given us an entirely new aspect of the site as a whole. The enclosing wall is very massive and supported by buttresses. Instead of this sacred enclosure being a wide-open space with isolated buildings scattered about it, we expect 波 now to find a solid mass of buildings linked with each other, that would have presented a solid mass and a most formidable front to an enemy who might have forced the outer wall. In addition we have cleared several chambers of the temple itself, the complete excavation of which will require a long time and cannot be finished this year. In one of the chambers a great many inscribed tablets

were found, dating for the most part from the third millennium B.C. Some of these are temple accounts, while others are religious texts, such as omens.

"The temple wall is of different dates. At the lowest level we find a straightfaced wall of crude brick, which probably represents the original enclosure put up by Ur Engur, 2300 B.C., when he set aside as sacred the area occupied by the older temples and part of the mound of the primitive settlement. At a later period there was built over this a wall decorated with vertical recesses in the brickwork. The date of this wall cannot yet be settled. It, in turn, fell into

decay and was restored in the New Babylonian period, while further alterations and repairs were carried out still later by the first of the Persian kings. In the northern gate of the northeast side we found in position the hinge stone of Bur-Sin, reused by Cyrus and built by him into a hinge box which incorporated bricks of Nabonidus. The southern gate of the same side of the temple wall contains a hinge box of Cyrus the Great. In another gate the hinge stone bears the inscription of Nabonidus. The long history of the wall is therefore fairly illustrated in the parts which remain.”

TE

IMMIGRANT

BY HAROLD VINAL

UR story takes us back to the time in Russia when one still made writing-ink out of willow catkins and oaken bark mixed with copper water. But since only a few could write in those days, it mattered little whether a steel pen was used or one made of goose quill. The main requisite was a ready tongue and voice of authority.

So it happened that two peasants, Astafiei Astafievitch and Naum Prokoffitch, gained the upper hand in the affairs of their native village. Although they had less in their heads than in their pockets, they were nevertheless of the opinion that all should dance to their tune. And so people did. For, as the old saying goes in Russia, Fat floats on top even if it comes from a dog, which translated into good Anglo-Saxon resolves itself into our old friend, "Money talks." But enough of wisdom; let us return to our two village Crosuses.

Astafiei Astafievitch had inherited a large farm from his sire, and to the important standing in the community which this possession gave him he added a loud voice and a mien of solid authority. Confronted with his large,

BY EMANUEL L. NOWAK

bushy red beard and immense embonpoint, the heart of even the boldest would fail them. He seemed to have been fashioned by nature to support the dignity of the office of Starshina, or village mayor.

His natural crony and kum (for each had officiated as godfather to the other's children at baptism) was Naum Prokoffitch. What this estimable man lacked in bulk he more than made up in readiness of speech. He could harangue his fellow-townsmen by the hour, and knew how to mold their opinions to his own advantage; the less he knew about any subject, the more his eloquence waxed and grew. By some means or other he too had gathered quite a considerable amount of property; and so these worthies, each mutually admiring the astuteness of the other, ruled the village with a rod of iron.

Nothing was bought or sold without their first crowding in by sheer gall and taking the lion's share for themselves, and no one dared to bid against them for fear of incurring their displeasure. Of course it happened now and then that some mower during harvest time would complain that Astafiei Astafievitch paid his help less than

others, or a secret suspicion got abroad that Naum Prokoffitch did not give proper account of the moneys intrusted to him as village treasurer; but an authoritative gesture from the one or an eloquent outburst from the other would still every rumor.

One day a letter came from the Government Land Office at Saratoff addressed to the village Council. When all the members had come together, the letter was read by the clerk, who was incidentally one of the few in the village who could do such a thing. The missive stated that the Government had purchased a large tract of land beyond the Volga River from Kirghiz tribes, and that this ground was now to be opened for colonization by such of the peasants as wished to settle there. Each village was asked to select two delegates to be sent to Saratoff, who were to be invested with the proper authority to represent the prospective homesteaders.

When the word "authority" was read, the Starshina cleared his throat loudly and cast a significant look at Naum Prokoffitch. He arose as soon as the reading was over and declared that for a mission of such grave importance the Council should send their two wise

and most influential citizens. And, since no one could dispute this rank with our two friends, it was forthwith decided that they alone could be depended upon to uphold properly the dignity of such an office.

A formal answer was laboriously penned accepting the offer of the Land Office, and a number of peasants formed in line to put their marks to it as prospective emigrants. Armed with this document, the delegates put on their best Sunday kaftans, combed their beards, greased their boots with axle grease, and departed with befitting pomp-wrapped closely in an impenetrable cloak of self-importance and the densest ignorance. But pride cometh

before the fall.

They hardly deigned to bow to acquaintances along the way, and when they reached Saratoff they put up their horse and cart at an inn and engaged a room. After a great deal of inquiring they finally located the Government Land Office, where they delivered their letter and in return were given a number. This number would represent their village when the land would be distributed by means of the lottery wheel; later they were to be notified by mail which section had fallen to the lot of their adventurous townspeople.

Since their task was now completed, the two peasants wiped the sweat from their faces and started out to see the sights. And many strange and unfamiliar sights met their eyes. Soldiers marched by with blaring music, and once a policeman told them to move on as they stood in the middle of the walk, gawking at the fashionably dressed ladies in immense hoop-skirts.

At length the rustics became hungry and bethought them about supper. So they bought some salt herring, a loaf of bread, and, between them, a pound of loaf sugar and a quarter pound of tea. They had heard that city people drank their tea out of samovars, and so when they reached their lodgings they ordered one brought to them.

"Do you wish tea and sugar with it?" the innkeeper asked.

"No," they answered, craftily, thinking that they were stealing a march on him, "we have brought our own."

"Kharasho," said the host, carelessly, and went away.

Soon the maid brought a steaming samovar with cups, saucers, teapot, drippan, sugar-bowl, etc., on a large tray and set everything before them. After she had gone the two peasants began scratching their heads and looked at each other in dismay. What was to be done? At home their wives always prepared this delicious beverage in a great teapot which always stood simmering on the stove, but how tea was prepared with a samovar was a mystery. What were they to begin with, with all this array of crockery? But they were too conceited to ask questions and thus expose their ignorance.

They leaned forward with furrowed brows and tried to find a solution to the

matter. Suddenly Naum Prokoffitch struck his head with his fist.

"I have it, kum!" he cried, joyously. "Let me prepare the tea."

He took both the tea and sugar, and, opening the lid of the samovar, threw them down into the boiling water. Then they sat down to survey their work with smug satisfaction. Meanwhile the tea leaves settled down to the bottom and clogged up the vent-pipe leading to the faucet.

Our delegates spread out their lunch on the table and now betook themselves to the samovar, chuckling avariciously over the neat trick they had played on the host by bringing their own tea and sugar. But, to their amazement, on turning the faucet no tea poured forthonly a drop or two.

Scenting treachery on the part of the innkeeper, they grew angry and began to pound loudly on the table. Mine host soon appeared.

"Hey khozain!" (host), they shouted pompously, red-faced with anger, "what ails your samovar?"

"Nothing, your Excellencies, I assure you."

"Well look to it yourself, then; the tea won't pour."

The puzzled innkeeper went over and took a glance at the situation. He noticed, to his surprise, that the teapot was still empty and unused.

"But where is your tea?" he queried. "Why, in the samovar, where it belongs."

The host had a severe coughing spell. "And your sugar?" he asked, weakly. "We put it there also. Don't you

think we know how to make tea?"

The landlord could contain himself no longer; he leaned against the table and burst out into peals of laughter. Our delegates were dumfounded; they looked at him with open mouths.

