parison, and so, with a vivid impression still in our minds of the veritable Forest of Arden shown to us last spring by the Woodland Players, it was hard to return to the wooden trees and painted leaves of an indoor performance. However, far more lamentable was it to find that the production of the play by Miss Crossman's company was almost as mechanical as the setting; whereas Mr. Ben Greet's actors seemed to imbibe a refreshing spontaneity and a naive naturalness from the outdoor atmosphere. Miss Crossman herself gave an intelligent and carefully studied rendering of the rôle of Rosalind. She was,

however, too convincingly masculine in the doublet and hose scenes. Though not without genuine admiration for her dash and vim, it was far easier to imagine her a handsome boy than a timid but determined maiden in disguise. However, it was as an attractive youth that she did her best work, for she seemed somewhat out of sympathy with the parts of the play in which Rosalind appears as a girl.

There seems to be of late a fallacy prevalent that a star shines more brilliantly if the theatrical firmament is unillumined by any other light, of even so much as one match power. This current theory perhaps accounts for the utter mediocrity of Miss Crossman's company, no member of which, besides herself, deserves mention, except Audrey, who played her part with utter simplicity and whole-hearted joyousness, yet without introducing into it the element of complete idiocy which so many actresses consider necessary to an interpretation of the rôle.

The play, on the whole, was a disappointment, as all dramatic efforts almost invariably must be, which depend exclusively on the personality of one actor or actress for their success.

L. S. L.

ALUMNE DEPARTMENT

"There isn't a man in America but what's got his price," remarked the Genial American at the Sicilian table-d'hôte.

"We care less for money in Germany; you Modern Innocents Abroad cannot buy a Prussian officer," replied a greyhaired German, dispassionately looking over

his spectacles.

"Neither," the Assorted Guests turned with one accord toward a feminine voice with a little quaver in it, half-way down the table,-"neither can you buy an American gentleman."

The Assorted Guests, -the scholarly German, the little Dutch professor with his sister, the piquant Russian woman, and the English clergyman,— all shook their heads with an air of surprise. Evidently, they thought the assertion unwarranted. Why not? They had good authority for scepticism; the gesture of dissent of the Genial American was even more emphatic than their own.

He continued to speak, while the Assorted Guests listened with respectful interest. In lightly ironical monologue, with the racy touch which only our countrymen command, he set forth the extent of our commercialism, our indifference to what money cannot buy, the corruption of our politics, the worship of the Almighty $, evinced in the length and breadth of our fair land, by Press, Pulpit, and University. It was impossible to infer from the tone of his talk whether he were ashamed or proud of the situation.

"Why, I know a man in Washington; he's a Christian gentleman and a scholar. He has held "- such and such positions of trust: "He has one of the best libraries in the country on "- such and such lines,-"What does that man signify in America? Now his next door neighbor isn't what you would call an educated man; he began life as a newsboy,- but he'd got the knack at it, don't you know, and he owns his millions to-day, and has the country at his feet."

"Don't you think," the feminine voice quavered a little more, but would not be daunted,-"Don't you think that the Christian scholar who doesn't own his millions, may after all perhaps mean just as much in the life of our nation?"

The Genial American stared in frank amazement.

"Oh, no!" he said,-"He don't count for anything. Why, you never see his name in the papers."

The woman gave it up at that. Was there not, she wondered faintly, a conceivable measure of success other than seeing one's name in the papers? Might not a quiet gentleman of scholarly tastes, living in simple fashion, and

doing his duty as occasion bade, be as truly representative of our civilization as the man who makes the market dance? She put the question, however, only to her own mind, and was sorrowfully aware that even here she found an unconvinced auditor. Meantime, general conversation continued on the part of the Assorted Guests. Yes, the Americans were certainly a great people, an extraordinary people. Were not their industries invading all Europe? American shoes,- how excellent! American stationery,- how cheap! American oil,-how indispensable! Why, even the trolley-car system of such and such a European town was owned by an American syndicate. An extraordinary people,- past masters of the practical arts which command the material world. And yet,-and yet,

Ah, the "But" and the "Beyond" in the mind of every one present, except the Genial American!

Why should Americans in Europe so habitually parade, whether with pride or with mortification, the prominence of the Great God Cash among us? Why, at home or abroad, do we indulge ourselves in the bad trick of reducing the United States to a dollar sign? It must be confessed that the scraps of talk one overhears in this country, on trains, in tram-cars, in drawing-rooms, alas! and, alas again! from bodies philanthropic and academic, do dwell on the financial aspects of existence, and on these alone. Walking homeward in the twilight from a suburban station, behind two prosperous gentlemen, one hears, wafted back in cultured tones, the words, "He made a cool million in that affair." "Nearer a million and a half," comes the answer. In the intimate sanctum of a publisher's office, the confidence is made, "We put $15,000 into advertising that book, and yet it didn't take!" This is not the tone of conversation in England, in Italy, or in France. One can spend six weeks in an Alpine resort, in company with gentlemen of these nations, through almost unbroken rainy weather; their intercourse will be wholly on non-commercial lines. Discussion will be lively on political, religious, academic matters,-also, if truth be told, more or less international squabbling will be in order; but the state of the market or the amount of men's incomes will not come into view. "You see," courteously explained an English M. P. when this fact was commented on with pleasure and surprise, "I'm afraid I can't claim that we English are indifferent to money, but it isn't considered correct, you know, to discuss money matters in general conversation. From my intercourse with your countrymen," he went on yet more courteously, "I should say that quite the reverse principle was observed in America; am I not right?"

