\nIf you spit in a lake, you lose your sputum, you lose the energy\nof creating it, you lose the muscular force to eject it. The\nlake will not rise, even if hundreds of others spit in it because\nthey sympathize with you.\nYours was only the pleasure of exerting yourself, of exalting\nyourself while you were giving—and of seeing the little bubble\non the lake's surface.\nStrikes, such as the carmen's strike we are witnessing at pres-\nent, bring benefit to none.\nYou, striker, risk the wages of a month or of a longer period\nfor the gain of a few cents each day.\nYou risk the ruin of your family life for the pleasure of\nshouting approval of your leaders.\nYou neglect your duties toward your pregnant wives, towards\nyour sick children, you expose yourself and those nearest to\nyou to eviction.\nYou beg alms on the street and play hand-organs to arouse\npity in the hearts of man. . . . Why all this self-sacrifice, all\nthis pain and humiliation?\nThe gain of the pennies you ask as increase to your wages?\nNo. .. .! You want to act in solidarity. You want to be\nmagnanimous. To be blindly obedient towards men, others\nchoose for your leaders.\nIt is pitiable that you have to have masters.\nWe all were born to be masters. The laws of the land gave\nus the constitutional grant to be masters.\nBut conditions of living, conditions that you cannot change and\nthat will be the conditions of your children, are such that we\nhave to recognize masters.\nSo then, let us keep our hearts and our minds free of slavery.\nLet us be masters in our own homes.\nLet us preserve the patriarchal home, where we are lords of\nthe manor, heads of our families, troubadours of our women,\nheroes of our children. ...\nBe this home only a three-room tenement flat, we can make it\nour castle: equal to every mansion of the masters on Fifth\nAvenue.\nAs proud and as free, as happy and as hospitable. Let us\nacknowledge as masters only such men as grant us honorably\nthe means to sustain a home in fair exchange for our labor.\nLet us give them every day the hours for which we receive\npay for them—and nothing else.\nLet us be wise in the choice of our masters.\nIf you do not like to be a motorman, or a train guard, try\nsomething else. If you are not satisfied with the money paid\nyou, look for another employer.\nBut cease to be a child; abused by the other sort of leaders\nwho rob you of your individuality, who press you into their\nsystem, who brand you with their own iron—and who send\nyou begging on the streets, who chain you like animals to a\nhand-organ.\nCease to be children who refuse to eat in order to punish their\nparents.\nBe yourself above all and ever. Then you will be happy.\nAnd then only of real service to yourself, to your family, to\nyour fellow-man, to your country, and to the universe."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[1180]", "page_fin": "1181", "image_debut": 2, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "O. Henry, Prison and Publicity", "titre_sommaire": "O. Henry, Prison and Publicity", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[1180]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 4058, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6587, "texte": "O. Henry, Prison and Publicity\ndifferent are our days from those of the other\ngenius that American literary endeavors have produced\nsince the discovery of our continent!\nRufus Griswold, the noble friend and biographer of Edgar\nAllen Poe, hinted at Poe's most likely incarceration in debtor's\nprison in order to slander his character, to ostracize him among\nhis contemporaries; he even succeeded in staining his memory\nfor coming generations. People seventy-five years ago—long\nbefore Gould fortunes were made—looked contemptuously\ndown on a man who had worn prison garb; more than that,\nthey despised the person who had sinned against the laws of\nman.\nToday! What a change! We have seen some of our\n\"greatest men\" ride in their limousines to prison, we have\nheard of the luxurious lives some of them lead in the seclusion\nof their cell, providing they have the necessary means to pay\nfor such luxuries.\nThe gruesome features of prison life become the memories\nof a cruel past. To be subjected to a term of imprisonment\nmeans to our aristocracy (and therefore to the billions of\nreaders of our society columns) simply to \"get into trouble\"—\nas long as a rich man is in question. Robbing, stealing, even\nmurdering in order to gain BIG amounts of money is different\nfrom robbing, stealing and murdering for mere trifles.\nThe jailbird with millions is the hero of a romance ... a\nsort of pirate of yore.\nTo have been in prison is a glorious reminiscence for the\nman of later achievements. Proudly can he speak about his\ntrial, his conviction and his prison life, while stumping for\nsome political candidate (see Thaw in Brooklyn) ; it is an\neffective climax during an after dinner speech while the guest\nof honor of some fashionable club.\nI am quite sure Professor Alphonso C. Smith mentioned in\nhis just published biography of O. Henry the years of sorrow\nO. Henry had to live deprived of his liberty as a matter ol\nfact. I have not yet read his book. But I feel confident that\nhe did not make this painful period in Porter's life the main\nfeature of his work. He would have done wrong to have men-\ntioned it. Most likely he spoke of these years in the most\nconsiderate and the most delicate manner.\njßut: he must have forgotten the ethics of publicity men and\nof newspapers of our day!\nThose years in prison were made the catch-word of an effec-\ntive publicity campaign in our daily papers. All of them\nbrought the astonishing news of O. Henry's prison career as\nmain features on the first pages next to the cable news from\nEurope."}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1186, "texte": "Doubleday, Page & Co., O. Henry's publishers and watchful\nkeepers of all his copyrighted material, perhaps did not dislike\nthis spectacular revival of interest in O. Henry; such tricks\nalways help the sale of copyrighted literary property that is\nkept out of reach of the poor man's purse by copyrighted high\nprices.\nVerily, an astonishing tribute is being paid in such manner\nto the genius of America's only originator of a literary style\ncharacteristic of and expressing the country.\nCannot one write wonderful short stories and at the same\ntime be even a murderer? And does our interest have to be\naroused in the story writing of a man because he was a mur-\nderer ?\nWhere is there a connection between short stories and prison\nlife? Must we throw mud and dirt upon both men who rep-\nresent to the world American originality in letters?\nCommon decency, if not respect for the feeling of O. Henry's\nliving near relatives should have prevented newspapers from\npublishing so ostentatiously this chapter in the great author's\nlife. But what would an American publisher not sacrifice\nupon the altar of decency if it means a few more editions:\nmore money for his copyrights?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1181", "page_fin": "1181", "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Walt Whitman A German Appreciation in 1868.", "titre_sommaire": "Walt Whitman A German Appreciation in 1868.", "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": "1181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 1188, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6800, "texte": "Walt Whitman\nA German Appreciation in 1868.\nFrom the Allgemeine Zeitung {Augsburg), May io, 1868.\nWHITMAN! Who is Walt Whitman? The answer\nis: A poet! A new American poet! His admirers say\nthe first, the only poet America has hitherto produced. The\nonly specifically American poet. No follower in the beaten\npaths of the European muse, but coming fresh from the prairies\nand Western settlements, fresh from the coast and the great\nrivers, fresh from the crowded seaports and cities, fresh from\nthe battlefields of the South, the odor of the soil which created\nhim still clinging to his dress, hair and beard. One whose\nlike has never yet been; one who stands firm and self-con-\nscious on American feet, a prophet of great and strange things\nto come. His admirers go still further: Walt Whitman is in\nfact the only poet in whom the restless, searching age has\nfound its expression, the poet par excellence, the poet.\nThus or, one side his admirers, among whom we meet even\nan Emerson; on the other, the fault-finders and abusers; beside\nboundless praise and enthusiastic recognition, the bitterest sar-\ncasm and merciless invective.\nTo all this the poet remains indifferent. He accepts the\npraise as his due and meets his adversaries with contempt.\nHe believes in himself; his self-reliance is unlimited. \"He is.\"\nsays his English publisher, W. M. Rosetti, \"above all else the\none man who has earnest convictions and confesses that now\nas in the future, he will be the founder of a new poetical\nliterature, a great literature suitable to the material grandeur\nand incalculable destinies of America.\" He believes that the\nfuture will consider him as much the maker of America as it\nwill Columbus as the discoverer of the Western continent, or\nWashington as the founder of the States. A sublime conviction\nindeed, expressed more than once by the poet in magnificent\nwords, none more splendid than those beginning the poem:\nCome, I will make the continent indissoluble,\nI will make the most splendid race the sun ever shown upon,\nI will make divine, magnetic lands,\nWith the love of comrades,\nWith the lifelong love of comrades.\nThis has a proud ring. Has the man also the right to utter\nsuch things? Let us become intimate with him and consider\nhis life and work. Let us open his book.\nAre these verses? The lines are printed like verses, to be\nsure, but verses they are not. No metre, no rhyme, no strophes,\nbut rhythmical prose—the verification of the Psalms. At the\nfirst glance rough, unpliant, formless, and yet not devoid of\nharmony for a sensitive ear. The language simple, solid,\nstraightforward, giving everything its right name, fearing\nnothing, sometimes obscure. This strain rhapsodical, prophetic,\nand often unequal blending the sublime and commonplace\nsometimes to a degree that verges, on tastelessness. In spite of\nevery other dissimilarity, he reminds us sometimes of our\nHamann, or of Carlyle's oracular wisdom, or of the \"Paroles\nd'um Croyant.\" But out of all breathes the Bible—its lan-\nguage, not its faith.\nAnd what does the poet give us in this form? Above all,\nhimself, his ego—Walt. Whitman; this ego, however, is a part\nof the earth, of humaniy, of the universe. With this convic-\ntion and linking the sublimest to the most insignificant objects,\nhe rolls out a huge panorama before us, always taking America\nas his starting and closing point (for the future belongs to a\nfree people.) A cosmopolitan spirit, so to say, pervades Walt.\nWhitman and his Americanism, such as is peculiar to contem-\nplative natures, who, alone with infinity, spend lonely days\non the seacoast or lonely nights under the starlit skies of the\nprairies. He finds himself in everything and everything in\nhimself. He, the single man, Walt. Whitman, is humanity\nand the world. And the world and humanity are one grand\npoem to him. Everything he sees or hears or comes in contact\nwith, even the meanest, the most insignificant, the most com-\nmonplace, everything appears to him as the symbol of some-\nthing higher, something more spiritual. Or, rather, materia\nand the spirit, reality and the ideal are one and the same to\nhim. Thus, self-made, he appears to us loafing at his ease,\nsinging his songs, a proud, free man and only a man, opening\nto us world-wide social and political vistas.