"Okh, you brace of simpletons!" he laughed; "that is not the way to do it. Manya," he called through the door, "take away this samovar and bring another one; these loons in here don't even know how to make tea for themselves!"

Our heroes sat there like two wet poodles while the innkeeper brewed some fresh tea in the little teapot and set it on the flue over the hot charcoal fire within the samovar.

"Now, you bark-shoes," he grinned, "that is the way it is done. I ought to charge you double for teaching you something."

He went out into the main room, and soon fresh roars of laughter greeted the ears of the humiliated dignitaries within, for whom their lunch had lost all its savor. They had taken pains to tell their host importantly who they were and what their mission at Saratoff was, and so his tale now lost nothing in the telling of it.

A jolly student overheard the landlord's story and slapped his thigh in glee.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "When do these bumpkins leave for home?"

"To-morrow morning," was the an

That night the student stayed up late in his room writing something, and he Ichuckled as he wrote.

Early next morning Astafiei and Naum made ready for the return trip. Neither had slept very much after their unfortunate samovar episode, so they now hoped to leave early before many of the lodgers were abroad; for that reason they had paid their bill the night before. Just as they were driving off the student came running up with official-looking document, covered

with seals, in his hand.

"A letter for your village Council from the Land Office," he said, breathlessly. "Lucky I got here just in time!"

Since the student was a stranger to them, they suspected no evil. They took the letter and went their way.

For a time they rode in silence, but as they drew nearer home their courage returned. Astafiei cleared his throat and looked about him with more assurance, for were they not, after all, the honored delegates returning from a successful mission? He held the letter more firmly in his hand. Naum already busied himself with preparing a longwinded speech about the honors which they had received in the big city and of the wonderful things they had seen.

They handed their letter to the clerk, who sent the beadle out to call the Councilmen. As a special favor, the prospective emigrants were also admitted, while admiring citizens stood looking in at the windows.

Every one was hushed and expectant; the returned delegates were the attrac tion for all eyes. Finally the scribe brought the document on a plate, and amid a tense silence broke the seals.

"Venerable Councilors and villagers," the letter began, "it gives me great pain to be obliged to break unpleasant news to you. But in order to portray things in their true light, I feel myself impelled to acquaint you with the real character of the ignorant cattle whom you sent to Sartoff as your delegates"Consternation! Cries of "Hear! Hear!" and laughter.

"In stinginess and pomposity they leave nothing to be desired, for they have had a pleasure trip at your expense. They made perfect asses of themselves at an inn while here, so that they became the butt for all the lodgers. I am of the opinion that they owe the landlord a reward for instructing them the correct way to prepare tea in a samovar. In future, when you have occasion to send delegates to Saratoff again, use a little more judgment and leave your two biggest fools at home.

A FRIEND."

After the first moment of surprise the room shook with mirth at the expense of the discomfited victims. Gone were their pompous dignity and their pride; their reign was at an end. They slunk away to their homes to become the laughing-stock of the whole village. Sic semper tyrannis!

But

rightly placed; he has been a conscientious observer; while Jones's drawings show that he has been the fervent one. Peculiarly there is a realistic statement of inward matter, and, for that reason, both of Macgowan's books, while they interested me, left me unmoved. Stark Young, however fragmentary his random essays-the most striking of which is the one on the art of actingleaves one refreshed, with the spirit rather than the husk of the flower. And, after all, what is the mere detailing of names of designers and intricacies of stage machines if one does not realize that, whether it be in Germany, in Austria, in Czechoslovakia, or in Russia (which country the two did not visit), all these shiftings in the theater are for the purpose of breaking through medium to the spirit, or of arranging theatrical media so that they will not annoy the life of the spirit breaking through? Macgowan knows all this, and he states it time in and time out. But he is a disciple rather than a prophet, even though in some of his chapters in both books he prophesies what the theater of the future is to be: that theater which is to be built upon the revitalizing of the actor's art, the entrance of new elements, like mass and mob spirit into scenery and playwriting, and those curiously architectural conceptions of the theater building which will give to motion and movement on the stage an entirely new meaning.

