Putnam patriot., 1930-11-13

NanC m Tour lanfuakeS, opening Witn Spanish air and following with three songs Of Schubert-"F Forelle. !" s.Widmung," and "Du Bist die Ruh, !" delivered in perfect German, iB style. phrasing and iutonation and deep Cub or a Wullner could have sung them. There are greater negro voices than Hayes. There are no greater negro singers. At the close of the first half of the program, Hayes sang the biz air from Manor" in a French that would have delighted the Francais itself aad with Q style that would have made MasSenet render thanks unto his Maker. The second half of the program was devoted to negro spirituals and here arose the inevitable comparison with that other great negro singer. Paul Robeson. Of the two Roheson is the greater singer of spirituals, for in it's intense eul- fivation the voice of Hayes in these songs of his race has lost that robust native quality that marks the singing of Robeson. yet We doubt that any one in that great red salon tonight will forget the deep impressiveness of Roland Hayes's singing of his last and most splendid of the spirituals, the unaeeompanied "Never Said U Mumblin' Word"
 And now We are almost across. At dawn. near Plymouth, the ship Shiv- CTS as the mail plane is projected from its berth at the stern. An hour later the tender Is alongside and the familiar green hills of Portsmouth harbour are in front of Us. Then We take up the journey across the Chan nel and late in the afternoon we can see the villas and roofs of Dcauville and the gray heights Of Gherbourg and at tea-time we are at Havre and sliding into the pier beside the train, the easiest and most pleasant of all European landings. We dine and We are in Paris and with minimum of trouble we are in our hotel in the rue de Berri. the lights of the Champs Elysees making red glow against the late evening sky.
 
 Paris
 Paris in August is not unlike any other capital of the world in the month of dog days. However, we are beginning to believe that for Us Paris has duh resentment to our visits and, whatever the season, now shows herself at her least at traetive.
 When last we visited the City of Light it was in the blackest night of it's eoldest and dreariest winter. And now We are here in the midst of a damp. shivering, rainy, ealamitous summer. Those of the French who are not shivering at some fimsy sea side resort are enjoying the cheer. less spirit of those country house parties SO aptly described by Paul Marand. as coming to daily climax of malicious conversation In tho Boulcvards, Germans by the thcus- ands stalk up and down bearing cameras on their chests with large timid wives following few steps behind. German signs are in the shops. German dialects are heard in every quartier. German boy-scOuts in shorts and sturdy German Gretchens in hideous sport clothes infest the museums and the galleries Here, Mann spricht Deutsch." We are present at the second German in- vasion, one that would be welcome to the Parisians were these invading hordes willing to part with any of the coin of the Reich. They do not and great is the cry of the hotel and shopkeepers thereof Where, oh where is the American tourist whs came laden down with beautiful dollars and flung them far and wide over ths departments of the Republicg Gone to Germany, say the propagandists accusing the Germans of a subtle activity which has weaned away from France her annual and lucrative l American income. II does not seen | to have occurred to the satirical and sarcastic writers in the French press ever eager now in their bitterness against all things American, to ac. count for the failure of the Amer. I iean invasion by a casual scrutiny oi the most depressing business veal ] that America has suffered since tho war. However, more of this spirit ! later.
 And alas and alack-a-dayl A though the weather and general apathy of this dullest of Parisian seasons were not enough, down upon us descends the three day holiday which the French still attribute as a signal feast of the Assumption of tho Blessed Virgin Mary. The tradition al dullness of London Bank holiday is revel in comparison. All of Paris rushes out of Paris as quickly as transportation can be found. The observance of the Assumption in its real sense is left to the religious orders and priests of the deserted churches. In the vacant streets black-clad concierRes sit in front of the empty hotels and apartments. Tho terraces of the cafes are barren and pare. And the rain comes down in torrents every fifteen minutes. We walk in the empt ness of the great and vacated city and are reminded of the days of the Big Bertha in 1918 when Paris presented a similar appearance and finally we reach the Are de Triomphe and stop beside the Tomb of the Unknown only to burst into strident laughter at the sight of thirty German tourists standing by the sacred grave, hats planted firmly in reverence on their hefty chests
 
 But there comes a day when the sun does shine, albeit our last day in Paris, and quickly, lest the heavens open and drench us again, we motor to the Roig and to Arnnenonyiile to