Green Hat*

Michael Arlen's Rare Way -Iris, Napier, Venice

The Story. Near Sutton Marle, in England, there was a great ash tree, very old and smelling of fairies and moonlight. Forking away from that tree there were two roads. Iris March and Napier Harpenden went there often as they grew up together, and they said goodbye there when Sir Maurice Harpenden parted them young because the March line was poor and running down. They said goodbye and took their two ways.

Napier, whose face was that of an acolyte, took the way of old England and the gentry. It led him to Venice Pollen, of the lion-cub head and bursting, boyish spirit.

Iris, whose face was white and slender beneath tiger-tawny curls, who was a March and was there

fore never let off anything by Fate, took the way that was left her, courageously, defiantly.

Boy Fenwick, her first husband, flung himself out of the window on their wedding night, and Iris told people he had died "for Purity." As people will, as she intended they should, they fastened the impurity upon Iris. Boy Fenwick's known chasteness bore them out and Iris went about her life in a manner that seemed to bear them out. She married again, lost her baby, drove her second husband away by murmuring Napier's name in her dreams, then took men here and there, in disdain, in anguish, in hunger and longing.

Just before Napier and Venice married, Iris and Napier met again. That was a fateful dawn. When Napier and Venice went through Paris the next Winter, Iris lay there in a nursing home near death with another still-born baby and septic poisoning.

But Venice was no coward. She fought on their side when Iris and Napier were for running off together. At a scene at Sutton Marle, Iris faced Sir Maurice Harpenden and loosed her hate upon him for the hell he had sent her through in the name of old England and the gentry. Venice -came in at the end of the outburst and played up like the grand sport she was. It was Napier who showed badly. He must have the woman he loved a woman respected by her friends. So he went for his father, too, and he blurted out the truth about Boy Fenwick's suicide-that

THE GREEN HAT-Michael Arlen-Doran ($2.00).

Boy Fenwick had been unclean, not Iris.

Her one secret, redeeming virtue thus exposed and vitiated, Iris could not take Napier from Venice after that. She escaped him by telling him that Venice was with child, went into the night with her mad roadster, steered straight for the old ash tree at the cross-roads, ended the whole thing in a hideous, heroic smash.

MICHAEL ARLEN "Many think of... 'a delicious sewer' "

The Significance. Many think of Michael Arlen's writing as "a delicious sewer." Others feel that he strains palpably at cleverness. Neither criticism is wholly just. Arlen's "decadence" need hardly be called sewerish for it is quite sincere, never vulgar, anything but reprehensible to fair minds. Arlen's "cleverness" is indisputable, save by the very dull; and it is beside the point that his people are wholly impossible as well as wholly charming. They are created by a sensitive person possessed of a gorgeous sense of the ridiculous, a rare way with words, and a perception half dissolute, half profound.

The Author. As one might imagine, Michael Arlen is no Englishman. He plays, dines, dances and drinks with the blither young spirits of Mayfair-the social "Mugs" as he has called them. But he is not of them. Born on the Danube in Bulgaria, of Armenian parents, he was taken to Manchester as an infant, educated in schools of the "plebs" and in Switzerland. He became a journalist in London, knew poverty and loneli

ness.

New Books

The following estimates of books much in the public eye were made after careful consideration of the trend of critical opinion:

THE HOME-MAKER-Dorothy Canfield-Harcourt Brace ($2.00). Wearily Lester Knapp lay down at night, and in the morning roused up wearier. He hated his job in the dry-goods store, and was a failure at it. His wife scrubbed the floor, harangued the children, cooked the food, ate her heart out. On the day Knapp lost his position he came home to find his house on fire; he climbed up on the icy roof, praying that he would slip. He did. Down to the pavement he fell, injured his spine, with resulting paralysis of the legs. The next week Mrs. Knapp went to the store, got a job in the cloak-and-suit department, worked to the top until she was making three times as much as her husband ever did. He, though not adept at darning socks, made the children happy because he understood their minds and did not fuss if they tore their rompers. But one night he found he could use his legs, and once more Tragedy bared its teeth at him. He would have to go out and work again, his wife would have to come back to her cage. Deliberately he unlaced his shoes and sat down in his wheeled chair. All this goes to prove that a woman's place is not always in the home. Mrs. Canfield has many facts ranged at her fingertips like ivory keys; for every fact she has a sympathy, musical, quick. Upon this subtle instrument a fugue is played.

