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Phantagraph, v. 11, issue 3, January 1944

Page 4

4      THE PHANTAGRAPH!

Newspaper clipping concluding story on the Belgian elections in 1938:
     The extent to which political sub-division has been carried is illustrated in Antwerp. In addition to those who voted for Collectivists, Catholics, Liberals, Communists, Flemish Nationalists or Rexists, a fair number voted for Techno-crats, Dissident Tehhnocrats, Dissident Liberals or Verbists, whose alternative name seems to be Cosmocrats. That last one sounds like something that ought to interest the Cosmic Circle.

Inscriptions inked on cover of a copy of the first issue of Strange Tales; bought in second hand store:
(Near top of cover) To Mortimer from H.W. Wossolowski.
(Lower down in different handwriting)
Weep with me, Mortimer---S.T. was a good gal---but she died young.

Stanza of a poem by Branwell Bronte. 1829:
But at last the murderer was took.
They flayed him then and roasted him with salt
And laid him on a grid-iron to roast alive.
And oh! the horrid yells that burst from his
Was like the roaring of wind 'mid trees'
And rocks and mountains in a misty vale,
Until at last they slowly died away
Into a low hoarse murmur, then were gone,
And naught was heard but dripping blood and fat
Into the raging fire which blazed around.
(From "The Bronte's Web of Childhood")

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4 THE PHANTAGRAPH! Newspaper clipping concluding story on the Belgian elections in 1938: The extent to which political sub-division has been carried is illustrated in Antwerp. In addition to those who voted for Collectivists, Catholics, Liberals, Communists, Flemish Nationalists or Rexists, a fair number voted for Techno-crats, Dissident Tehhnocrats, Dissident Liberals or Verbists, whose alternative name seems to be Cosmocrats. That last one sounds like something that ought to interest the Cosmic Circle. Inscriptions inked on cover of a copy of the first issue of Strange Tales; bought in second hand store: (Near top of cover) To Mortimer from H.W. Wossolowski. (Lower down in different handwriting) Weep with me, Mortimer---S.T. was a good gal---but she died young. Stanza of a poem by Branwell Bronte. 1829: But at last the murderer was took. They flayed him then and roasted him with salt And laid him on a grid-iron to roast alive. And oh! the horrid yells that burst from his Was like the roaring of wind 'mid trees' And rocks and mountains in a misty vale, Until at last they slowly died away Into a low hoarse murmur, then were gone, And naught was heard but dripping blood and fat Into the raging fire which blazed around. (From "The Bronte's Web of Childhood")