When he had decided that literature was incompatible with dogma, Mr. Moore found himself in a decidedly unpleasant situation. He had changed the course of his life to take part in the Irish Renaissance, and now he realized that the Irish Renaissance was a mere bubble. The whole history of the world showed that literature could not be produced in a Roman Catholic country. The only thing for him to do was to leave Ireland, but in the meanwhile he felt that he must declare himself a Protestant. Between art and religion there could be but one choice for him; the religion must be changed. It is true that he had never acquiesced in any of the dogmas of the Catholic Church, but he had been baptized in that Church, and he had always been considered a Catholic. Protestantism seemed much preferable, because Protestantism leaves the mind very nearly free. In the _Confessions of a Young Man_, he had already expressed his prejudice in its favor. "Look at the nations that have clung to Catholicism, starving moonlighters and starving brigands. The Protestant flag floats on every ocean breeze, the Catholic banner hangs limp in the incensed silence of the Vatican." And so Mr. Moore after several futile interviews with the Anglican priest wrote to _The Irish Times_ announcing his change from the Church of Rome, and began the composition of _Hail and Farewell_ as the best means in his power to liberate his country priestcraft. P. M. HENRY. Smile and Scream: Chekhov and Andreyev _Stories of Russian Life_, by Anton Tchekoff; translated by Marian Fell. [Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.] _Savva_ and _The Life of Man_, by Leonid Andreyev; translated from the French (!) by Thomas Seltzer. [Mitchell Kennerley, New York.] A French critic characterized Russian literature as Heroic. Tragic would perhaps be a happier definition; what has been Russian life, and hence its literature, but a continuous tragedy? Gogol looked into that life and burst into a homeric laughter which ultimately drove him insane; the "repenting nobleman" Turgenyev was devoured by melancholy over his sad heroes and heroines; the "cruel genius" of Dostoyevsky convulsively writhed in contemplation of the "humiliated and offended"; Chekhov, who had begun his career in the gayest humor, turned eventually gloomy and pronounced his diagnosis: Such life is impossible; even Gorky, the chanter of hymns to the proud Man, was crushed and silenced by grim reality, and his scepter of the idol of young Russia passed into the hands of the most pessimistic writer, Andreyev. O forgive me, my unfortunate people: Not one gay song have I sung for you yet! _Frug._ * * * * * Tutchev found a mysterious beauty in the brightness of autumn evenings: