with the mass of fiction, of falsehood, of superstition-piled heaven high-the accumulations of ages of ignorance!

The students, the philosophers, the scientists, the dreamers were few, while those whose minds were inert were numerous. Scarcely did these latter hear the sounds which emanated from the elevated regions of Intellect, and those who did grasped not their meaning; slaves to custom, they kept plodding on their weary way, as they had plodded for centuries past.

Thus while a small band-stimulated by hidden power, which seemed to urge them on, and after receiving as sole reward for their labors the smile of the great and the patronizing favors of those who shared in the division of the good and the fair things of life-were striving to make advances in the intellectual world, the mental, as well as the material, condition of the masses remained unaltered. Progress, however small, however slow, was made, or attempted, in every science, save in that one which concerned the general welfare of the

race.

Similar to Nature's mighty, though silent, operations, marvelous things were being prepared by unseen, unheard, human forces. The time came when phenomena, unprecedented and full of meaning, began to manifest themselves. The stagnancy of centuries was disturbed; mental activity became prevalent; expectancy beat in every pulse; hope swelled in every breast. All eyes wandered to the horizon, as though in search of something that must soon appear, and lo! a rising orb was seen to drive the shades of night from the long-darkened firmament; an unknown light spread over the face of the earth, penetrated the souls of men and gave new color to all things. A cycle was completed, and evolution made a step forward in its mysterious course. A new day was born for Humanity. An epoch was at hand wherein memorable events were to be recorded in the annals of Time; for the sun of knowledge had risen, and the reign of ignorance was measured.

In the last century the world witnessed the commencement of the period distinguished above all others; when the formerly limited sphere of learning, of investigation and enlightenment, was to be enlarged; when the barriers which excluded the mass of men from that sphere were to be removed; when the inestimable value of printing was to be finally realized; when its long deferred triumph was to be celebrated; when its empire and the momentous changes which it implied were really to begin.

Not only were great truths discovered; but great falsehoods inherited from the earliest ages were unmasked and eventually cast aside with the idols of antiquity; philosophy took new wings and soared to strange and heretofore unexplored realms; science

expanded its dominion and sought fresh fields of discovery, it advanced step by step, until it burst in the increased fulness of its development, into the glorious rays which illumine our present day, and brought into deeper contrast the dimness of the past. The age of Fiction and Sentiment seemed to be vanishing; that of Reality and Utility to be approaching. The conditions of society, the relations of its members and of its institutions to each other and to the state, the prerogatives of kings, the rights of men, and other kindred subjects came to the surface and occupied the minds of all. The thoughts of the wise and of the benevolent were sent forth to the multitudes and found an echo in the remotest hamlets. The dissemination of ideas provoked discussion; discussion stimulated inquiry; inquiry sharpened intelligence, and intelligence directed a new course, began to open the eyes of the people to the fact that the unfavorable conditions to which many of them had long submitted were not the result of divine dispensations-eternal and immutable—but of human regulations, ephemeral and changeable.

And what are we called upon to relate as the foremost result of the diffusion of knowledge? A solemn, an awe-inspiring protest against the ancient state of things. Murmurs arose which, feeble at first, grew louder and more frequent. From many quarters, sounds like those of the clarion were heard, and wherever heard, men were stirred to action. The land became like a vast camp aroused from a heavy sleep. The elements of discontent gathered ominously; they increased with appalling rapidity and finally broke out into a surging storm between the conflicting sections of society. The world witnessed a revolution, more universal, more pregnant with eventual results to the race, than any convulsion of nature.

In examining the constitution of the social body, we have seen the strange spectacle of the more numerous and powerful portion of society submitting to conditions detrimental to themselves and beneficial to the smaller and weaker portion; we have become convinced from the brief and cursory survey given (and more profound and elaborate survey could but result in deepening the conviction) that this state of things could ever have obtained, had not the majority been less knowing, less intelligent, than the minority.

Ignorance, then, was the cause; the abject state was the effect. Since ignorance is vanishing, must not the conditions which spring from ignorance also vanish? The cause disappearing, can the effect remain? Will not the awakening of the human race, which led to the scientific, industrial, social, and political revolutions, lead to that one which, from a material standpoint, will prove most beneficial to the people-an economic revolution?

Sixteen hundred and eighty-two crosses, each denoting an unknown man. Each one of them one of the "privileged" humans honored (?) by being caught in the net of the "Selective Service Act" of 1917. In imagination let us visit each one of these "honored" graves, and as we stand beside that mound under which rests all that remains of one who was once full of life and activity, with the poet Markham, ask ourselves this question: "What is his breed, his genesis?"

Who is he? Was he one of the members of our so-called "best families"? Was he one of the social outcasts? Most probably he was one of the migratory workers, perhaps a lumber jack or a construction worker, perhaps he followed the harvest from Oklahoma to Canada, and perhaps he was a combination of all three.