WINGS Ethel M. Kelley - Knopf ($2.00). The caricature of a complacent male reviewing, through the smoke of his cigarette, his many loves ... ladies, who for desire of his smug lips are hanging by the neck from his shoe-strings, plunging to death from the bridge of his nose, smothering themselves in his pockets. Such a caricature is Jasper Hutchinson. Also, he is a genius, and resembles a Greek god; possibly the Greek god Priapus.* The story of his devastating parade through the lives of many women begins with the last-the little debutante whom he is to marry. Drinking the honey of his vows, she once cries out: "Oh, whom have you said these things to before?" Comes his suave reply: "To no one but you, believe me." Miss Kelley devotes the rest of this cleverly and sometimes brilliantly written book to giving him the lie.

*Priapus-the god of fertility.

Walter F. White

His Novel is Overdrawn?

Walter F. White is a slight, lighthaired, blue-eyed, soft-voiced young man, clever, wide-awake, efficient. He writes with skill and force. He has just published his first novel, The Fire in the Flint.* It is a story of the oppression of the Negro race in the South, a story of melodramatic intensity and some bitterness. Walter White knows whereof he writes. He is a Negro.

He was graduated from Atlanta University in 1916 and has done graduate work in Economics and Sociology at the College of the City of New York. For a time he was in business; then he left to become Assistant Secretary of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. I have known Mr. White for some time and admire him greatly. I recommend his novel to you, although you will find it tinged with irony that is perhaps overdrawn; but how should I know? Surely, his problem is one that makes for feeling, and it is hard to expect a man to put it on paper with fine balance.

That he has made many investigations of conditions in Southern towns, I know. His light color makes it possible for him to proceed in many cases without interference, where a man who was obviously a Negro would fail. He has, however, very nearly been killed several times, has exposed himself to great risks for the sake of his job, and is a fearless, clear-headed propagandist for the tolerance that he knows is the right of his race, in the sight of God.

That his feeling is not a calm one can be shown by a quotation from an article of his in the New York Evening Post some time ago:

a

"It would probably surprise many to know how often lynching mobs are composed to considerable extent of men (and women) who would be ordinarily classed as good citizens. Does this always mean that some particularly horrible crime has stirred them to deeds unthinkable in calmer and more dispassionate moments? By no means. The spirit of mob violence has degenerated, if such a thing can degenerate, lower than the point at which it starts, to a stage where the most trivial incident can pierce the wall of soap-bubble thickness which divides law from anarchy in many States of the South. As H. L. Mencken declared in one of his essays, lynching takes the place of the merrygo-round, and offers a periodic relief from the tension of drab existence in Southern towns."

This is pretty strong meat. I know nothing of conditions in the South. Mr. White should. Certainly he writes of them with power. J. F.

THE FIRE IN THE FLINT-Walter F. White -Knopf ($2.50),

Chinese

Nightly in the old Bowery Theatre, Manhattan, one may hear the eerie shiver of the Oriental cymbal, the monotonous tum-tum of the bass drum, the ultra-bitter sneer of the violin's E-string. This continues

from 7 to 12 p. m., without interruption. It is Chinese music, the real article, just imported fresh from Canton. Every few days a new opera is presented, in Chinese, by Chinamen and Chinawomen artists and singers, for a Chinese audience and entirely in the Chinese manner. The following opera may be taken as typical:

The Story. A wicked priest is infatuated with the virtuous heroine, a reputable and happily married woman. He contrives to make his unholy advances through a pandar, but is on every occasion sternly repulsed. The lady's husband is jealous. One night he finds a masculine slipper, not his own, in her room. Othello-like, he rashly accuses her of infidelity. To give adequate evidence of her honor, she throws herself into the river, but is fished out and hauled aboard a passing barge. It belongs to none. other than the Emperor himself, on a joy ride with the Empress. The heroine tells her tale; the Emperor persuades her husband to believe in her honesty; all ends happily.

The Performance. The action was merely suggested, never carried out. The actors sang in shrill, piercing falsetto voices, displaying incredible endurance. Most of the principals were relieved by their understudies before the evening was over-except the prima donna, who carried on until midnight. The stage manager came out occasionally and told the audience what all the action was about. A stage hand moved on and off with tables, chairs and other props, as the "scene" changed. The costumes were the last word in Eastern sumptuousness; they were said to cost $500 apiece. There was no

scenery.

Memory Contest

In Central Park, Manhattan, was held last week a unique memory contest. To the 10,000 citizens who stood about the Mall listening to the orchestra which the City engages to entertain melodylovers, pieces of paper and sharp lead pencils were distributed. As the band played extracts from 100 different selections, the game was to jot down the name of the selection. The results were surprising in their excellence; almost all the scores were creditable. "How do you account for it?" an official was asked. "The movies," said he. "They teach people music. The day has gone

by when the girl at the piano could play Aint We Got Fun? as the aged mother passed away, or I Want a Daddy Who Will Rock Me to Sleep when the villain was in the heroine's boudoir. The music fits the scene, thus printing itself on the memory, since most people remember more easily by the eye than by the ear. The cinema, if it does nothing else, gives many thousands a fair knowledge of popular and classic melodies."

Brahms-Orgies

The composer Brahms was a prodiguous, forbidding fellow. His huge Teutonic whiskers used to sweep over his whole waistcoat as he remarked: "For the shallow delights of matrimony and opera I have no courage."

This spirit runs through his music, which makes no compromises with the sugary "lollypop-school." There are but few exceptions to this: His Hungarian Dances are played, with excessive abandon, by every vaudeville violinist and every café-orchestra in Paris, and his Wiegenlied is listed in the catalog of every gramophone-record manufacturer.

But the bulk of Brahms remains "musicians' music." This is particularly true of his chamber-music, classical forms to be executed by small combinations of stringed instruments and piano. Four or five solemnvisaged performers huddle their chairs into a little group in the centre of a platform and discourse with sweetness and subtlety-without the dramatic, vulgar crash of percussion units, without the resounding blare of brazen-throated trumpets and trombones. Such music demands a cult-and a temple.

And so it was peculiarly fitting that a Brahms chamber-music cycle, a veritable Brahms orgy, spread out over no less than two months, should have been celebrated this Summer at the "Temple of Chamber Music" at South Mountain, Pittsfield, Mass. Eight concerts were heard on successive Sunday afternoons, the last taking place on Aug. 31. The event was made possible by the financial devotion of Mrs. F. S. Coolidge, a real patroness, and by the artistic devotion of Maestro Willem Willeke, a real musician.

The renditions themselves were entrusted to the capable hands of the Elshuco Trio (founded by Mrs. Coolidge) and the Festival Quartet of South Mountain. The fare consisted exclusively of units which read as follows on the program: "Quintet in G Major (for two violins, two violas and 'cello) Opus 111: Allegro non troppo, Adagio,

non

Un poco allegretto, Vivace ma troppo presto." Scant nourishment for program-music fans, who demand information in print as to the doings of wood-nymphs, animals, ships at sea, Oriental ladies, babies, magicians, policemen and princesses whose doings, we are so often told, are portrayed by the gyrations of flutes and bassoons and the contortions of the conductor.

Nevertheless, the audiences at Pittsfield were large and enthusiastic (after their fashion) throughout the festival. They listened with intense and breathless concentration to the gradual development of embryo themes into tall, symmetrical skyscrapers of tone. When we add to this the fact that, in "popular" outdoor concerts this Summer, the concertos of Bach, the overtures of Beethoven and the symphonies of Brahms were among the best liked numbers, we can find ample refutation of the contentions of those deadheads who complain that U. S. Jazzmania is undermining the respect always due to the great triumvirate "the three B's" of music.

"What I hope to do in America is to show the public that masterpieces of music as stirring, as beautiful as the greatest of the past are being written today. I will present, in Boston, music never heard before, music which exists only in manuscripts which I have in my keeping, music written by men now living who will rank as high a century from now as Mozart or Beethoven!" No enemy to Jazz is Koussevitzky. It is stated of him that in London one night, stopping at a supper-club for a bite, he heard some young Americans rendering their native melodies. He listened; his bite grew cold. "I like good music," said he.

Koussevitzky has always been more concerned with the reality of achievement than with the appearance of it. For diverse interests he substitutes his great and lonely passion; he indulges no hobbies, tolerates in himself no eccentricities. In countenance, he is grave; in dress and manner, he resembles a cosmopolitan man of business. Only his hands and

eyes admit the implication that this business has to do with Art. He was born in Tver, in Northern Russia, and received his first employment as double bass in the Moscow Imperial Opera. He rose to become a conductor and toured Europe with his orchestra. Revolt he has always accepted; even Revolution, with red flags and black drums, did not stop his music. He gave concerts in deserted places, when it was so cold that the brass players had to wear mittens.