Not considered correct! There is the secret. Who among us will admit for a moment that we Americans systematically think in terms of money more than any other peoples? The other interests of the civilized world flourish lustily among us. The Muses have been lured to our shores, and find our air pure and pleasant, good to breathe. Arts and philosophies are ours,—ours the keen, unwearied pursuit of the Winged Ideal. But how may Europeans know these things? They do not go to us, we go to them. Only the few among them read our books or know the works of our scholars. By our obvious fruits they know us; they burn our oil, they "tube it" in our sub-ways,—alas! they hear us talk. Why should that talk so often travesty

our higher and truer national life? Let a league be formed, into which all Americans proposing to travel shall be urged to enter, whereof the principle and motto shall be, No talk on Money allowed.

Or, cold thought!-is it possible that we are judged aright? Ah, well if this is so, if money really rules our civilization, let us at least, in the presence of the elder world, conceal our shame.

VIDA D. SCUDDER '84.

For an alumna to write in the Smith College Monthly anything about the value of college dramatic work must seem like carrying to Newcastle the unneeded coals of the proverb. It is just possible though that the undergraduates at Smith are giving plays because they enjoy that form of recreation and because for so many years we have been giving them. Certainly it fills us with pride to see that the example which Smith set so long ago in giving plays for their historical and literary value is now followed by most colleges and even schools. One wonders a little why this should be so much practiced in America and so little a part of the English or Continental education. That it is not so common with schools abroad as with us may be a somewhat large generalization from slender premises; but in talking with young English men and women from universities, public schools and private schools, I have gathered the idea that it is with them a far less popular form of entertainment-or shall I say education?

For some years now, I have been learning from college freshmen how their preparatory work in English was done. Perhaps a quarter of the entering class this year, a hundred out of four hundred and more, say that in reading the novels and plays required for entrance to college, they were assigned the parts of the various characters and kept them through the reading of the book. In some schools they tried to present separate scenes from Julius Caesar or Macbeth or whatever they had been studying. It may be that in these presentations Aristotle's dictum that drama should inspire pity and terror was fulfilled, though unintentionally. However good or bad the setting and the acting, if the lines were learned and became a part of the sub-freshman's literary store, was it not of lasting benefit that he should reach toward the good which lay beyond his grasp?

Of course there are dangers. The schoolboy, or more likely the schoolgirl, may entirely overestimate his or her histrionic ability, and thereby become a nuisance, entering college with airs unbecoming a freshman, or possibly longing for the stage. I have never heard of such cases. The nearest approach was in the case of a girl who in her freshman year was cast, after a competition into which many entered, for the heroine in one of Shakespeare's plays. So great was her success that she after a time left college for a school of acting. The wonder was, that with her temperament and talent, she had not gone there in the first place. That these things so seldom occur shows how small is the danger of turning to the stage students in schools and colleges.

The mere fact that students in college, when they want to give a play, turn over many books, think of comedies which they have seen given by professionals, consider plays which are not often staged, or plan to dramatize a story,

is in itself an incentive to more reading and to further analysis. If the projected play comes to nothing, some good must have come to some student. Only a little time ago an American writer said in substance, "If you can do no more than cross to Liverpool and return, take that voyage. It will make the world across the Atlantic a reality to you." It seems to me that when that figment of the imagination, “the average student," reads a book, particularly a play or a poem, it is not a reality to him. Appreciation cannot be forced; one may talk about structure, proportion, grace, diction and all those things, and yet leave the drama or the poem dead. To make it vital, one must give it life, and one makes it live, I believe, through the ears rather than through the eyes.

It was Dr. Andrew White who said only last commencement, in speaking to his class at Yale, that when rich men wanted to do colleges a service, he would suggest their founding a chair for a college reader. The wonders which an intelligent interpretation and a responsive voice may work are great. Under the influence of a man whose nicely balanced intellectual and emotional qualities found expression in a flexible voice, I have seen students, men interested principally in physics or biology or civil engineering, to whom came suddenly an appreciation and an interest in literature which had never before stirred them. That man, who made no pretensions as an elocutionist but read simply, worked before our eyes the miracle of giving life to the lifeless.

Of the many who last year saw Ben Greet's company in "Everyman", and who were familiar with the play, or even of those who had merely read it, I have yet to meet one person who did not find it more powerful than he had had any dream of from mere reading. But the distinction between drama and dramatic literature has been so well established that one need not dwell on that. It is an extension of the principle that I should like to see. If as Lessing says, description uses material which makes naturally a visual appeal, is it not equally true that all other literary forms-except highly abstract exposition-gain by coming through the ear? We have all seen the man in the railway train-not always an unlettered man either-who forms each word with his lips, or perhaps actually sounds the syllables. Alliteration, assonance, rhyme, the balanced sentence, they are all for our ears, not our eyes. It is even more true that we do not appreciate by seeing the give and take of conversation. Even situations of which we may make a picture, become actual if we look at people instead of print. Of course there are some things in literature of such a quality that they defy representation on the stage; we should feel that what we gain in actuality is lost in spirit. Those are great moments which seldom come.

When a class or a college club gives a play, not only the players but the whole college takes such an interest in that play as neither Booth nor Salvini could inspire. The college goes, it listens and it looks as the professional stage has never made it listen or look. Not only the matter of how the stage is set, how entrances and exits are made, how the actors are dressed, but the voice, appropriateness of look and gesture, the lines themselves, and perhaps for the first time, the structure of the play become matters of consideration. The fact that in college presentations the play is generally staged with less