Like this frail and melancholy rain is the memory of the Emperor Kuang-Hsu, and of his sufferings at the hand of Yehonala. Yet under heaven was there found no one to avenge him. Now he has mounted the Dragon and has visited the Nine Springs. His betrayer sits upon the Dragon Throne. Yet among the shades may he not take comfort from the presence of his Pearl Concubine? Yin and Yang At the Hour of the Horse avoid raising a roof tree, for by the trampling of his hoofs it may be beaten down; And at the Hour of the cunning Rat go not near a soothsayer, for by his prescience he may mislead the oracle, and the hopes of the inquirer come to naught. And—— jh. _A Decadent Art!_ We have had grand opera in Chicago for several weeks. I am going to write here of grand opera, not of singing classes. Grand opera, like a great hand whose fingers are the different arts, is trying to give us what the closed hand holds. Galli-Curci has undone the critics for adjectives of praise, has fulfilled the hopes of managers, and filled the Auditorium with the sleep-walking public. We have had Muratore with his beautiful voice and his treacle personality. We have had efficient and awful Wagnerian singers. We have had satisfaction in our opera. And now comes Mary Garden, so surcharged with life that she sends a thrill of it before her—Mary Garden who outsings the composer in her feeling, who outpaints the painter in her acting, who outsculpts the sculptor with her body. Mary Garden gives us grand opera; she gives what the closed hand holds. And so the fight will begin again and the old favorite record will be put on all the cheap human talking machines: “Of course Mary Garden can’t sing, but she can act.”