In France, he was famed as a hunter after talent and a friend of young composers. He introduced Paris to the works of several excellent musicians, hitherto unheard-of; his wife, known as one of the most charming women in Moscow, shared this interest. To her were dedicated the works of such young Russians as Scriabin and Stravinsky. With bread and meat she fed the inspiration of more than one hungry genius who discovered, during the War, that Art was long and food was short.

In spite of his amenity to what is untried, Koussevitzky takes no liberties with the classics. There is no trace of modernity in his reading of them, just as there is no affected classicism in his reading of the mod

Invasion of Cuba

The Government of Cuba, through its Chargé d'Affaires at Washington, Arturo Padro, formally invited the New York Symphony Orchestra, under the baton of Walter Damrosch, to appear in a series of concerts at Havana in January.

Mr. Harry Harkness Flagler, President of the Symphony Society of New York, accepted, couching his reply in the following faultless diplomatic language:

"I beg to say that we accept the invitation with true appreciation of the honor shown us by your Government. May I ask you to convey to the Cuban Secretary of State my acknowledgement of the official recognition of the projected visit of the organization with which I am connected, and my earnest hope that the concerts of the Symphony Society of New York to be given in Havana under the auspices of the 'Sociedad Pro Arte Musical' may not only bring closer together the musical interests of our respective countries, but may serve as a reminder of the friendship in which we hold our sister Republic."

CINEMA

The New Pictures

Little Robinson Crusoe. It must be a discouraging task searching for vehicles in which Jacky Coogan can travel new stages on the road that he has paved for himself thus far with great prosperity. None of his later films seem much more than thinly gilded frames in which to set his brilliantly expressive countenance. In the current picture he is wrecked on a cannibal island, and disports himself amidst the cannibal can-can.

The Iron Horse. Heralds had busily prepared the advent of this luxuriously equipped film with announcements that it was a second Covered Wagon. When it arrived, it turned out to be a steam engine instead of a prairie schooner and not such an irresistible choo-choo at that. The story attempts to be an epic commemoration of the spanning of the U. S. with steel rails. It is probably pretty good history but there was oil on the tracks somewhere and the drama never got completely under way.

The Man Who Came Back. Patrons of the high blood pressure drama will recall this melo-sample of a few years back. The hero slides down the widely advertised trough of iniquity and gets the brakes working just before he pitches over the edge. For the outcome, the reader is referred to the title. George O'Brien and Dorothy Mackaill are the slider and the brakes respectively. The action roams just about all over the world, gets into opium dens and that sort of thing, and manages to make itself thoroughly exciting.

Flirting With Love. Is a very bad title for an excellent picture. In the general course of events, an eminent alienist becomes involved with a somewhat less celebrated actress. For good and sufficient but too complicated reasons to discuss here, the lady is playing the rôle of a dual personality to dupe the scientists, Finally he writes a play and she wins the lead, intending to burlesque the action at the opening. She falls in love with him just too soon to consummate her highly ingenious revenge. Colleen Moore is the woman in the case and offers one of her most attractive performances. Conway Tearle, the alienist, is typically Tearle, which for several million people is all that's

necessary.

The Female. Africa is the setting. A fierce girl supposed to have been nursed by lions, the heroine. A murder of her Boer husband, the climax. A handsome English lion-hunter, the anti-climax. Betty Compson is the female supposed to be so deadly. She is

New Plays

The Werewolf: Described by Alexander Woollcott as "the most sedulously pornographic comedy of recent years," this adaptation from the German of Rudolph Lothar created a stir in Manhattan last week. Mr. Woollcott went on to describe the play as one "with three acts, nine actors and six cases of adultery."

Into the household of a Spanish noblewoman comes a famous medium. The night before the action opens, three peasant girls have been mysteriously assaulted on the grounds of the estate.

These misdemeanors are laid to the malignant influence of the spirit of Don Juan, summoned by the inquisitive Duchess in her spiritualistic seances. Later, the specific malefactor is determined to be the astral body of a bashful young professor who is engaged in teaching the daughter of the household poetry.

Promptly the pious Duchess falls in love with the professor. Through a misarrangement of rendezvous, the second act curtain finds her in the darkened living room-and in the arms of her butler. Meanwhile the maid of the household and the daughter fall in love with the same Professor. Through a second misarrangement, the maid entertains the daughter's visiting fiancé while the daughter wanders through the gardens learning other things but literature from her Professor.

