d Harry and the vagabond Scottish kings. England
has become English again; Scotland has become Scottish again, in spite
of the splendid incubus, the noble nightmare of Calvin. There is only
one place in the British Islands where one may naturally expect to find
still surviving in its fulness the fierce detachment of the true
Puritan. That place is the Protestant part of Ireland. The Orange
Calvinists can be disturbed by no national resurrection, for they have
no nation. In them, if in any people, will be found the rectangular
consistency of the Calvinist. The Irish Protestant rioters are at least
immeasurably finer fellows than any of their brethren in England. They
have the two enormous superiorities: first, that the Irish Protestant
rioters really believe in Protestant theology; and second, that the
Irish Protestant rioters do really riot. Among these people, if
anywhere, should be found the cult of theological clarity combined with
barbarous external simplicity. Among these people Bernard Shaw was born.

There is at least one outstanding fact about the man we are studying;
Bernard Shaw is never frivolous. He never gives his opinions a holiday;
he is never irresponsible even for an instant. He has no nonsensical
second self which he can get into as one gets into a dressing-gown; that
ridiculous disguise which is yet more real than the real person. That
collapse and humorous confession of futility was much of the force in
Charles Lamb and in Stevenson. There is nothing of this in Shaw; his wit
is never a weakness; therefore it is never a sense of humour. For wit is
always connected with the idea that truth is close and clear. Humour,
on the other hand, is always connected with the idea that truth is
tricky and mystical and easily mistaken. What Charles Lamb said of the
Scotchman is far truer of this type of Puritan Irishman; he does not see
things suddenly in a new light; all his brilliancy is a blindingly rapid
calculation and deduction. Bernard Shaw never said an indefensible
thing; that is, he never said a thing that he was not prepared
brilliantly to defend. He never breaks out into that cry beyond reason
and conviction, that cry of Lamb when he cried, "We would indict our
dreams!" or of Stevenson, "Shall we never shed blood?" In short he is
not a humorist, but a great wit, almost as great as Voltaire. Humour is
akin to agnosticism, which is only the negative side of mysticism. But
pure wit is akin to Puritanism; to