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diff --git a/old/11505-h/11505-h.htm b/old/11505-h/11505-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..562cd0c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11505-h/11505-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6084 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of All Things Considered, by G. K. Chesterton</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of All Things Considered, by G. K. Chesterton</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: All Things Considered</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: G. K. Chesterton</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 7, 2004 [eBook #11505]<br /> +[Most recently updated: April 14, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Robert Shimmin, jayam and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THINGS CONSIDERED ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:55%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h1>ALL THINGS CONSIDERED</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">G. K. CHESTERTON</h2> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"> +<i>First Published (Eighth Edition) at IS. net September 2nd 1915</i> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Ninth Edition November 1915</i> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">THE CASE FOR THE EPHEMERAL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">COCKNEYS AND THEIR JOKES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">THE FALLACY OF SUCCESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">ON RUNNING AFTER ONE’S HAT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">THE VOTE AND THE HOUSE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CONCEIT AND CARICATURE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">PATRIOTISM AND SPORT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">AN ESSAY ON TWO CITIES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">FRENCH AND ENGLISH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">THE ZOLA CONTROVERSY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">OXFORD FROM WITHOUT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">WOMAN</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">THE MODERN MARTYR</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">ON POLITICAL SECRECY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">EDWARD VII. AND SCOTLAND</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">THOUGHTS AROUND KOEPENICK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">THE BOY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">LIMERICKS AND COUNSELS OF PERFECTION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">ANONYMITY AND FURTHER COUNSELS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">ON THE CRYPTIC AND THE ELLIPTIC</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">THE WORSHIP OF THE WEALTHY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">SCIENCE AND RELIGION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">THE METHUSELAHITE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">SPIRITUALISM</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">THE ERROR OF IMPARTIALITY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">PHONETIC SPELLING</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">HUMANITARIANISM AND STRENGTH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">WINE WHEN IT IS RED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">DEMAGOGUES AND MYSTAGOGUES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">THE “EATANSWILL GAZETTE”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">FAIRY TALES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">TOM JONES AND MORALITY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">THE MAID OF ORLEANS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">A DEAD POET</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHRISTMAS</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE CASE FOR THE EPHEMERAL</h2> + +<p> +I cannot understand the people who take literature seriously; but I can love +them, and I do. Out of my love I warn them to keep clear of this book. It is a +collection of crude and shapeless papers upon current or rather flying +subjects; and they must be published pretty much as they stand. They were +written, as a rule, at the last moment; they were handed in the moment before +it was too late, and I do not think that our commonwealth would have been +shaken to its foundations if they had been handed in the moment after. They +must go out now, with all their imperfections on their head, or rather on mine; +for their vices are too vital to be improved with a blue pencil, or with +anything I can think of, except dynamite. +</p> + +<p> +Their chief vice is that so many of them are very serious; because I had no +time to make them flippant. It is so easy to be solemn; it is so hard to be +frivolous. Let any honest reader shut his eyes for a few moments, and +approaching the secret tribunal of his soul, ask himself whether he would +really rather be asked in the next two hours to write the front page of the +<i>Times</i>, which is full of long leading articles, or the front page of +<i>Tit-Bits,</i> which is full of short jokes. If the reader is the fine +conscientious fellow I take him for, he will at once reply that he would rather +on the spur of the moment write ten <i>Times</i> articles than one +<i>Tit-Bits</i> joke. Responsibility, a heavy and cautious responsibility of +speech, is the easiest thing in the world; anybody can do it. That is why so +many tired, elderly, and wealthy men go in for politics. They are responsible, +because they have not the strength of mind left to be irresponsible. It is more +dignified to sit still than to dance the Barn Dance. It is also easier. So in +these easy pages I keep myself on the whole on the level of the <i>Times</i>: +it is only occasionally that I leap upwards almost to the level of +<i>Tit-Bits.</i> +</p> + +<p> +I resume the defence of this indefensible book. These articles have another +disadvantage arising from the scurry in which they were written; they are too +long-winded and elaborate. One of the great disadvantages of hurry is that it +takes such a long time. If I have to start for High-gate this day week, I may +perhaps go the shortest way. If I have to start this minute, I shall almost +certainly go the longest. In these essays (as I read them over) I feel +frightfully annoyed with myself for not getting to the point more quickly; but +I had not enough leisure to be quick. There are several maddening cases in +which I took two or three pages in attempting to describe an attitude of which +the essence could be expressed in an epigram; only there was no time for +epigrams. I do not repent of one shade of opinion here expressed; but I feel +that they might have been expressed so much more briefly and precisely. For +instance, these pages contain a sort of recurring protest against the boast of +certain writers that they are merely recent. They brag that their philosophy of +the universe is the last philosophy or the new philosophy, or the advanced and +progressive philosophy. I have said much against a mere modernism. When I use +the word “modernism,” I am not alluding specially to the current quarrel in the +Roman Catholic Church, though I am certainly astonished at any intellectual +group accepting so weak and unphilosophical a name. It is incomprehensible to +me that any thinker can calmly call himself a modernist; he might as well call +himself a Thursdayite. But apart altogether from that particular disturbance, I +am conscious of a general irritation expressed against the people who boast of +their advancement and modernity in the discussion of religion. But I never +succeeded in saying the quite clear and obvious thing that is really the matter +with modernism. The real objection to modernism is simply that it is a form of +snobbishness. It is an attempt to crush a rational opponent not by reason, but +by some mystery of superiority, by hinting that one is specially up to date or +particularly “in the know.” To flaunt the fact that we have had all the last +books from Germany is simply vulgar; like flaunting the fact that we have had +all the last bonnets from Paris. To introduce into philosophical discussions a +sneer at a creed’s antiquity is like introducing a sneer at a lady’s age. It is +caddish because it is irrelevant. The pure modernist is merely a snob; he +cannot bear to be a month behind the fashion. +</p> + +<p> +Similarly I find that I have tried in these pages to express the real objection +to philanthropists and have not succeeded. I have not seen the quite simple +objection to the causes advocated by certain wealthy idealists; causes of which +the cause called teetotalism is the strongest case. I have used many abusive +terms about the thing, calling it Puritanism, or superciliousness, or +aristocracy; but I have not seen and stated the quite simple objection to +philanthropy; which is that it is religious persecution. Religious persecution +does not consist in thumbscrews or fires of Smithfield; the essence of +religious persecution is this: that the man who happens to have material power +in the State, either by wealth or by official position, should govern his +fellow-citizens not according to their religion or philosophy, but according to +his own. If, for instance, there is such a thing as a vegetarian nation; if +there is a great united mass of men who wish to live by the vegetarian +morality, then I say in the emphatic words of the arrogant French marquis +before the French Revolution, “Let them eat grass.” Perhaps that French +oligarch was a humanitarian; most oligarchs are. Perhaps when he told the +peasants to eat grass he was recommending to them the hygienic simplicity of a +vegetarian restaurant. But that is an irrelevant, though most fascinating, +speculation. The point here is that if a nation is really vegetarian let its +government force upon it the whole horrible weight of vegetarianism. Let its +government give the national guests a State vegetarian banquet. Let its +government, in the most literal and awful sense of the words, give them beans. +That sort of tyranny is all very well; for it is the people tyrannising over +all the persons. But “temperance reformers” are like a small group of +vegetarians who should silently and systematically act on an ethical assumption +entirely unfamiliar to the mass of the people. They would always be giving +peerages to greengrocers. They would always be appointing Parliamentary +Commissions to enquire into the private life of butchers. Whenever they found a +man quite at their mercy, as a pauper or a convict or a lunatic, they would +force him to add the final touch to his inhuman isolation by becoming a +vegetarian. All the meals for school children will be vegetarian meals. All the +State public houses will be vegetarian public houses. There is a very strong +case for vegetarianism as compared with teetotalism. Drinking one glass of beer +cannot by any philosophy be drunkenness; but killing one animal can, by this +philosophy, be murder. The objection to both processes is not that the two +creeds, teetotal and vegetarian, are not admissible; it is simply that they are +not admitted. The thing is religious persecution because it is not based on the +existing religion of the democracy. These people ask the poor to accept in +practice what they know perfectly well that the poor would not accept in +theory. That is the very definition of religious persecution. I was against the +Tory attempt to force upon ordinary Englishmen a Catholic theology in which +they do not believe. I am even more against the attempt to force upon them a +Mohamedan morality which they actively deny. +</p> + +<p> +Again, in the case of anonymous journalism I seem to have said a great deal +without getting out the point very clearly. Anonymous journalism is dangerous, +and is poisonous in our existing life simply because it is so rapidly becoming +an anonymous life. That is the horrible thing about our contemporary +atmosphere. Society is becoming a secret society. The modern tyrant is evil +because of his elusiveness. He is more nameless than his slave. He is not more +of a bully than the tyrants of the past; but he is more of a coward. The rich +publisher may treat the poor poet better or worse than the old master workman +treated the old apprentice. But the apprentice ran away and the master ran +after him. Nowadays it is the poet who pursues and tries in vain to fix the +fact of responsibility. It is the publisher who runs away. The clerk of Mr. +Solomon gets the sack: the beautiful Greek slave of the Sultan Suliman also +gets the sack; or the sack gets her. But though she is concealed under the +black waves of the Bosphorus, at least her destroyer is not concealed. He goes +behind golden trumpets riding on a white elephant. But in the case of the clerk +it is almost as difficult to know where the dismissal comes from as to know +where the clerk goes to. It may be Mr. Solomon or Mr. Solomon’s manager, or Mr. +Solomon’s rich aunt in Cheltenham, or Mr. Soloman’s rich creditor in Berlin. +The elaborate machinery which was once used to make men responsible is now used +solely in order to shift the responsibility. People talk about the pride of +tyrants; but we in this age are not suffering from the pride of tyrants. We are +suffering from the shyness of tyrants; from the shrinking modesty of tyrants. +Therefore we must not encourage leader-writers to be shy; we must not inflame +their already exaggerated modesty. Rather we must attempt to lure them to be +vain and ostentatious; so that through ostentation they may at last find their +way to honesty. +</p> + +<p> +The last indictment against this book is the worst of all. It is simply this: +that if all goes well this book will be unintelligible gibberish. For it is +mostly concerned with attacking attitudes which are in their nature accidental +and incapable of enduring. Brief as is the career of such a book as this, it +may last just twenty minutes longer than most of the philosophies that it +attacks. In the end it will not matter to us whether we wrote well or ill; +whether we fought with flails or reeds. It will matter to us greatly on what +side we fought. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>COCKNEYS AND THEIR JOKES</h2> + +<p> +A writer in the <i>Yorkshire Evening Post</i> is very angry indeed with my +performances in this column. His precise terms of reproach are, “Mr. G. K. +Chesterton is not a humourist: not even a Cockney humourist.” I do not mind his +saying that I am not a humourist—in which (to tell the truth) I think he is +quite right. But I do resent his saying that I am not a Cockney. That envenomed +arrow, I admit, went home. If a French writer said of me, “He is no +metaphysician: not even an English metaphysician,” I could swallow the insult +to my metaphysics, but I should feel angry about the insult to my country. So I +do not urge that I am a humourist; but I do insist that I am a Cockney. If I +were a humourist, I should certainly be a Cockney humourist; if I were a saint, +I should certainly be a Cockney saint. I need not recite the splendid catalogue +of Cockney saints who have written their names on our noble old City churches. +I need not trouble you with the long list of the Cockney humourists who have +discharged their bills (or failed to discharge them) in our noble old City +taverns. We can weep together over the pathos of the poor Yorkshireman, whose +county has never produced some humour not intelligible to the rest of the +world. And we can smile together when he says that somebody or other is “not +even” a Cockney humourist like Samuel Johnson or Charles Lamb. It is surely +sufficiently obvious that all the best humour that exists in our language is +Cockney humour. Chaucer was a Cockney; he had his house close to the Abbey. +Dickens was a Cockney; he said he could not think without the London streets. +The London taverns heard always the quaintest conversation, whether it was Ben +Johnson’s at the Mermaid or Sam Johnson’s at the Cock. Even in our own time it +may be noted that the most vital and genuine humour is still written about +London. Of this type is the mild and humane irony which marks Mr. Pett Ridge’s +studies of the small grey streets. Of this type is the simple but smashing +laughter of the best tales of Mr. W. W. Jacobs, telling of the smoke and +sparkle of the Thames. No; I concede that I am not a Cockney humourist. No; I +am not worthy to be. Some time, after sad and strenuous after-lives; some time, +after fierce and apocalyptic incarnations; in some strange world beyond the +stars, I may become at last a Cockney humourist. In that potential paradise I +may walk among the Cockney humourists, if not an equal, at least a companion. I +may feel for a moment on my shoulder the hearty hand of Dryden and thread the +labyrinths of the sweet insanity of Lamb. But that could only be if I were not +only much cleverer, but much better than I am. Before I reach that sphere I +shall have left behind, perhaps, the sphere that is inhabited by angels, and +even passed that which is appropriated exclusively to the use of Yorkshiremen. +</p> + +<p> +No; London is in this matter attacked upon its strongest ground. London is the +largest of the bloated modern cities; London is the smokiest; London is the +dirtiest; London is, if you will, the most sombre; London is, if you will, the +most miserable. But London is certainly the most amusing and the most amused. +You may prove that we have the most tragedy; the fact remains that we have the +most comedy, that we have the most farce. We have at the very worst a splendid +hypocrisy of humour. We conceal our sorrow behind a screaming derision. You +speak of people who laugh through their tears; it is our boast that we only +weep through our laughter. There remains always this great boast, perhaps the +greatest boast that is possible to human nature. I mean the great boast that +the most unhappy part of our population is also the most hilarious part. The +poor can forget that social problem which we (the moderately rich) ought never +to forget. Blessed are the poor; for they alone have not the poor always with +them. The honest poor can sometimes forget poverty. The honest rich can never +forget it. +</p> + +<p> +I believe firmly in the value of all vulgar notions, especially of vulgar +jokes. When once you have got hold of a vulgar joke, you may be certain that +you have got hold of a subtle and spiritual idea. The men who made the joke saw +something deep which they could not express except by something silly and +emphatic. They saw something delicate which they could only express by +something indelicate. I remember that Mr. Max Beerbohm (who has every merit +except democracy) attempted to analyse the jokes at which the mob laughs. He +divided them into three sections: jokes about bodily humiliation, jokes about +things alien, such as foreigners, and jokes about bad cheese. Mr. Max Beerbohm +thought he understood the first two forms; but I am not sure that he did. In +order to understand vulgar humour it is not enough to be humorous. One must +also be vulgar, as I am. And in the first case it is surely obvious that it is +not merely at the fact of something being hurt that we laugh (as I trust we do) +when a Prime Minister sits down on his hat. If that were so we should laugh +whenever we saw a funeral. We do not laugh at the mere fact of something +falling down; there is nothing humorous about leaves falling or the sun going +down. When our house falls down we do not laugh. All the birds of the air might +drop around us in a perpetual shower like a hailstorm without arousing a smile. +If you really ask yourself why we laugh at a man sitting down suddenly in the +street you will discover that the reason is not only recondite, but ultimately +religious. All the jokes about men sitting down on their hats are really +theological jokes; they are concerned with the Dual Nature of Man. They refer +to the primary paradox that man is superior to all the things around him and +yet is at their mercy. +</p> + +<p> +Quite equally subtle and spiritual is the idea at the back of laughing at +foreigners. It concerns the almost torturing truth of a thing being like +oneself and yet not like oneself. Nobody laughs at what is entirely foreign; +nobody laughs at a palm tree. But it is funny to see the familiar image of God +disguised behind the black beard of a Frenchman or the black face of a Negro. +There is nothing funny in the sounds that are wholly inhuman, the howling of +wild beasts or of the wind. But if a man begins to talk like oneself, but all +the syllables come out different, then if one is a man one feels inclined to +laugh, though if one is a gentleman one resists the inclination. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Max Beerbohm, I remember, professed to understand the first two forms of +popular wit, but said that the third quite stumped him. He could not see why +there should be anything funny about bad cheese. I can tell him at once. He has +missed the idea because it is subtle and philosophical, and he was looking for +something ignorant and foolish. Bad cheese is funny because it is (like the +foreigner or the man fallen on the pavement) the type of the transition or +transgression across a great mystical boundary. Bad cheese symbolises the +change from the inorganic to the organic. Bad cheese symbolises the startling +prodigy of matter taking on vitality. It symbolises the origin of life itself. +And it is only about such solemn matters as the origin of life that the +democracy condescends to joke. Thus, for instance, the democracy jokes about +marriage, because marriage is a part of mankind. But the democracy would never +deign to joke about Free Love, because Free Love is a piece of priggishness. +</p> + +<p> +As a matter of fact, it will be generally found that the popular joke is not +true to the letter, but is true to the spirit. The vulgar joke is generally in +the oddest way the truth and yet not the fact. For instance, it is not in the +least true that mothers-in-law are as a class oppressive and intolerable; most +of them are both devoted and useful. All the mothers-in-law I have ever had +were admirable. Yet the legend of the comic papers is profoundly true. It draws +attention to the fact that it is much harder to be a nice mother-in-law than to +be nice in any other conceivable relation of life. The caricatures have drawn +the worst mother-in-law a monster, by way of expressing the fact that the best +mother-in-law is a problem. The same is true of the perpetual jokes in comic +papers about shrewish wives and henpecked husbands. It is all a frantic +exaggeration, but it is an exaggeration of a truth; whereas all the modern +mouthings about oppressed women are the exaggerations of a falsehood. If you +read even the best of the intellectuals of to-day you will find them saying +that in the mass of the democracy the woman is the chattel of her lord, like +his bath or his bed. But if you read the comic literature of the democracy you +will find that the lord hides under the bed to escape from the wrath of his +chattel. This is not the fact, but it is much nearer the truth. Every man who +is married knows quite well, not only that he does not regard his wife as a +chattel, but that no man can conceivably ever have done so. The joke stands for +an ultimate truth, and that is a subtle truth. It is one not very easy to state +correctly. It can, perhaps, be most correctly stated by saying that, even if +the man is the head of the house, he knows he is the figurehead. +</p> + +<p> +But the vulgar comic papers are so subtle and true that they are even +prophetic. If you really want to know what is going to happen to the future of +our democracy, do not read the modern sociological prophecies, do not read even +Mr. Wells’s Utopias for this purpose, though you should certainly read them if +you are fond of good honesty and good English. If you want to know what will +happen, study the pages of <i>Snaps</i> or <i>Patchy Bits</i> as if they were +the dark tablets graven with the oracles of the gods. For, mean and gross as +they are, in all seriousness, they contain what is entirely absent from all +Utopias and all the sociological conjectures of our time: they contain some +hint of the actual habits and manifest desires of the English people. If we are +really to find out what the democracy will ultimately do with itself, we shall +surely find it, not in the literature which studies the people, but in the +literature which the people studies. +</p> + +<p> +I can give two chance cases in which the common or Cockney joke was a much +better prophecy than the careful observations of the most cultured observer. +When England was agitated, previous to the last General Election, about the +existence of Chinese labour, there was a distinct difference between the tone +of the politicians and the tone of the populace. The politicians who +disapproved of Chinese labour were most careful to explain that they did not in +any sense disapprove of Chinese. According to them, it was a pure question of +legal propriety, of whether certain clauses in the contract of indenture were +not inconsistent with our constitutional traditions: according to them, the +case would have been the same if the people had been Kaffirs or Englishmen. It +all sounded