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 qualms.

BENEDICTUS BENEDICAT.

I cry you mercy for a lacuna at the outset.  I know not what had knitted and blackened the brows of certain two speeding eastward through London, enhansomed, on the night of the feast of St. Box:  alter, Geoffrey Dizzard, called “The Honourable,” lieu-tenant in the Guards of Edward the Peace Getter; altera, the Lady Angelica Plantagenet, to him affianced.  Devil take the cause of the bicker:  enough that they were at sulks.  Here’s for a sight of the girl!