\nA wonderful apparition in truth! We acknowledge that it\nimpresses, alarms and strangely fascinates us. And yet we find\nthat we are not yet finished with our judgment, that we are\nstill influenced by our impressions. In the meantime we are\nprobably the first in Germany to form an opinion of the exist-\nence and activity of this fresh power. The queer fellow de-\nserves to be considered closer by our poets and thinkers,\nthreatening, as he does, to overthrow all our ars poetica, our\nesthetic canons and theories. And true it is, that after having\nread in these solemn pages, after having listened to the deep,\nsonorous roar of Walt. Whitman's muse, rushing on our ear\nlike the continuous beating of the ocean's waves, our tradi-\ntional versification, our endeavor to force our thoughts into\ncertain traditional forms, our jangling of verses, our counting\nand measuring of syllables, our making of sonnets, strophes\nand stanza almost childish to us. Have we really arrived at\nthat point when life demands new modes of expression even in\npoetry? Has this age so many and such important things to\ntell us, that the old vessels are insufficient for the new contents?\nAre we standing before a poetry of the future, as already for\nyears a music of the future has been predicted to us? And\nis Walt Whitman greater than Richard Wagner?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1181", "page_fin": "1181", "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Love and Death.", "titre_sommaire": "Love and Death.", "signature_source": "Rainer Maria Rilke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 6802, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7738, "texte": "Love and Death.\nby Rainer Maria Rilke\nQN horseback, on horseback, on horseback, through the day,\nthrough the night, through the day.\nOn horseback, on horseback, on horseback. And the fortitude\ngrew so tired and the longing grew so big. There are no\nmore mountains. Scarcely a tree. Nothing dares to arise.\nStrangers' houses crouch thirstily near swampy springs. No-\nwhere a tower. And always the same picture.\nOne has two too many eyes. Only in the night often one\nseems to know the way. Perhaps during the night we always\nride back over that stretch of land that we have gained so\ndifficultly under the foreign sun. That might be it.\nThe sun is heavy as at home in the heat of summer. But\nin the summer we said good-bye. The clothes of the women\ngleamed after us long from among the green. And now we\nare riding on horseback, eternally on horseback. It must be\nautumn.\nAt least there where sad women know of us.\n(.Editor's Translation)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1181", "page_fin": "1181", "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Plan", "titre_sommaire": "Plan", "signature_source": "H. Thompson Rich", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 7740, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7887, "texte": "Plan\nH. Thompson Rich\nwITH these pillars of song\nAnd these blocks and columns of laughter,\nWe will build us a tower of love\nLoftily into the years."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1182", "page_fin": "1182", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "The Doer of Good.", "titre_sommaire": "The Doer of Good.", "signature_source": "Oscar Wilde", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2344, "texte": "The Doer of Good.\nOscar Wilde\nJT was night-time and He was alone.\nAnd He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went\ntowards the city.\nAnd when He came near He heard within the city the tread\nof the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness\nand the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the\ngate and certain of the gate-keepers opened to Him.\nAnd He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair\npillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with gar-\nlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar.\nAnd He entered the house. And when He had passed through\nthe hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the\nlong hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple\none whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips\nwere red with wine.\nAnd He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder\nand said to him, \"Why do you live like this?'\nAnd the young man turned round and recognized Him, and\nmade answer and said, \"But I was a leper once, and you\nhealed me. How else should I live?'\nAnd He passed out of the house and went again into the\nstreet. And after awhile He saw one whose face and raiment\nwere painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And\nbehind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore\na cloak of two colors. Now the face of the woman was as the\nfair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were\nbright with lust.\nAnd He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young\nman and said to him, \"Why do you look at this woman and\nin such wise?\" And the young man turned round and recog-\nnized Him and said, \"But I was blind once, and you gave me\nsight. At what else should I look?\"\nAnd He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of\nthe woman and said to her, \"Is there no other way in which\nto walk save the way of sin?\"\nAnd the woman turned round and recognized Him, and\nlaughed and said, \"But you forgave me my sins, and the way\nis a pleasant way.\"\nAnd He passed out of the city.\nAnd when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by\nthe roadside a young man who was weeping.\nAnd He went towards him and touched the long locks of\nhis hair and said to him, \"Why are you weeping?\"\nAnd the young man looked up and recognized Him and\nmade answer, \"But I was dead once, as you raised me from\nthe dead. What else should I do but weep?\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1182", "page_fin": "1182", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "The Master.", "titre_sommaire": "The Master.", "signature_source": "Oscar Wilde", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 2346, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3533, "texte": "The Master.\nOscar Wilde\nNow.\nwhen the darkness came over the earth Joseph of\nArimathea, having lighted a touch of pinewood, passed\ndown from the hill into the valley. For he had business in\nhis own home. And kneeling on the flint stones of the Valley\nof Desolation he saw a young man who was naked and weep-\ning. His hair was the color of honey, and his body was as a\nwhite flower, but he had wounded his body with thorns and\non his hair had he set ashes as a crown. And he who had\ngreat possessions said to the young man who was naked and\nweeping, \"I do not wonder that your sorrow is so great, for\nsurely He was a just man.\"\nAnd the young man answered, \"It is not for Him that I am\nweeping, but for myself. I too have changed water into wine,\nand I have healed the leper and given sight to the blind. I\nhave walked upon the waters, and from the dwellers in the\ntombs I have cast out devils. I have fed the hungry in the\ndesert where there was no food, and I have raised the dead\nfrom their narrow houses, and at my bidding, and before a\ngreat multitude of people, a barren fig-tree withered away.\nAll things that this man has done I have done also. And\nyet they have not crucified me.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1182", "page_fin": "1182", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "August Strindberg by Gulbranson", "titre_sommaire": "August Strindberg by Gulbranson", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 3535, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3566, "texte": "August Strindberg by Gulbranson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1182", "page_fin": "1182", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Democracy.", "titre_sommaire": "Democracy.", "signature_source": "Elizabeth M. Walker", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 3568, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4778, "texte": "Democracy.\nElizabeth M. Walker\nJ AM nothing but a plain, ordinary, every-day business\nwoman, and I presume that I look it.\nThis morning I got up with a feeling of happiness and\ngood-will toward all the world. As I dressed, I sang, and\nafter a hastily snatched breakfast, I left for my work, fairly\nbeaming with a contented, pussy-cat feeling.\nThere was a baby on the car—a sweet, dimply baby—that\nI wanted to squeeze, and I felt somehow or other personally\nrelated to every single passenger.\nI grinned at the newsboy by the Subway exit, and laughed\naloud when a very fat man bumped blunderingly into me.\nThen, just as I reached the top of the hill near my office,\nI met a dear friend of old school days, and stopped to greet\nher, much excited, and thinking that of all things that could\nhave happened, this was the pleasantest.\nSuddenly. I felt a sense of discomfort, and looked up. I\ncaught the scornful glance of a tall, dudish man—an \"aristo-\ncrat\"—who, thrusting his trim form between my friend and\nmyself, posted a letter, and with utter disgust in his voice\nasked sneeringly, \"Why d'you have to stand in front of a mail-\nbox ?\"\nI wonder if he would have said that to any woman?\nToday my work seemed hard."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1182", "page_fin": "1183", "image_debut": 4, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "The Last Adventure of the Child", "titre_sommaire": "The Last Adventure of the Child", "signature_source": "Edna Wahlert McCourt", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 4780, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5466, "texte": "The Last Adventure of the Child\n\nGIRL was walking in a darkened woods where no birds\nsang and where the withered leaves sent grewsome\nechoes from beneath her feet. Suddenly she saw a woman\nlying on the ground before her—a heavily breathing, ragged\nwoman who was dying. The Girl's soul, struggling fright-\nenedly between a vague longing to help the woman and to run\naway, became slowly fascinated by the dying eyes that held\nher, spell-bound, while the near-dead features grinned satiri-\ncally, and the drawn lips sneered, \"Afraid?\"\n\"No-o,\" whispered the Girl.\n\"Come here.\"\nThe Girl came closer, and suddenly her heart was filled\nwith a great pity. She fell on her knees beside the dying"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1485, "texte": "woman and though she trembled, her eyes filled with tears.\n\"Let me help you. What can I do to help you?\"\n''Heaven forbid that anyone help me,\" croaked the old\nwoman, half raising herself on her elbow. But then she fell\nback, striking as she did so a box that she had been concealing\nunder her shawl. She winced; a feverish gleam shot through\nher eyes; she mumbled incoherently before the Girl caught\nwords addressed to herself: \"Help, you offered me . . . help,\nChild? There is no help for me, yet. But, do you see this\nbox? All my life has been a theft—except where this has\nbeen concerned. Whatever else I am or have or appear to\nhave, I have stolen. All things have I stolen—all things but\nthis. This is mine!\" She clutched the Girl's dress and begged:\n\"See that this is buried with me!\"\nHer eyes closed.\nBut the Girl quite forgot her, as she gazed on the box of\nthe thief-woman. It was wrought gold and gleamed and glit-\ntered as no thing which had ever come before to her sight.\nFor she was a child of the forest, and all the beautiful things\nshe knew—the sunset, the song of the birds, the glassy Arabian\nNights of the streams were hers—belonged to her. While\nthis glittering golden box—it belonged to the dead woman!\nShe glanced quickly at the corpse. What good would the\nbox do it. Quickly the Girl hid the box under her own shawl.\nAnd, as she hurried away with it, no one would have mistaken\nher footsteps for those of anyone but a Woman.\n\nEdna Wahlert McCourt"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1183", "page_fin": "1183", "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Prudery", "titre_sommaire": "Prudery", "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": "1183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 1487, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1868, "texte": "Prudery\nI was asked to join a society pledged not to paint or model\nthe nude! I wonder if this society allows its members to\nmodel a horse without a rug on his back, bandages on his legs\nor blinkers on his eyes. Surely such a society would insist on\nblinkers!\nWhy, by such reasoning even flower painting is indecent, for\nflowers have sex!\n—Walker Winans in \"Animal Sculpture\" 1913."