But the announcement: In each of the future issues of THE LITTLE REVIEW, beginning with June if possible, we shall have a special article attacking current fallacies in the arts or in life—getting down to the foundations. Each one will be written by a person who knows thoroughly what he is talking about, and each will be “true and memorable,” to use Will Comfort’s good phrase. For instance, suppose we begin with the modern theatre. It will be interesting to find why Clayton Hamilton calls a play as false, as distorted, as unwholesome and demoralizing as _The Shadow_ a great drama, and why Percy Hammond, who is looked upon even by some of the discerning as a critic worthy to be trusted in the work of spreading ideas, should have nothing but superlatives for the same outrage. (To do him justice, Mr. Hammond did modify his praise with a single naive sentence: “I could find some flaws in _The Shadow_”; and then, to put his other foot in, “but the playing glossed them over until they were forgivable”—which is precisely the crime and tragedy of such productions). This type of intellectual blundering is apparent everywhere among the critics of literature, of music, of art, of the drama, and among the strangest of all human creatures—the historians (“men who reserve their judgments for a hundred years”) and the philosophers (men whose judgments are good for everything except to live by). If you happen to be equipped with knowledge of the intricate hypocrisies of the music schools, or the way the newspapers treat a competent art critic, or the methods of a manager in making a good play a bad one, or how dissatisfied the railway employees really are or ought to be—send us an article on the subject. The conditions of acceptance are these: You must know English prose; you must write it as though you are talking instead of writing; you must say quite frankly and in detail the things you would not be allowed to say in the prostituted, subsidized, or uninteresting magazines; and you must be true. This begins our warfare. Echo (_Translated from the German of Fritz Schnack by William Saphier_) Into the forest your voice flew Clear and light as a bird from its nest. From your mouth the sound departed Swinging gaily into the black forest. It flew Through dusky deep solitude Mysterious quiet, pale night, Gravely-bent tree tops, fairy-tale flowers. It danced past Queer animals and strange things, It touched them with quick moves And they were frightened by the gay bird. Green looks stared through the night And angry phosphor glints pierced the foliage Where owls were moving their beaks deceitfully. Here your gay bird was frightened And fearfully returned Beaten by the envy of the black branches. Shuddering it fell into the blue day Tired, lame-winged, dead. America’s Ignition WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT