When the curtain rings down on the scene of the Hereafter it does so to the sound of cheering. And why? A whole army has just been annihilated, and to the tune of “John Brown’s Body” their spirits are marching toward Heaven. And so the happy inhabitants of the Hereafter must cheer to think of this influx to their land. After the tawdry Heaven one is refreshed by the beauty of the unnecessary scene, “On the way to the islands of sleep.” They still use rowboats in that land it seems, but as they are rowboats with beautifully lighted innards one doesn’t object very much. One does object, however, to the next scene. It is called “Space.” Imagine Space as a back-drop sprinkled with stars like an old-fashioned frosted Christmas Card. In the middle of this a scarlet circle with the continents of North and South America painted in a muddy brown color. A sorry picture of space to come from an imaginative artist. The last scene, and the best from the scenic and dramatic standpoint, takes place in the palace of the King. Here comes the princess after having wandered through the forest awake and the Hereafter in a dream, and after falling in some queer kind of fit dies and so joins her dead lover and the rest of the cosmopolitan group in Heaven. A mess by masters! A very messy mess. A sloppy play to start with. Bad acting to carry it along. Mediocre music and stage setting that seem to have been influenced by the play instead of rising above it. I await with interest to see the work that Jones is to do for the Russian Ballet. He will have his chance to re-establish himself. I’m sure he is artist enough to grasp it. The Reader Critic Infantile Paralysis _D. H., New York_: Congratulations! You have the capacity for suddenly turning back and becoming young enough to say “All or nothing.” And subconsciously realizing that you will get mostly nothing, you threaten your readers with blank pages. And all those who thought that _The Little Review_ did publish only artistic writing have had the veil torn from their eyes and their faith in you begins to waver. Perhaps to vanish altogether! Is all of the _Meistersinger_ one continuous “Preislied”? Is all of Beethoven equal to his “Ninth”? Is all of Pachman as marvelous as his Chopin? All or nothing! You would feast, and have your readers feast, upon the perfection of art and give them none of its strivings? Your challenge will remain unanswered. If you dare, or through sheer carelessness, allow this to appear in the next issue, I shall suspect you of considering the writing of an artist a work of art—even though he speak not in his own tongue.