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1183", "page_fin": "1183", "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Being the Correspondence of a Chicago Girl and a Greenwich Village Man", "titre_sommaire": "Being the Correspondence of a Chicago Girl and a Greenwich Village Man", "signature_source": "DORA", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 1870, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3377, "texte": "Epistolae Hominum Obscurorum.\nBeing the Correspondence of a Chicago Girl and a\nGreenwich Village Man\nDORA.\n\nChicago, Thursday, A. M.\nMy Dear:\nYour letter makes me mad!\nHappy! Who ever said I was happy? And who ever said\nI was beating the other fellow to it? I say just as you are\nsaying now: I get so very very weary of the never varying\nnecessity forever to keep up the chase. For if you slacken up\nthe least bit, you are lost. Cheer up, dear. It is a mental\ncondition, and remember—anybody can get way way down, but\nit takes a mighty effort and a big man to shake off and triumph\nover depression.\nYou say you have so much work to do. Of course you have.\nWhere in heaven's name would you be without that work?\nWhy, it would be horrible to have all the time in the world to\nthink; thinking—that way lies madness. I know exactly how\nyou feel.\nNow stand up, shake your shoulders which are so nice and\nbroad and meant to'carry trouble lightly. Go out in the sun\nand walk and think how much I care for you and how near\nI am to you, and others who care for you. Do away with\nthis gloom, because you are only harming yourself. You are\nyour own world. Be power. Do not allow the least trifle to\neffect you for the worse.\nPlease, please—and I know—don't wait for something to\nhappen to cheer you up. Do it yourself. Whether it is the\neternal scoop or not we have to look and there is anovher side\nto life. So keep your dreams bright and cheerful, and I am\nsending thoughts to you as strong as I can.\nWith much love,"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1183", "page_fin": "1183", "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.15.1", "titre_corps": "Drawing by Clara Tice", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing by Clara Tice", "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": "1183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 3379, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3400, "texte": "Drawing by Clara Tice"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1183", "page_fin": "1184", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 6, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Greenwich Village, N.Y.", "titre_sommaire": "Greenwich Village, N.Y.", "signature_source": "BILL", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 3402, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3868, "texte": "Greenwich Village, N.Y.\n\nSunday, P. M.\nI see you, dearest, leaning over your drawing board with\nsome indifferent fashion plate on it, and interrupting your work\npenning down these words intended to bring me cheer. You\nare kind. You speak of the world that one is oneself, of work\nwhich is one's life. And you are forgetting that you are giving\nme back my own words. But times have changed since we\nused to sit in the lobby of the Lasalle Hotel and talk philo-\nsophy."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3749, "texte": "My last letter to you must have been gloomy. I don't know\nwhen I wrote it. Perhaps it was on that rainy day on which\nI tramped from one editor to another and tried to sell him that\nstory you can see in this Sunday's paper.\nIt's all over now. I am quite happy that all is just as it is\nand I wouldn't have it changed for anything in the world.\nAnd I would write you a happy letter with a lot of plans in\nit and with a lot of energy if there were not that sentence,\n\"please don't wait for something to happen to cheer you up,\ndo it yourself \"\nThis is a funny place which I choose to live and to work\nin, and its best characterization lies, I think, in this one sen-\ntence of yours. Everybody seems to wait for something to\nhappen. I have told you all about Greenwich Village and\nabout Washington Square. Yes, it is quaint here. But nothing\nthat you can't find in any other city. If you will take a walk\nup to the Newberry Park, in front of the Newberry Library,\nyou can well imagine yourself on Washington Square. Trees,\nold houses, partly old-fashioned residences, partly rooming-\nhouses, a few queer eating-places, a little bit of vice, the\nUniversity as a background here as well as in Newberry Park,\nsome tragedy and some romance—and there you are. But the\npeople here—you surely couldn't duplicate them anywhere.\nAnd such bunches of them—just one like another, just as if\nthey had been made after the same pattern. And still they\nthink that they are \"so different.\" Everyone of them did\nsomething some time ago, and spend the balance of their lives\nin telling each other what they did, and seem to study ways\nand means to get in some way or another an appreciation for\nit. They all live in expectation of something big, something\nunexpected that will change their entire lives. They wait\npatiently for years but they wouldn't move a finger to grasp\nthis big unexpected even if it should be in their nearest reach.\nThere are poets who are reading constantly a set of poems\nwritten years ago to people who don't even pretend to listen\nto them, and they still talk of the wonderful poems of Mr. So-\nand-so. There are artists who once painted pictures and they\nhave been exhibiting these same pictures for years. They seem\nto live in a glorious past, to scoff at the present and to forget\nthat the future is the past of the present.\nDays appear to repeat themselves. Everybody seems to\nwait for some elemental disturbance of the universe, especially\ncrated for the benefit of their own so very important ego.\nSuch are some of my present surroundings. And then, there\nare men and women who strive and work and dream and\nstarve, but those you cannot see in the orange and purple\ngathering places of our so-called Boheme. These men do not\ngrow their hair long and these women do not bob their hair\nshort. Their garb is not different from the poor people's at-\ntire. They are workers, laborers. They wear clothes to com-\nply with our police regulations. But they do not express\nthemselves through their clothes. In garrets and cold attics\nthey create paintings that will bring warmth and beauty to\nthe world ; they write books and poems that are so simple that\nthey will live forever. These people are the real owners of\nGreenwich Village. They are living in the real mansions of\nour \"republic in the air.\" The gaudily dressed masses are\noutside of the gates; these know they can never enter the man-\nsions, but they also know that no one will interfere with their\npresence at the gates.\nIdeas and inspirations seem to lie in the air but—they remain\nthere too. Everybody tosses them playfully about; you or I\nmay have our turn at the juggling them. . . .\nThe winter frolics are in full preparation.\nBut another time about all this.\n\nBILL."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1184", "page_fin": "1184", "image_debut": 6, "image_fin": 6, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Books and Magazines of the Week.", "titre_sommaire": "Books and Magazines of the Week.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 3751, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6875, "texte": "Books and Magazines of the Week.\nOthers\n'\"jpHE September issue of Kreymborg's magazine, the last one\nto reach our desk, is a \"Woman's Number,\" edited by\nHelen Hoyt, one of the oldest and truest banner bearers of the\n\"new verse.\" Helen Hoyt is no mean writer of verse but her\npoems are always tainted with a certain eroticism, that is the\nconstantly objectionable flight of phantasy of college and\nboarding room girls. It is an abusive employment of talent and\nof genius. Outside of H. D., who is represented by two poems,\ntoo good to be in such company, OTHERS is filled with music\nthat reminds one very strongly of the concert in our backyards\ngiven by the cats of the neighborhood at certain times of the\nyear.\nCold water is the only remedy for both—for cats and writers\nof such verse.\nThe Path of Joy\nThat eternally untiring idealist, Leonard Abbott, is the soul\nof the Ferrer colony in New Jersey, and his generosity, most\nlikely, made possible the publication of The Path of Joy, writ-\nten, edited and published by the pupils of the Ferrer School.\nThe idea of printing children's poetry and prose in the\nCuriosity Corner of a magazine is not new. But to have boys\nand girls under fourteen years of age edit and print their\nwritings in a magazine of their own is a novel and extremely\ninteresting experiment.\nThe September issue is a very artistically gotten up book,\nand its contents keep pace with its exterior.\n\"A Midnight Frolic,\" a poem by the ten-year old Heloise\nBrown, is a little masterpiece and a fairy-land conception of\nNature.\nContemporary Verse\nOf two good acquisitions can this organ of otherwise suffi-\nciently heard poets boast of in its current issue. Of a good-\nlooking original front cover design and of Orrick Johns among\nits new contributors. Orrick Johns is a poet; one of the few\nwho need but to follow their intuition and we are the gainers\nof brilliant thoughts in the rhythm of pleasing music. Orrick\nJohns is rarely serious and that is his charm.\nWe have too many serious and hard-working poets in\nAmerica.\nThe Miscellany\nThis little quarterly journal devoted originally to book-plate\nlore and to the interests of the American Book-plate Society,\nhas branched out lately into the larger field of art and of lit-\nerature. There is an interesting article by N. Tourneur: R. L.\nStevenson in Grub Street. M. Alexander contributes a short\nsketch but containing much on Japanese poetry.\nNew York Branch Library News\nBook illustrations is the topic of this month and the com-\nplaint is voiced that the illustrator in modern illustrated books\ndoes not follow the author as closely as he should. A vivid\nillustration of this evil is the following anecdote: \"Dan Beard\nwas selected to make the illustrations for Mark \"A\nConnecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court\" Said Mark\nTwain to him: \"Mr. Beard, I do not want to subject you to\nany unnecessary suffering but I do wish you would read the\nbook before making the pictures.\"\nMr. Beard replied that he had read it twice. Mark Twain\nexpressed surprise. \"I did not think that was the custom with\nillustrators, judging from some of the results I have seen.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1184", "page_fin": "1185", "image_debut": 6, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Tit-Bits From Our Village.", "titre_sommaire": "Tit-Bits From Our Village.", "signature_source": "Renee Lacoste", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 6877, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7541, "texte": "Tit-Bits From Our Village.\nby Renee Lacoste\n/GREGORY MASON, writer and war correspondent, and his\nwife, Eleanor Flowers, have returned to the village from\na tour of southern Mexico and Yucatan. They brought back\ninteresting stories and pictures of the ancient ruins in Yucatan.\nHypolite Havel and John Reed are going to open a coffee\nhouse in Fourth street near Fourth avenue—an American in-\nnovation of an old European practice.\nAnnouncement has been made of a costume dance to be given\nby Frank Shay and Lloyd Thomas on Friday, November 24th.\nA Scheherezade Revel at Webster Hall, the cards read, and\nthere is a queer little design in the upper right hand corner"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "1185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2009, "texte": "indicating the parts of the Scheherezade dance that were sup-\npressed by the police when the Ballet Russe presented it in\ntown.