DOROTHY PARKER gives vent to a poignant Hymn of Hate, anent reformers,
who "think everything but the Passion Play was written by Avery
Hopwood," and whose dominant desire is to purge the sin from Cinema
even though they die in the effort. "I hope to God they do," adds the
author devoutly.

From England, through the eyes of FRANK SWINNERTON, we glimpse
ourselves as others see us, and rather pathetically. In days gone by,
lured by reports of America's lawless free-and-easiness, Swinnerton
says he craved to visit us. But no more. The wish is dead. We have
become hopelessly moral and uninviting. "I see that I shall after all
have to live quietly in England with my pipe and my abstemious bottle
of beer. And yet I should like to visit America, for it has suddenly
become in my imagining an enormous country of 'Don't!' and I want to
know what it is like to have 'Don't' said by somebody who is not a
woman."

Also is raised the British voice of H. M. TOMLINSON, singed with
satire. He writes as from a palely pure tomorrow when mankind shall
have reached such a state of complete uniformity of soul, mind and
body, that "only a particular inquiry will determine a man from a
woman, though it may fail to determine a fool from a man." Tomlinson's
imagined nation of the future is "as loyal and homogeneous, as
contented, as stable, as a reef of actinozoal plasm." And over each
hearth hangs the sacred Symbol--a portrait of a sheep.

Next is the usually jovial face of CHARLES HANSON TOWNE (that face
which has launched a thousand quips) now all stern in his unbattled
struggle with Prohibition, dourly surveying this "land of the spree
and home of the grave."... "My children," says Towne, "as they sip