Christina Alberta’s Father, by H. G. Wells; St. Joan[1], by Bernard Shaw; and What I Believe[2], by Bertrand Russell. (I am sorry to include the name of Mr. Russell, whose intellect would have reached the first rank even in the thirteenth century, but when he trespasses outside of mathematical philosophy his excursions are often descents.) Between these writers there are many and great differences, as between the others. And they all have their moments: at one point in his novel Mr. Wells lapses from vulgarity into high seriousness; at two points, if not more, in his long series of plays Mr. Shaw reveals himself as the artist whose development was checked at puberty. But they all hold curious amateur religions[3] based apparently upon amateur or second-hand biology, and on The Way of all Flesh. They all exhibit intelligence at the mercy of emotion. They all, it is true, have their faith. It is not for us to sneer at the faith of those who were born and reared under conditions different from ours—perhaps more difficult—perhaps easier. But we must find our own faith, and having found it, fight for it against all others. And with this I will make no more ado of tendencies.
- ↑ Two new books about Mr. Shaw, Table Talk of G.B.S., by {{subst:al|Archibald Henderson}} (Chapman & Hall, 5/– net.), and Shaw, by {{subst:al|J. S. Collis}} (Cape, 5/– net), should have been reviewed, but for lack of space. They are of no great value, but show that l’on porte partout le cadavre de son grand-pere.
- ↑ This admirable pamphlet, the most interesting so far of a pert little series ({{subst:al|Kegan Paul}}), is a complete credo of die-hard radicalism. It deserves very full attention, but, as with other dogmatic revelations, an adequate commentary would much exceed in length the document commented upon.
- ↑ Very different from the religion of Mr. {{subst:al|Middleton Murry}}, which I am totally unable to understand.