\nThe prize offered by the Liberal Club for the best two-color\nposter advertising their Hallowe'en party was awarded to\nMark Tobey. After last season's avalanche of posters all de-\npicting thinly clad maidens, it is a relief to find one in which\nthe spirit of the modern and the faint echo of the old fashioned\ncan mingle so harmoniously—two monks are represented read-\ning a circular and their expression of shocked anticipation\ntells the story.\nAn interesting program is scheduled by the Provincetown\nplayers for the opening of their feature-clubhouse at 139 Mac-\ndougal street on November the third. Three one-act plays are\nto be presented: \"Bound East for Cardiff,\" by Eugene O'Neill;\n\"The Game,\" by Louise Bryant, and \"King Arthur's Socks,\"\nby Floyd Dell.\nThe versatility of Sasha Hourwich being such as it is, I\nam at sea as to which phase of his personality to touch upon\nin introducing him in this column—as a writer, a statistician,\na tennis player, a dancer, an authority on any given topic, or\nas a modern Hoyle . . . As soon as he lets me know his real\npreference I shall make it a point to record his views. (As I\nwas dictating this to my secretary he made the objection: \"But\nI don't see any sense to that paragraph?\" And I replied:\n\"But there's no sense to Sasha either!\")\nHelen Herendeen may be seen about the village again. She\nhas been selected to do a solo dance at the Liberal Club's\nHallowe'en Party.\nAn uptown girl dining at the Greenwich Village Inn the\nother evening thought she had discovered a real Bohemian in\nthe person of Morgan Draper.-\n\"Mike,\" ordered Morgan, \"bring me two coffees, a pot of\ntea, some cocoa, and two glasses of milk.\"\nAfter Mike had complied and Morgan sat reviewing this\nparade of liquids, the uptown girl surveyed him in rapt ad-\nmiration. \"There is a genuine Greenwich villager,\" she finally\nwhispered to her escort."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1185", "page_fin": "1186", "image_debut": 7, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Wistaria.", "titre_sommaire": "Wistaria.", "signature_source": "Sadakichi Hartmann", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "1185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 2011, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7078, "texte": "Wistaria.\n\nrather late in the season, the wistaria had\nappeared in greater profusion than in previous years.\nOnce the common property of hundreds of porches they had\nbecome scarcer and scarcer within the city limits. They dis-\nappeared with the old homesteads or sickened away with the\nlack of air, as is the doom of all vegetation in a big city.\nThe pennate leaves were still small and undeveloped while\nthe flowers, more ethereal in color even than the pale blue sky,\nhung like a drapery over the weathered-stained woodwork of\nthe rear porch from which the white paint had peeled off.\nThe long loose clusters seemed to drop from the roof, to run\nin rippling waves along the columns and broke over the base\nof the balustrade like a waterfall.\nIt would have been difficult to find more beautiful setting\nfor the tall lithe figure standing on tiptoes near the steps lead-\ning to the garden and reaching with one of her outstetched\narms for the pale lilac flowers above her head. Wind and sun\nproduced on the swaying wall a continuous ripple of light, and\nin her kimono of cerulean blue, loose and flowing as if robing\nsome lady of Haronobu who only at the hips blossoms forth\ninto feminine contours, she resembled the swaying flowers\naround her. The tender green and subdued turquoise blues\nthrew vague shadows over the rose tints of her arms and neck,\nand the sun ornamented them with splashes of pale gold. It\nwas a picture aglow with an inner life—a vibrant flame but\nmuffled as in a sleepy vision, making one think of old rose\ngardens, faded love letters and forgotten melodies.\nIt was one of the few parts of the city which could advance\nany claim to being considered old; where gabled houses of\nquaint and dignified air, with colonial doors, old time knockers\nand sidegates, iron wrought newel posts, and oval windows\nover the aisle ways, still spoke the language of another age.\nSomething lingered there of former years, of a happier—no\nscarcely happier—time (that is a superstition of old people) ;\nit was merely a note of melancholy created by ttie memory of\nfar off days. Everything about the house and courtyard\nlooked old and grey. It was a place that invited to indolence\nand dreams. Even the wisteria shared the languor and at in-\na few petals slowly floated to the ground.\nShe had lived there all her life. She had grown up there\nas an only daughter amidst old furniture and dim mirrors,\nwhich no longer reflected the candle light of old time festivi-\nties. The spacious mansion was dim and silent, as if peopled\nwith ghosts. The wall paper was faded, dust had gathered\nin the marble figures on the mantel piece, spiders wove their\nwebs, on the garret stairs, and the old tables and chairs shook\nupon their curved legs. There she lived her quiet tranquil\nexistence, now that her parents were dead and she had mar-\nried, remote from the turmoil of the city. In simple household\nduties and solitary pleasures her life wended its way in the\nsilence of those rooms. She made embroideries, charming little\ncompositions filled with innocence and sadness of a childless\nwoman. She amused herself with books, toyed with flowers\ntrying in a vague way to solve the psychology of their per-\nfumes, or watched the gold fish sport in the old-fashioned\nbowl. Life which is to most women a mere diary, she tried to\nfashion into a poem, whose gentle strains echoed unconsciously\nthe sorrow nestling at her heart.\nHow often had she come out to the porch—as a child gazing\nenquiring into spaces—as a young girl when her dainty feet\nwere covered with the first long dress—and now as a married\nwoman to listen dreamily to the noises of the outside world,\ntd warm herself in the sunshine away from the dust and din\nof the street. Nothing had changed. As with so many women,\nmarriage had really meant nothing to her, it had only poured\nthe sweet poison of sensuality into her life, and made her more\nthan ever wish to lead her inner life, jealousy guarding all\nesthetic pleasures as secrets of her own.\nOf what was she dreaming? I suppose of what all those\nthousands of women dream who stand at parlor windows and\ngarden gates gazing into vacant space. The passerby wonders\nwhy such an air of vague melancholy and resigned sadness\nclings to them. Through their minds may drift the most com-\nmonplace things—thoughts of shopping—of flirtation—but un-\nderneath them is a deeper emotion, which makes them stare\nso absent-mindedly, and yet so imploringly into life. It is a\nlonging for something they do not possess—something they do\nnot even divine the nature of. Some shattered bowl beyond\nrepair! The storm of life rages on, they stand at the foam-\nwet shore and look on with the same yearning as does the\nbeach wanderer who sees mighty ocean steamers plough the\nwaters for distant lands that his own eye will never alight\nupon.\nA bee roamed about the yard—perhaps to bring a message\nfrom one flower to another. One of the pendulous clusters almost\ntouched her face and its faint aroma caressed her senses with\nvague suggestions, like a whiff of primitive times, as she leaned"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "1186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 314, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4096, "texte": "against a column her eyes half closed. How she enjoyed the\ndelicate invasion of spring right here in the city garden, which\nmeant to her as much as the entire wealth of form and color in\nthe universe. It is a frail and timid spring that scarcely sprin-\nkles a green shimmer upon the greyness of the town. Yet it\nis the same spring that every season pervades the whole earth\nwith meditative sweetness. The cares of winter are forgotten,\nas with a thin vague haze, murmuring of the green world\noutside, it envelopes all objects in the languor of a dream.\nSuddenly she heard a merry laugh. Se looked about. There\nover the fence opposite, appeared a little fellow with a shock of\nblonde hair, and peered curiously into the yard: \"Say lady,\ngive me some flowers. I want to make some bee jam for the\nbaby.\" The sun played upon its head and shining from the\nrear made happiness that she had hoped for, had never entered\nher life, waved her hand in greeting, and threw a cluster over\nto him with a cheerful \"Here you are.\" The boy seriously\nnodded, \"Thank you, lady,\" and disappeared from view.\nThe scene had suddenly changed from her, everything had\nlost its color. The garden seemed to lie in shadow, as it were,\nalthough the sun poured upon it as before. An immense lone-\nliness possessed her. The line between her thin but well cut\nlips grew straight. What could it be that affected her so?\nShe had often felt the emptiness in her life—that her woman-\nhood was not complete—but she had never felt it so keenly\nbefore. The great happiness that she had hoped for, had\nnever entered her life. The room that had been her nursery\nstood empty. Would it ever ring with childish prattle and\nlaughter? Would she ever hold a new life to her breast?\nWhat else but that deep hope had inflamed kisses upon her lips.\nShe was destined to pine away like an unopened but*.\nWas it her fault, was it her husband's? She did not know.\nWhy it it that women know so little about things on which\nreally the welfare of their life depends? Why have some more\nchildren than they can support and others none? She knew\nthat there were some who did not wish for any, something she\ncould not understand. And, yet as she went over the list of\nher married acquaintances they were nearly all childless. The\nNew Englanders were played out as a race, a large percentage\nwere no longer capable of fatherhood and motherhood, her\nhusband had told her. Just like these wisteria, coming from a\nforeign land with their vitality exhausted so that their seeds\nare useless. How often had she tried to replant a few branches\nalong the trellised walk but c*«spite the tender care bestowed\nupon them they would not grow. There had never been a\nchange for their existence. In summers past, the present stems\nhad yielded all they could give. And what remote causes,\noperating from time immemorial through series of generations,\nhad condemned her to the same insufficiency. Was the sap of\nlife also extinguished in her family?\nShe had remembered that she had read somewhere that\nChinese women in quaint flowered gowns would sing litanies\nto the goddess of fecundity. Uh! that the same pagan angel\nof annunciation would enter her quiet home. And by a sudden\nwild impulse she plucked a big bunch of wisteria and called\nout to the boy, \"Do you want some more flowers?\" The boy's\nhead appeared once more, smiling and nodding with a curious\nmien. In feverish haste she hurried back and forth from the\nporch to the fence, with her arms full of blossoms and the little\nfellow clapped his hands in glee.\nThen she looked with a half happy, yet painful smile at the\ndemolished flower wall, a silent symbol of her beautiful but\nempty revolt. She had sacrificed her favorite flowers for a\nflower that may never bloom in her life.\n\nSadakichi Hartmann"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1186", "page_fin": "1186", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.21", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 4098, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4764, "texte": "OSCAR WILDE'S\nImpressions of America\nedited with an introduction by Stuart Mason.\nOne of the original 500 copies printed.\nThis book, written by Oscar Wilde upon his return from\nthat memorable lecture tour through America, contains\nsome of the finest characterizations of America, as Wilde\nsaw it. He hits mercilessly and he praises effusively. In\nthe appendix is an interesting collection of newspaper\ninterviews with Wilde.\nIt is a rare Wilde item, published by one of Wilde's oldest\nfriends and his bibliographer.\nOnly a few copies left which will be sent to those whose orders\nreach us at first for $1.00 postpaid.