exist. For instance, if a man called Christmas Day a mere hypocritical
excuse for drunkenness and gluttony that would be false, but it would
have a fact hidden in it somewhere. But when Bernard Shaw says that
Christmas Day is only a conspiracy kept up by poulterers and wine
merchants from strictly business motives, then he says something which
is not so much false as startlingly and arrestingly foolish. He might as
well say that the two sexes were invented by jewellers who wanted to
sell wedding rings. Or again, take the case of nationality and the unit
of patriotism. If a man said that all boundaries between clans,
kingdoms, or empires were nonsensical or non-existent, that would be a
fallacy, but a consistent and philosophical fallacy. But when Mr.
Bernard Shaw says that England matters so little that the British Empire
might very well give up these islands to Germany, he has not only got
hold of the sow by the wrong ear but the wrong sow by the wrong ear; a
mythical sow, a sow that is not there at all. If Britain is unreal, the
British Empire must be a thousand times more unreal. It is as if one
said, "I do not believe that Michael Scott ever had any existence; but
I am convinced, in spite of the absurd legend, that he had a shadow."

As has been said already, there must be some truth in every popular
impression. And the impression that Shaw, the most savagely serious man
of his time, is a mere music-hall artist must have reference to such
rare outbreaks as these. As a rule his speeches are full, not only of
substance, but of substances, materials like pork, mahogany, lead, and
leather. There is no man whose arguments cover a more Napoleonic map of
detail. It is true that he jokes; but wherever he is he has topical
jokes, one might almost say family jokes. If he talks to tailors he can
allude to the last absurdity about buttons. If he talks to the soldiers
he can see the exquisite and exact humour of the last gun-carriage. But
when all his powerful practicality is allowed, there does run through
him this erratic levity, an explosion of ineptitude. It is a queer
quality in literature. It is a sort of cold extravagance; and it has
made him all his enemies.

_The Philosopher_

I should suppose that _Caesar and Cleopatra_ marks about the turning tide
of Bernard Shaw's fortune and fame. Up to this time he had known glory,
but never success. He had been wondered at as something brilliant and
barren, like a meteor