beginnings of English poetry, of narrative, descriptive and allegoric prose, of the drama, in the mystery and morality plays of the church, of written history and geography in the "chronicles," prose, and verse of the time. To the student of life and of art the period is equally significant. It was one of the great art periods of the world; more potentially important for the Western World, it is thought by many, than any other period of creative endeavor which preceded or followed it. To the student of government and of modern industry the period of Magna Charta, of the beginning of the parliamentary system, of Watt Tyler's Rebellion, of the rise of the weaving industries and the "guilds," is full of interest.

The literature of the fourteenth century, and of its interpreters in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries-for it is through their eyes also we must look-is rich in myth, fable and allegory and special attention will be given to the study of these early story forms. It is hoped that Dr. Curry can arrange to repeat the course on Myths in relation to Literature and Art, which he gave several years ago.

For collateral readings in connection with the work in literature the rich resources of the Public Library, close at hand, are always available.

STUDIO RECITALS

The Studio Recitals of the School of Expression, given regularly on Thursday evening and Friday noon throughout the year, have long been an established feature not only of the School activities but of Boston's cultural life. These recitals are the means of bringing together each week in the studios of the School many friends and interested listeners from the great public outside. They afford opportunities to the students and their friends of hearing many readers, lecturers, poets, artists and men-of-affairs during the year. But the primary object of the recitals is the benefit derived by the students through the presentation of their own work. The recitals offer to the student an unrivalled opportunity for gaining practical experience before an audience, and of testing his knowledge and powers. In the School of Expression "knowledge is tested by performance", and the Studio Recitals furnish the real test of the student's knowledge of Dramatic and Platform Art.

A LITERARY PILGRIMAGE

It may seem a far cry from the Twentieth to the Fourteenth Century, but that is where we are going this winter, with intermittent excursions into adjacent centuries in search of causes and effects.

We expect to take flight promptly October 6 at 9 a. m. and join the Canterbury Pilgrims at the Tabard Inn in Southwark, near London. Since most of us are Pilgrims only a few generations removed, we anticipate no difficulty in securing reservations along with the other pilgrims; but we hasten to assure the parents who entrust their daughters to our care that every effort will be made to shield them from contaminating language and behavior which, although tolerated in the best literature, is not looked on with favor as a model for the daughters of the best American families.

The Boston Public Library will furnish all the necessary guides and chaperones for the trip. Henry Morley will act as personal conductor. Professor Skeat will have charge of the luggage, obsolete languages and such, and Percy Mackaye will act as official interpreter. William Morris will accompany us part of the way, and will introduce us to his intimate friend, Geoffrey Chaucer. Under his guidance we will try to:

Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke,
Forget the spreading of the hideous town;
Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,

And dream of London, small, and white, and clean,
The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green;
Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves
Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves,
Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill,
And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill,
And treasured scanty spice from some far sea,
Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery,

And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guinne;

While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen
Moves over bills of lading-mid such times

Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.

Later we shall visit the childhood home of Arthur and his Knights in Wales and try to secure some new and unworn myths for use in our story-telling classes. The Connecticut Yankee will most likely want to go with us on this trip and take us over on palfreys to Camelot afterward. But we don't know about

that.

His behavior on his last visit to Camelot was not such as to, and besides, Tennyson has promised to meet us at Camelot, and we don't care to be responsible for any more scandals in connection with the Camelot affair.

While on our travels we expect to observe several Gothic Cathedrals in processs of construction, one of them in Canterbury itself, others on the continent. Some of the finest examples of cathedral building are in northern France and here we shall have an opportunity of comparing the slow methods of medieval construction with the rapid and efficient methods of destruction as practiced by the highly civilized experts of the Twentieth Century. We hope, too, to persuade Dr. Ralph Adams Cram of Boston, who builds beautiful gothic churches himself that you can hardly tell from the original, to guide us part of the way. In a recent address delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa at Harvard University, Dr. Cram voiced his keen appreciation of Gothic art in these words:

