I would not at any cost minimize what Edgar Masters has done, but his fight is not yet over. 4 The Interpretation of the Music of the XVIIth and XVIIIth Centuries, by Arnold Dolmetsch. _Novello, London. W. H. Gray, New York._ Arnold Dolmetsch’s book has been out for some time. No intelligent musician would willingly remain without it. No intelligent musician is wholly without interest in the music of those two centuries. But this book is more than a technical guide to musicians. It is not merely “full of suggestion” for the thorough artist of any sort, but it shows a way whereby the musician and the “intelligent” can once more be brought into touch. If Dolmetsch could be persuaded to write a shilling manual for the instruction of children _and_ of mis-taught elders it might save the world’s ears much torture. Dolmetsch’s initial move was to demonstrate that the music of the old instruments could not be given on the piano; any more than you could give violin music on the piano. His next was to restore the old instruments to us. There is too much intelligence in him and his book adequately to be treated in a paragraph. I am writing of him at greater length in _The Egoist_. His citations from Couperin show the existence of vers libre in early eighteenth-century music. I do not however care unduly to stir up the rather uninteresting discussion as to the archaeology of “free” verse. 5 Prufrock and Other Observations, by T. S. Eliot. _The Egoist, London. One shilling._ The book-buyer can not do better. Frost tinges the jasper terrace, A fine stork, a black stork sings in the heaven, Autumn is deep in the valley of Hako, The sad monkeys cry out in the midnight, The mountain pathway is lonely. ... The red sun blots on the sky the line of the colour-drenched mountains. The flowers rain in a gust; it is no racking storm that comes over this green moor, which is afloat, as it would seem, in these waves. Wonderful is the sleeve of the white cloud, whirling such snow here. —_From “Noh”, by Ernest Fenollosa and Ezra Pound._ Theatre Muet John Rodker I Interior Black Curtain. In one corner the picture of a door. A man in black tights (so that only his face is seen and the outlines of his body divined) crosses the stage. He passes through the door. We follow him because the curtain is raised. Black room. Again he crosses the stage and striking a match, lights a gas jet at his own height with great deliberation. * * * * * Man goes off unseen. Three chairs become apparent. They are in a line—two kitchen chairs— once white—dirty. One—old—beautiful— highly polished.