e
is perfectly hearty and humorous in him; nay, it is even humble; for to
confess vanity is itself humble. All that is the matter with the proud
is that they will not admit that they are vain. Therefore when Shaw
says that he alone is able to write such and such admirable work, or
that he has just utterly wiped out some celebrated opponent, I for one
never feel anything offensive in the tone, but, indeed, only the
unmistakable intonation of a friend's voice. But I have noticed among
younger, harder, and much shallower men a certain disposition to ape
this insolent ease and certitude, and that without any fundamental
frankness or mirth. So far the influence is bad. Egoism can be learnt as
a lesson like any other "ism." It is not so easy to learn an Irish
accent or a good temper. In its lower forms the thing becomes a most
unmilitary trick of announcing the victory before one has gained it.

When one has said those three things, one has said, I think, all that
can be said by way of blaming Bernard Shaw. It is significant that he
was never blamed for any of these things by the Censor. Such censures as
the attitude of that official involves may be dismissed with a very
light sort of disdain. To represent Shaw as profane or provocatively
indecent is not a matter for discussion at all; it is a disgusting
criminal libel upon a particularly respectable gentleman of the middle
classes, of refined tastes and somewhat Puritanical views. But while
the negative defence of Shaw is easy, the just praise of him is almost
as complex as it is necessary; and I shall devote the last few pages of
this book to a triad corresponding to the last one--to the three
important elements in which the work of Shaw has been good as well as
great.

In the first place, and quite apart from all particular theories, the
world owes thanks to Bernard Shaw for having combined being intelligent
with being intelligible. He has popularised philosophy, or rather he has
repopularised it, for philosophy is always popular, except in peculiarly
corrupt and oligarchic ages like our own. We have passed the age of the
demagogue, the man who has little to say and says it loud. We have come
to the age of the mystagogue or don, the man who has nothing to say, but
says it softly and impressively in an indistinct whisper. After all,
short words must mean something, even if they mean filth or lies; but
long words may sometimes mean literally nothing, especially if they are