The world could still run on smoothy if Sir Martin Harvey deserted "Oedipas Rex" and joined the chorus of "Artists and Models"; Charles Spencer Chaplin could probably do "Hamlet" nearly as well as his adorers claim; and Ethel Barrymore might take to a juggling act and still leave the universe as a whole undisturbed. But when Al Jolson--the one and only--says, and actually takes the firs steps, that he is going to quit musical comedy for the serious drama, then is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party and for Pro Bono Publicae to write letters to the Times. Mr. Jolson seems to have no conception of the general fitness of things--nor the fact that the stage is already cluttered with good musical comedy material trying to be Hampdens. What the public wants (in addition to a good five cent cigar, as F. P. A. would say) is more of Mr. Jolson's Mammy songs sung by Mr. Jolson and less turgid mourning. Therefore when he bids good-bye to the ubiquitous Shuberts and joins forces with Mr. Michael Arlen Woods, who used to be content with bedroom comedies but who now seems to feel the urge to better things, he is doing no great service for anybody--including himself.

The average theatre-goer, meaning a mixture of the T. B. M., George Jean Nathan, and one's maiden aunt, would, if consulted, much prefer to hear Al Jolson chant the imminent arrival of the red, red robin than see him in Shakespearian roles. No tragedy, however inspiring, could afford Mr. Jolson a legitimate opportunity to bellow for his Mammy. When one wants to see a faithful portrayal of the real negro there is Paul Robeson. But Al Jolson, in spite of Eddie Cantor's admirable attempts, is absolutely unique. And now he threatens to reform!