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of approaching cold weather, they wore only faded blue cotton uniforms with a red band around the right sleeve. In addition, each man carried a Chinese umbrella.
General Feng's troops are pledged to abstain from "drinking, smoking and loose living." Their battle cries and marching songs are set to hymn tunes. Their favorite song, which, when translated, is said to be "most bloodthirsty and obscene," is set to the tune of Onward, Christian Soldiers.
There are two fronts in the present war (TIME, Sept. 8, et seq.): One in the North where the SuperTuchuns Chang and Wu are contending; one around Shanghai, between the Tuchuns Chi and Lu.
North. No decisive fighting took place in the northern theatre of war. Both Wu and Chang made extravagant claims for the future, none of which could be taken seriously. Movements of troops were reported on both sides. Air-force units were active.
Tuchun Chang requested the British and U. S. consuls to warn the Nationals in the war area that he was engaged in a life and death battle and could not stop at "half-measures." He suggested that foreigners leave the area, as he found himself unable to afford them adequate protection.
Preliminary fighting between the Chang and Wu factions was reported, but the strict censorship imposed obscured the details. The clashes were, however, unimportant. A great battle was expected in the early future.
Shanghai. The third army of Tuchun Lu, defender of Shanghai, revolted, went over to the enemy. Lu said it was unfortunate but not necessarily disastrous. He withdrew his troops from positions around Lake Taihu and fell back upon positions outside Shanghai.
The troops of Tuchun Chi made desperate attacks on Shanghai, which continued to hold out despite all predictions of utter defeat. Foreign correspondents with the Chi army said that the fall of Shanghai was only a matter of time, as Chi had a greater and better-equipped army than Lu. One of the reasons of the failure of the Chi troops to defeat Lu decisively was said to be their erratic artillery fire. Terrific bombardments of the enemy lines were made, but as many of the field guns were fired like
Chinese Christian Soldier
howitzers, and as the timing of the shells was indifferent, the Chi troops were everlastingly being surprised to find that the Lu army was as firmly entrenched as ever before Shanghai.
South. Dr. Sun in the South continued to concentrate his troops but, as far as could be ascertained, no soldiers had been sent to aid Tuchun Lu.
LATIN AMERICA Arms
Following the failure of the PanAmerican Conference at Santiago, Chile (TIME, Mar. 10, 1923) to settle upon a plan of naval disarmament, South American republics began to arm, concentrating upon their navies.
Last week, a correspondent of The Christian Science Monitor gave a few facts about the naval armament race in the four principal countries on the South American continent.
Chile, in fear of Peru, has built and opened the largest dry-dock in South America for the purpose of keeping her Navy at the highest point of efficiency.
Peru, advised by a U. S. Naval Mission at Lima, has ordered a fleet of submarines.
Argentina, fearing Brazil, is contemplating a $200,000,000 bond issue for increasing the Navy and Army.
Brazil, whose Navy Department is also receiving the advice of U. S. naval experts, was said to be in the midst of the "greatest naval development in South American history."
The following books, economically, politically, historically or biographically related to Foreign News, have recently been published in the U. S.:
Father of Socialism
ROBERT OWEN-Frank Podmore-Appleton ($5.00). While the goodnatured world is smiling at Socialism, a book about England's first Socialist is particularly apropos. The British Labor Party owes its inception in no small degree to Robert Owen (1771-1858), for he was ever the staunch champion of the oppressed laboring classes. The book is a reprint, but owing to its opportuneness it will probably find many more readers than it did 20 years ago when it made its début.
POINCARE - Sisley Huddleston - Little Brown ($2.50). Called a biographical portrait, this book attempts to solve the enigma which the French call Poincaré. The author is not particularly successful. He hardly pierces the veil of the unknown that hangs around the ex-Premier, but he makes many shrewd comments and gives some first-hand impressions of the man who has "les poings, poings, poings . . . les poings carrés!"
