with　our　mere　susceptibles。　Your　Royal　Academician　thinks　he　can
  get　the　style　of　Giotto　without　Giotto's　beliefs；　and　correct　his
  perspective　into　the　bargain。　Your　man　of　letters　thinks　he　can
  get　Bunyan's　or　Shakespear's　style　without　Bunyan's　conviction　or
  Shakespear's　apprehension；　especially　if　he　takes　care　not　to
  split　his　infinitives。　And　so　with　your　Doctors　of　Music；　who；
  with　their　collections　of　discords　duly　prepared　and　resolved　or
  retarded　or　anticipated　in　the　manner　of　the　great　composers；
  think　they　can　learn　the　art　of　Palestrina　from　Cherubim's
  treatise。　All　this　academic　art　is　far　worse　than　the　trade　in
  sham　antique　furniture；　for　the　man　who　sells　me　an　oaken　chest
  which　he　swears　was　made　in　the　XIII　century；　though　as　a　matter
  of　fact　he　made　it　himself　only　yesterday；　at　least　does　not
  pretend　that　there　are　any　modern　ideas　in　it；　whereas　your
  academic　copier　of　fossils　offers　them　to　you　as　the　latest
  outpouring　of　the　human　spirit；　and；　worst　of　all；　kidnaps　young
  people　as　pupils　and　persuades　them　that　his　limitations　are
  rules；　his　observances　dexterities；　his　timidities　good　taste；
  and　his　emptinesses　purities。　And　when　he　declares　that　art
  should　not　be　didactic；　all　the　people　who　have　nothing　to　teach
  and　all　the　people　who　don't　want　to　learn　agree　with　him
  emphatically。
  I　pride　myself　on　not　being　one　of　these　susceptible：　If　you
  study　the　electric　light　with　which　I　supply　you　in　that
  Bumbledonian　public　capacity　of　mine　over　which　you　make　merry
  from　time　to　time；　you　will　find　that　your　house　contains　a　great
  quantity　of　highly　susceptible　copper　wire　which　gorges　itself
  with　electricity　and　gives　you　no　light　whatever。　But　here　and
  there　occurs　a　scrap　of　intensely　insusceptible；　intensely
  resistant　material；　and　that　stubborn　scrap　grapples　with　the
  current　and　will　not　let　it　through　until　it　has　made　itself
  useful　to　you　as　those　two　vital　qualities　of　literature；　light
  and　heat。　Now　if　I　am　to　be　no　mere　copper　wire　amateur　but　a
  luminous　author；　I　must　also　be　a　most　intensely　refractory
  person；　liable　to　go　out　and　to　go　wrong　at　inconvenient　moments；
  and　with　incendiary　possibilities。　These　are　the　faults　of　my
  qualities；　and　I　assure　you　that　I　sometimes　dislike　myself　so
  much　that　when　some　irritable　reviewer　chances　at　that　moment　to
  pitch　into　me　with　zest；　I　feel　unspeakably　relieved　and
  obliged。　But　I　never　dream　of　reforming；　knowing　that　I　must　take
  myself　as　I　am　and　get　what　work　I　can　out　of　myself。　All　this
  you　will　understand；　for　there　is　community　of　material　between
  us：　we　are　both　critics　of　life　as　well　as　of　art；　and　you　have
  perhaps　said　to　yourself　when　I　have　passed　your　windows；　〃There；
  but　for　the　grace　of　God；　go　I。〃　An　awful　and　chastening
  reflection；　which　shall　be　the　closing　cadence　of　this
  immoderately　long　letter　from　yours　faithfully；
  G。　BERNARD　SHAW。
  WOKING；　1903
  ACT　I
  Roebuck　Ramsden　is　in　his　study；　opening　the　morning　letters。　The
  study；　handsomely　and　solidly　furnished；　proclaims　the　man　of
