the spirited attitudinisings of a Garibaldi or Cavor, are foredoomed
to the failure which its inherent oldmaidishness must always win for
the Liberal Party in all undertakings whatsoever. Snt George is, of
course, myself. But here my very aptitude in controversy tripped me up
as playwright. Owing to my nack of going straight to the root of the
matter in hand and substituting, before you can say Jack Robinson, a
truth for every fallacy and a natural law for every convention, the
scene of Snt George (Bernard Shaw)'s victory over the Turkish Knight
came out too short for theatrical purposes. I calculated that the play
as it stood would not occupy more than five hours in performance. I
therefore departed from the original scheme so far as to provide the
Turkish Knight with three attendant monsters, severally named the
Good, the Beyootiful, and the Ter-rew, and representing in themselves
the current forms of Religion, Art, and Science. These three Snt
George successively challenges, tackles, and flattens out--the first
as lunacy, the second as harlotry, the third as witchcraft. But even
so the play would not be long enough had I not padded a good deal of
buffoonery into the scene where the five corpses are brought back to
life.

The restorative Physician symbolises that irresistible force of human
stupidity by which the rottenest and basest institutions are enabled
to thrive in the teeth of the logic that has demolished them. Thus,
for the author, the close of the play is essentially tragic. But what
is death to him is fun to you, and my buffooneries wont offend any of
you. Bah!

FOND HEARTS ASKEW

_By_

M**R*CE H*WL*TT

TO WILLIAM ROBERTSON NICOLL SAGE AND REVEREND AND A TRUE KNIGHT THIS
ROMAUNT OF DAYS EDVARDIAN

PROLOGUE.

_Too strong a wine, belike, for some stomachs, for there's honey in
it, and a dibbet of gore, with other condiments. Yet Mistress Clio
(with whom, some say, Mistress Thalia, that sweet hoyden) brewed it:
she, not I, who do but hand the cup round by her warrant and good
favour. Her guests, not mine, you shall take it or leave it--spill it
untasted or quaff a bellyful. Of a hospitable temper, she whose page
I am; but a great lady, over self-sure to be dudgeoned by wry faces in
the refectory. As for the little sister (if she did have finger in the
concoction)--no fear of offence there! I dare vow, who know somewhat
the fashion of her, she will but trill a pretty titter or so at your
qu