Lord Long, Gent
MEMORIES-The Rt. Hon. Viscount Long of Wraxall-Dutton ($7.50). Lord Long, better known in Britain as Walter Long, comes from a class that is known as the "landed gentry." In this book he reviews his career from the nursery floor to the floor of the House of Commons, which he not so many years ago left for the House of Lords. His career is not particularly interesting for the simple reason that Long is not a particularly interesting man; but his incidental descriptions of human society during the Victorian and Edwardian ages are full of point and show with remarkable clarity the recent growth of democracy in Britain.
Karsavina, impetuous Russian dancer, will open her American season in Baltimore on Oct. 31. She brings with her a novelty that has set London agog. As a bare-kneed flapper, she twirls about to the music of an entirely new instrument, the typewriter. The London Daily Mail registered almost incoherent astonishment, shouting, ballyhooing:
"Richard Strauss is one down! He never thought of the typewriter! Walk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see Karsavina dance to the accompaniment of a typewriter! It is simply the maddest piece of fooling ever seen on any stage. The sight of Karsavina is worth the money-Karsavina as a naughty American flapper, a young sister of Daisy Miller; Karsavina in a sailor's blouse, short, white serge skirt and bare knees. She is a naughty, enterprising American child of the European tradition. Not content with seeing the circus, the terrible infant must needs find her way among the performers. Hence the impossible-Karsavina dancing a cakewalk, Karsavina dancing to American airs on a typewriter."
But why not? Tschaikovsky himself once called for a battery of field artillery.
"Mephisto," whose famed "musings" appear in Musical America, was irate last week, sensed an insult to all musicians in an item that appeared in a metropolitan daily, demanded that his friends, his co-workers be "given their due." Mused Mephisto:
"Notables in Every Walk of Life See Firpo-Wills Fight,' says a big headline in a daily paper. The sub-heading continues: 'Royalty, Society, Finance, Politics, Theatre, Pulpit and Plain People Mingle.'
"I protest. Why are musicians exIcluded from this generalization? Or are they included among the 'plain people'?
"I do not see any musicians mentioned among those present, but that was their affair. If they didn't want to go, there was no particular reason why they should. But what peeves me is that musicians should be ignored in this summary fashion. The headline might have read: 'Notables in Every Walk of Life Except Music See Fight.' Then no one could have complained.
"Musicians ought to stand up for their rights, nominal as well as actual.
"Is there a nobler profession? Are musicians not as good as other people? Do they not contribute as much to the happiness and well-being of their fel
lows as some of the classes singled out for special prominence in the heading I have quoted? Are they not often the guests of kings and queens?
“Then let them be given their due on all occasions."
From F. P. Keppel, President of the Carnegie Corporation of New York, came an unqualified denial of the rumored imminent demolition (TIME, Sept. 22) of historic Carnegie Hall. This in spite of the undenied fact that the Hall make no money; that its profits are continually eaten up by necessary repairs and alterations.
Seven years ago, Mrs. Frederick Shurtleff Coolidge* determined to indulge to the limit her craving for ideal music. She went about the matter with the lusty vigor that only an enthusiastic amateur can maintain for long.
She asked herself some questions: "What is the purest music?" "Chamber music," was the reply. She acted on it. She organized and maintained out of her own pocketbook a private trio of her own, the Elshuco Trio, and later a string quartet, the Festival Quartet of South Mountain (TIME, Oct. 8). Next, she asked:
"Where can such music be heard to best advantage?"
Obviously not in a great metropolitan concert hall; that would be too formal for the delicate tonal flowers of Mozart and Schönberg. Also not in a private drawing-room or salon; that would be too informal, too pink-tea-like.
Mrs. Coolidge, therefore, had built a special Temple of Chamber Music on the slopes of South Mountain in the Berkshires, near Pittsfield, Mass. It accommodates an audience of 500-just the right number. But
"How about this audience-isn't the usual audience a deadly thing?"
