"Names make news." Last week the following names made the following news:

Eugene O'Neill, playwright, disappeared last week. He was heard of in Shanghai, where he was suffering and recovering from a slight nervous breakdown and bronchitis. Before he disappeared, he wrote a letter to his physician, as follows: "I came to China seeking peace and quiet and hoping that here at least people would mind their business and allow me to mind mine. But I have found more snoops and gossips per square inch than in any New England town of 1,000 inhabitants. This does not apply to American newspaper correspondents who have been most decent carrying out their duties in a most gentlemanly manner. . . ." It was the people in hotels who annoyed Playwright O'Neill the most. He also hinted in his letter that his next destination was Honolulu or the South Sea Islands or the South Pole.

James Ramsay MacDonald, onetime British Prime Minister, said last week: "I have never bestridden a bicycle because I have no balance of that sort."

Adolphus Busch, whose beer is not as potent as it used to be, and the late Festus John Wade, banker, have had two public schools in St. Louis, Mo., named for them. Last week, the Woman's Christian Temperance Union protested, because Brewer Busch's onetime beverage "is now outlawed by the Constitution of our country" and because Banker Wade was a Roman Catholic.

The Infante Don Alfonso, cousin of King Alfonso XIII of Spain, said last week upon returning to Madrid from Manhattan: "I can make no suggestions to the indomitable people of New York, except that they might put a roof over their entire city, flood the streets with artificial sunlight, and install moving sidewalks."

Publisher Cyrus Hermann Kotzschmar Curtis paid $1,000 in 1897 for a spavined relic of Benjamin Franklin called The Saturday Evening Post. Last week at 5-c- a copy it sold more than 2,750,000, bearing the face of the patriarch on the cover and the legend, "Two Hundredth Anniversary Number." Editor George Horace Lorimer commented on the occasion to the extent of two columns in the editorial section. Said he: ". . . to assist in the evolution of a finer and loftier civilization, to express our national spirit week by week, as truly and concretely as we can--all these are a part of the program of The Saturday Evening Post as it enters upon the third century of its existence."

James Joseph Tunney, retired fisti-cuffer, last week in Portsmouth, England, presented a silver cup to the Royal Marines as a token of goodwill from the U. S. Marines. But, earlier in the week, he had brewed illwill among newsmen.

From London, John Steele cabled the Chicago Tribune that Mr. Tunney was suffering from delusions of persecution, that he turned on a young man in the Strand, shook his cane, and said: "Look here, young man, if you are following me I am just about likely to hit you over the head with this stick."

Newsman Steele concluded: "In the interest of Anglo-American amity it is hoped that Tunney does not carry out his intention of winding his cane about the neck of some persistent scribe, because the English are peculiar about such little matters, and likely would send Mr. Tunney to the jug, ex-champion or no ex-champion, Lauder millions or no Lauder millions.* And that would be some story."

*Mr. Tunney is the husband of Mary Josephine Lauder.