The chances are against his being one of the "first" families, for who has heard of anybody from them "turning up missing?" But, on the other hand, take the workers like "the man with the hoe," how many of them are lying here in thte U. S. A. in unknown graves in the "Potters Field"? Does any monument mark their resting place? No; they did not die in battle for their country, they just passed on. After years of ceaseless toil, years of slavery, buffetted from pillar to post, sometimes battling the elements on land, sometimes fighting the storms on the sea, homeless, friendless, he, the worker who made everything possible, sometimes hungry, often without a roof to shelter him for the night-UNORGANIZED-became tired and lay down by the wayside.

Hands that have helped put down the mighty rails from the Atlantic to the Pacific, hands that have felled numberless trees that made printing and buildings possible; hands that have helped string thousands of miles of wire that communication may be maintained with all parts of the world, hands of MEN, REAL MEN, are now resting in unknown graves with no crosses, unhonored and unknown.

But the sentiment for war must be kept up, the glitter and glamor of war must be emphasized, and those who return must be given great ovations— for a time at least-and those who do not return, especially those known "but to God" must be made heroes of. The animal instinct in man must be fostered, that instinct to kill must be kept alive. That the lesson was well learned was manifested on November 11, 1919, during a parade of exsoldiers in Centralia, Wash. You all know the story, how the union hall of the lumber workers was raided and Wesley Everest, himself an ex-soldier

and a union lumber jack, was first unsexed while alive in an auto in which they were taking him as the star actor in a "neck-tieparty," and then hung from a bridge and his body riddled with bullets. Perhaps this is some of the "honored glory" of the living American soldier!

And who has benefited by the white crosses of the known and unknown which are dotted over nearly every country in the world? How many of us who wore the khaki or blue for two, three or more years became millionaires? "Do tell."

How many, "necessary to industry," Edsel Ford and the like, who did all the flag waving at home, how many of the lumber barons and copper kings who cheered "our" boys when they started for over there to become dirty, lousy and crummy in some funk hole in a trench; how many of this bunch made thousands of dollars, if not millions during the war? "Do tell," again.

How much of the wealth of this class was conscripted, beg pardon, I mean "selected" when you and I were-er, "selected"-I was almost going to say conscripted again-Well, Well! Let's have another "Do tell," and another "Do tell" after that.

The late ex-president Wilson stated the real cause of the war when he described it as "a war of commercialism," only he said it after the war was over, but men, some of them perhaps now in unknown graves, who had the nerve and manliness to say it when the war STARTED, spent several years behind the bars in Leavenworth Penitentiary, Kansas.

But let us get back to the reason for this, and that is the commercialists are organized and the workers are not. But the workers are awakeninng, not the workers of any particular state, BUT THE WORKERS OF THE WORLD. The workers are caring less whether "Gott mit uns" or whether he has not got mittens; what they are commencing to care about though, is how to get a little more of life's necessities and luxuries and shorten the workday so that every one may work. Gradually the worker is starting to think for himself and we who have already done a little thinking should do our best to pass on what knowledge we have to the man who works alongside of us.

Let us not be intolerant though, remember YOU were a "scissor" and a "wick" once. Some one had to tell you, so let us each pick one worker and go for him. Learn well the principles of industrial unionism and then try to spread them.

The workers as a whole are ready, all that is needed is a little "stick-to-it-iveness," constant hammering, and a little patience.

THE WORLD MUST BE MADE SAFE FOR

To a Like

From the standpoint of good and bad drama it is quite a task to classify some of the recent plays that have found their way into the theatres. proletarian they present a strange anomaly. most literature, drama is usually good or it isn't; it neither represents nor misrepresents current facts and conditions. Mostly misrepresents; seldom otherwise. In such instances classification is an easy matter.

But sometimes a fair-to-middlen' play comes along. It's good and it's bad too. More or less it defies analysis. It may contain a historically correct background-very possible social situations and incidents, but be ruined by inconsistent character delineations; or again on the other hand, plays appear that apparently have a pretty decent streak of propaganda, but end before making the point. Don't you see?

Like "What Price Glory" for instance, reviewed last month, and which ran along the edge of greatness, but missed being just that, because it hesitated to make its point; that war never was and never can be anything but destructive, all the loads of capitalistic propaganda to the contrary notwithstanding.

So as I say, in face of situations like these the task of a proletarian play reviewer becomes difficult, not to say precarious.

All of which has to do with Sidney Howard's comedy "They Knew What They Wanted," at the Harris Theatre.

Wobbly a la Howard

There's nothing particularly wrong about this play, but that it seems a revelation of facts at second hand. The characterization of the Wobbly was not typical, and that's where this play misses the point. But that's neither here nor there.

Rather, when I saw advance notices that a play with a Wobbly character in its dramatis personae had really made the grade-in other words, made Broadway and won the Pulitzer Prize for 1925 to boot-my amazement knew no bounds. Something surely was taking place in the field of dramatic literature.

I read the play in book form some time prior to seeing it, and I recall that it left me in a rather speculative frame of mind as to its dramatic qualities, as well as stage presentation. Somehow the Wobbly in the book seemed out of place-thrown in "pour le sport"--or by accident-a filler-in. But then again when one takes into account that the

It has to do with Tony Patucci, an elderly Italian fruitgrower of Napa Valley, California, whom "prohibish" has made rich. He was a poor farmer in the pre-Volstead days when he got only $10 per ton for his grapes, which now net him $100 per ton. But, prosperous now, and tired of celibacy, Tony wants a wife and children. It seems there are plenty of women in Napa Valley, but as Tony puts it, "No good womens in the parish," for which he blames Joe, his I. W. W. farmhand. And we take it, Joe's a better ladies' man than a Wobbly.