This final question was a poser, and, in her reaction to it, Mrs. Coolidge displayed something bordering on genius. Having carefully picked just the right music, performers and locale, she proceeded to pick her audience, and just as carefully. Seats at the Berkshire Festivals cannot be bought; they must be earned. To earn a ticket, you must
*Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge is a daughter of the late O. S. A. Sprague, wealthy Chicago wholesale grocer (Sprague, Warner & Co.), sister of A. A. Sprague, 1924 Democratic candidate for U. S. Senator from Illinois, widow of Dr. Frederick Shurtleff Coolidge. Recently, she built and endowed, at Yale University, a building used for concerts and lectures-Sprague Memorial Hall-in memory of her son, Frederick S. Coolidge Jr., who was killed early in the War.
Though a New Englander, Mrs. Coolidge's husband was not closely related to the U. S. President.
be the right sort of person; you must be a Person of Taste. It will help matters a little, perhaps, if you have attained eminence in some pursuit other than the musical or artistic, but if you have not at any time demonstrated your possession of this one supreme requirement, the possession of a golden, diamond-studded dinner service will not avail to win you an invitation to the Coolidge Temple.
The result of this momentous decision, possible only to a Patron to whom the very expression "box-office receipts" is in the last degree repugnant, was that every gentle note released from a trembling string at South Mountain falls into each and every one of a thousand ears particularly born and especially trained to appreciate its most delicate nuance.
This is the seventh year that the Chosen have assembled reverentially at Pittsfield to partake of perfect musical fare, served up in perfect dishes. There were three days of perfection.
First Day: The Festival Quartet (William Kroll, first violin; Karl Kraeuter, second violin; Hugo Kortschak, viola; Willem Willeke, 'cello) played Mozart's Quartet in F, originally written for the King of Prussia, and followed it with Vincent D'Indy's Quartet in E, an incredible, intricate thing based on a theme of only four notes. Finally there was the Bohemian Josef Suk's Piano Quintet, with Signor Aurelio Giorni distinguishing himself by his beautiful restraint at the piano.
Second Day: The entire morning program was dedicated to Bach. Harold Samuel, an English Bach specialist, who only recently left enthusiastic Londoners weeping for more after six Bach concerts, officiated at the piano. Georges Enesco did the violin parts, including a long and difficult unaccompanied Sonata, and a Scotch singer. Fraser Gange, sang two complicated arias-the first tender and elevated, the last turgid and wild, to match the fearful text, Gleichwie die wilden Meereswellen.
The afternoon was "All-American❞—
and pretty poor. Two saccharine Sonatas, by John Alden Carpenter and Leo Sowerby (Prix de Rome incumbent) were followed by a Quintet by Samuel Gardner, entitled To a Soldier, which unblushingly sounded Oriental wails right out of Rimsky-Korsakoff.
Third Day: The feature of the final day was a Prize Composition. For Mrs. Coolidge also awards prizesformerly annually, now biennially (so the composers can have time to write something really worth while). This year it was won by Wallingford Riegger, a newcomer. His composition was a setting of Keats's famous tragic ballad La Belle Dame Sans Merci for a unique combination of instruments. He demands two sopranos, contralto and tenor voices, a violin, viola, 'cello, double-bass, oboe (interchanged with
English horn) and French horn. Mr. Riegger, a graduate of the New York Institute of Musical Art, conducted it himself; and Mr. Charles Stratton sang the sorrowful knight's part with the necessary forlorn feeling.
There was also Schönberg's "flighty and gossamer" Quartet with voices; and finally, by way of ice-cream soda to
finish the feast in lighter vein, Beethoven's settings of "Scotch" and "Irish" songs, including Sally in Our Alley.
The New Pictures
Feet of Clay. When Cecil de Mille and his friends get whirling around "society's playground," the unfortunate observer can fortify himself with only one reflection. He is watching motion pictures at their worst. Probably Mr. de Mille would reply that he knows his is a dime novel edition of the social register but that is what the people want. If the people want it, they certainly get it in the first part of Feet of Clay. By the time the characters slip into purgatory, society's playground is ploughed for miles around by the difficulties encountered by a woman in selecting one husband from two suitors. Somebody thereupon dies; and the story moves over into "another world." From this point forward, matters improve; and the improvement is in no small part due to ideas originally sketched to the world at large by Sutton Vane in Outward Bound.
