THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER

Only one who can hear the pulse of a city can divine what Boston is thinking about the reports from overseas, full as they are of the names of Isadora Duncan. It was in Boston that she reached the height of her sensationalism, when she danced across the boards of Symphony Hall in a garb flaming and diaphanous. The not inconsiderable Socialist population of Gotham could never learn of he deportation in face of the God's-in-his-heaven, all's-right-with-the-world air with which the Boston press pounced upon the news. This blatant person had been delivered to the mercies of her beloved Russia; what an excellent fit was the punishment for the c.

Then lendors with undignified violence died, and thin lips folded over expectation confirmed. Days later newspapers, were rushed up gangplanks and the comments of the European press began to appear. There was a tendency in all of them, including the Scandinavian and especially the English, to make a martyr of the woman. Something was said concerning the blow to the freedom of apt in her death, a fancy particularly shocking to a locality only beginning to sleep off an overdose of Anglomania.

Since then a cable that the Duncan is to be made the heroine in one of those stark biographical novels has further shaken Boston's confidence in its own appreciation of unfettered art. Whether the achievements of Isadora Duncan were art or not will probably remain undecided, but unfettered they certainly were, which is simply not being done in Symphony Hall.