wonderfully enlightened and lucid; and in comparison the popular +joke looked, of course, very poor. For the popular joke against the Chinese +labourers was simply that they were Chinese; it was an objection to an alien +type; the popular papers were full of gibes about pigtails and yellow faces. It +seemed that the Liberal politicians were raising an intellectual objection to a +doubtful document of State; while it seemed that the Radical populace were +merely roaring with idiotic laughter at the sight of a Chinaman’s clothes. But +the popular instinct was justified, for the vices revealed were Chinese vices. +</p> + +<p> +But there is another case more pleasant and more up to date. The popular papers +always persisted in representing the New Woman or the Suffragette as an ugly +woman, fat, in spectacles, with bulging clothes, and generally falling off a +bicycle. As a matter of plain external fact, there was not a word of truth in +this. The leaders of the movement of female emancipation are not at all ugly; +most of them are extraordinarily good-looking. Nor are they at all indifferent +to art or decorative costume; many of them are alarmingly attached to these +things. Yet the popular instinct was right. For the popular instinct was that +in this movement, rightly or wrongly, there was an element of indifference to +female dignity, of a quite new willingness of women to be grotesque. These +women did truly despise the pontifical quality of woman. And in our streets and +around our Parliament we have seen the stately woman of art and culture turn +into the comic woman of <i>Comic Bits</i>. And whether we think the exhibition +justifiable or not, the prophecy of the comic papers is justified: the healthy +and vulgar masses were conscious of a hidden enemy to their traditions who has +now come out into the daylight, that the scriptures might be fulfilled. For the +two things that a healthy person hates most between heaven and hell are a woman +who is not dignified and a man who is. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>THE FALLACY OF SUCCESS</h2> + +<p> +There has appeared in our time a particular class of books and articles which I +sincerely and solemnly think may be called the silliest ever known among men. +They are much more wild than the wildest romances of chivalry and much more +dull than the dullest religious tract. Moreover, the romances of chivalry were +at least about chivalry; the religious tracts are about religion. But these +things are about nothing; they are about what is called Success. On every +bookstall, in every magazine, you may find works telling people how to succeed. +They are books showing men how to succeed in everything; they are written by +men who cannot even succeed in writing books. To begin with, of course, there +is no such thing as Success. Or, if you like to put it so, there is nothing +that is not successful. That a thing is successful merely means that it is; a +millionaire is successful in being a millionaire and a donkey in being a +donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living; any dead man may have succeeded +in committing suicide. But, passing over the bad logic and bad philosophy in +the phrase, we may take it, as these writers do, in the ordinary sense of +success in obtaining money or worldly position. These writers profess to tell +the ordinary man how he may succeed in his trade or speculation—how, if he is a +builder, he may succeed as a builder; how, if he is a stockbroker, he may +succeed as a stockbroker. They profess to show him how, if he is a grocer, he +may become a sporting yachtsman; how, if he is a tenth-rate journalist, he may +become a peer; and how, if he is a German Jew, he may become an Anglo-Saxon. +This is a definite and business-like proposal, and I really think that the +people who buy these books (if any people do buy them) have a moral, if not a +legal, right to ask for their money back. Nobody would dare to publish a book +about electricity which literally told one nothing about electricity; no one +would dare to publish an article on botany which showed that the writer did not +know which end of a plant grew in the earth. Yet our modern world is full of +books about Success and successful people which literally contain no kind of +idea, and scarcely any kind of verbal sense. +</p> + +<p> +It is perfectly obvious that in any decent occupation (such as bricklaying or +writing books) there are only two ways (in any special sense) of succeeding. +One is by doing very good work, the other is by cheating. Both are much too +simple to require any literary explanation. If you are in for the high jump, +either jump higher than any one else, or manage somehow to pretend that you +have done so. If you want to succeed at whist, either be a good whist-player, +or play with marked cards. You may want a book about jumping; you may want a +book about whist; you may want a book about cheating at whist. But you cannot +want a book about Success. Especially you cannot want a book about Success such +as those which you can now find scattered by the hundred about the book-market. +You may want to jump or to play cards; but you do not want to read wandering +statements to the effect that jumping is jumping, or that games are won by +winners. If these writers, for instance, said anything about success in jumping +it would be something like this: “The jumper must have a clear aim before him. +He must desire definitely to jump higher than the other men who are in for the +same competition. He must let no feeble feelings of mercy (sneaked from the +sickening Little Englanders and Pro-Boers) prevent him from trying to <i>do his +best</i>. He must remember that a competition in jumping is distinctly +competitive, and that, as Darwin has gloriously demonstrated, THE WEAKEST GO TO +THE WALL.” That is the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it +would be, no doubt, if read out in a low and tense voice to a young man just +about to take the high jump. Or suppose that in the course of his intellectual +rambles the philosopher of Success dropped upon our other case, that of playing +cards, his bracing advice would run—“In playing cards it is very necessary to +avoid the mistake (commonly made by maudlin humanitarians and Free Traders) of +permitting your opponent to win the game. You must have grit and snap and go +<i>in to win</i>. The days of idealism and superstition are over. We live in a +time of science and hard common sense, and it has now been definitely proved +that in any game where two are playing IF ONE DOES NOT WIN THE OTHER WILL.” It +is all very stirring, of course; but I confess that if I were playing cards I +would rather have some decent little book which told me the rules of the game. +Beyond the rules of the game it is all a question either of talent or +dishonesty; and I will undertake to provide either one or the other—which, it +is not for me to say. +</p> + +<p> +Turning over a popular magazine, I find a queer and amusing example. There is +an article called “The Instinct that Makes People Rich.” It is decorated in +front with a formidable portrait of Lord Rothschild. There are many definite +methods, honest and dishonest, which make people rich; the only “instinct” I +know of which does it is that instinct which theological Christianity crudely +describes as “the sin of avarice.” That, however, is beside the present point. +I wish to quote the following exquisite paragraphs as a piece of typical advice +as to how to succeed. It is so practical; it leaves so little doubt about what +should be our next step— +</p> + +<p> +“The name of Vanderbilt is synonymous with wealth gained by modern enterprise. +‘Cornelius,’ the founder of the family, was the first of the great American +magnates of commerce. He started as the son of a poor farmer; he ended as a +millionaire twenty times over. +</p> + +<p> +“He had the money-making instinct. He seized his opportunities, the +opportunities that were given by the application of the steam-engine to ocean +traffic, and by the birth of railway locomotion in the wealthy but undeveloped +United States of America, and consequently he amassed an immense fortune. +</p> + +<p> +“Now it is, of course, obvious that we cannot all follow exactly in the +footsteps of this great railway monarch. The precise opportunities that fell to +him do not occur to us. Circumstances have changed. But, although this is so, +still, in our own sphere and in our own circumstances, we <i>can</i> follow his +general methods; we can seize those opportunities that are given us, and give +ourselves a very fair chance of attaining riches.” +</p> + +<p> +In such strange utterances we see quite clearly what is really at the bottom of +all these articles and books. It is not mere business; it is not even mere +cynicism. It is mysticism; the horrible mysticism of money. The writer of that +passage did not really have the remotest notion of how Vanderbilt made his +money, or of how anybody else is to make his. He does, indeed, conclude his +remarks by advocating some scheme; but it has nothing in the world to do with +Vanderbilt. He merely wished to prostrate himself before the mystery of a +millionaire. For when we really worship anything, we love not only its +clearness but its obscurity. We exult in its very invisibility. Thus, for +instance, when a man is in love with a woman he takes special pleasure in the +fact that a woman is unreasonable. Thus, again, the very pious poet, +celebrating his Creator, takes pleasure in saying that God moves in a +mysterious way. Now, the writer of the paragraph which I have quoted does not +seem to have had anything to do with a god, and I should not think (judging by +his extreme unpracticality) that he had ever been really in love with a woman. +But the thing he does worship—Vanderbilt—he treats in exactly this mystical +manner. He really revels in the fact his deity Vanderbilt is keeping a secret +from him. And it fills his soul with a sort of transport of cunning, an ecstasy +of priestcraft, that he should pretend to be telling to the multitude that +terrible secret which he does not know. +</p> + +<p> +Speaking about the instinct that makes people rich, the same writer remarks— +</p> + +<p> +“In olden days its existence was fully understood. The Greeks enshrined it in +the story of Midas, of the ‘Golden Touch.’ Here was a man who turned everything +he laid his hands upon into gold. His life was a progress amidst riches. Out of +everything that came in his way he created the precious metal. ‘A foolish +legend,’ said the wiseacres of the Victorian age. ‘A truth,’ say we of to-day. +We all know of such men. We are ever meeting or reading about such persons who +turn everything they touch into gold. Success dogs their very footsteps. Their +life’s pathway leads unerringly upwards. They cannot fail.” +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did. His path did not lead +unerringly upward. He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit or a ham +sandwich it turned to gold. That was the whole point of the story, though the +writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near to a portrait of Lord +Rothschild. The old fables of mankind are, indeed, unfathomably wise; but we +must not have them expurgated in the interests of Mr. Vanderbilt. We must not +have King Midas represented as an example of success; he was a failure of an +unusually painful kind. Also, he had the ears of an ass. Also (like most other +prominent and wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact. It was his +barber (if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing +with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving like a +go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to blackmail King +Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of society scandal to the +reeds, who enjoyed it enormously. It is said that they also whispered it as the +winds swayed them to and fro. I look reverently at the portrait of Lord +Rothschild; I read reverently about the exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt. I know that +I cannot turn everything I touch to gold; but then I also know that I have +never tried, having a preference for other substances, such as grass, and good +wine. I know that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they +have certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense that no +men were ever kings before; that they create markets and bestride continents. +Yet it always seems to me that there is some small domestic fact that they are +hiding, and I have sometimes thought I heard upon the wind the laughter and +whisper of the reeds. +</p> + +<p> +At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books about +Success covered with a proper derision and neglect. They do not teach people to +be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish; they do spread a sort +of evil poetry of worldliness. The Puritans are always denouncing books that +inflame lust; what shall we say of books that inflame the viler passions of +avarice and pride? A hundred years ago we had the ideal of the Industrious +Apprentice; boys were told that by thrift and work they would all become Lord +Mayors. This was fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral +truth. In our society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, +but it may help him to respect himself. Good work will not make him a rich man, +but good work may make him a good workman. The Industrious Apprentice rose by +virtues few and narrow indeed, but still virtues. But what shall we say of the +gospel preached to the new Industrious Apprentice; the Apprentice who rises not +by his virtues, but avowedly by his vices? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>ON RUNNING AFTER ONE’S HAT</h2> + +<p> +I feel an almost savage envy on hearing that London has been flooded in my +absence, while I am in the mere country. My own Battersea has been, I +understand, particularly favoured as a meeting of the waters. Battersea was +already, as I need hardly say, the most beautiful of human localities. Now that +it has the additional splendour of great sheets of water, there must be +something quite incomparable in the landscape (or waterscape) of my own +romantic town. Battersea must be a vision of Venice. The boat that brought the +meat from the butcher’s must have shot along those lanes of rippling silver +with the strange smoothness of the gondola. The greengrocer who brought +cabbages to the corner of the Latchmere Road must have leant upon the oar with +the unearthly grace of the gondolier. There is nothing so perfectly poetical as +an island; and when a district is flooded it becomes an archipelago. +</p> + +<p> +Some consider such romantic views of flood or fire slightly lacking in reality. +But really this romantic view of such inconveniences is quite as practical as +the other. The true optimist who sees in such things an opportunity for +enjoyment is quite as logical and much more sensible than the ordinary +“Indignant Ratepayer” who sees in them an opportunity for grumbling. Real pain, +as in the case of being burnt at Smithfield or having a toothache, is a +positive thing; it can be supported, but scarcely enjoyed. But, after all, our +toothaches are the exception, and as for being burnt at Smithfield, it only +happens to us at the very longest intervals. And most of the inconveniences +that make men swear or women cry are really sentimental or imaginative +inconveniences—things altogether of the mind. For instance, we often hear +grown-up people complaining of having to hang about a railway station and wait +for a train. Did you ever hear a small boy complain of having to hang about a +railway station and wait for a train? No; for to him to be inside a railway +station is to be inside a cavern of wonder and a palace of poetical pleasures. +Because to him the red light and the green light on the signal are like a new +sun and a new moon. Because to him when the wooden arm of the signal falls down +suddenly, it is as if a great king had thrown down his staff as a signal and +started a shrieking tournament of trains. I myself am of little boys’ habit in +this matter. They also serve who only stand and wait for the two fifteen. Their +meditations may be full of rich and fruitful things. Many of the most purple +hours of my life have been passed at Clapham Junction, which is now, I suppose, +under water. I have been there in many moods so fixed and mystical that the +water might well have come up to my waist before I noticed it particularly. But +in the case of all such annoyances, as I have said, everything depends upon the +emotional point of view. You can safely apply the test to almost every one of +the things that are currently talked of as the typical nuisance of daily life. +</p> + +<p> +For instance, there is a current impression that it is unpleasant to have to +run after one’s hat. Why should it be unpleasant to the well-ordered and pious +mind? Not merely because it is running, and running exhausts one. The same +people run much faster in games and sports. The same people run much more +eagerly after an uninteresting little leather ball than they will after a nice +silk hat. There is an idea that it is humiliating to run after one’s hat; and +when people say it is humiliating they mean that it is comic. It certainly is +comic; but man is a very comic creature, and most of the things he does are +comic—eating, for instance. And the most comic things of all are exactly the +things that are most worth doing—such as making love. A man running after a hat +is not half so ridiculous as a man running after a wife. +</p> + +<p> +Now a man could, if he felt rightly in the matter, run after his hat with the +manliest ardour and the most sacred joy. He might regard himself as a jolly +huntsman pursuing a wild animal, for certainly no animal could be wilder. In +fact, I am inclined to believe that hat-hunting on windy days will be the sport +of the upper classes in the future. There will be a meet of ladies and +gentlemen on some high ground on a gusty morning. They will be told that the +professional attendants have started a hat in such-and-such a thicket, or +whatever be the technical term. Notice that this employment will in the fullest +degree combine sport with humanitarianism. The hunters would feel that they +were not inflicting pain. Nay, they would feel that they were inflicting +pleasure, rich, almost riotous pleasure, upon the people who were looking on. +When last I saw an old gentleman running after his hat in Hyde Park, I told him +that a heart so benevolent as his ought to be filled with peace and thanks at +the thought of how much unaffected pleasure his every gesture and bodily +attitude were at that moment giving to the crowd. +</p> + +<p> +The same principle can be applied to every other typical domestic worry. A +gentleman trying to get a fly out of the milk or a piece of cork out of his +glass of wine often imagines himself to be irritated. Let him think for a +moment of the patience of anglers sitting by dark pools, and let his soul be +immediately irradiated with gratification and repose. Again, I have known some +people of very modern views driven by their distress to the use of theological +terms to which they attached no doctrinal significance, merely because a drawer +was jammed tight and they could not pull it out. A friend of mine was +particularly afflicted in this way. Every day his drawer was jammed, and every +day in consequence it was something else that rhymes to it. But I pointed out +to him that this sense of wrong was really subjective and relative; it rested +entirely upon the assumption that the drawer could, should, and would come out +easily. “But if,” I said, “you picture to yourself that you are pulling against +some powerful and oppressive enemy, the struggle will become merely exciting +and not exasperating. Imagine that you are tugging up a lifeboat out of the +sea. Imagine that you are roping up a fellow-creature out of an Alpine crevass. +Imagine even that you are a boy again and engaged in a tug-of-war between +French and English.” Shortly after saying this I left him; but I have no doubt +at all that my words bore the best possible fruit. I have no doubt that every +day of his life he hangs on to the handle of that drawer with a flushed face +and eyes bright with battle, uttering encouraging shouts to himself, and +seeming to hear all round him the roar of an applauding ring. +</p> + +<p> +So I do not think that it is altogether fanciful or incredible to suppose that +even the floods in London may be accepted and enjoyed poetically. Nothing +beyond inconvenience seems really to have been caused by them; and +inconvenience, as I have said, is only one aspect, and that the most +unimaginative and accidental aspect of a really romantic situation. An +adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only +an adventure wrongly considered. The water that girdled the houses and shops of +London must, if anything, have only increased their previous witchery and +wonder. For as the Roman Catholic priest in the story said: “Wine is good with +everything except water,” and on a similar principle, water is good with +everything except wine. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>THE VOTE AND THE HOUSE</h2> + +<p> +Most of us will be canvassed soon, I suppose; some of us may even canvass. Upon +which side, of course, nothing will induce me to state, beyond saying that by a +remarkable coincidence it will in every case be the only side in which a +high-minded, public-spirited, and patriotic citizen can take even a momentary +interest. But the general question of canvassing itself, being a non-party +question, is one which we may be permitted to approach. The rules for +canvassers are fairly familiar to any one who has ever canvassed. They are +printed on the little card which you carry about with you and lose. There is a +statement, I think, that you must not offer a voter food or drink. However +hospitable you may feel towards him in his own house, you must not carry his +lunch about with you. You must not produce a veal cutlet from your tail-coat +pocket. You must not conceal poached eggs about your person. You must not, like +a kind of conjurer, produce baked potatoes from your hat. In short, the +canvasser must not feed the voter in any way. Whether the voter is allowed to +feed the canvasser, whether the voter may give the canvasser veal cutlets and +baked potatoes, is a point of law on which I have never been able to inform +myself. When I found myself canvassing a gentleman, I have sometimes felt +tempted to ask him if there was any rule against his giving me food and drink; +but the matter seemed a delicate one to approach. His attitude to me also +sometimes suggested a doubt as to whether he would, even if he could. But there +are voters who might find it worth while to discover if there is any law +against bribing a canvasser. They might bribe him to go away. +</p> + +<p> +The second veto for canvassers which was printed on the little card said that +you must not persuade any one to personate a voter. I have no idea what it +means. To dress up as an average voter seems a little vague. There is no +well-recognised uniform, as far as I know, with civic waistcoat and patriotic +whiskers. The enterprise resolves itself into one somewhat similar to the +enterprise of a rich friend of mine who went to a fancy-dress ball dressed up +as a gentleman. Perhaps it means that there is a practice of personating some +individual voter. The canvasser creeps to the house of his fellow-conspirator +carrying a make-up in a bag. He produces from it a pair of white moustaches and +a single eyeglass, which are sufficient to give the most commonplace person a +startling resemblance to the Colonel at No. 80. Or he hurriedly affixes to his +friend that large nose and that bald head which are all that is essential to an +illusion of the presence of Professor Budger. I do not undertake to unravel +these knots. I can only say that when I was a canvasser I was told by the +little card, with every circumstance of seriousness and authority, that I was +not to persuade anybody to personate a voter: and I can lay my hand upon my +heart and affirm that I never did. +</p> + +<p> +The third injunction on the card was one which seemed to me, if interpreted +exactly and according to its words, to undermine the very foundations of our +politics. It told me that I must not “threaten a voter with any consequence +whatever.” No doubt this was intended to apply to threats of a personal and +illegitimate character; as, for instance, if a wealthy candidate were to +threaten to raise all the rents, or to put up a statue of himself. But as +verbally and grammatically expressed, it certainly would cover those general +threats of disaster to the whole community which are the main matter of +political discussion. When a canvasser says that if the opposition candidate +gets in the country will be ruined, he is threatening the voters with certain +consequences. When the Free Trader says that if Tariffs are adopted the people +in Brompton or Bayswater will crawl about eating grass, he is threatening them +with consequences. When the Tariff Reformer says that if Free Trade exists for +another year St. Paul’s Cathedral will be a ruin and Ludgate Hill as deserted +as Stonehenge, he is also threatening. And what is the good of being a Tariff +Reformer if you can’t say that? What is the use of