There is no better tonic than George Bernard Shaw. He always comes as a refreshing draught of bitter-sweet cynicism and charlatanism, mingled with a well-disguised strain of humanity. And of all his medicines, none is more rejuvenating than Pygmalion.

As presented this week by the Jewett Players at the Copley Theatre, Pygmalion is a very amusing and well-balanced production. The acting, as a whole, is adequate, and on the part of Mr. Clive--delightful. He is Henry Higgens to the last nervous twitch of his awkward hands. Viola Roach, as the cockney flower girl, and Ada Wingard as the straight-laced housekeeper with middle class respectability--are likewise very convincing.

The settings of the piece leave much to be desired, but in a repertory or stock company one does not look for the careful scenic consideration given to a prolonged production. The only real discrepancies are to be found in Act III where Mrs. Higgens, an English Lady, the mother of an English son, has an "at home" and receives guests without serving tea. And again, what English lady--or any other-would busily continue to write notes in the presence of her guests.

Aside from these not very serious derogations, and a certain lack of polish in the minor parts,--Pygmalion is a very satisfactory and delightful performance, and anyone going to the Copley will be repaid with an evening of thorough enjoyment.