Tony goes to Frisco in quest of a wife. There, in a spaghetti joint, he sees just the woman he wents. He gets her address, returns home, and has Joe write his letters for him and propose marriage. Photographs must be exchanged. Tony realizes he wouldn't have much of a chance were he to send the waitress a likeness of his sixty years. So he swipes a picture of the handsome young Joe and sends it to the girl.

The girl, weary of wage slavery, sees in Tony her big butter-and-egg man, her meal-ticket, and jumps at the chance. She accepts Tony's offer, and with Joe's picture in her bosom starts out for Napa Valley.

But the accident is mere bagatelle. It doesn't halt the wedding. The postman arrives with Amy the mail order bride, who gives Joe and the grand farm the once-over, and says, "Amy, old kid, you're in gravy," only to discover that she has been deceived and that Tony is the man she is to marry instead of Joe. But Amy is broke and can't go back to Frisco, so decides to remain, and marries the dago there and then. Of course she's very unhappy and all that. But who wouldn't be, with the groom laid up with broken legs and everything.

But there's Joe. That's some consolation. The philandering young Wob-sloppy but beautiful, as the author describes him. And he's right and ready to cheer her. Then everything moves rather fast after that. 'Ere long Amy discovers she is with child. And Joe is the father. What to do, what to do? They decide to run away and leave Tony with his broken legs. But Tony's been pretty white to both of them, so Amy confesses to Tony. That's Tony's cue to rant and rave, but finally to calm down and prevent Amy from leaving him. Along about here the three of them seem to know what they want. Reasonably enough, Amy is convinced that she stands a better chance of pork chops and gravy with Tony than with the migratory I. W. W. who has such promiscuous ways of making a living. It can be any one of the many jobs he has mentioned-orange pickin's or the oilfields, or the railroads, or even the jail. Hadn't he told Amy that?

Then Tony too, being children- and wife-hungry, broadminded and still much in love with Amy, knows what he wants, and overlooks her little offense.

The play ends with Joe, pack on back, starting out for the great open spaces-which was what he was supposed to want. I wonder.

That's the story. It won't set the world afire. It's simple and diverting, and that's quite enough. It's good, and it isn't. And yet it has a way of getting beneath your hide. Maybe it was the Wob

You're And you

bly song in the start that turned the trick. Anyway, all the while you feel as if something is happening to you. You're not in the theatre. out in Napa Valley on Tony's fruit farm. begin to feel as if you know Joe the Wobbly farmhand. Yes, you have met him before-many times. You feel quite related to him-he's been in jail too. But of course this is California, and although Glen Anders clowns the Wobbly character more or less, you believe in him in spite of yourself, darn it.

Sidney Howard has been kinder to the character than would be expected from an outsider. He is slovenly, this Wobbly of his; doesn't care whether school keeps or not. But his outlook on life allows one to conclude that he is not altogether ignorant of Wobbly principles. It may be only a squirming idea, a confused thought, but it's there just the same. There are good moments. For instance when he reads his Wobbly papers to the disgust of Tony and the Holy Padre, the local sky-pilot-as he scans his paper, he says, "I read these things and

they make me think.

can.

A man ought to think if he Oh, not tall talk. Just what he could be doin' himself. I ought to have been in on the dock strike at San Pedro, but I wasn't. I don't want to miss another big fight like that." There are numerous other lines I'd like to quote, but space won't permit.

As I say, the author was kinder in his delineation of this character than could be expected. The usual thing (and Howard isn't altogether free from it either) is to append all the existing vices to the Wobbly make-up. To bourgeois writers loose morals seem to be a special prerogative of the Wobbly. Something like Howards' Joe. But I'm not resentful. More important than the play itself, than the excellent acting of Richard Bennett as Tony, than Pauline Lord's fine performance of the little wage slave, than Glen Anders' unforgettable Joe-is that the Wobbly is being reckoned with in American literature.

They may not like him, but they can't ignore him.

A Ghost Takes on Flesh

Although Walter Lippmann seldom says anything very new, he always says it in a new way. His very pleasing little book, "The Phantom Public" does this too. It is nice reading, for Lippmann acts on his conviction that the public is powerful but dumb, and makes his stuff easy. The publishers have helped him with thick, opaque paper, beautiful large type, and reckless wide margins, which set off the author's short chapters like jewels.

Lippmann's thesis, in short, is that modern social affairs are too complex for everybody to understand. The citizen cannot spare the time to discover what is going on. The liberals and the democrats have been acting under the assumption that the more of the detail of government that the individual "average man" is allowed to take part in, the more efficient and just and useful that government will be. The initiative, the referendum and the recall, universal suffrage, popular election of presidents, judges, senators, etc., have all been considered milestones of progress because it was thought they led