\nSCHULTE'S BOOK STORE\n132 E. 23rd Street\nNew York"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1186", "page_fin": "1186", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.22", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 4766, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5114, "texte": "THE ONLY PRIVATE SCHOOL IN OUR VILLAGE\nMiss Cornelia Kingsland Barsow will re-open her school at\nTwenty-seven West Eleventh Street, on Thursday, October\n12th, for children between five and fourteen years of age.\nFIVE TEACHERS—ManuaI and Art Work—FRENCH.\nThere prevails a delightful atmosphere of the school-room\nin a private home.\nRates reasonable."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1186", "page_fin": "1186", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.23", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 5116, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5819, "texte": "14 Stories by Maupassant,\nFor 35 cents postpaid\nStories of the Tragedy and Comedy of Life, with\nan introduction by Paul Bourget. Prettily printed in\nlarge type on superior paper, with illustrations in\ncolor by Clare Victor Dwiggins. 1 6mo, stiff dark\ngreen paper cover, rough edges. (196 pages.) New\nYork, M. Walter Dunne, 1914. (Pub. 50 cents.)\nComprises the following short stories: The False\nGems, Was it a Dream?; Simon's Paper; In the Moon-\nlight; The Old Maid; The Lancer's Wife; The Sequel\nto a Divorce; The Englishwoman; Sentiment; The\nFishermen; In his Sweetheart's Livery; Bertha; Dis-\ncovery; and A Message of Love.\nCONDOR'S BOOK STORE\n366 Fifth Ave.\nWrite for interesting cataligue of books."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1186", "page_fin": "1186", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.24", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 5821, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5950, "texte": "R. EDERHEIMER\nPRINT CABINET\n366 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK\nOriginal Drawings by Old Masters\nALL APPRECIATIVE VISITORS CORDIALLY INVITED"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-01-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1186", "page_fin": "1186", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161101-01.2.25", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 5952, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6367, "texte": "Bruno Chap Books.\nTwenty-eight booklets containing the most interesting work of the most unique writers of the past twenty-\nfive years.\nPrices ranging from fifteen cents to fifty cents.\nWrite for catalgoue and send one-cent stamp. It contains the story of Bruno's Garrett from a public grave\ndigger's tool house to the exhibition gallery of modern artists' work.\nBruno's Weekly, 58 Washington Square, New York City."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.1", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nTen Cents\nNovember Ist, 1916\n\nF. Couiton Waugh"}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[1180]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.2", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nEdited by Guido Bruno in His Garret on Washington Square\nNo. 20\nNOVEMBER Ist, MCMXVI\nVol. 11l\nCopyright igi6 by Guido Bruno\n\nOn a Poem by Don Marquis\nJohn Black\n'I\"1 HE 'wind was in it, and the rain,\nLaughter and sorrow, hope and pain,\nAnd I was sure, then, as I heard,\nIt was a bird.\nBut then the note grew rich and strong.\nThe carol deepened to a song.\nAt once I knew the 'voice and motion—\nIt was the Ocean.\nHow vain my idle guesses! Love\nIVhispered it was the music of\nThe lute that knows no counterpart—\nA warm, true heart!\n\nAbout Masters, About Strikers and\nAbout Children.\nGuido Bruno\nCOLIDARITY of action, if sincere, must be the sequence of\nharmony of mind. To sacrifice one's individuality is jus-\ntified only by the good it will bring to all and to everybody.\nTo give up individual thinking and the control over one's own\nactions should be the extreme act to manifest brotherly love,\na last resort to maintain one's own self respect.\nTo act blindly upon somebody's request, without the direct\nimpulse in one's own self is the sheep act of following the bell\nweather, is an expression of weakness, of a decadence of self-\nrespect. Good will result for the world if good results for\nyou. If your gain is a farthing, the gain of the world is a\nnegative one—is loss.\nIf you spit in a lake, you lose your sputum, you lose the energy\nof creating it, you lose the muscular force to eject it. The\nlake will not rise, even if hundreds of others spit in it because\nthey sympathize with you.\nYours was only the pleasure of exerting yourself, of exalting\nyourself while you were giving—and of seeing the little bubble\non the lake's surface.\nStrikes, such as the carmen's strike we are witnessing at pres-\nent, bring benefit to none.\nYou, striker, risk the wages of a month or of a longer period\nfor the gain of a few cents each day.\nYou risk the ruin of your family life for the pleasure of\nshouting approval of your leaders.\nYou neglect your duties toward your pregnant wives, towards\nyour sick children, you expose yourself and those nearest to\nyou to eviction.\nYou beg alms on the street and play hand-organs to arouse\npity in the hearts of man. . . . Why all this self-sacrifice, all\nthis pain and humiliation?\nThe gain of the pennies you ask as increase to your wages?\nNo. .. .! You want to act in solidarity. You want to be\nmagnanimous. To be blindly obedient towards men, others\nchoose for your leaders.\nIt is pitiable that you have to have masters.\nWe all were born to be masters. The laws of the land gave\nus the constitutional grant to be masters.\nBut conditions of living, conditions that you cannot change and\nthat will be the conditions of your children, are such that we\nhave to recognize masters.\nSo then, let us keep our hearts and our minds free of slavery.\nLet us be masters in our own homes.\nLet us preserve the patriarchal home, where we are lords of\nthe manor, heads of our families, troubadours of our women,\nheroes of our children. ...\nBe this home only a three-room tenement flat, we can make it\nour castle: equal to every mansion of the masters on Fifth\nAvenue.\nAs proud and as free, as happy and as hospitable. Let us\nacknowledge as masters only such men as grant us honorably\nthe means to sustain a home in fair exchange for our labor.\nLet us give them every day the hours for which we receive\npay for them—and nothing else.\nLet us be wise in the choice of our masters.\nIf you do not like to be a motorman, or a train guard, try\nsomething else. If you are not satisfied with the money paid\nyou, look for another employer.\nBut cease to be a child; abused by the other sort of leaders\nwho rob you of your individuality, who press you into their\nsystem, who brand you with their own iron—and who send\nyou begging on the streets, who chain you like animals to a\nhand-organ.\nCease to be children who refuse to eat in order to punish their\nparents.\nBe yourself above all and ever. Then you will be happy.\nAnd then only of real service to yourself, to your family, to\nyour fellow-man, to your country, and to the universe.\n\nO. Henry, Prison and Publicity\ndifferent are our days from those of the other\ngenius that American literary endeavors have produced\nsince the discovery of our continent!\nRufus Griswold, the noble friend and biographer of Edgar\nAllen Poe, hinted at Poe's most likely incarceration in debtor's\nprison in order to slander his character, to ostracize him among\nhis contemporaries; he even succeeded in staining his memory\nfor coming generations. People seventy-five years ago—long\nbefore Gould fortunes were made—looked contemptuously\ndown on a man who had worn prison garb; more than that,\nthey despised the person who had sinned against the laws of\nman.\nToday! What a change! We have seen some of our\n\"greatest men\" ride in their limousines to prison, we have\nheard of the luxurious lives some of them lead in the seclusion\nof their cell, providing they have the necessary means to pay\nfor such luxuries.\nThe gruesome features of prison life become the memories\nof a cruel past. To be subjected to a term of imprisonment\nmeans to our aristocracy (and therefore to the billions of\nreaders of our society columns) simply to \"get into trouble\"—\nas long as a rich man is in question. Robbing, stealing, even\nmurdering in order to gain BIG amounts of money is different\nfrom robbing, stealing and murdering for mere trifles.\nThe jailbird with millions is the hero of a romance ... a\nsort of pirate of yore.\nTo have been in prison is a glorious reminiscence for the\nman of later achievements. Proudly can he speak about his\ntrial, his conviction and his prison life, while stumping for\nsome political candidate (see Thaw in Brooklyn) ; it is an\neffective climax during an after dinner speech while the guest\nof honor of some fashionable club.\nI am quite sure Professor Alphonso C. Smith mentioned in\nhis just published biography of O. Henry the years of sorrow\nO. Henry had to live deprived of his liberty as a matter ol\nfact. I have not yet read his book. But I feel confident that\nhe did not make this painful period in Porter's life the main\nfeature of his work. He would have done wrong to have men-\ntioned it. Most likely he spoke of these years in the most\nconsiderate and the most delicate manner.\njßut: he must have forgotten the ethics of publicity men and\nof newspapers of our day!\nThose years in prison were made the catch-word of an effec-\ntive publicity campaign in our daily papers. All of them\nbrought the astonishing news of O. Henry's prison career as\nmain features on the first pages next to the cable news from\nEurope."}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.3", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nDoubleday, Page & Co., O. Henry's publishers and watchful\nkeepers of all his copyrighted material, perhaps did not dislike\nthis spectacular revival of interest in O. Henry; such tricks\nalways help the sale of copyrighted literary property that is\nkept out of reach of the poor man's purse by copyrighted high\nprices.\nVerily, an astonishing tribute is being paid in such manner\nto the genius of America's only originator of a literary style\ncharacteristic of and expressing the country.\nCannot one write wonderful short stories and at the same\ntime be even a murderer? And does our interest have to be\naroused in the story writing of a man because he was a mur-\nderer ?\nWhere is there a connection between short stories and prison\nlife? Must we throw mud and dirt upon both men who rep-\nresent to the world American originality in letters?\nCommon decency, if not respect for the feeling of O. Henry's\nliving near relatives should have prevented newspapers from\npublishing so ostentatiously this chapter in the great author's\nlife. But what would an American publisher not sacrifice\nupon the altar of decency if it means a few more editions:\nmore money for his copyrights?\n\nWalt Whitman\nA German Appreciation in 1868.\nFrom the Allgemeine Zeitung {Augsburg), May io, 1868.\nWHITMAN! Who is Walt Whitman? The answer\nis: A poet! A new American poet! His admirers say\nthe first, the only poet America has hitherto produced. The\nonly specifically American poet. No follower in the beaten\npaths of the European muse, but coming fresh from the prairies\nand Western settlements, fresh from the coast and the great\nrivers, fresh from the crowded seaports and cities, fresh from\nthe battlefields of the South, the odor of the soil which created\nhim still clinging to his dress, hair and beard. One whose\nlike has never yet been; one who stands firm and self-con-\nscious on American feet, a prophet of great and strange things\nto come. His admirers go still further: Walt Whitman is in\nfact the only poet in whom the restless, searching age has\nfound its expression, the poet par excellence, the poet.\nThus or, one side his admirers, among whom we meet even\nan Emerson; on the other, the fault-finders and abusers; beside\nboundless praise and enthusiastic recognition, the bitterest sar-\ncasm and merciless invective.\nTo all this the poet remains indifferent. He accepts the\npraise as his due and meets his adversaries with contempt.\nHe believes in himself; his self-reliance is unlimited. \"He is.