"What was the greatest synthesis of beauty made operative through art, that man has ever achieved? The answer is very simple; it was a Gothic cathedral of the thirteenth century during a Pontifical High Mass, and somewhere about the middle of the fourteenth century in England, or the fifteenth century in France. Every art raised to its highest point was here brought into play in one place and associated in absolute union with the greatest beauty of thought, emotion and action that have ever been the possession of fallen man. Painting, sculpture, and a score of exquisite minor arts, as those of glass, needlework and enamel, with the crafts of the goldsmith, the wood-carver and the bellfounder, were here co-ordinated through the supreme power of the master-art of architecture in a unity that was almost divine in its perfection. To this unity entered other arts that they might breathe into it the breath of life: music first of all, and poetry and the drama through the sublime liturgies and ceremonial that had grown up through a thousand years of striving and aspiration and the revelations that are their boon and reward."

Of course, dear old Bill Shakespeare will be on hand to help. He will provide some of the history we will need in Britain. Some people think that all Shakespeare could do was to write plays, but that is not true. He has written some of the best history that has ever been done as we will find out when we get into the centuries of the Edwards and the Richards and the Henrys.

Before leaving Britain for the Continent we will go north to the Ballad country at the Scottish Border and try to "listen-in" on a ballad in the making and find out if it is really true that they composed "Muckle-Mou'd Meg" and "Sir Patrick Spence" in a kind of "folk-moot" as the ballad critics say they did, and as Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch says he's sure they didn't. And perhaps we'll give a Ballad Recital in the original scenery. Why not?

One of the advantages of travelling in time instead of in space is that one can afford to go almost anywhere. So we'll cross the Alps into Italy and pay our respects to Geoffrey Chaucer's old friend Petrarch and to Boccaccio and Danté who live close by; and to Giotto, who painted that wonderful portrait of Danté which added fame to both artist and poet.

In Italy we shall find the world facing two ways: backward toward Hellas and forward toward the East. Here Sir John Mandeville, called by some the greatest liar and by others the greatest historian of the Middle Ages, and by both the most charming prose writer of his time (in translation),-will offer his services as guide through Palestine and the Far East. But we are "wise"; and in a trice we are winging our way over the crests of the Himalayas and the Gobi Desert, with Marco Polo on board, en route for the Court of Koobla Khan, the same who inspired Coleridge's immortal fragment:

In Zanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree;
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea

It would be more direct, of course, to return home via San Francisco or Seattle, but being several centuries too early for that we will have to go back the way we came; so we will face about and, guided by the great trade routes of the Middle Ages, will make straight for the Mediterranean which we shall find alive with quaint, bright-colored sailing craft carrying the riches of the Orient to the markets of the Western World. We are in a hurry now to get back to our own Century in time for Dr. Curry's Baccalaureate so we resolve to make no more stops. But as we fly westward into the Atlantic a familiar sight greets our eyes. Three tiny ships put out from the coast of Spain with all sails spread and speed westward. We know those ships! We've seen them pictured in our geographies and our history books since we were children. Some of us, who are very ancient, saw them at the Chicago Fair. But we see them now, with new eyes, as for the first time, and participate, as never before, in the spirit of that Great Adventure which added a new continent to the world. L. A.

Erratum: In June "Expression" (Annual Catalogue), p. 33, `under Speakers' Diploma: instead of 1800 points read 1200 points.

From the "Curry Texan" June 17, 1921, issued by the students of the Waxahachie Summer Term.

TO DR. CURRY

By SADIE KIRGAN

I looked at you across the room,
My heart was torn with doubt;
You smiled into my weary eyes,
The golden sun came out.

You didn't know that I was there,
Just one of all that throng,
But still, you smiled, and in my heart
There rang a merry song.

I looked at you across the room,
The violets were dead;

"God gave us dreams, and great ideals,
We all are called"-you said.

You didn't know my life that day,
The hurt and black despair;
When all my hopes lay in the dust,
And God forgot to care.

And then, I looked into your face
And knew that I was young;
And all the dark clouds went away
And happy songs were sung.

And so my world was changed that day,
When you smiled in my eyes;
And took away the shame and hate
And left me azure skies.

Perhaps we'll never meet again,

Till earth's last sun is set;

But for the light you gave my life,
I never can-forget.