The Roadside Press is to come out with a Chicago Anthology, a hundred and fifty poems, by Chicago authors. As _Poetry_ would say: “Most of these appeared first in _The Little Review_; and will probably be reprinted without any acknowledgment whatever.” * * * * * We have been waiting for what we hoped would be a good comment on Sherwood Anderson’s first novel, _Windy McPherson’s Son_. All we will say now is that it’s so much worse than Sherwood should ever be. * * * * * A few years ago you couldn’t talk to any one who wasn’t writing a play. Now you can’t talk to any one who isn’t starting a theatre. If everyone is mad for theatres, who are they that aren’t? Or why haven’t we municipal theatres? One, out of all this, and that in the town of Northampton, Massachusetts; and that isn’t what any one but a town would call a municipal theatre. Sometime I’ll write about Donald Robertson’s idea for a municipal theatre. He is always damned for being an idealist—a sure sign that what he has is an idea. * * * * * Rabindranath Tagore is coming back to America to lecture. Go, if you have never seen that slight presence with features drawn of air—with eyes that seem never to have looked out—and let him put that white spell of peace upon your complex futility. You sometimes wonder why men like Dr. Coomaraswamy come telling us border-ruffians of Art about Ajanta frescoes and sculpture and the music of India. Perhaps they know our homesickness and know that alone we can’t even find the road. * * * * * Bernhardt is coming again. Well, that’s all right, too. And those who jeer at her age never could have appreciated her youth. But you, young ones, see her; and have the double joy of seeing her now; and, if you have it in you, you will see her then, too. At bottom everything in literature is useless except literary pleasure, but literary pleasure depends upon the quality of sensibility. All discussions die against the wall of personal sensibility, which is flesh on the inside and on the outside a wall of stone. There is a way to turn it about, but this you do not know.—_Remy de Gourmont._ New York Letter ALLAN ROSS MACDOUGALL _A New Playhouse and a New Play_