\"\nsays his English publisher, W. M. Rosetti, \"above all else the\none man who has earnest convictions and confesses that now\nas in the future, he will be the founder of a new poetical\nliterature, a great literature suitable to the material grandeur\nand incalculable destinies of America.\" He believes that the\nfuture will consider him as much the maker of America as it\nwill Columbus as the discoverer of the Western continent, or\nWashington as the founder of the States. A sublime conviction\nindeed, expressed more than once by the poet in magnificent\nwords, none more splendid than those beginning the poem:\nCome, I will make the continent indissoluble,\nI will make the most splendid race the sun ever shown upon,\nI will make divine, magnetic lands,\nWith the love of comrades,\nWith the lifelong love of comrades.\nThis has a proud ring. Has the man also the right to utter\nsuch things? Let us become intimate with him and consider\nhis life and work. Let us open his book.\nAre these verses? The lines are printed like verses, to be\nsure, but verses they are not. No metre, no rhyme, no strophes,\nbut rhythmical prose—the verification of the Psalms. At the\nfirst glance rough, unpliant, formless, and yet not devoid of\nharmony for a sensitive ear. The language simple, solid,\nstraightforward, giving everything its right name, fearing\nnothing, sometimes obscure. This strain rhapsodical, prophetic,\nand often unequal blending the sublime and commonplace\nsometimes to a degree that verges, on tastelessness. In spite of\nevery other dissimilarity, he reminds us sometimes of our\nHamann, or of Carlyle's oracular wisdom, or of the \"Paroles\nd'um Croyant.\" But out of all breathes the Bible—its lan-\nguage, not its faith.\nAnd what does the poet give us in this form? Above all,\nhimself, his ego—Walt. Whitman; this ego, however, is a part\nof the earth, of humaniy, of the universe. With this convic-\ntion and linking the sublimest to the most insignificant objects,\nhe rolls out a huge panorama before us, always taking America\nas his starting and closing point (for the future belongs to a\nfree people.) A cosmopolitan spirit, so to say, pervades Walt.\nWhitman and his Americanism, such as is peculiar to contem-\nplative natures, who, alone with infinity, spend lonely days\non the seacoast or lonely nights under the starlit skies of the\nprairies. He finds himself in everything and everything in\nhimself. He, the single man, Walt. Whitman, is humanity\nand the world. And the world and humanity are one grand\npoem to him. Everything he sees or hears or comes in contact\nwith, even the meanest, the most insignificant, the most com-\nmonplace, everything appears to him as the symbol of some-\nthing higher, something more spiritual. Or, rather, materia\nand the spirit, reality and the ideal are one and the same to\nhim. Thus, self-made, he appears to us loafing at his ease,\nsinging his songs, a proud, free man and only a man, opening\nto us world-wide social and political vistas.\nA wonderful apparition in truth! We acknowledge that it\nimpresses, alarms and strangely fascinates us. And yet we find\nthat we are not yet finished with our judgment, that we are\nstill influenced by our impressions. In the meantime we are\nprobably the first in Germany to form an opinion of the exist-\nence and activity of this fresh power. The queer fellow de-\nserves to be considered closer by our poets and thinkers,\nthreatening, as he does, to overthrow all our ars poetica, our\nesthetic canons and theories. And true it is, that after having\nread in these solemn pages, after having listened to the deep,\nsonorous roar of Walt. Whitman's muse, rushing on our ear\nlike the continuous beating of the ocean's waves, our tradi-\ntional versification, our endeavor to force our thoughts into\ncertain traditional forms, our jangling of verses, our counting\nand measuring of syllables, our making of sonnets, strophes\nand stanza almost childish to us. Have we really arrived at\nthat point when life demands new modes of expression even in\npoetry? Has this age so many and such important things to\ntell us, that the old vessels are insufficient for the new contents?\nAre we standing before a poetry of the future, as already for\nyears a music of the future has been predicted to us? And\nis Walt Whitman greater than Richard Wagner?\n\nLove and Death.\nby Rainer Maria Rilke\nQN horseback, on horseback, on horseback, through the day,\nthrough the night, through the day.\nOn horseback, on horseback, on horseback. And the fortitude\ngrew so tired and the longing grew so big. There are no\nmore mountains. Scarcely a tree. Nothing dares to arise.\nStrangers' houses crouch thirstily near swampy springs. No-\nwhere a tower. And always the same picture.\nOne has two too many eyes. Only in the night often one\nseems to know the way. Perhaps during the night we always\nride back over that stretch of land that we have gained so\ndifficultly under the foreign sun. That might be it.\nThe sun is heavy as at home in the heat of summer. But\nin the summer we said good-bye. The clothes of the women\ngleamed after us long from among the green. And now we\nare riding on horseback, eternally on horseback. It must be\nautumn.\nAt least there where sad women know of us.\n(.Editor's Translation)\n\nPlan\nH. Thompson Rich\nwITH these pillars of song\nAnd these blocks and columns of laughter,\nWe will build us a tower of love\nLoftily into the years."}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.4", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nThe Doer of Good.\nOscar Wilde\nJT was night-time and He was alone.\nAnd He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went\ntowards the city.\nAnd when He came near He heard within the city the tread\nof the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness\nand the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the\ngate and certain of the gate-keepers opened to Him.\nAnd He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair\npillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with gar-\nlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar.\nAnd He entered the house. And when He had passed through\nthe hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the\nlong hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple\none whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips\nwere red with wine.\nAnd He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder\nand said to him, \"Why do you live like this?'\nAnd the young man turned round and recognized Him, and\nmade answer and said, \"But I was a leper once, and you\nhealed me. How else should I live?'\nAnd He passed out of the house and went again into the\nstreet. And after awhile He saw one whose face and raiment\nwere painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And\nbehind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore\na cloak of two colors. Now the face of the woman was as the\nfair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were\nbright with lust.\nAnd He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young\nman and said to him, \"Why do you look at this woman and\nin such wise?\" And the young man turned round and recog-\nnized Him and said, \"But I was blind once, and you gave me\nsight. At what else should I look?\"\nAnd He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of\nthe woman and said to her, \"Is there no other way in which\nto walk save the way of sin?\"\nAnd the woman turned round and recognized Him, and\nlaughed and said, \"But you forgave me my sins, and the way\nis a pleasant way.\"\nAnd He passed out of the city.\nAnd when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by\nthe roadside a young man who was weeping.\nAnd He went towards him and touched the long locks of\nhis hair and said to him, \"Why are you weeping?\"\nAnd the young man looked up and recognized Him and\nmade answer, \"But I was dead once, as you raised me from\nthe dead. What else should I do but weep?\"\n\nThe Master.\nOscar Wilde\nNow.\nwhen the darkness came over the earth Joseph of\nArimathea, having lighted a touch of pinewood, passed\ndown from the hill into the valley. For he had business in\nhis own home. And kneeling on the flint stones of the Valley\nof Desolation he saw a young man who was naked and weep-\ning. His hair was the color of honey, and his body was as a\nwhite flower, but he had wounded his body with thorns and\non his hair had he set ashes as a crown. And he who had\ngreat possessions said to the young man who was naked and\nweeping, \"I do not wonder that your sorrow is so great, for\nsurely He was a just man.\"\nAnd the young man answered, \"It is not for Him that I am\nweeping, but for myself. I too have changed water into wine,\nand I have healed the leper and given sight to the blind. I\nhave walked upon the waters, and from the dwellers in the\ntombs I have cast out devils. I have fed the hungry in the\ndesert where there was no food, and I have raised the dead\nfrom their narrow houses, and at my bidding, and before a\ngreat multitude of people, a barren fig-tree withered away.\nAll things that this man has done I have done also. And\nyet they have not crucified me.\"\n\nAugust Strindberg by Gulbranson\n\nDemocracy.\nElizabeth M. Walker\nJ AM nothing but a plain, ordinary, every-day business\nwoman, and I presume that I look it.\nThis morning I got up with a feeling of happiness and\ngood-will toward all the world. As I dressed, I sang, and\nafter a hastily snatched breakfast, I left for my work, fairly\nbeaming with a contented, pussy-cat feeling.\nThere was a baby on the car—a sweet, dimply baby—that\nI wanted to squeeze, and I felt somehow or other personally\nrelated to every single passenger.\nI grinned at the newsboy by the Subway exit, and laughed\naloud when a very fat man bumped blunderingly into me.\nThen, just as I reached the top of the hill near my office,\nI met a dear friend of old school days, and stopped to greet\nher, much excited, and thinking that of all things that could\nhave happened, this was the pleasantest.\nSuddenly. I felt a sense of discomfort, and looked up. I\ncaught the scornful glance of a tall, dudish man—an \"aristo-\ncrat\"—who, thrusting his trim form between my friend and\nmyself, posted a letter, and with utter disgust in his voice\nasked sneeringly, \"Why d'you have to stand in front of a mail-\nbox ?\"\nI wonder if he would have said that to any woman?\nToday my work seemed hard.\n\nThe Last Adventure of the Child\n\nGIRL was walking in a darkened woods where no birds\nsang and where the withered leaves sent grewsome\nechoes from beneath her feet. Suddenly she saw a woman\nlying on the ground before her—a heavily breathing, ragged\nwoman who was dying. The Girl's soul, struggling fright-\nenedly between a vague longing to help the woman and to run\naway, became slowly fascinated by the dying eyes that held\nher, spell-bound, while the near-dead features grinned satiri-\ncally, and the drawn lips sneered, \"Afraid?\"\n\"No-o,\" whispered the Girl.\n\"Come here.\"\nThe Girl came closer, and suddenly her heart was filled\nwith a great pity. She fell on her knees beside the dying"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.5", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nwoman and though she trembled, her eyes filled with tears.\n\"Let me help you. What can I do to help you?\"\n''Heaven forbid that anyone help me,\" croaked the old\nwoman, half raising herself on her elbow. But then she fell\nback, striking as she did so a box that she had been concealing\nunder her shawl. She winced; a feverish gleam shot through\nher eyes; she mumbled incoherently before the Girl caught\nwords addressed to herself: \"Help, you offered me . . . help,\nChild? There is no help for me, yet. But, do you see this\nbox? All my life has been a theft—except where this has\nbeen concerned. Whatever else I am or have or appear to\nhave, I have stolen. All things have I stolen—all things but\nthis. This is mine!\" She clutched the Girl's dress and begged:\n\"See that this is buried with me!\"\nHer eyes closed.\nBut the Girl quite forgot her, as she gazed on the box of\nthe thief-woman. It was wrought gold and gleamed and glit-\ntered as no thing which had ever come before to her sight.