Good books go through their grand editions only to end their existence on poor stalls in poorer covers. Good plays suffer a somewhat similar fate. They too have the grand vellum of Broadway about them for a time until, eclipsed by newer rivals, they are forced to the cheap paper covers of the world of stock. Such a play is "Outward Bound". Other attempts at histrionic ethics and metaphysics have sent Sutton Vane's play into the limbo of provincial stock productions. So his philosophy of rat trap existence, a philosophy which saw nothing in heaven or hell but the doubtful happiness of "carrying on"--and "There's no discharge in the war," now suffers the vapid appreciation of stock audiences. And the Copley crosses the Styx.

Evidently they are not used to voyages on the Elysian Line--for they are not quite sure of themselves. Their shades are too heavy--their shadows too broadly etched. Miss Standing and Mr. Neill are not completely convincing as the "Half Ways". The audience is slow at understanding, but they are rather slow in helping them to understand. Mr. Mowbray as the cynic who tries to "Scotch the snake" of life has excellent moments, due perhaps to his possessing the nicest lines of the play. Yet he fails to maintain the consistency of Prior's character by ranting at times as no Priors ever rant--even when convinced that they are soundly, irrevocably dead.

Of course it is difficult in a week to learn completely a whimsical, unusual role. Styxian cynics are odd people, not too easy to portray. Nor are vicars on the longest of vicars' vacations. But Mr. Cannon realizes the Barriesque quality in the play with delightful results. William Duke, who wants a "keen" world, who likes his vicarship with lambent sincerity, who knows enough of life to misunderstand death--he is exact and competent, more so than can usually be expected in stock productions with red asbestos curtains and singleton orchestras. Miss Newcombe as the formidable Mrs. Clivedon-Banks; Miss Ediss as Mrs. Midget, romanticist atheist--they do not quite approach reality. The one is too boisterously appreciative of the buffoonery in her part; the other is too tautly expressive of the emotive possibilities of hers. Yet it is but fair to admit that they are attempt-a tremendous undertaking. This "painted ship upon a painted ocean.' is not easy to hang on Boston walls. And they do try to adjust it to the setting, to make it comprehensible.

But Boston has, apparently, lost whatever whimsy it once possessed. People here are like the lady who whispered to the friend with the rattling program, "Now they are all dead, and we know they are all dead, we can laugh at the funny places." And the funny places are the crude places. Only the occasional eye notices the delicate nuances of character, wishes to notice them. Yet it is for such that Sutton Vane wrote his play--and it is for such that the Copley players are producing it. So one must credit them with a task, verging on the impossible--a task so often ably executed that one has moments of believing the impossible has been attained--and by a stock company.