Captain Blood. Sabatini, it seems, is God's gift to the silent drama. He is a glutton for Romance, leading the present field of doublet-and-hose designers by several hundred thousand copies. He is so good at this sort of thing that his yarns must inevitably make sturdy cinema matter. Captain Blood is another pirate A young Irish physician embroils himself with King James and is sold into slavery to a West Indian planter. While pirates are looting the town, he leads a sortie of slaves, out-pirates the pirates, and sails away to become a buccaneer in his own right. The lovely Arabella, niece of the planter, thereupon turns against him, and there is considerable dramatic dredging to be done before the course of true love again runs smooth, Warren Kerrigan buckles and swashes diligently in the title part to excellent effect. Jean Paige is a distinct optical advantage. The explosion of a pirate galleon is the most engrossing single shock.
The Ritz Revue. About once a season or less, there trudges into town a revue that scorns comparison. Usually it is The Music Box. Though that estimable entertainment has not yet made its entry, there are a good many people willing to wager right now that
He mimics a mimic
it will not even jar The Ritz Revue on its presiding pinnacle. The Ritz Revue is by 20 or 30 laps the best revue in town.
The artificers who put the piece together (chiefly Hassard Short and Al Jolson) reversed the usual process. They started with humor, gorged their program with it and then turned their attention to music, dancing and color.
Taste domineered. There are no tidal waves of gorgeousness washing about the walls. The sets are small, the color cunningly conceived, the effect brilliant. The chorus is limited to pretty girls, each with a dancing specialty. Madeline Fairbanks (a Fairbanks twin) was their commanding officer. Tom Burke and his more or less grand opera voice managed the more important music.
Charlotte Greenwood, the skyscraping comedienne, collected the fullest gusts of laughter. Raymond Hitchcock, usually in monologue and at one point in his underclothes, was as of old. Pri
The Greenwich Village Follies. John Murray Anderson equipped his painting staff with riot guns and trained the batteries on the scenery. The result was what is so very often known in discussions of musical revues as "a riot of color." There is another type of riot that is referred to, usually in the advertisements-"a riot of fun." As a riot of fun, The Greenwich Village Follies is one of the most depressingly orderly exhibitions that has arrived this fall.
There are various interludes that are devised apparently for the promotion of laughter among the visitors. The visitors failed to laugh.
Here an exception must be made. There is a pair of comedians connected with the festivities, Moran and Mack by name. They were funny. They were so brilliantly and devastatingly funny that they easily ran away with the show. They are blackface. They have long been popular in vaudeville. Unfortunately they appear only twice.
The high spots were the Dolly Sisters and the twisting strains of Vincent Lopez's band.
Izzy. When Abie's Irish Rose appeared (a play which last week reached its 1,000th performance in Manhattanthe only play beside Lightnin' to achieve this distinction), it will be recalled that the critics held up their hands in horror; right-minded people refused to go; authorities predicted dire things of witnesses who could enjoy it. Abie has had numerous imitators, of which Izzy is probably the best.
Izzy is frankly a Semitic entertainment, divulging how an aggressive Jewish youth can rise to the top of the film industry in something less than no time. He makes a promise to his uncles in the first act. And, lo and behold, in the third act his promise is fulfilled. . . .
Schemers. The most enthuisastic single flurry of applause that greeted this strange production on the opening night welcomed the entrance of a character in the play-a theatrical critic, A. Wood Brown by name. The applause volleyed from a single pair of hands which upon investigation proved to be those of Heywood
*Boisterious Bert Savoy, famed female impersonator and Captain of the team of Savoy and Brennan, had an unending stock of anecdotes about a certain friend of his known as "Margie," which he delivered in a most babbling, flirtatious manner. He died in July, 1923, struck by lightning at Long Beach, L. I.