being a politician or a +Parliamentary candidate at all if one cannot tell the people that if the other +man gets in, England will be instantly invaded and enslaved, blood be pouring +down the Strand, and all the English ladies carried off into harems. But these +things are, after all, consequences, so to speak. +</p> + +<p> +The majority of refined persons in our day may generally be heard abusing the +practice of canvassing. In the same way the majority of refined persons +(commonly the same refined persons) may be heard abusing the practice of +interviewing celebrities. It seems a very singular thing to me that this +refined world reserves all its indignation for the comparatively open and +innocent element in both walks of life. There is really a vast amount of +corruption and hypocrisy in our election politics; about the most honest thing +in the whole mess is the canvassing. A man has not got a right to “nurse” a +constituency with aggressive charities, to buy it with great presents of parks +and libraries, to open vague vistas of future benevolence; all this, which goes +on unrebuked, is bribery and nothing else. But a man has got the right to go to +another free man and ask him with civility whether he will vote for him. The +information can be asked, granted, or refused without any loss of dignity on +either side, which is more than can be said of a park. It is the same with the +place of interviewing in journalism. In a trade where there are labyrinths of +insincerity, interviewing is about the most simple and the most sincere thing +there is. The canvasser, when he wants to know a man’s opinions, goes and asks +him. It may be a bore; but it is about as plain and straight a thing as he +could do. So the interviewer, when he wants to know a man’s opinions, goes and +asks him. Again, it may be a bore; but again, it is about as plain and straight +as anything could be. But all the other real and systematic cynicisms of our +journalism pass without being vituperated and even without being known—the +financial motives of policy, the misleading posters, the suppression of just +letters of complaint. A statement about a man may be infamously untrue, but it +is read calmly. But a statement by a man to an interviewer is felt as +indefensibly vulgar. That the paper should misrepresent him is nothing; that he +should represent himself is bad taste. The whole error in both cases lies in +the fact that the refined persons are attacking politics and journalism on the +ground of vulgarity. Of course, politics and journalism are, as it happens, +very vulgar. But their vulgarity is not the worst thing about them. Things are +so bad with both that by this time their vulgarity is the best thing about +them. Their vulgarity is at least a noisy thing; and their great danger is that +silence that always comes before decay. The conversational persuasion at +elections is perfectly human and rational; it is the silent persuasions that +are utterly damnable. +</p> + +<p> +If it is true that the Commons’ House will not hold all the Commons, it is a +very good example of what we call the anomalies of the English Constitution. It +is also, I think, a very good example of how highly undesirable those anomalies +really are. Most Englishmen say that these anomalies do not matter; they are +not ashamed of being illogical; they are proud of being illogical. Lord +Macaulay (a very typical Englishman, romantic, prejudiced, poetical), Lord +Macaulay said that he would not lift his hand to get rid of an anomaly that was +not also a grievance. Many other sturdy romantic Englishmen say the same. They +boast of our anomalies; they boast of our illogicality; they say it shows what +a practical people we are. They are utterly wrong. Lord Macaulay was in this +matter, as in a few others, utterly wrong. Anomalies do matter very much, and +do a great deal of harm; abstract illogicalities do matter a great deal, and do +a great deal of harm. And this for a reason that any one at all acquainted with +human nature can see for himself. All injustice begins in the mind. And +anomalies accustom the mind to the idea of unreason and untruth. Suppose I had +by some prehistoric law the power of forcing every man in Battersea to nod his +head three times before he got out of bed. The practical politicians might say +that this power was a harmless anomaly; that it was not a grievance. It could +do my subjects no harm; it could do me no good. The people of Battersea, they +would say, might safely submit to it. But the people of Battersea could not +safely submit to it, for all that. If I had nodded their heads for them for +fifty years I could cut off their heads for them at the end of it with +immeasurably greater ease. For there would have permanently sunk into every +man’s mind the notion that it was a natural thing for me to have a fantastic +and irrational power. They would have grown accustomed to insanity. +</p> + +<p> +For, in order that men should resist injustice, something more is necessary +than that they should think injustice unpleasant. They must think injustice +<i>absurd</i>; above all, they must think it startling. They must retain the +violence of a virgin astonishment. That is the explanation of the singular fact +which must have struck many people in the relations of philosophy and reform. +It is the fact (I mean) that optimists are more practical reformers than +pessimists. Superficially, one would imagine that the railer would be the +reformer; that the man who thought that everything was wrong would be the man +to put everything right. In historical practice the thing is quite the other +way; curiously enough, it is the man who likes things as they are who really +makes them better. The optimist Dickens has achieved more reforms than the +pessimist Gissing. A man like Rousseau has far too rosy a theory of human +nature; but he produces a revolution. A man like David Hume thinks that almost +all things are depressing; but he is a Conservative, and wishes to keep them as +they are. A man like Godwin believes existence to be kindly; but he is a rebel. +A man like Carlyle believes existence to be cruel; but he is a Tory. Everywhere +the man who alters things begins by liking things. And the real explanation of +this success of the optimistic reformer, of this failure of the pessimistic +reformer, is, after all, an explanation of sufficient simplicity. It is because +the optimist can look at wrong not only with indignation, but with a startled +indignation. When the pessimist looks at any infamy, it is to him, after all, +only a repetition of the infamy of existence. The Court of Chancery is +indefensible—like mankind. The Inquisition is abominable—like the universe. But +the optimist sees injustice as something discordant and unexpected, and it +stings him into action. The pessimist can be enraged at wrong; but only the +optimist can be surprised at it. +</p> + +<p> +And it is the same with the relations of an anomaly to the logical mind. The +pessimist resents evil (like Lord Macaulay) solely because it is a grievance. +The optimist resents it also, because it is an anomaly; a contradiction to his +conception of the course of things. And it is not at all unimportant, but on +the contrary most important, that this course of things in politics and +elsewhere should be lucid, explicable and defensible. When people have got used +to unreason they can no longer be startled at injustice. When people have grown +familiar with an anomaly, they are prepared to that extent for a grievance; +they may think the grievance grievous, but they can no longer think it strange. +Take, if only as an excellent example, the very matter alluded to before; I +mean the seats, or rather the lack of seats, in the House of Commons. Perhaps +it is true that under the best conditions it would never happen that every +member turned up. Perhaps a complete attendance would never actually be. But +who can tell how much influence in keeping members away may have been exerted +by this calm assumption that they would stop away? How can any man be expected +to help to make a full attendance when he knows that a full attendance is +actually forbidden? How can the men who make up the Chamber do their duty +reasonably when the very men who built the House have not done theirs +reasonably? If the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself +for the battle? And what if the remarks of the trumpet take this form, “I +charge you as you love your King and country to come to this Council. And I +know you won’t.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CONCEIT AND CARICATURE</h2> + +<p> +If a man must needs be conceited, it is certainly better that he should be +conceited about some merits or talents that he does not really possess. For +then his vanity remains more or less superficial; it remains a mere mistake of +fact, like that of a man who thinks he inherits the royal blood or thinks he +has an infallible system for Monte Carlo. Because the merit is an unreal merit, +it does not corrupt or sophisticate his real merits. He is vain about the +virtue he has not got; but he may be humble about the virtues that he has got. +His truly honourable qualities remain in their primordial innocence; he cannot +see them and he cannot spoil them. If a man’s mind is erroneously possessed +with the idea that he is a great violinist, that need not prevent his being a +gentleman and an honest man. But if once his mind is possessed in any strong +degree with the knowledge that he is a gentleman, he will soon cease to be one. +</p> + +<p> +But there is a third kind of satisfaction of which I have noticed one or two +examples lately—another kind of satisfaction which is neither a pleasure in the +virtues that we do possess nor a pleasure in the virtues we do not possess. It +is the pleasure which a man takes in the presence or absence of certain things +in himself without ever adequately asking himself whether in his case they +constitute virtues at all. A man will plume himself because he is not bad in +some particular way, when the truth is that he is not good enough to be bad in +that particular way. Some priggish little clerk will say, “I have reason to +congratulate myself that I am a civilised person, and not so bloodthirsty as +the Mad Mullah.” Somebody ought to say to him, “A really good man would be less +bloodthirsty than the Mullah. But you are less bloodthirsty, not because you +are more of a good man, but because you are a great deal less of a man. You are +not bloodthirsty, not because you would spare your enemy, but because you would +run away from him.” Or again, some Puritan with a sullen type of piety would +say, “I have reason to congratulate myself that I do not worship graven images +like the old heathen Greeks.” And again somebody ought to say to him, “The best +religion may not worship graven images, because it may see beyond them. But if +you do not worship graven images, it is only because you are mentally and +morally quite incapable of graving them. True religion, perhaps, is above +idolatry. But you are below idolatry. You are not holy enough yet to worship a +lump of stone.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. F. C. Gould, the brilliant and felicitous caricaturist, recently delivered +a most interesting speech upon the nature and atmosphere of our modern English +caricature. I think there is really very little to congratulate oneself about +in the condition of English caricature. There are few causes for pride; +probably the greatest cause for pride is Mr. F. C. Gould. But Mr. F. C. Gould, +forbidden by modesty to adduce this excellent ground for optimism, fell back +upon saying a thing which is said by numbers of other people, but has not +perhaps been said lately with the full authority of an eminent cartoonist. He +said that he thought “that they might congratulate themselves that the style of +caricature which found acceptation nowadays was very different from the lampoon +of the old days.” Continuing, he said, according to the newspaper report, “On +looking back to the political lampoons of Rowlandson’s and Gilray’s time they +would find them coarse and brutal. In some countries abroad still, ‘even in +America,’ the method of political caricature was of the bludgeon kind. The fact +was we had passed the bludgeon stage. If they were brutal in attacking a man, +even for political reasons, they roused sympathy for the man who was attacked. +What they had to do was to rub in the point they wanted to emphasise as gently +as they could.” (Laughter and applause.) +</p> + +<p> +Anybody reading these words, and anybody who heard them, will certainly feel +that there is in them a great deal of truth, as well as a great deal of +geniality. But along with that truth and with that geniality there is a streak +of that erroneous type of optimism which is founded on the fallacy of which I +have spoken above. Before we congratulate ourselves upon the absence of certain +faults from our nation or society, we ought to ask ourselves why it is that +these faults are absent. Are we without the fault because we have the opposite +virtue? Or are we without the fault because we have the opposite fault? It is a +good thing assuredly, to be innocent of any excess; but let us be sure that we +are not innocent of excess merely by being guilty of defect. Is it really true +that our English political satire is so moderate because it is so magnanimous, +so forgiving, so saintly? Is it penetrated through and through with a mystical +charity, with a psychological tenderness? Do we spare the feelings of the +Cabinet Minister because we pierce through all his apparent crimes and follies +down to the dark virtues of which his own soul is unaware? Do we temper the +wind to the Leader of the Opposition because in our all-embracing heart we pity +and cherish the struggling spirit of the Leader of the Opposition? Briefly, +have we left off being brutal because we are too grand and generous to be +brutal? Is it really true that we are <i>better</i> than brutality? Is it +really true that we have <i>passed</i> the bludgeon stage? +</p> + +<p> +I fear that there is, to say the least of it, another side to the matter. Is it +not only too probable that the mildness of our political satire, when compared +with the political satire of our fathers, arises simply from the profound +unreality of our current politics? Rowlandson and Gilray did not fight merely +because they were naturally pothouse pugilists; they fought because they had +something to fight about. It is easy enough to be refined about things that do +not matter; but men kicked and plunged a little in that portentous wrestle in +which swung to and fro, alike dizzy with danger, the independence of England, +the independence of Ireland, the independence of France. If we wish for a proof +of this fact that the lack of refinement did not come from mere brutality, the +proof is easy. The proof is that in that struggle no personalities were more +brutal than the really refined personalities. None were more violent and +intolerant than those who were by nature polished and sensitive. Nelson, for +instance, had the nerves and good manners of a woman: nobody in his senses, I +suppose, would call Nelson “brutal.” But when he was touched upon the national +matter, there sprang out of him a spout of oaths, and he could only tell men to +“Kill! kill! kill the d----d Frenchmen.” It would be as easy to take examples +on the other side. Camille Desmoulins was a man of much the same type, not only +elegant and sweet in temper, but almost tremulously tender and humanitarian. +But he was ready, he said, “to embrace Liberty upon a pile of corpses.” In +Ireland there were even more instances. Robert Emmet was only one famous +example of a whole family of men at once sensitive and savage. I think that Mr. +F.C. Gould is altogether wrong in talking of this political ferocity as if it +were some sort of survival from ruder conditions, like a flint axe or a hairy +man. Cruelty is, perhaps, the worst kind of sin. Intellectual cruelty is +certainly the worst kind of cruelty. But there is nothing in the least barbaric +or ignorant about intellectual cruelty. The great Renaissance artists who mixed +colours exquisitely mixed poisons equally exquisitely; the great Renaissance +princes who designed instruments of music also designed instruments of torture. +Barbarity, malignity, the desire to hurt men, are the evil things generated in +atmospheres of intense reality when great nations or great causes are at war. +We may, perhaps, be glad that we have not got them: but it is somewhat +dangerous to be proud that we have not got them. Perhaps we are hardly great +enough to have them. Perhaps some great virtues have to be generated, as in men +like Nelson or Emmet, before we can have these vices at all, even as +temptations. I, for one, believe that if our caricaturists do not hate their +enemies, it is not because they are too big to hate them, but because their +enemies are not big enough to hate. I do not think we have passed the bludgeon +stage. I believe we have not come to the bludgeon stage. We must be better, +braver, and purer men than we are before we come to the bludgeon stage. +</p> + +<p> +Let us then, by all means, be proud of the virtues that we have not got; but +let us not be too arrogant about the virtues that we cannot help having. It may +be that a man living on a desert island has a right to congratulate himself +upon the fact that he can meditate at his ease. But he must not congratulate +himself on the fact that he is on a desert island, and at the same time +congratulate himself on the self-restraint he shows in not going to a ball +every night. Similarly our England may have a right to congratulate itself upon +the fact that her politics are very quiet, amicable, and humdrum. But she must +not congratulate herself upon that fact and also congratulate herself upon the +self-restraint she shows in not tearing herself and her citizens into rags. +Between two English Privy Councillors polite language is a mark of +civilisation, but really not a mark of magnanimity. +</p> + +<p> +Allied to this question is the kindred question on which we so often hear an +innocent British boast—the fact that our statesmen are privately on very +friendly relations, although in Parliament they sit on opposite sides of the +House. Here, again, it is as well to have no illusions. Our statesmen are not +monsters of mystical generosity or insane logic, who are really able to hate a +man from three to twelve and to love him from twelve to three. If our social +relations are more peaceful than those of France or America or the England of a +hundred years ago, it is simply because our politics are more peaceful; not +improbably because our politics are more fictitious. If our statesmen agree +more in private, it is for the very simple reason that they agree more in +public. And the reason they agree so much in both cases is really that they +belong to one social class; and therefore the dining life is the real life. +Tory and Liberal statesmen like each other, but it is not because they are both +expansive; it is because they are both exclusive. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>PATRIOTISM AND SPORT</h2> + +<p> +I notice that some papers, especially papers that call themselves patriotic, +have fallen into quite a panic over the fact that we have been twice beaten in +the world of sport, that a Frenchman has beaten us at golf, and that Belgians +have beaten us at rowing. I suppose that the incidents are important to any +people who ever believed in the self-satisfied English legend on this subject. +I suppose that there are men who vaguely believe that we could never be beaten +by a Frenchman, despite the fact that we have often been beaten by Frenchmen, +and once by a Frenchwoman. In the old pictures in <i>Punch</i> you will find a +recurring piece of satire. The English caricaturists always assumed that a +Frenchman could not ride to hounds or enjoy English hunting. It did not seem to +occur to them that all the people who founded English hunting were Frenchmen. +All the Kings and nobles who originally rode to hounds spoke French. Large +numbers of those Englishmen who still ride to hounds have French names. I +suppose that the thing is important to any one who is ignorant of such evident +matters as these. I suppose that if a man has ever believed that we English +have some sacred and separate right to be athletic, such reverses do appear +quite enormous and shocking. They feel as if, while the proper sun was rising +in the east, some other and unexpected sun had begun to rise in the +north-north-west by north. For the benefit, the moral and intellectual benefit +of such people, it may be worth while to point out that the Anglo-Saxon has in +these cases been defeated precisely by those competitors whom he has always +regarded as being out of the running; by Latins, and by Latins of the most easy +and unstrenuous type; not only by Frenchman, but by Belgians. All this, I say, +is worth telling to any intelligent person who believes in the haughty theory +of Anglo-Saxon superiority. But, then, no intelligent person does believe in +the haughty theory of Anglo-Saxon superiority. No quite genuine Englishman ever +did believe in it. And the genuine Englishman these defeats will in no respect +dismay. +</p> + +<p> +The genuine English patriot will know that the strength of England has never +depended upon any of these things; that the glory of England has never had +anything to do with them, except in the opinion of a large section of the rich +and a loose section of the poor which copies the idleness of the rich. These +people will, of course, think too much of our failure, just as they thought too +much of our success. The typical Jingoes who have admired their countrymen too +much for being conquerors will, doubtless, despise their countrymen too much +for being conquered. But the Englishman with any feeling for England will know +that athletic failures do not prove that England is weak, any more than +athletic successes proved that England was strong. The truth is that athletics, +like all other things, especially modern, are insanely individualistic. The +Englishmen who win sporting prizes are exceptional among Englishmen, for the +simple reason that they are exceptional even among men. English athletes +represent England just about as much as Mr. Barnum’s freaks represent America. +There are so few of such people in the whole world that it is almost a toss-up +whether they are found in this or that country. +</p> + +<p> +If any one wants a simple proof of this, it is easy to find. When the great +English athletes are not exceptional Englishmen they are generally not +Englishmen at all. Nay, they are often representatives of races of which the +average tone is specially incompatible with athletics. For instance, the +English are supposed to rule the natives of India in virtue of their superior +hardiness, superior activity, superior health of body and mind. The Hindus are +supposed to be our subjects because they are less fond of action, less fond of +openness and the open air. In a word, less fond of cricket. And, substantially, +this is probably true, that the Indians are less fond of cricket. All the same, +if you ask among Englishmen for the very best cricket-player, you will find +that he is an Indian. Or, to take another case: it is, broadly speaking, true +that the Jews are, as a race, pacific, intellectual, indifferent to war, like +the Indians, or, perhaps, contemptuous of war, like the Chinese: nevertheless, +of the very good prize-fighters, one or two have been Jews. +</p> + +<p> +This is one of the strongest instances of the particular kind of evil that +arises from our English form of the worship of athletics. It concentrates too +much upon the success of individuals. It began, quite naturally and rightly, +with wanting England to win. The second stage was that it wanted some +Englishmen to win. The third stage was (in the ecstasy and agony of some +special competition) that it wanted one particular Englishman to win. And the +fourth stage was that when he had won, it discovered that he was not even an +Englishman. +</p> + +<p> +This is one of the points, I think, on which something might really be said for +Lord Roberts and his rather vague ideas which vary between rifle clubs and +conscription. Whatever may be the advantages or disadvantages otherwise of the +idea, it is at least an idea of procuring equality and a sort of average in the +athletic capacity of the people; it might conceivably act as a corrective to +our mere tendency to see ourselves in certain exceptional athletes. As it is, +there are millions of Englishmen who really think that they are a muscular race +because C.B. Fry is an Englishman. And there are many of them who think vaguely +that athletics must belong to England because Ranjitsinhji is an Indian. +</p> + +<p> +But the real historic strength of England, physical and moral, has never had +anything to do with this athletic specialism; it has been rather hindered by +it. Somebody said that the Battle of Waterloo was won on Eton playing-fields. +It was a particularly unfortunate remark, for the English contribution to the +victory of Waterloo depended very much more than is common in victories upon +the steadiness of the rank and file in an almost desperate situation. The +Battle of Waterloo was won by the stubbornness of the common soldier—that is to +say, it was won by the man who had never