"The Battles of Coronel and Falkland Islands.”— A British film; well worth your while. "Beau Sabreur."-Pepless desert drama. "The Chasers."-Harry Langdon won't get far with this one.

"The Big City."-Lon Chaney in a flat picture. Maybe some one stepped on it. "Chicago."-See what the movies can do when they try.

"The Circus."-Charlie Chaplin's newest, and one of his best.

"The Count of Ten."-James Gleason and Charles Ray in a good ring drama.

"The Crowd."-King Vidor is a great director. The story is slim and depressing. "Czar Ivan the Terrible."-Hectic, but interesting Russian-made film. "The Divine Woman."-Greta Garbo has a tough time with this one.

"Doomsday."-As dismal as it sounds.

"Dressed to Kill."-Excellent crook melodrama. "Drums of Love."-A big eyeful from D. W. Griffith.

"Finders Keepers."-Laura La Plante, and some hard-pressed humor.

"Four Sons."-Beauty, skill, tears, and hokum. "The Gaucho."-Douglas Fairbanks. "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes."-Plenty of chuckles for the business man.

"A Girl in Every Port."-A pretty feeble vehicle for the large Victor McLaglen.

"The Jazz Singer."-Al Jolson + Vitaphone Price of Admission.

=

"The Last Command."-Emil Jannings in a picture worthy of him.

"The Last Moment."-Interesting

tricks, if you like them.

photographic

"The Latest from Paris."-Something pleasantly innocuous, with Norma Shearer.

"The Legion of the Condemned.”—After "Wings." A long way after.

"Love Me and the World is Mine."-For insomniacs and very young cash-girls. "Mother Machree."-For the Irish vote. nice.

Very

"The Noose."-A pretty fair Richard Barthelmess picture.

"Red Hair."-Clara Bow and Elinor Glyn. Decide as you see fit. "Rose Marie."-Run!

again.

Here's the Mounted Police

"Sadie Thompson."-Gloria Swanson and Lionel Barrymore trying not to play "Rain." "The Secret Hour."-"They Knew What

They

Wanted" dolled up for the screen with Pola Negri and Jean Hersholt. Good. "The Showdown."-Tropical mix-up, and how. "Simba."-See it-you'll thank us. "Skyscraper."-An interesting and entertaining picture.

"The Smart Set."-You'll die outside, seeking air. "Soft Living."-A nice enough little drama, with Madge Bellamy. "Speedy."-Harold Lloyd in your money's worth. "Stand and Deliver."-Rod La Rocque stands, but doesn't deliver.

"Street Angel."-Janet Gaynor, Charles Farrell, and some fine scenes. We were hopelessly bored.

"The Student Prince."-A Lubitsch production. Don't miss it.

"Sunrise."-The best picture on any screen today.

"Tenderloin."-The talking picture. They'll have to do better.

"That's My Daddy."-Reginald Denny in a pleasant farce.

"The Trail of '98."-Big Alaskan melodrama, with some grand scenes.

"Two Lovers."-Ronald Colman and Vilma Banky in a romantic picture of the sixteenth century. "We Americans."-Melting-pot drama with good "Wings."-Still soaring toward a record.

spots.

personally than with Lenin. There is much in Lenin that we can understand, much that we can admire, but in Gandhi there is little that Occidentals can understand or admire except in theory.

But Gandhi's appeal is not to us, it is to the millions of wretched and halfstarved peasants of India. According to Gandhi, eighty per cent of the overcrowded population of India are compulsorily unemployed for half the year because of Great Britain's exploitation of the country as an exporter of raw cotton and a market for imported cotton goods; the result having been the destruction of the ancient home spinning industry by which the small peasants used to eke out existence. Thus the pressing woe is that there are too many mouths to feed; and the obvious remedy must be either a reduction in the number to be fed or an increase in the amount of work available for the production of wages with which to buy food, or possibly both.

To this problem, then, Gandhi dedicated himself, and generally to the uplifting and freeing of the peoples of India. Unlike Lenin, he did not dream of hurling his country forward through breathless centuries to the condition of a super-modern state. On the contrary, his dream was backward-looking-backIward to the ancient home industries and away from the devilish man-enslaving industrialism of the West; backward to the old forms of government and away from the parliamentarianism of the West; backward to the old religions and cultures of India. But for any such message to India he must first be known to the people of India and honored by them. This resulted from the twenty years which he spent in championing the cause of the hundreds of thousands of his countrymen who had been reduced to a condition of practical slavery in the Transvaal and the Orange Free State; so that when he returned after those years of struggle, privation, and imprisonment his fame had gone before him; he was as much the man of the hour in India as was Lenin in Russia in the spring of 1917.

So honored and believed in throughout all India was this quiet, cheerful little man so great his fame as a saint, ascetic, and deliverer of his oppressed people that differences of race, religion, and caste were thrown aside in devoutly enthusiastic response to his message; a miracle unheard of in all the caste-ridden history of India.