Broun, critic of The New York World. The other critics sat more stolidly in their chairs and watched their effigies burned among the ruins of a singularly tedious display.
My Son. When the son turned out to be a thief, the mother turned out to save him. He was in love with a flapper whose heart resembled cut glass. The mother was in love with Felipe Vargas from the Azores. The Sheriff also loved her. The family were humble Portuguese; and the locale, Provincetown.
From this blueprint, the playwright, Martha Stanley, contrived to set up a creditable and generally interesting structure. Most entertaining was the contrast of the Latin temperament against a New England background.
The Best Plays
These are the plays which, in the light of metropolitan, criticism, seem most important:
COBRA-Spectators have been stirred these several months by Judith Anderson's display of the snake-charmer charmed by the snake.
WHITE CARGO-Souls dry-rotting and flaking off before the withering loneliness of Africa.
WHAT PRICE GLORY-Strong men, strong words, strong drink as the Marines knew them close to the trenches.
CONSCIENCE-A patchily important play energized beyond itself, thanks to a magnificent performance by Lillian Foster.
RAIN-Edward of Wales paid Jeanne Eagels the conclusive compliment of seeing no other actress or play.
THE MIRACLE-Still weaving its medieval mystery in the gloomy cathedral fastnesses of the Century Theatre.
THE SHOW-OFF-Wherein the low brow and the loud mouth are satirized with the keenest scalpels of the showshops.
FATA MORGANA-Emily Stevens and the Theatre Guild are daringly diverting in a Continental love story by Vajda.
EXPRESSING WILLIE-SO successful a satire of modern youth and his artistic temperament that subsidiary companies are about to branch into other cities.
THE WEREWOLF-In which just about everything is said out loud on a subject usually reserved for whispering.
Some have persisted from last season; some are new; all are good: Ritz Revue, Kid Boots, Rose-Marie, The Dream Girl, The Passing Show, I'll Say She Is, Ziegfeld Follies, George White's Scandals, Stepping Stones, The Grand Street Follies.
Kindly and brave
in Queen Anne's day. He made songs for the people and songs for himself of his love for them and for Ireland. Before usurers and poverty had fallen upon the country, the Rafterys had been fine folk. No man lived to call Great Raftery other than an Irish gentleman. No tap-house, farm cottage, hall or castle but hailed him as Ireland's darling and had bed, board and homage for him at any hour.
Great Raftery came upon Hilaria, a small Spanish woman, and he making a poem at the Galway dockside one sundown.
The Welshman Daffyd Evans of Claregalway passed like another shadow between Raftery and the sun when Hilaria, who one night sang a song of the harlots of Cadiz, said she was of the Welshman's house. Being blind, Raftery knew more than she sang.
Raftery and Hilaria were married, with a street woman and a beggar to witness; and Raftery spared the Welshman of his dagger when the cringing misshapen scoundrel would have spread the past like a blight over the newly wed couple. They went out upon the open roads to County Mayo; and when she made her confessional, telling of her eagle heart and her childhood's hard
BLIND RAFTERY-Donn Byrne Century ($2.50).
usage, Great Raftery laid aside his harps and caught her to him.
A frayed but punctilious sergeant; rough highland boy, with teeth like trap and a knife, a yellow tunic and yellow kilt; a harp with "I am the Queen of Harps" graved on its front pillar, the Red Hand of Ulster beneath and the maker's and singers' boasts be neath that-these are also in the story
The Significance. To read this latest of Donn Byrne's books is to walk a quiet way by the sea in Ireland and among greening hills and over the wide ends of the earth, with a kindly, brave man whose talk is chiefly mellow reminiscence. Because he thinks of gone days and people that live no longer, he thinks simply. His telling is not confused with detail. Because he is kindly and brave, he tells wistfully and with honesty of emphasis, without false pity for dead glories nor false praise for ancient virtues. Being Irish and a mellow man, he tells with rich gusto and whimsy, so restrained that their bursts give pleasure like that of finding a wild bird's nest or bathing alone in the sea or fully remembering an old, old song.