been to Eton. It was absurd to say +that Waterloo was won on Eton cricket-fields. But it might have been fairly +said that Waterloo was won on the village green, where clumsy boys played a +very clumsy cricket. In a word, it was the average of the nation that was +strong, and athletic glories do not indicate much about the average of a +nation. Waterloo was not won by good cricket-players. But Waterloo was won by +bad cricket-players, by a mass of men who had some minimum of athletic +instincts and habits. +</p> + +<p> +It is a good sign in a nation when such things are done badly. It shows that +all the people are doing them. And it is a bad sign in a nation when such +things are done very well, for it shows that only a few experts and eccentrics +are doing them, and that the nation is merely looking on. Suppose that whenever +we heard of walking in England it always meant walking forty-five miles a day +without fatigue. We should be perfectly certain that only a few men were +walking at all, and that all the other British subjects were being wheeled +about in Bath-chairs. But if when we hear of walking it means slow walking, +painful walking, and frequent fatigue, then we know that the mass of the nation +still is walking. We know that England is still literally on its feet. +</p> + +<p> +The difficulty is therefore that the actual raising of the standard of +athletics has probably been bad for national athleticism. Instead of the +tournament being a healthy <i>mêlée</i> into which any ordinary man would rush +and take his chance, it has become a fenced and guarded tilting-yard for the +collision of particular champions against whom no ordinary man would pit +himself or even be permitted to pit himself. If Waterloo was won on Eton +cricket-fields it was because Eton cricket was probably much more careless then +than it is now. As long as the game was a game, everybody wanted to join in it. +When it becomes an art, every one wants to look at it. When it was frivolous it +may have won Waterloo: when it was serious and efficient it lost Magersfontein. +</p> + +<p> +In the Waterloo period there was a general rough-and-tumble athleticism among +average Englishmen. It cannot be re-created by cricket, or by conscription, or +by any artificial means. It was a thing of the soul. It came out of laughter, +religion, and the spirit of the place. But it was like the modern French duel +in this—that it might happen to anybody. If I were a French journalist it might +really happen that Monsieur Clemenceau might challenge me to meet him with +pistols. But I do not think that it is at all likely that Mr. C. B. Fry will +ever challenge me to meet him with cricket-bats. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>AN ESSAY ON TWO CITIES</h2> + +<p> +A little while ago I fell out of England into the town of Paris. If a man fell +out of the moon into the town of Paris he would know that it was the capital of +a great nation. If, however, he fell (perhaps off some other side of the moon) +so as to hit the city of London, he would not know so well that it was the +capital of a great nation; at any rate, he would not know that the nation was +so great as it is. This would be so even on the assumption that the man from +the moon could not read our alphabet, as presumably he could not, unless +elementary education in that planet has gone to rather unsuspected lengths. But +it is true that a great part of the distinctive quality which separates Paris +from London may be even seen in the names. Real democrats always insist that +England is an aristocratic country. Real aristocrats always insist (for some +mysterious reason) that it is a democratic country. But if any one has any real +doubt about the matter let him consider simply the names of the streets. Nearly +all the streets out of the Strand, for instance, are named after the first +name, second name, third name, fourth, fifth, and sixth names of some +particular noble family; after their relations, connections, or places of +residence—Arundel Street, Norfolk Street, Villiers Street, Bedford Street, +Southampton Street, and any number of others. The names are varied, so as to +introduce the same family under all sorts of different surnames. Thus we have +Arundel Street and also Norfolk Street; thus we have Buckingham Street and also +Villiers Street. To say that this is not aristocracy is simply intellectual +impudence. I am an ordinary citizen, and my name is Gilbert Keith Chesterton; +and I confess that if I found three streets in a row in the Strand, the first +called Gilbert Street, the second Keith Street, and the third Chesterton +Street, I should consider that I had become a somewhat more important person in +the commonwealth than was altogether good for its health. If Frenchmen ran +London (which God forbid!), they would think it quite as ludicrous that those +streets should be named after the Duke of Buckingham as that they should be +named after me. They are streets out of one of the main thoroughfares of +London. If French methods were adopted, one of them would be called Shakspere +Street, another Cromwell Street, another Wordsworth Street; there would be +statues of each of these persons at the end of each of these streets, and any +streets left over would be named after the date on which the Reform Bill was +passed or the Penny Postage established. +</p> + +<p> +Suppose a man tried to find people in London by the names of the places. It +would make a fine farce, illustrating our illogicality. Our hero having once +realised that Buckingham Street was named after the Buckingham family, would +naturally walk into Buckingham Palace in search of the Duke of Buckingham. To +his astonishment he would meet somebody quite different. His simple lunar logic +would lead him to suppose that if he wanted the Duke of Marlborough (which +seems unlikely) he would find him at Marlborough House. He would find the +Prince of Wales. When at last he understood that the Marlboroughs live at +Blenheim, named after the great Marlborough’s victory, he would, no doubt, go +there. But he would again find himself in error if, acting upon this principle, +he tried to find the Duke of Wellington, and told the cabman to drive to +Waterloo. I wonder that no one has written a wild romance about the adventures +of such an alien, seeking the great English aristocrats, and only guided by the +names; looking for the Duke of Bedford in the town of that name, seeking for +some trace of the Duke of Norfolk in Norfolk. He might sail for Wellington in +New Zealand to find the ancient seat of the Wellingtons. The last scene might +show him trying to learn Welsh in order to converse with the Prince of Wales. +</p> + +<p> +But even if the imaginary traveller knew no alphabet of this earth at all, I +think it would still be possible to suppose him seeing a difference between +London and Paris, and, upon the whole, the real difference. He would not be +able to read the words “Quai Voltaire;” but he would see the sneering statue +and the hard, straight roads; without having heard of Voltaire he would +understand that the city was Voltairean. He would not know that Fleet Street +was named after the Fleet Prison. But the same national spirit which kept the +Fleet Prison closed and narrow still keeps Fleet Street closed and narrow. Or, +if you will, you may call Fleet Street cosy, and the Fleet Prison cosy. I think +I could be more comfortable in the Fleet Prison, in an English way of comfort, +than just under the statue of Voltaire. I think that the man from the moon +would know France without knowing French; I think that he would know England +without having heard the word. For in the last resort all men talk by signs. To +talk by statues is to talk by signs; to talk by cities is to talk by signs. +Pillars, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pyramids, are an enormous dumb alphabet: +as if some giant held up his fingers of stone. The most important things at the +last are always said by signs, even if, like the Cross on St. Paul’s, they are +signs in heaven. If men do not understand signs, they will never understand +words. +</p> + +<p> +For my part, I should be inclined to suggest that the chief object of education +should be to restore simplicity. If you like to put it so, the chief object of +education is not to learn things; nay, the chief object of education is to +unlearn things. The chief object of education is to unlearn all the weariness +and wickedness of the world and to get back into that state of exhilaration we +all instinctively celebrate when we write by preference of children and of +boys. If I were an examiner appointed to examine all examiners (which does not +at present appear probable), I would not only ask the teachers how much +knowledge they had imparted; I would ask them how much splendid and scornful +ignorance they had erected, like some royal tower in arms. But, in any case, I +would insist that people should have so much simplicity as would enable them to +see things suddenly and to see things as they are. I do not care so much +whether they can read the names over the shops. I do care very much whether +they can read the shops. I do not feel deeply troubled as to whether they can +tell where London is on the map so long as they can tell where Brixton is on +the way home. I do not even mind whether they can put two and two together in +the mathematical sense; I am content if they can put two and two together in +the metaphorical sense. But all this longer statement of an obvious view comes +back to the metaphor I have employed. I do not care a dump whether they know +the alphabet, so long as they know the dumb alphabet. +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately, I have noticed in many aspects of our popular education that +this is not done at all. One teaches our London children to see London with +abrupt and simple eyes. And London is far more difficult to see properly than +any other place. London is a riddle. Paris is an explanation. The education of +the Parisian child is something corresponding to the clear avenues and the +exact squares of Paris. When the Parisian boy has done learning about the +French reason and the Roman order he can go out and see the thing repeated in +the shapes of many shining public places, in the angles of many streets. But +when the English boy goes out, after learning about a vague progress and +idealism, he cannot see it anywhere. He cannot see anything anywhere, except +Sapolio and the <i>Daily Mail</i>. We must either alter London to suit the +ideals of our education, or else alter our education to suit the great beauty +of London. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>FRENCH AND ENGLISH</h2> + +<p> +It is obvious that there is a great deal of difference between being +international and being cosmopolitan. All good men are international. Nearly +all bad men are cosmopolitan. If we are to be international we must be +national. And it is largely because those who call themselves the friends of +peace have not dwelt sufficiently on this distinction that they do not impress +the bulk of any of the nations to which they belong. International peace means +a peace between nations, not a peace after the destruction of nations, like the +Buddhist peace after the destruction of personality. The golden age of the good +European is like the heaven of the Christian: it is a place where people will +love each other; not like the heaven of the Hindu, a place where they will be +each other. And in the case of national character this can be seen in a curious +way. It will generally be found, I think, that the more a man really +appreciates and admires the soul of another people the less he will attempt to +imitate it; he will be conscious that there is something in it too deep and too +unmanageable to imitate. The Englishman who has a fancy for France will try to +be French; the Englishman who admires France will remain obstinately English. +This is to be particularly noticed in the case of our relations with the +French, because it is one of the outstanding peculiarities of the French that +their vices are all on the surface, and their extraordinary virtues concealed. +One might almost say that their vices are the flower of their virtues. +</p> + +<p> +Thus their obscenity is the expression of their passionate love of dragging all +things into the light. The avarice of their peasants means the independence of +their peasants. What the English call their rudeness in the streets is a phase +of their social equality. The worried look of their women is connected with the +responsibility of their women; and a certain unconscious brutality of hurry and +gesture in the men is related to their inexhaustible and extraordinary military +courage. Of all