With "Three Live Ghosts" this week, the St. James renews its tradition of bringing popular successes to Boston. Here is a bubbling comedy that belies from start to finish the "Peace, Perfect Peace" of the "motto" conspicuous over Mrs. Gubbins' humble doorway. Spirits, real and figurative, flit in and out; the souls of the departed are invoked as the curtain rises, and they answer the call in full person, to the discomfiture of the mediums and the three-act merriment of the audience. The comic situation is quickly and simply woven, exposition coming in each case just enough ahead of action to make it intelligible. Jimmie Gubbins, reported dead by the indefatigable War Office, returns to Lunnon with his American pal, equally dead, and wanted besides in America for embezzlement (of which, strange to say, he is really guilty); with them comes a third pal, the unknown and unknowing Spoofy, a victim of gas aphasia with a penchant for "lifting". From this combination, aided by convenient coincidences, innumerable droll situations arise, genuinely comic, of the type not wit but humor. In fact the play depends little on its lines; it is from character, incident, and pure stage effect that the author, Frederick Isham, has gleaned his laughs. The play moves amiably from situation to situation, with little suspense except in the person of the hapless Spoofy, whose mystery is satisfactorily solved at the last moment, and untangles the knot for them all.

The Players scarcely need the apology of "Stock, you know." In a part that almost acts itself, Florence Roberts adds something of her own, and makes one wonder what more even Beryl Mercer could have done. She should be a charming "old lady shows her medals"; her affected aristocracy is far more real than that of the true Laidy in the last act. One can't help wanting to believe her beautiful lies. Ralph Remley, her son, literally takes the house by storm; if he would forget about shouting into the balcony, his acting would fill the part well. A noticeable flaw in the ensemble was a failure to distinguish between high and low life: it is a case of democracy to the negation of the individual. Viola Roach, the old Copley favorite, is relegated to a minor part and further handicapped by crutches, the penalty of a sprained foot. Of the others, Frank Charlton as the kleptomaniac deserves most commendation. The production is appropriate if not striking; off-stage details are overlooked, but on-stage they are carefully emphasized. For what it is intended to be, the play succeeds to the full--a jolly evening's entertainment.