\nFor she was a child of the forest, and all the beautiful things\nshe knew—the sunset, the song of the birds, the glassy Arabian\nNights of the streams were hers—belonged to her. While\nthis glittering golden box—it belonged to the dead woman!\nShe glanced quickly at the corpse. What good would the\nbox do it. Quickly the Girl hid the box under her own shawl.\nAnd, as she hurried away with it, no one would have mistaken\nher footsteps for those of anyone but a Woman.\n\nEdna Wahlert McCourt\n\nPrudery\nI was asked to join a society pledged not to paint or model\nthe nude! I wonder if this society allows its members to\nmodel a horse without a rug on his back, bandages on his legs\nor blinkers on his eyes. Surely such a society would insist on\nblinkers!\nWhy, by such reasoning even flower painting is indecent, for\nflowers have sex!\n—Walker Winans in \"Animal Sculpture\" 1913.\n\nEpistolae Hominum Obscurorum.\nBeing the Correspondence of a Chicago Girl and a\nGreenwich Village Man\nDORA.\n\nChicago, Thursday, A. M.\nMy Dear:\nYour letter makes me mad!\nHappy! Who ever said I was happy? And who ever said\nI was beating the other fellow to it? I say just as you are\nsaying now: I get so very very weary of the never varying\nnecessity forever to keep up the chase. For if you slacken up\nthe least bit, you are lost. Cheer up, dear. It is a mental\ncondition, and remember—anybody can get way way down, but\nit takes a mighty effort and a big man to shake off and triumph\nover depression.\nYou say you have so much work to do. Of course you have.\nWhere in heaven's name would you be without that work?\nWhy, it would be horrible to have all the time in the world to\nthink; thinking—that way lies madness. I know exactly how\nyou feel.\nNow stand up, shake your shoulders which are so nice and\nbroad and meant to'carry trouble lightly. Go out in the sun\nand walk and think how much I care for you and how near\nI am to you, and others who care for you. Do away with\nthis gloom, because you are only harming yourself. You are\nyour own world. Be power. Do not allow the least trifle to\neffect you for the worse.\nPlease, please—and I know—don't wait for something to\nhappen to cheer you up. Do it yourself. Whether it is the\neternal scoop or not we have to look and there is anovher side\nto life. So keep your dreams bright and cheerful, and I am\nsending thoughts to you as strong as I can.\nWith much love,\n\nDrawing by Clara Tice\n\nGreenwich Village, N.Y.\n\nSunday, P. M.\nI see you, dearest, leaning over your drawing board with\nsome indifferent fashion plate on it, and interrupting your work\npenning down these words intended to bring me cheer. You\nare kind. You speak of the world that one is oneself, of work\nwhich is one's life. And you are forgetting that you are giving\nme back my own words. But times have changed since we\nused to sit in the lobby of the Lasalle Hotel and talk philo-\nsophy."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.6", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nMy last letter to you must have been gloomy. I don't know\nwhen I wrote it. Perhaps it was on that rainy day on which\nI tramped from one editor to another and tried to sell him that\nstory you can see in this Sunday's paper.\nIt's all over now. I am quite happy that all is just as it is\nand I wouldn't have it changed for anything in the world.\nAnd I would write you a happy letter with a lot of plans in\nit and with a lot of energy if there were not that sentence,\n\"please don't wait for something to happen to cheer you up,\ndo it yourself \"\nThis is a funny place which I choose to live and to work\nin, and its best characterization lies, I think, in this one sen-\ntence of yours. Everybody seems to wait for something to\nhappen. I have told you all about Greenwich Village and\nabout Washington Square. Yes, it is quaint here. But nothing\nthat you can't find in any other city. If you will take a walk\nup to the Newberry Park, in front of the Newberry Library,\nyou can well imagine yourself on Washington Square. Trees,\nold houses, partly old-fashioned residences, partly rooming-\nhouses, a few queer eating-places, a little bit of vice, the\nUniversity as a background here as well as in Newberry Park,\nsome tragedy and some romance—and there you are. But the\npeople here—you surely couldn't duplicate them anywhere.\nAnd such bunches of them—just one like another, just as if\nthey had been made after the same pattern. And still they\nthink that they are \"so different.\" Everyone of them did\nsomething some time ago, and spend the balance of their lives\nin telling each other what they did, and seem to study ways\nand means to get in some way or another an appreciation for\nit. They all live in expectation of something big, something\nunexpected that will change their entire lives. They wait\npatiently for years but they wouldn't move a finger to grasp\nthis big unexpected even if it should be in their nearest reach.\nThere are poets who are reading constantly a set of poems\nwritten years ago to people who don't even pretend to listen\nto them, and they still talk of the wonderful poems of Mr. So-\nand-so. There are artists who once painted pictures and they\nhave been exhibiting these same pictures for years. They seem\nto live in a glorious past, to scoff at the present and to forget\nthat the future is the past of the present.\nDays appear to repeat themselves. Everybody seems to\nwait for some elemental disturbance of the universe, especially\ncrated for the benefit of their own so very important ego.\nSuch are some of my present surroundings. And then, there\nare men and women who strive and work and dream and\nstarve, but those you cannot see in the orange and purple\ngathering places of our so-called Boheme. These men do not\ngrow their hair long and these women do not bob their hair\nshort. Their garb is not different from the poor people's at-\ntire. They are workers, laborers. They wear clothes to com-\nply with our police regulations. But they do not express\nthemselves through their clothes. In garrets and cold attics\nthey create paintings that will bring warmth and beauty to\nthe world ; they write books and poems that are so simple that\nthey will live forever. These people are the real owners of\nGreenwich Village. They are living in the real mansions of\nour \"republic in the air.\" The gaudily dressed masses are\noutside of the gates; these know they can never enter the man-\nsions, but they also know that no one will interfere with their\npresence at the gates.\nIdeas and inspirations seem to lie in the air but—they remain\nthere too. Everybody tosses them playfully about; you or I\nmay have our turn at the juggling them. . . .\nThe winter frolics are in full preparation.\nBut another time about all this.\n\nBILL.\n\nBooks and Magazines of the Week.\nOthers\n'\"jpHE September issue of Kreymborg's magazine, the last one\nto reach our desk, is a \"Woman's Number,\" edited by\nHelen Hoyt, one of the oldest and truest banner bearers of the\n\"new verse.\" Helen Hoyt is no mean writer of verse but her\npoems are always tainted with a certain eroticism, that is the\nconstantly objectionable flight of phantasy of college and\nboarding room girls. It is an abusive employment of talent and\nof genius. Outside of H. D., who is represented by two poems,\ntoo good to be in such company, OTHERS is filled with music\nthat reminds one very strongly of the concert in our backyards\ngiven by the cats of the neighborhood at certain times of the\nyear.\nCold water is the only remedy for both—for cats and writers\nof such verse.\nThe Path of Joy\nThat eternally untiring idealist, Leonard Abbott, is the soul\nof the Ferrer colony in New Jersey, and his generosity, most\nlikely, made possible the publication of The Path of Joy, writ-\nten, edited and published by the pupils of the Ferrer School.\nThe idea of printing children's poetry and prose in the\nCuriosity Corner of a magazine is not new. But to have boys\nand girls under fourteen years of age edit and print their\nwritings in a magazine of their own is a novel and extremely\ninteresting experiment.\nThe September issue is a very artistically gotten up book,\nand its contents keep pace with its exterior.\n\"A Midnight Frolic,\" a poem by the ten-year old Heloise\nBrown, is a little masterpiece and a fairy-land conception of\nNature.\nContemporary Verse\nOf two good acquisitions can this organ of otherwise suffi-\nciently heard poets boast of in its current issue. Of a good-\nlooking original front cover design and of Orrick Johns among\nits new contributors. Orrick Johns is a poet; one of the few\nwho need but to follow their intuition and we are the gainers\nof brilliant thoughts in the rhythm of pleasing music. Orrick\nJohns is rarely serious and that is his charm.\nWe have too many serious and hard-working poets in\nAmerica.\nThe Miscellany\nThis little quarterly journal devoted originally to book-plate\nlore and to the interests of the American Book-plate Society,\nhas branched out lately into the larger field of art and of lit-\nerature. There is an interesting article by N. Tourneur: R. L.\nStevenson in Grub Street. M. Alexander contributes a short\nsketch but containing much on Japanese poetry.\nNew York Branch Library News\nBook illustrations is the topic of this month and the com-\nplaint is voiced that the illustrator in modern illustrated books\ndoes not follow the author as closely as he should. A vivid\nillustration of this evil is the following anecdote: \"Dan Beard\nwas selected to make the illustrations for Mark \"A\nConnecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court\" Said Mark\nTwain to him: \"Mr. Beard, I do not want to subject you to\nany unnecessary suffering but I do wish you would read the\nbook before making the pictures.\"\nMr. Beard replied that he had read it twice. Mark Twain\nexpressed surprise. \"I did not think that was the custom with\nillustrators, judging from some of the results I have seen.\"\n\nTit-Bits From Our Village.\nby Renee Lacoste\n/GREGORY MASON, writer and war correspondent, and his\nwife, Eleanor Flowers, have returned to the village from\na tour of southern Mexico and Yucatan. They brought back\ninteresting stories and pictures of the ancient ruins in Yucatan.\nHypolite Havel and John Reed are going to open a coffee\nhouse in Fourth street near Fourth avenue—an American in-\nnovation of an old European practice.\nAnnouncement has been made of a costume dance to be given\nby Frank Shay and Lloyd Thomas on Friday, November 24th.\nA Scheherezade Revel at Webster Hall, the cards read, and\nthere is a queer little design in the upper right hand corner"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "1185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.7", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nindicating the parts of the Scheherezade dance that were sup-\npressed by the police when the Ballet Russe presented it in\ntown.\nThe prize offered by the Liberal Club for the best two-color\nposter advertising their Hallowe'en party was awarded to\nMark Tobey. After last season's avalanche of posters all de-\npicting thinly clad maidens, it is a relief to find one in which\nthe spirit of the modern and the faint echo of the old fashioned\ncan mingle so harmoniously—two monks are represented read-\ning a circular and their expression of shocked anticipation\ntells the story.\nAn interesting program is scheduled by the Provincetown\nplayers for the opening of their feature-clubhouse at 139 Mac-\ndougal street on November the third. Three one-act plays are\nto be presented: \"Bound East for Cardiff,\" by Eugene O'Neill;\n\"The Game,\" by Louise Bryant, and \"King Arthur's Socks,\"\nby Floyd Dell.\nThe versatility of Sasha Hourwich being such as it is, I\nam at sea as to which phase of his personality to touch upon\nin introducing him in this column—as a writer, a statistician,\na tennis player, a dancer, an authority on any given topic, or\nas a modern Hoyle . . . As soon as he lets me know his real\npreference I shall make it a point to record his views. (As I\nwas dictating this to my secretary he made the objection: \"But\nI don't see any sense to that paragraph?\" And I replied:\n\"But there's no sense to Sasha either!\")\nHelen Herendeen may be seen about the village again. She\nhas been selected to do a solo dance at the Liberal Club's\nHallowe'en Party.\nAn uptown girl dining at the Greenwich Village Inn the\nother evening thought she had discovered a real Bohemian in\nthe person of Morgan Draper.-\n\"Mike,\" ordered Morgan, \"bring me two coffees, a pot of\ntea, some cocoa, and two glasses of milk.\"\nAfter Mike had complied and Morgan sat reviewing this\nparade of liquids, the uptown girl surveyed him in rapt ad-\nmiration. \"There is a genuine Greenwich villager,\" she finally\nwhispered to her escort.\n\nWistaria.\n\nrather late in the season, the wistaria had\nappeared in greater profusion than in previous years.\nOnce the common property of hundreds of porches they had\nbecome scarcer and scarcer within the city limits. They dis-\nappeared with the old homesteads or sickened away with the\nlack of air, as is the doom of all vegetation in a big city.\nThe pennate leaves were still small and undeveloped while\nthe flowers, more ethereal in color even than the pale blue sky,\nhung like a drapery over the weathered-stained woodwork of\nthe rear porch from which the white paint had peeled off.\nThe long loose clusters seemed to drop from the roof, to run\nin rippling waves along the columns and broke over the base\nof the balustrade like a waterfall.\nIt would have been difficult to find more beautiful setting\nfor the tall lithe figure standing on tiptoes near the steps lead-\ning to the garden and reaching with one of her outstetched\narms for the pale lilac flowers above her head. Wind and sun\nproduced on the swaying wall a continuous ripple of light, and\nin her kimono of cerulean blue, loose and flowing as if robing\nsome lady of Haronobu who only at the hips blossoms forth\ninto feminine contours, she resembled the swaying flowers\naround her. The tender green and subdued turquoise blues\nthrew vague shadows over the rose tints of her arms and neck,\nand the sun ornamented them with splashes of pale gold. It\nwas a picture aglow with an inner life—a vibrant flame but\nmuffled as in a sleepy vision, making one think of old rose\ngardens, faded love letters and forgotten melodies.\nIt was one of the few parts of the city which could advance\nany claim to being considered old; where gabled houses of\nquaint and dignified air, with colonial doors, old time knockers\nand sidegates, iron wrought newel posts, and oval windows\nover the aisle ways, still spoke the language of another age.\nSomething lingered there of former years, of a happier—no\nscarcely happier—time (that is a superstition of old people) ;\nit was merely a note of melancholy created by ttie memory of\nfar off days. Everything about the house and courtyard\nlooked old and grey. It was a place that invited to indolence\nand dreams. Even the wisteria shared the languor and at in-\na few petals slowly floated to the ground.\nShe had lived there all her life. She had grown up there\nas an only daughter amidst old furniture and dim mirrors,\nwhich no longer reflected the candle light of old time festivi-\nties. The spacious mansion was dim and silent, as if peopled\nwith ghosts. The wall paper was faded, dust had gathered\nin the marble figures on the mantel piece, spiders wove their\nwebs, on the garret stairs, and the old tables and chairs shook\nupon their curved legs. There she lived her quiet tranquil\nexistence, now that her parents were dead and she had mar-\nried, remote from the turmoil of the city. In simple household\nduties and solitary pleasures her life wended its way in the\nsilence of those rooms. She made embroideries, charming little\ncompositions filled with innocence and sadness of a childless\nwoman. She amused herself with books, toyed with flowers\ntrying in a vague way to solve the psychology of their per-\nfumes, or watched the gold fish sport in the old-fashioned\nbowl. Life which is to most women a mere diary, she tried to\nfashion into a poem, whose gentle strains echoed unconsciously\nthe sorrow nestling at her heart.\nHow often had she come out to the porch—as a child gazing\nenquiring into spaces—as a young girl when her dainty feet\nwere covered with the first long dress—and now as a married\nwoman to listen dreamily to the noises of the outside world,\ntd warm herself in the sunshine away from the dust and din\nof the street. Nothing had changed. As with so many women,\nmarriage had really meant nothing to her, it had only poured\nthe sweet poison of sensuality into her life, and made her more\nthan ever wish to lead her inner life, jealousy guarding all\nesthetic pleasures as secrets of her own.\nOf what was she dreaming? I suppose of what all those\nthousands of women dream who stand at parlor windows and\ngarden gates gazing into vacant space. The passerby wonders\nwhy such an air of vague melancholy and resigned sadness\nclings to them. Through their minds may drift the most com-\nmonplace things—thoughts of shopping—of flirtation—but un-\nderneath them is a deeper emotion, which makes them stare\nso absent-mindedly, and yet so imploringly into life. It is a\nlonging for something they do not possess—something they do\nnot even divine the nature of. Some shattered bowl beyond\nrepair! The storm of life rages on, they stand at the foam-\nwet shore and look on with the same yearning as does the\nbeach wanderer who sees mighty ocean steamers plough the\nwaters for distant lands that his own eye will never alight\nupon.\nA bee roamed about the yard—perhaps to bring a message\nfrom one flower to another. One of the pendulous clusters almost\ntouched her face and its faint aroma caressed her senses with\nvague suggestions, like a whiff of primitive times, as she leaned"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "1186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161101-01.1.8", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nBruno's Weekly, published weekly by Bruno's Weekly, Inc., at 58 Washington Square, New York City. Edited\nand written by Guido Bruno. 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\nagainst a column her eyes half closed. How she enjoyed the\ndelicate invasion of spring right here in the city garden, which\nmeant to her as much as the entire wealth of form and color in\nthe universe. It is a frail and timid spring that scarcely sprin-\nkles a green shimmer upon the greyness of the town. Yet it\nis the same spring that every season pervades the whole earth\nwith meditative sweetness. The cares of winter are forgotten,\nas with a thin vague haze, murmuring of the green world\noutside, it envelopes all objects in the languor of a dream.\nSuddenly she heard a merry laugh. Se looked about. There\nover the fence opposite, appeared a little fellow with a shock of\nblonde hair, and peered curiously into the yard: \"Say lady,\ngive me some flowers. I want to make some bee jam for the\nbaby.\" The sun played upon its head and shining from the\nrear made happiness that she had hoped for, had never entered\nher life, waved her hand in greeting, and threw a cluster over\nto him with a cheerful \"Here you are.\" The boy seriously\nnodded, \"Thank you, lady,\" and disappeared from view.\nThe scene had suddenly changed from her, everything had\nlost its color. The garden seemed to lie in shadow, as it were,\nalthough the sun poured upon it as before. An immense lone-\nliness possessed her. The line between her thin but well cut\nlips grew straight. What could it be that affected her so?\nShe had often felt the emptiness in her life—that her woman-\nhood was not complete—but she had never felt it so keenly\nbefore. The great happiness that she had hoped for, had\nnever entered her life. The room that had been her nursery\nstood empty. Would it ever ring with childish prattle and\nlaughter? Would she ever hold a new life to her breast?\nWhat else but that deep hope had inflamed kisses upon her lips.\nShe was destined to pine away like an unopened but*.\nWas it her fault, was it her husband's? She did not know.\nWhy it it that women know so little about things on which\nreally the welfare of their life depends? Why have some more\nchildren than they can support and others none? She knew\nthat there were some who did not wish for any, something she\ncould not understand. And, yet as she went over the list of\nher married acquaintances they were nearly all childless. The\nNew Englanders were played out as a race, a large percentage\nwere no longer capable of fatherhood and motherhood, her\nhusband had told her. Just like these wisteria, coming from a\nforeign land with their vitality exhausted so that their seeds\nare useless. How often had she tried to replant a few branches\nalong the trellised walk but c*«spite the tender care bestowed\nupon them they would not grow. There had never been a\nchange for their existence. In summers past, the present stems\nhad yielded all they could give. And what remote causes,\noperating from time immemorial through series of generations,\nhad condemned her to the same insufficiency. Was the sap of\nlife also extinguished in her family?\nShe had remembered that she had read somewhere that\nChinese women in quaint flowered gowns would sing litanies\nto the goddess of fecundity. Uh! that the same pagan angel\nof annunciation would enter her quiet home. And by a sudden\nwild impulse she plucked a big bunch of wisteria and called\nout to the boy, \"Do you want some more flowers?\" The boy's\nhead appeared once more, smiling and nodding with a curious\nmien. In feverish haste she hurried back and forth from the\nporch to the fence, with her arms full of blossoms and the little\nfellow clapped his hands in glee.\nThen she looked with a half happy, yet painful smile at the\ndemolished flower wall, a silent symbol of her beautiful but\nempty revolt. She had sacrificed her favorite flowers for a\nflower that may never bloom in her life.\n\nSadakichi Hartmann\n\nOSCAR WILDE'S\nImpressions of America\nedited with an introduction by Stuart Mason.\nOne of the original 500 copies printed.\nThis book, written by Oscar Wilde upon his return from\nthat memorable lecture tour through America, contains\nsome of the finest characterizations of America, as Wilde\nsaw it. He hits mercilessly and he praises effusively. In\nthe appendix is an interesting collection of newspaper\ninterviews with Wilde.\nIt is a rare Wilde item, published by one of Wilde's oldest\nfriends and his bibliographer.\nOnly a few copies left which will be sent to those whose orders\nreach us at first for $1.00 postpaid.\nSCHULTE'S BOOK STORE\n132 E. 23rd Street\nNew York\n\nTHE ONLY PRIVATE SCHOOL IN OUR VILLAGE\nMiss Cornelia Kingsland Barsow will re-open her school at\nTwenty-seven West Eleventh Street, on Thursday, October\n12th, for children between five and fourteen years of age.\nFIVE TEACHERS—ManuaI and Art Work—FRENCH.\nThere prevails a delightful atmosphere of the school-room\nin a private home.\nRates reasonable.\n\n14 Stories by Maupassant,\nFor 35 cents postpaid\nStories of the Tragedy and Comedy of Life, with\nan introduction by Paul Bourget. Prettily printed in\nlarge type on superior paper, with illustrations in\ncolor by Clare Victor Dwiggins. 1 6mo, stiff dark\ngreen paper cover, rough edges. (196 pages.) New\nYork, M. Walter Dunne, 1914. (Pub. 50 cents.)\nComprises the following short stories: The False\nGems, Was it a Dream?; Simon's Paper; In the Moon-\nlight; The Old Maid; The Lancer's Wife; The Sequel\nto a Divorce; The Englishwoman; Sentiment; The\nFishermen; In his Sweetheart's Livery; Bertha; Dis-\ncovery; and A Message of Love.\nCONDOR'S BOOK STORE\n366 Fifth Ave.\nWrite for interesting cataligue of books.\n\nR. EDERHEIMER\nPRINT CABINET\n366 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK\nOriginal Drawings by Old Masters\nALL APPRECIATIVE VISITORS CORDIALLY INVITED\n\nBruno Chap Books.\nTwenty-eight booklets containing the most interesting work of the most unique writers of the past twenty-\nfive years.\nPrices ranging from fifteen cents to fifty cents.\nWrite for catalgoue and send one-cent stamp. It contains the story of Bruno's Garrett from a public grave\ndigger's tool house to the exhibition gallery of modern artists' work.\nBruno's Weekly, 58 Washington Square, New York City."}]}