The message of the Mahatma (Great Soul) was economic, social, and political as well as spiritual, and in the end he became in fact the high priest and political dictator of his country. The

spinning-wheel: all foreign textiles to be destroyed and boycotted, and thereafter every one in India, rich and poor, to work at least a little each day at the wheel and the loom, so that all may find work and all be clothed in the native cloth. Brahmacharya: chastity even among the married, so that children may not continue to be born into a life of starvation and misery; for which manner of life Gandhi's own colony at Ashram sets the example. Ahimsa: love for all created things; the active practice of love and understanding which becomes a concentrated spiritual force stronger than violence in its mysterious power. Satyagraha: non-violence, which is not the passive resistance of the weak, but is rather the active force of love and truth set in opposition to oppression; the "civil disobedience" which refuses to obey an unjust or oppresive law, but at the same time gladly admits the disobedience and suffers the penalties; the non-co-operation with the English Government which was designed "to invite the English to co-operate with us on honorable terms or to retire from our land."

No one can think of Gandhi without thinking of Christ; and the striking parallel has often been commented upon. And no one can read of Gandhi's trial in the English court without thinking of Christ before Pilate and the trial of Socrates. A strange and arresting combination, this little Finance Minister's son-a mixture of Christ, St. Francis of Assisi, Tolstoy, and Thoreau. And yet with his repellent side: the emotional ignorance which allows him to believe that time can be turned back and India again be as it was; that for the well-todo to distribute their goods and forego one meal a day for the benefit of the poor will have any effect economically except to increase the poor and their poverty; that to boycott the products of factories manned by Indian labor will benefit the laborers; that the birth rate among the ignorant and poverty-stricken can be reduced by voluntary response to a spiritual appeal; that all medicine and hospitals are bad because palliating the wages of sin; and that any education at all is a bad thing for the lower classes.

Of these two men, Lenin and Gandhi, the more striking to the American or European is, of course, Gandhi. The methods of Lenin-the methods of organization and violence-are an old story in all parts of the world, but the methods of Gandhi are new. Extraordinary men both, men whose names will be writ large in history. Yet both are distinctly unpleasant personalities to us, despite the spell which they cast upon their peoples. It is submitted that this

is because of the material, the human material they worked upon. The greatness of each is quantitative rather than qualitative. Each has qualities of personal greatness, it is true; but so have many others who will die unsung. The real point is that each found open to the elating and inflaming effect of his ecstatically fanatical and unintelligent gospel vast hordes of ignorant, disorganized, and oppressed people; so that each is adjudged great because of the magnitude of the resulting upheaval or commotion rather than because of any genuine or lasting achievement. So long as Russia and China and India remain what they are, the determined fanatic may arise to rock the world.

Three Worthy Books of Poetry

By GEORGE O'NEIL

"Outcrop," by Abbie Huston Evans. Harper & Brothers.

"The Bare Hills," by Yvor Winters.

The Four

Seas Company. "Poems," by Clinch Calkins. Alfred A. Knopf.

There is a book of true feeling and fine, simple speech among the poetry presentations for the spring. This is a volume called "Outcrop," issued by Harper & Brothers, written by a woman, Abbie Huston Evans. The lyricism of these poems is valid and is born in a naturalness revealing the essential poet mind. No ostentation or unfortunate self-delight has stiffened the singing in these lines. They have the sound of a mind used and ready enough to sing for its own solace. And there are signs that this writer has found the special rewards for herself in making her poems, those quick luminous tracings along the body of a poem intensified with the gratitude of the pen catching them:

But silver fish that make a splash,
And ripples sliding under,
Have power to startle like a crash
Of February thunder.

The observation throughout this book creates frequently that startling emanation from an unexpected perception which is, one might say, the indefinable body of an image:

The azure chicory rises in the grass Like a thin puff of smoke no one can pass

Without a trembling.

Quotation of the delicate imagery in this work would give a misleading idea of its vitality and ease. There are poems with an engagingly informal directness, dramatic in their chief impression. The best example of this is "The Old Yellow Shop," which will remind some readers of Robert Frost yet is in no way an imitation. "The Black Road" is another beautifully plain poem. "The Light Upon the Rock," "Hill-Born," "Under

Cover," are moving creations, made in the fibrous material which is the distinctive quality of this poet. There is a reiteration of the exclamatory conclusion somewhat deflective to the aim of the poems here and there, but a remarkable number of lines in "Outcrop" embody things which are seldom apprehended. It is a book with poetry in it.

"The Bare Hills," by Yvor Winters, published by the Four Seas Company, presents an interesting poet. Interesting is a regretful description, since in reading the poems the feeling is born that constriction forces many of them into that classification. A rather arrogant attention to manner seems to repress relentlessly the fine instinct of the poet. The effect of his particular form is much less forceful than the substance which he arbitrarily dismembers. This is an instance in which a conviction rises that the style is not the man. The man is much better than the style. When he is willing to evoke with a measure of his natural means he is very successful. There is exquisite precision in "The Fragile Season:"

The scent of summer thins,
The air grows cold.
One walks alone
And chafes his hands.