It is obvious that such adventures must be discussed by the most suavely proficient of players in the lightest and most sophisticated of moods. Laura Hope Crews as the Duchess, Leslie Howard as the Professor, Marion Coakley as the daughter and Vincent Serrano as the butler lend just those touches that make the whole thing possible. Despite their silken methods, the purple patches of the play are as dull as they are daring, while the rest of it is light comedy in its most advanced and animated state.

Heywood Broun "Many were amused. Some were not. There was no riot."

the first act, leaving the play to be reviewed by his astral body."

E. W. Osborn-"The astral body theory... made it an eminently proper play. It took the edge from the guilty delight of such spectators as had thought to shout 'Wow!' and felt impelled instead to murmur 'Blah!'"

The Easy Mark. It all depends upon one's attitude toward the Theatre.

WALTER HUSTON

He bounded

If one is a highly seasoned old theatregoer with an English mustard mind, The Easy Mark will seem a wasted effort. On the other hand, if one is a simple soul who still believes, theatrically, in Santa Claus, its friendly jokes and aseptic sentimentality will render the two hours of its performance agreeable.

The play argues amiably the thesis that kindly virtue is likely to succeed even without intelligence. The central character buys oil wells from the villains. The content of these wells materializes as salt water. There is another act in which the properties are rendered again unto the villains for $190,000. Suspense is presumably maintained by the fickle character of these gushers as they become good, bad, and indifferent according to the playwright's exigencies.

Walter Huston, who bounded from the precarious footholds of vaudeville to a secure personal success last season in Mr. Pitt, is the amateur Doheny. As an ineffective but irresistibly lovable

character, he again established his exceptional abilities.

Percy Hammond "A delirious curio."

Heywood Broun-"A comedy for beginners."

Bye, Bye, Barbara. A forlorn sample from the musical comedy factories slipped rather abruptly into town under this tepid title. Owing to fancied labor troubles in Boston, the production opened without benefit of preliminary tests. Witnesses declared that Boston was blessed by the loss. With the exception of Jack Hazzard and a tune or two, Bye, Bye, Barbara was pale entertainment.

The Best Plays

These are the plays which, in the light of metropolitan criticism, seem most important:

Drama

THE MIRACLE-Religion as Barnum might have magnificently exploited it.

RAIN-Jeanne Eagels has returned from a European vacation to continue her sermon against the relentless missionary of Pago Pago.

WHITE CARGO-A severe study of a white man's loneliness and moral disintegration in an African trading post.

THE SWAN-Eva Le Gallienne and the notable cast that made Molnar's comedy of Continental royalty a surviving monument in the season past.

Comedy

THE SHOW-OFF-An amusing contribution to the dramatic literature of the middle classes which concerns itself with the appealing art of blowing one's own trumpet.

EXPRESSING WILLIE-Zoe Akins' ingeniously amusing discussion of artistic temperament in the self-made man.

FATA MORGANA-Hungarian comedy by Vajda in which Emily Stevens and the Theatre Guild combine to satirize the efforts of a rural youth to find one night of cosmopolitan romance.

SWEENEY TODD - A dust-covered English melodrama revived to let us laugh at what our ancestors took seriously.

Musical Comedy

Patrons are agreeing that the following musical diversions merit particular attention: I'll Say She Is, George White's Scandals, The Grand Street Follies, The Ziegfeld Follies, The Dream Girl, Charlot's Revue, Stepping Stones, Kid Boots.

An End

As all good things must, the Williamstown Institute of International Politics came to an end. Two bursts of forensic fireworks and a deal of summing up marked the closing sessions.

M. Louis A. Aubert, political editor of the fortnightly Revue de Paris, rounded off his series of utterances by calling the World Court the "white hope" of World Peace but went on to say that it was ineffectual without dependence upon the League.

Oswald Garrison Villard, pacifist editor of the Nation, then drew much odium upon himself by assailing U. S. men and methods in the Government's Latin-American policy. The U. S. rules all but six Latin-American Republics "by bullets and bankers," the U. S. "dragooned" Mexico for U. S. oil interests, said Mr. Villard. "The blood of the 3,000 Haytians slain by our American marines, and of the 400 dead in Vera Cruz, mostly women and children, dishonors our good name, especially when involved with so sordid a business as debt collection!"

Cried Army and Navy officers: "Sit down!"

The New York Sun: "O. G. Villard grows fat on the proofs of his own error."

