d that the English are only too anxious to
recognize a man of genius if somebody will kindly point him out to
them. Having pointed myself out in this manner with some success, I now
point out Samuel Butler, and trust that in consequence I shall hear a
little less in future of the novelty and foreign origin of the ideas
which are now making their way into the English theatre through plays
written by Socialists. There are living men whose originality and power
are as obvious as Butler's; and when they die that fact will be
discovered. Meanwhile I recommend them to insist on their own merits as
an important part of their own business.

THE SALVATION ARMY

When Major Barbara was produced in London, the second act was reported
in an important northern newspaper as a withering attack on the
Salvation Army, and the despairing ejaculation of Barbara deplored by a
London daily as a tasteless blasphemy. And they were set right, not by
the professed critics of the theatre, but by religious and
philosophical publicists like Sir Oliver Lodge and Dr Stanton Coit, and
strenuous Nonconformist journalists like Mr William Stead, who not only
understood the act as well as the Salvationists themselves, but also
saw it in its relation to the religious life of the nation, a life
which seems to lie not only outside the sympathy of many of our theatre
critics, but actually outside their knowledge of society. Indeed
nothing could be more ironically curious than the confrontation Major
Barbara effected of the theatre enthusiasts with the religious
enthusiasts. On the one hand was the playgoer, always seeking pleasure,
paying exorbitantly for it, suffering unbearable discomforts for it,
and hardly ever getting it. On the other hand was the Salvationist,
repudiating gaiety and courting effort and sacrifice, yet always in the
wildest spirits, laughing, joking, singing, rejoicing, drumming, and
tambourining: his life flying by in a flash of excitement, and his
death arriving as a climax of triumph. And, if you please, the playgoer
despising the Salvationist as a joyless person, shut out from the
heaven of the theatre, self-condemned to a life of hideous gloom; and
the Salvationist mourning over the playgoer as over a prodigal with
vine leaves in his hair, careering outrageously to hell amid the
popping of champagne corks and the ribald laughter of sirens! Could
misunderstanding be more complete, or sympathy worse misplaced?

Fortunately, the