When he says originally and powerfully

sunrise is set as if reflected from a
violin hung in the

trees the birds are
lost in admiration in a
stiff wild hall of light,

the strength of his perception would obviate its originality. He could afford much more simplicity than he grants himself. "The Bare Hills" proves often that a gift and power above originality are at the command of the writer.

In "Poems," printed by Alfred A. Knopf, Clinch Calkins is overtly versatile. The effect of the best poems in the collection is finally lessened by the candid chameleon variety of the book. It is not fortunate that a book of poems should at last impress one with the writer's virtuosity. The intensity of writing like "Suffocation" which is compelling at the first reading becomes suspect after encountering the over-ironic

say to yourself "I am a failure"

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"Tu Ne Quasieris." Titles such as "Oh Lad So Passionate" and "Into Pagan from the Gothic" are harmful to each other. In some manner a disapproving awareness of its own impermanent sincerity is manifest in this collection of Clinch Calkins's verse. It is this mist of self-awareness which one gathers as the promise for a fulfillment of the best omens in "Poems." There are things that give much pleasure in the book. "Military Drill" and "The Skater" are very good. "The Tree of Heaven" is a lovely quatrain:

Noon bares the bole of the diurnal

"The Gangs of New York," by Herbert Asbury. Alfred A. Knopf.

Where there is a world, it would seem, there must be an underworld, and so when more or less honest pioneers had firmly established this new universe of ours, and had frightened the Indians out of its forests so that they might clear its surface, those who chose to make their way by sleight began burrowing in search of darkness to cover their deeds.

It was only natural that such outlawry should center in New York, for New York cast the most shadows in which to hide. And it was only natural, too, that the wolves should run in packs. Hence the gangs of New York, to which Herbert Asbury has devoted a fascinating volume, called, simply enough, "The Gangs of New York."

Mr. Asbury's work is historically important, primarily, for it traces with faithful accuracy the course of the various vicious groups from the early nineteenth century, when they first took form in the bars and back rooms of the squalid Five Points, to that sultry August day not five years gone when a gangster's bullet took from the last of these extensive organizations its leader, Kid Dropper.

Over this century Mr. Asbury traces the rise and fall of the "bad men" of man-made gulches and canyons. Beginning with the "Forty Thieves," the "Plug Uglies," and the "Dead Rabbits" of the Five Points, he follows the gangster through his various incarnationson the Bowery, on the water-front, here

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pseudo-scientific hooey, and then Jevic gets the answer. But alas! only the half of it, dearie. He starts a sort of progressive annihilation of the universe, but can't stop it. Stars and nebulæ begin to turn green and disappear. And the hero steps in and works the correct equations just as the double O is about to be put on the solar system. We didn't understand why, if the waves of disintegration traveled so much faster than light, the green light reached the earth before the waves did. But that wouldn't bother if the story was exciting. Oh, yes, and there's a love interest.

"The Desert Moon Mystery," by Kay Cleaver Strahan. Doubleday, Doran & Co.

We don't remember ever being quite so suspicious of everybody in the story as we were in reading this one. There were clues enough to convict half a dozen people on the Desert Moon Ranch of strangling that lovely girl on the attic stairs, and all perfectly logical too. Mrs. Magin, Sam Stanley's housekeeper, tells the story, and, although Lynn MacDonald, the lady dick, is presently called in on the case, Mrs. Magin is no mean detective herself. In fact, all the honors go to the ladies-and deservedly. A good story, neatly toldand the author plays fair. The end will surprise you, yet you'll wonder why you didn't see it earlier.

"Behind the Devil Screen," by Maud Keck and Olive Orbison. Ives Washburn.

Eliot Sherman, just back home in Peking from a little exploring tour in the Gobi, rescues charming American girl and brother from Chinese mob, buys enormous pearl from mysterious coolieand then trouble begins. Here are all the ingredients capably mixed-chits and compounds and amahs and a wicked Manchu prince and a Swedish general and the fascinating Eurasian girl, ChuChi, and a temple which it is death for a European to enter. Of course all the Europeans in the story get into it finally. But it's a good adventure story with an authentic Chinese aroma.

"The Death of a Diplomat," by Peter Oldfield. Ives Washburn.

What would happen to all these tales of international intrigue if all the fiction diplomats weren't so careless? The way they go around shedding secret treaties and formulæ for deadly gases is a scandal. Fortunately there's always a young American or Englishman handy to retrieve their errors. It does seem waste

ful though. All these young heroes ought to be doing useful and constructive work instead of trailing around Europe mopping up diplomatic spilled milk. And we'd like it better, too, if they'd wait to fall in love until after the treaty is recovered. Of course, the books would be shorter. But is that any loss?