The Critics. The Literary Review: "In these parlous times of realism, Donn Byrne is the blade of green, romantic grass in a long, long stretch of sand. Baptize him 'Oasis' if you will."
The Bookman: "Byrne's prose has the languorous beat of a Keats sonnet."
The Author. Brian Oswald DonnByrne was born in Manhattan, with a long north-of-Ireland genealogy. From three on, he grew up on the family estate in Ireland, where he heard Gaelic and faery lore. His college learning he got at Dublin, Paris and Leipzig. In 1911, he began an editorial apprenticeship in the U. S. Until he wrote Messer Marco Polo, few guessed his genius. Lately Changeling, The Wind Bloweth and Blind Raftery have marked him as of the high company of true romanticists.
The following estimates of books much in the public eye were made after careful consideration of the trend of critical opinion:
UNITY-J. D. Beresford-Bobbs Merrill ($2.50). Katherine was a poet; Louise was adept at watercolor painting; Emily played the violin. Katherine Louise Emily Willoughby had to reconcile the talents, passions, ambitions of these people. So she adopted the in
ccurate sobriquet, Unity, and spent her ife trying to make it fit. She married
man, Brian Jessup, who went in wimming drunk, at midnight, in Sidey. Australia. She married an automaton, Michael Lord Mowbray, of whom she felt she was unworthy because he could not understand her. But only Adrian Gore, the man with the grey eyes, could give her Unity. This book is the elegant elaboration of a somewhat frayed psychological formula. It fails to convince because the author attempts to show how a human doll works by manufacturing instead of analyzing one. It does not fail to interest because Mr. Beresford is capable craftsman.
GREEN THURSDAY-Julia PeterkinKnopf ($2.50). Author Peterkin is a lady of quality who lives on a great and isolated plantation in South Carolina. The people who serve her, the people who are her neighbors, the people she watches over, are black. In No this book she writes about them. wild crap-shooters are they, no barrelhouse kings, cake-walk princes, or skull-faced witch-men. They are Negroes who pick cotton, plough fields, raise pickaninnies.
There is old Maum Hannah, squatter, who asked the Lord what to do when a white-trash gentleman built a house on her land and was going to make her tear down her cabin-who got a sign from the Lord, and burnt that house to white fine ashes, such as fell out of her corncob pipe when she prayed. There is Killdee who ploughed on Green Thursday-Ascension Day-the day Jesus went back to God, wherefore he expected to be scourged, and was, for that night his little girl, Baby Rose, was burnt to death in the cook-fire. After that Killdee hated God. Vengeance was all right, but it didn't seem square to burn a baby.
Most of the stories are about Killdee, his wife, Rose, and Missie, the little changeling with the pointed chin, the curving lips, the delicate bluish bloom on black cheeks, who came to stay with them. The blacks live so near the
TIME, The Weekly News-Magazine. ors-Briton Hadden and Henry R. Luce. Associates-Manfred Gottfried (National Affairs), John S. Martin, Thomas J. C. Martyn (Foreign News). Weekly ContributorsErnest Brennecke, John Farrar, Willard T. Ingalls, Alexander Klemin, Peter Mathews, Wells Root, Preston Lockwood, Niven Busch. Published by TIME, Inc., H. R. Luce, Pres.; J. S. Martin, Vice-Pres.; B. Hadden, SecyTreas.; 236 E. 39th St., New York City. Subscription rate, one year, postpaid: In the United States and Mexico, $5.00; in Canada, $5.50; elsewhere, $6.00. For advertising rates address: Robert L. Johnson, Advertising Manager, TIME, 236 E. 39th St., New York; New England representatives, Sweeney & Price. 127 Federal St., Boston, Mass.; Western representatives, Powers & Stone, 38 S. Dearborn St., Chicago. Ill.; Circulation Manager, Roy E. Larsen. Vol. IV, No. 13.
earth their roots go down into it like the roots of trees. Mrs. Peterkin understands these twisted roots, their fumbling, struggling, grappling, and the secret chemistries that work in themsorrow and wonder, sweetness and regret, life and love and death.
