Sir Herbert Tree Treated at Length in Current Advocate

Sir Herbert Tree and poetry divide this number between them, and on the whole the "noble knight" (as his Advocate critics have the strength of mind not to call him) has the best of it. We have Sir Herbert in two lights-professional and personal. Mr. Seymour reviews "Henry VIII" with the assurance and occasionally with the overflowing florescence of Mr. H. T. Parker of the Transcript. Sometimes we doubt his phrases, "a rambling story-play of no real central fulcrum"; sometimes his judgement, "in the speech of farewell he achieves the superlative work of genius"; sometimes his grammar, "it all seems to just miss being superb." Yet on the whole Mr. Seymour writes with sincerity and apprehension, and the review, particularly when dealing with the characters, is stimulating.

But to Mr. Brentano go the laurels. With not a little skill and with a great deal of lively humor he takes us to a dress rehearsal at the Hollis Street Theatre, introduces us to Sir Herbert, permits us to hear their conversation, and, best of all, Sir Herbert's managerial commands and witticisms addressed to the actors on the stage. It is distressing to find so capable a reporter referring to the theatre as a "veritable fairyland," a phrase now in good use only in the Woman's Auxiliary Alliance of the Osterville Baptist Church.

The poetry is full of much sound and fury, signifying, no, not nothing, but the usual state of unrest in youthful, bosoms. The verse of Mr. Norris is even graceful, if nothing else; his "August Night" is an example of free verse more sincere and pleasing than is often found among the poems of the High Priestess of vers libre. Mr. Putnam translates a Horatian ode into blank verse; since Horace does better in a swinging meter, an appreciative translation loses interest. Mr. Parson's free verse seems strained and unhappy; the idea of the same poet's "Art" deserves a better expression. Mr. Allinson contributes to the campaign literature of the day, recently dignified (or chinafied, as many have it), by the pen of Dr. Eliot, a glowing eulogium on Woodrow Wilson, "greater chieftain of the higher mind." With this qualifying phrase many Republicans will no doubt agree; the Presidential mind at present is so high that Germany and Mexico have quite lost sight of it. Mr. Snow's "Post Mortem" is rather gruesome stuff, but it exemplifies the correct field for free verse.

Of the sketches in prose Mr. Putnam's have vigor of both thought and expression, while Mr. Cabot's have neither. Mr. Davidson's story about the pianola girl is slight, perhaps obvious, to the critic, but certainly not to the "tired College student" and the "tired business man." Mr. Mardigan's letter on military science is forceful and true; it should be read by every man who intends to condemn the Regiment. "The Regiment is gone; unmourned, to be sure, but not unappreciated."

The number begins with an amusing editorial on Billy Sunday, in which the editor, overcome by the hyphenated political matter of the day, places an unnecessary separative in the "saw-dust" trail.