Yusuke Tsurumi, suave, patient young Japanese liberal, explained that the U. S. exclusion policy might well drive his countrymen into the dread Siberian morasses of Communism.

Boris A. Bakhmetev, onetime Russian (Kerensky) envoy to the U. S., hoped and believed that the future would link the U. S., England and Russia "in a belt of well-meaning Democracies encircling the globe." Others present, both anti- and pro-Soviet, agreed with him on this indefinite prediction. Colonel William N. Haskell, U. S. Russian Relief head, a second time urged a Russo-U. S. conclave.

The Rev. E. A. Walsh, of Georgetown University, Director General of the Papal Relief Mission to Russia, touched off the week's second pyrotechnical display by stating that the Soviet Government had officially admitted to the execution of 1,800,000 persons between 1917 and 1922. Arthur B. Ruhl, traveler and journalist, declared the figures "quite impossible." Dr. Harry A. Garfield, host of the Institute, also deprecated, suggested Father Walsh had meant to include all those killed in riots, street skirmishes and the like. Father Walsh stuck to his story, however, and received support from Sir Bernard Pares, English editor. The Russian discussion ended on a note of extreme condemnation of all things Soviet, fiery

John Spargo, U. S. platform-socialist, joining in.

¶ Professor Henry Pratt Fairchild, of New York University, reiterated his solemn warning to the world against overpopulation, urged an ethical birthcontrol and a curb upon migration. Rear Admiral William L. Rodgers, U. S. N., took the occasion to predict a clash of yellow and white men in Australia when America and the Orient overflow their Continents, and also pointed a finger of suspicion at Japan for the late Philippine disturbances. Suave Tsurumi avowed Japan's inno

cence.

On the final day, Woodrow Wilson's name was conjured with in Chapin Hall. Prof. Sidney Bradshaw Fay, of Smith College, said he has second-hand but reliable information that Woodrow Wilson died content that the League was gaining ground even without the U. S.

Claim was made by the Christian Science Monitor that its plan "to take the profit out of war," as put forward last November, "overshadowed" all else and was roundly supported at Prof. Fay's round table, the last of the Institute. This plan called for a U. S. Constitutional Amendment:

In the event of a declaration of war, the property, equally with the persons, lives and liberties of all citizens, shall be subject to conscription for the defense of the Nation.

Now daily flock the folks with brains, To dine and talk and play.

So reads the shingle over the door of a little inn at Siasconset, Mass., on cool, sandy, windswept Nantucket Island. Within, the sessions of the 'Sconset Summer School have been going on for many weeks. The school was founded in 1922 as "The School of Opinion" by Frederic C. Howe, political economist, onetime U. S. Commissioner of Immigration. Its first three periods of the 1924 season were devoted to Psychology and Psychoanalysis, to Art and Literature, to Politics and International Affairs. Last week the fourth session, on Opinion, began.

Near the inn, in fishermen's dwellings, bungalows, and a row of neat Summer cottages, dwells the heterogeneous, shifting "student body." Coming and going, staying or leaving, are members of both sexes and various generations-novelists, doctors, lawyers, merchants, a playwright who challenges the lecturers, a Lucy Stone Leaguer, a judge from South Carolina who calls himself a "Freshman at 60" because he is going to school at the University of South Carolina.

They pay their fees, attend the lectures or not, as they see fit, sit in groups at the little inn over fish dinners and feasts of the intellect During past weeks, among the lecturers have been: Sinclair Lewis (Bolshevism in books), Floyd Deli (psychology), Prof. Richard Swann Lull of Yale University (zoölogy).

Among the lecturers for September are announced: Horace M. Kailen and Everett Dean Martin speaking on the same day from different viewpoints of psychology; Dr. Albert Loyal Crane, of Chicago, on "the unusual child and other fields of applied psychology"; Sinclair Lewis on "literary idiocies"; Bruce Bliven, of the New Republic, on political aspects of the age of jazz, the jazz press. Church and State, wild youth-a gamut of subjects. Herbert Adams Gibbons, journalist-professor, "do" the Near and Far Easts.

will

As in the past two months, extra lecturers are expected to drift in unannounced.

"Inefficient"

The Chinese Ministry of Educa tion published an order advising provincial authorities against sending students to the U. S. "Ther college courses are inefficient," said the Ministry. "Send your students to Europe." Notwithstanding thr advice, 118 Chinese students last week clattered up the gangway of the President Jefferson and sailed from Shanghai for the U. S.