I was reading to-day The Irrational Knot, an early book by Mr.
Bernard Shaw, whom I whole-heartedly admire because of his courage
and good-humour and energy. That book represents a type of the New
Man, such as I suppose Mr. Shaw would have us all to be; the book,
in spite of its radiant wit, is a melancholy one, because the
novelist penetrates so clearly past the disguises of humanity, and
takes delight in dragging the mean, ugly, shuddering, naked
creature into the open. The New Man himself is entirely vigorous,
cheerful, affectionate, sensible, and robust. He is afraid of
nothing and shocked by nothing. I think it would have been better
if he had been a little more shocked, not in a conventional way,
but at the hideous lapses and failures of even generous and frank
people. He is too hard and confident to be an apostle. He does not
lead the flock like a shepherd, but helps them along, like Father-
o'-Flynn, with his stick. I would have gone to Conolly, the hero of
the book, to get me out of a difficulty, but I could not have
confided to him what I really held sacred.
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