  means。　Not　a　speck　of　dust　is　visible：　it　is　clear　that　there　are
  at　least　two　housemaids　and　a　parlormaid　downstairs；　and　a
  housekeeper　upstairs　who　does　not　let　them　spare　elbow…grease。
  Even　the　top　of　Roebuck's　head　is　polished：　on　a　sunshiny　day　he
  could　heliograph　his　orders　to　distant　camps　by　merely　nodding。
  In　no　other　respect；　however；　does　he　suggest　the　military　man。
  It　is　in　active　civil　life　that　men　get　his　broad　air　of
  importance；　his　dignified　expectation　of　deference；　his
  determinate　mouth　disarmed　and　refined　since　the　hour　of　his
  success　by　the　withdrawal　of　opposition　and　the　concession　of
  comfort　and　precedence　and　power。　He　is　more　than　a　highly
  respectable　man：　he　is　marked　out　as　a　president　of　highly
  respectable　men；　a　chairman　among　directors；　an　alderman　among
  councillors；　a　mayor　among　aldermen。　Four　tufts　of　iron…grey
  hair；　which　will　soon　be　as　white　as　isinglass；　and　are　in　other
  respects　not　at　all　unlike　it；　grow　in　two　symmetrical　pairs
  above　his　ears　and　at　the　angles　of　his　spreading　jaws。　He　wears
  a　black　frock　coat；　a　white　waistcoat　（it　is　bright　spring
  weather）；　and　trousers；　neither　black　nor　perceptibly　blue；　of
  one　of　those　indefinitely　mixed　hues　which　the　modern　clothier
  has　produced　to　harmonize　with　the　religions　of　respectable　men。
  He　has　not　been　out　of　doors　yet　to…day；　so　he　still　wears　his
  slippers；　his　boots　being　ready　for　him　on　the　hearthrug。
  Surmising　that　he　has　no　valet；　and　seeing　that　he　has　no
  secretary　with　a　shorthand　notebook　and　a　typewriter；　one
  meditates　on　how　little　our　great　burgess　domesticity　has　been
  disturbed　by　new　fashions　and　methods；　or　by　the　enterprise　of
  the　railway　and　hotel　companies　which　sell　you　a　Saturday　to
  Monday　of　life　at　Folkestone　as　a　real　gentleman　for　two　guineas；
  first　class　fares　both　ways　included。
  How　old　is　Roebuck？　The　question　is　important　on　the　threshold　of
  a　drama　of　ideas；　for　under　such　circumstances　everything　depends
  on　whether　his　adolescence　belonged　to　the　sixties　or　to　the
  eighties。　He　was　born；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　in　1839；　and　was　a
  Unitarian　and　Free　Trader　from　his　boyhood；　and　an　Evolutionist
  from　the　publication　of　the　Origin　of　Species。　Consequently　he
  has　always　classed　himself　as　an　advanced　thinker　and　fearlessly
  outspoken　reformer。
  Sitting　at　his　writing　table；　he　has　on　his　right　the　windows
  giving　on　Portland　Place。　Through　these；　as　through　a　proscenium；
  the　curious　spectator　may　contemplate　his　profile　as　well　as　the
  blinds　will　permit。　On　his　left　is　the　inner　wall；　with　a　stately
  bookcase；　and　the　door　not　quite　in　the　middle；　but　somewhat
  further　from　him。　Against　the　wall　opposite　him　are　two　busts　on
  pillars：　one；　to　his　left；　of　John　Bright；　the　other；　to　his
  right；　of　Mr　Herbert　Spencer。　Between　them　hang　an　engraved
  portrait　of　Richard　Cobden；　enlarged　photographs　of　Martineau；
  Huxley；　and　George　Eliot；　autotypes　of　allegories　by　Mr　G。F。
  Watts　（for　Roebuck　believed　in　the　fine　arts　with　all　the
  earnestness　of　a　man　who　does　not　understand　them）；　and　an
  impression　of　Dupont's　engraving　of　Delaroche's　Beaux　Artes
  hemicycle；　representing　the　great　men　of　all　ages。　On　the　wall
  behind　him；　above　the　mantelshelf；　is　a　family　portrait　of
  impenetrable　obscurity。
  A　chair　stands　near　the　writing　table　for　the　convenience　of
  business　visitors。　Two　other　chairs　are　against　the　wall　between
  the　busts。
  A　parlormaid　enters　with　a　visitor's　card。　Roebuck　takes　it；　and
  nods；　pleased。　Evidently　a　welcome　caller。
  RAMSDEN。　Show　him　up。
  The　parlormaid　goes　out　and　returns　with　the　visitor。
  THE　MAID。　Mr　Robinson。
  Mr　Robinson　is　really　an　uncommonly　nice　looking　young　fellow。　He
  must；　one　thinks；　be　the　jeune　premier；　for　it　is　not　in　reason
  to　suppose　that　a　second　such　attractive　male　figure　should
  appear　in　one　story。　The　slim　shapely　frame；　the　elegant　suit　of
  new　mourning；　the　small　head　and　regular　features；　the　pretty
  little　moustache；　the　frank　clear　eyes；　the　wholesome　bloom
  and　the　youthful　complexion；　the　well　brushed　glossy　hair；　not
  curly；　but　of　fine　texture　and　good　dark　color；　the　arch　of　good
  nature　in　the　eyebrows；　the　erect　forehead　and　neatly　pointed
  chin；　all　announce　the　man　who　will　love　and　suffer　later　on。
  And　that　he　will　not　do　so　without　sympathy　is　guaranteed　by　an
  engaging　sincerity　and　eager　modest　serviceableness　which　stamp
  him　as　a　man　of　amiable　nature。　The　moment　he　appears；　Ramsden's
  face　expands　into　fatherly　liking　and　welcome；　an　expression
  which　drops　into　one　of　decorous　grief　as　the　young　man
  approaches　him　with　sorrow　in　his　face　as　well　as　in　his　black
  clothes。　Ramsden　seems　to　know　the　nature　of　the　bereavement。　As
  the　visitor　advances　silently　to　the　writing　table；　the　old　man
  rises　and　shakes　his　hand　across　it　without　a　word：　a　long；
  affectionate　shake　which　tells　the　story　of　a　recent　sorrow
  common　to　both。
  RAMSDEN。　＇concluding　the　handshake　and　cheering　up＇　Well；　well；
  Octavius；　it's　the　common　lot。　We　must　all　face　it　someday。　Sit
  down。
  Octavius　takes　the　visitor's　chair。　Ramsden　replaces　himself　in
  his　own。
  OCTAVIUS。　Yes：　we　must　face　it；　Mr　Ramsden。　But　I　owed　him　a
  great　deal。　He　did　everything　for　me　that　my　father　could　have
  done　if　he　had　lived。
  RAMSDEN。　He　had　no　son　of　his　own；　you　see。
  OCTAVIUS。　But　he　had　daughters；　and　yet　he　was　as　good　to　my
  sister　as　to　me。　And　his　death　was　so　sudden！　I　always　intended
  to　thank　himto　let　him　know　that　I　had　not　taken　all　his　care
  of　me　as　a　matter　of　course；　as　any　boy　takes　his　father's　care。
  But　I　waited　for　an　opportunity　and　now　he　is　deaddropped
  without　a　moment's　warning。　He　will　never　know　what　I　felt。　＇He
  takes　out　his　handkerchief　and　cries　unaffectedly＇。
  RAMSDEN。　How　do　we　know　that；　Octavius？　He　may　know　it：　we
  cannot　tell。　Come！　Don't　grieve。　＇Octavius　masters　himself　and
  puts　up　his　handkerchief＇。　That's　right。　Now　let　me　tell　you
  something　to　console　you。　The　last　time　I　saw　himit　was　in
  this　very　roomhe　said　to　me：　〃Tavy　is　a　generous　lad　and　the
  soul　of　honor；　and　when　I　see　how　little　consideration　other　men
  get　from　their　sons；　I　realize　how