The first night of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s play, Saint Joan, at the New Theatre in London was an event of consequence not only in society circles, but in artistic circles as well. Not for many years had Mr. Shaw produced a new play in London. Since his last, the war had fallen, altering in varied ways his audience, altering no less Mr. Shaw himself. How would its effects be seen in his attitude to Saint Joan? Of course he would remain Shavian, but how? Would he approve or disapprove? At what angle would he cut across popular conceptions and show the world upside down?

The skill and artistry, the imagination and fine historical and dramatic sense of Mr. Charles Ricketts had been invoked to give due and proper setting to this Chronicle Play. Playgoers were enchanted with the result. To some the feast of colour and design, the humour and imagination shown in it, the delicacy, the effectiveness of scenery and dress, were the most impressive and haunting part of the performance. We cannot touch on these, however; we must leave their praise to those who have been happy enough to have seen them.

But the play? Well, Bernard Shaw has shown himself a thorough John Bull. Not that he is really an Englishman, for he hails from across the Irish Channel; but he is, if he will forgive us for saying so not so much an Irishman as a native of ‘John Bull’s other island.’ Of course he has his usual gibes at England and the English.