It is significant, I have said, that the reading public should be getting such books on the theater as these; just as significant as that the poets should be getting Amy Lowell's "Tendencies in Modern American Poetry," Louis Untermeyer's "The New Era in American Poetry," and Lowes's "Convention and Revolt in Poetry." Something is going on in all of the creative arts in America, and the dawn of creative flowering is always preceded by statement of art principles and close questioning of art technic. Stark Young's "The Flower in Drama" is marked by calmness of judgment, which suggests to me that he has come to the theater as critic after his æsthetic philosophy has been shaken and enriched by the theories of design and form and color introduced into the realm of modern painting by Cézanne, Matisse, and others. In other words, he gives us creative criticism, and, as his book is composed of thoughts that are worth while, yet hung on the very casual moment of the current theater in New York-however high the spots may be according to the general average of our American production-meeting with such lucid understanding of what art comprises, makes us welcome Young in the theater as one of the few who will help the new movement immeasurably by interesting his readers simply, and with no propaganda motive in reaching a deeper appreciation of the finest things in art. This slim volume presages fuller things from his graceful pen.

The Place de Grève in Paris is indicated by a great street lamp set boldly on a raised platform in the center of the stage. A Jessner production designed by Cesar Klein

The artist in all matters pertaining to the theater must know his tools; which are not to reproduce what he sees, but to suggest those complexes of the soul lying beneath the surface and seen through the surface. Art is not an easy matter; it is not something to be taken lightly. Nor, in the examination of technic, does it imply surface construction. Technic is a means toward an end; the simplest, most adroit, most balanced way of going directly, effectively toward the goal of all art, which is spiritual illumination. Percival Wilde's "The Craftsmanship of the OneAct Play" has pleased me greatly because it is not a mere statement of formulas, such as books on technic commonly are, but is instinct with just that æsthetic quality which is pronounced in Stark Young and implied very forcefully here.

There has been a great deal of confusion as to what a one-act play is. Many incidents, good for short stories, yet put into dialogue form, have been called by that name. Shay's two anthologies are marred often by this fault. There has been a limitation of practice, a narrowness of conception as to what a one-act play really is-how organically itself it is, with its own shape, its own psychologies, its own effective means, its own wholeness. Those who contemplate writing in this special fieldwhich is not a diminutive short length of the long form of drama, not a Lilliputian curiosity crammed into a mold and called a one-act play, merely because it is not a two or three or four act playshould ponder well this new book. Wilde, before one has gone very far into his treatment of the subject, establishes its contour, its content, its curve of being, its rise of interest, its design of

preparation, and its artistic uses materials.

of

It is true that the medium of expression in the one-act play is the same as that of the more intricate drama, and also that there are many elements in both common to each. It is also true that the novice who has had successful practice in the short form-which be cause of its shortness allows of more frequent experiment, and hence becomes an excellent field for the gaining of flexibility in characterization, the use of dialogue, the testing of language, and the balancing of motives-can look forward more hopefully to the longer drama because of his experience in the craftsmanship of the short form. Wilde's book, therefore, increases its sphere of usefulness, and becomes a psychological discussion of craftsmanship in the theater which results in perfect dramatic art. It is not involved in "new movement;" it goes to bed-rock of dramatic instinct, of dramatic content, of dramatic appeal, and builds up from there, giving a running commentary of the practical experience of the author as a worker himself in the field.

The book is written fluently, with a view of the subject all around, even to the fourth dimension. There is a, direct drive from the beginning of an idea to its culmination in the finished product, and its fulfillment in the acceptance by an audience. The chapters are unified and compact, with every possible consideration of exposition, preparation, complication, suspense, crisis, and climax, with the resultant resolution and light. In the byways of construction, like the selection of names and the fitness of one to be a dramatist, Wilde is strikingly pleasing.

This is really the first discussion of