A Wandering Figure
Why Not Write a Novel,
Konrad Bercovici is one of these walrus-mustached foreigners who give a touch of the exotic to the reaches of the Hotel Algonquin, Manhattan. Two new books of his are on the autumn lists-Around the World in New York and Iliana, a collection of gypsy stories. His play, Costa's Daughter, will soon be unveiled to the glances of Broadway. Bercovici is a Rumanian, born there in 1882. He came to this country in 1916, but no amount of American sunlight and air, fortunately, can erase the swarthy hue of his person or the sleek ebon of hair and mustache.
I have known Bercovici for some years. It was John O'Hara Cosgrave of the Sunday World who first made use of his talent for limning the odd foreign character in a pseudo-fact story of New York life. Around the office of the World Bercovici used to be a wandering and slow-moving figure, his soft voice puncturing the bang of typewriters, smoothly but insistently. He is one of those quiet people, born to be persistent and destined for success. He and his ilk are important to America because they furnish us with a type of poetry which enriches our literature without degenerating our standards. Bercovici is essentially romantic; but he is essentially wholesome. I have often wished that persons of his type could be spread more widely through the country. They would bring a new vision to the small towns of the North, South and West-only it would, perhaps, be impossible for them to fit into the groove of the small town. Here in New York, they drift sooner or later to their proper sphere of influence and prosperity. They become our only real friends. They are much-needed color spots in the Anglo-Saxon drabness.
If I knew the town of New York as well as Konrad Bercovici does, I should be sure never to be bored of an evening. In this latest book of his, he tries to explain the foreign quarters, and does it admirably; but the joy of discovery can never be ours if we follow a guide book. I shall never forget one or two early pilgrimages with him among strange coffee houses and narrow streets. Why not write a novel, Mr. Bercovici, that will catch the impressive magic of cosmopolitan New York?
Higher education in the U. S. was once more put in motion at many institutions.* Returning students registered, shook familiar hands, laid in various supplies, strolled off to investigate their new courses. Excited matriculants, reported everywhere to be in record multitudes, explored their surroundings, asked questions, herded into chapels and auditoria to be welcomed by deans and presidents. Deans and presidents brought forth sheaves of notes and speeches, expounded aims and ideals in terms occasionally selected with an eye to arresting the world's attention well as shedding light and inspiration upon undergraduate audiences. At Hanover, N. H., Dartmouth College, now 154 years of age, opened with the announcement that compulsory chapel attendance thing of the past; with the annual sophomore-freshman football rush; with words from President Ernest M. Hopkins: "I would seriously submit for undergraduate consideration the question whether, from the point of view of their own ultimate good, there has not been a too complete disappearance, from the college curriculum and from college life, of compulsion and of requirements, rigorous and even irksome, if you will, which temper the mind and test the souls of men!"
At Amherst, Mass., Amherst College entered upon its 104th year with John Coolidge, son of President Calvin Coolidge, one of 210 freshmen; with a few words from Acting President and President-elect George D. Olds, concerning changes in Amherst's faculty, curriculum, landscape.
At Williamstown, Mass., the 131st year of Williams College began when President Harry A. Garfield opened Memorial a service in Thompson Chapel, reminded his hearers that each of them was a responsible part of the collegiate whole.
At South Hadley, Mass., President Mary E. Woolley launched Mount Holyoke College upon its 87th year by ruminating upon womankind's increasing importance in the world.
At Wellesley, Mass., some 400 girls became Wellesley College freshmen, were made welcome by the Christian Association at a tea; by President Ellen F. Pendleton; by guides who spirited them off in groups of twelve to tour the Library.
At Poughkeepsie, N. Y., Vassar
*Practically each and every institution that The opened last week is situate in the East. majority of Southern, Middle Western and Pacific Coast colleges and universities were scheduled to open one week later.