countries, therefore, France is the worst country for a +superficial fool to admire. Let a fool hate France: if the fool loves it he +will soon be a knave. He will certainly admire it, not only for the things that +are not creditable, but actually for the things that are not there. He will +admire the grace and indolence of the most industrious people in the world. He +will admire the romance and fantasy of the most determinedly respectable and +commonplace people in the world. This mistake the Englishman will make if he +admires France too hastily; but the mistake that he makes about France will be +slight compared with the mistake that he makes about himself. An Englishman who +professes really to like French realistic novels, really to be at home in a +French modern theatre, really to experience no shock on first seeing the savage +French caricatures, is making a mistake very dangerous for his own sincerity. +He is admiring something he does not understand. He is reaping where he has not +sown, and taking up where he has not laid down; he is trying to taste the fruit +when he has never toiled over the tree. He is trying to pluck the exquisite +fruit of French cynicism, when he has never tilled the rude but rich soil of +French virtue. +</p> + +<p> +The thing can only be made clear to Englishmen by turning it round. Suppose a +Frenchman came out of democratic France to live in England, where the shadow of +the great houses still falls everywhere, and where even freedom was, in its +origin, aristocratic. If the Frenchman saw our aristocracy and liked it, if he +saw our snobbishness and liked it, if he set himself to imitate it, we all know +what we should feel. We all know that we should feel that that particular +Frenchman was a repulsive little gnat. He would be imitating English +aristocracy; he would be imitating the English vice. But he would not even +understand the vice he plagiarised: especially he would not understand that the +vice is partly a virtue. He would not understand those elements in the English +which balance snobbishness and make it human: the great kindness of the +English, their hospitality, their unconscious poetry, their sentimental +conservatism, which really admires the gentry. The French Royalist sees that +the English like their King. But he does not grasp that while it is base to +worship a King, it is almost noble to worship a powerless King. The impotence +of the Hanoverian Sovereigns has raised the English loyal subject almost to the +chivalry and dignity of a Jacobite. The Frenchman sees that the English servant +is respectful: he does not realise that he is also disrespectful; that there is +an English legend of the humorous and faithful servant, who is as much a +personality as his master; the Caleb Balderstone, the Sam Weller. He sees that +the English do admire a nobleman; he does not allow for the fact that they +admire a nobleman most when he does not behave like one. They like a noble to +be unconscious and amiable: the slave may be humble, but the master must not be +proud. The master is Life, as they would like to enjoy it; and among the joys +they desire in him there is none which they desire more sincerely than that of +generosity, of throwing money about among mankind, or, to use the noble +mediæval word, largesse—the joy of largeness. That is why a cabman tells you +are no gentleman if you give him his correct fare. Not only his pocket, but his +soul is hurt. You have wounded his ideal. You have defaced his vision of the +perfect aristocrat. All this is really very subtle and elusive; it is very +difficult to separate what is mere slavishness from what is a sort of vicarious +nobility in the English love of a lord. And no Frenchman could easily grasp it +at all. He would think it was mere slavishness; and if he liked it, he would be +a slave. So every Englishman must (at first) feel French candour to be mere +brutality. And if he likes it, he is a brute. These national merits must not be +understood so easily. It requires long years of plenitude and quiet, the slow +growth of great parks, the seasoning of oaken beams, the dark enrichment of red +wine in cellars and in inns, all the leisure and the life of England through +many centuries, to produce at last the generous and genial fruit of English +snobbishness. And it requires battery and barricade, songs in the streets, and +ragged men dead for an idea, to produce and justify the terrible flower of +French indecency. +</p> + +<p> +When I was in Paris a short time ago, I went with an English friend of mine to +an extremely brilliant and rapid succession of French plays, each occupying +about twenty minutes. They were all astonishingly effective; but there was one +of them which was so effective that my friend and I fought about it outside, +and had almost to be separated by the police. It was intended to indicate how +men really behaved in a wreck or naval disaster, how they break down, how they +scream, how they fight each other without object and in a mere hatred of +everything. And then there was added, with all that horrible irony which +Voltaire began, a scene in which a great statesman made a speech over their +bodies, saying that they were all heroes and had died in a fraternal embrace. +My friend and I came out of this theatre, and as he had lived long in Paris, he +said, like a Frenchman: “What admirable artistic arrangement! Is it not +exquisite?” “No,” I replied, assuming as far as possible the traditional +attitude of John Bull in the pictures in <i>Punch</i>—“No, it is not exquisite. +Perhaps it is unmeaning; if it is unmeaning I do not mind. But if it has a +meaning I know what the meaning is; it is that under all their pageant of +chivalry men are not only beasts, but even hunted beasts. I do not know much of +humanity, especially when humanity talks in French. But I know when a thing is +meant to uplift the human soul, and when it is meant to depress it. I know that +‘Cyrano de Bergerac’ (where the actors talked even quicker) was meant to +encourage man. And I know that this was meant to discourage him.” “These +sentimental and moral views of art,” began my friend, but I broke into his +words as a light broke into my mind. “Let me say to you,” I said, “what Jaurès +said to Liebknecht at the Socialist Conference: ‘You have not died on the +barricades’. You are an Englishman, as I am, and you ought to be as amiable as +I am. These people have some right to be terrible in art, for they have been +terrible in politics. They may endure mock tortures on the stage; they have +seen real tortures in the streets. They have been hurt for the idea of +Democracy. They have been hurt for the idea of Catholicism. It is not so +utterly unnatural to them that they should be hurt for the idea of literature. +But, by blazes, it is altogether unnatural to me! And the worst thing of all is +that I, who am an Englishman, loving comfort, should find comfort in such +things as this. The French do not seek comfort here, but rather unrest. This +restless people seeks to keep itself in a perpetual agony of the revolutionary +mood. Frenchmen, seeking revolution, may find the humiliation of humanity +inspiring. But God forbid that two pleasure-seeking Englishmen should ever find +it pleasant!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>THE ZOLA CONTROVERSY</h2> + +<p> +The difference between two great nations can be illustrated by the coincidence +that at this moment both France and England are engaged in discussing the +memorial of a literary man. France is considering the celebration of the late +Zola, England is considering that of the recently deceased Shakspere. There is +some national significance, it may be, in the time that has elapsed. Some will +find impatience and indelicacy in this early attack on Zola or deification of +him; but the nation which has sat still for three hundred years after +Shakspere’s funeral may be considered, perhaps, to have carried delicacy too +far. But much deeper things are involved than the mere matter of time. The +point of the contrast is that the French are discussing whether there shall be +any monument, while the English are discussing only what the monument shall be. +In other words, the French are discussing a living question, while we are +discussing a dead one. Or rather, not a dead one, but a settled one, which is +quite a different thing. +</p> + +<p> +When a thing of the intellect is settled it is not dead: rather it is immortal. +The multiplication table is immortal, and so is the fame of Shakspere. But the +fame of Zola is not dead or not immortal; it is at its crisis, it is in the +balance; and may be found wanting. The French, therefore, are quite right in +considering it a living question. It is still living as a question, because it +is not yet solved. But Shakspere is not a living question: he is a living +answer. +</p> + +<p> +For my part, therefore, I think the French Zola controversy much more practical +and exciting than the English Shakspere one. The admission of Zola to the +Panthéon may be regarded as defining Zola’s position. But nobody could say that +a statue of Shakspere, even fifty feet high, on the top of St. Paul’s +Cathedral, could define Shakspere’s position. It only defines our position +towards Shakspere. It is he who is fixed; it is we who are unstable. The +nearest approach to an English parallel to the Zola case would be furnished if +it were proposed to put some savagely controversial and largely repulsive +author among the ashes of the greatest English poets. Suppose, for instance, it +were proposed to bury Mr. Rudyard Kipling in Westminster Abbey. I should be +against burying him in Westminster Abbey; first, because he is still alive (and +here I think even he himself might admit the justice of my protest); and +second, because I should like to reserve that rapidly narrowing space for the +great permanent examples, not for the interesting foreign interruptions, of +English literature. I would not have either Mr. Kipling or Mr. George Moore in +Westminster Abbey, though Mr. Kipling has certainly caught even more cleverly +than Mr. Moore the lucid and cool cruelty of the French short story. I am very +sure that Geoffrey Chaucer and Joseph Addison get on very well together in the +Poets’ Corner, despite the centuries that sunder them. But I feel that Mr. +George Moore would be much happier in Pere-la-Chaise, with a riotous statue by +Rodin on the top of him; and Mr. Kipling much happier under some huge Asiatic +monument, carved with all the cruelties of the gods. +</p> + +<p> +As to the affair of the English monument to Shakspere, every people has its own +mode of commemoration, and I think there is a great deal to be said for ours. +There is the French monumental style, which consists in erecting very pompous +statues, very well done. There is the German monumental style, which consists +in erecting very pompous statues, badly done. And there is the English +monumental method, the great English way with statues, which consists in not +erecting them at all. A statue may be dignified; but the absence of a statue is +always dignified. For my part, I feel there is something national, something +wholesomely symbolic, in the fact that there is no statue of Shakspere. There +is, of course, one in Leicester Square; but the very place where it stands +shows that it was put up by a foreigner for foreigners. There is surely +something modest and manly about not attempting to express our greatest poet in +the plastic arts in which we do not excel. We honour Shakspere as the Jews +honour God—by not daring to make of him a graven image. Our sculpture, our +statues, are good enough for bankers and philanthropists, who are our curse: +not good enough for him, who is our benediction. Why should we celebrate the +very art in which we triumph by the very art in which we fail? +</p> + +<p> +England is most easily understood as the country of amateurs. It is especially +the country of amateur soldiers (that is, of Volunteers), of amateur statesmen +(that is, of aristocrats), and it is not unreasonable or out of keeping that it +should be rather specially the country of a careless and lounging view of +literature. Shakspere has no academic monument for the same reason that he had +no academic education. He had small Latin and less Greek, and (in the same +spirit) he has never been commemorated in Latin epitaphs or Greek marble. If +there is nothing clear and fixed about the emblems of his fame, it is because +there was nothing clear and fixed about the origins of it. Those great schools +and Universities which watch a man in his youth may record him in his death; +but Shakspere had no such unifying traditions. We can only say of him what we +can say of Dickens. We can only say that he came from nowhere and that he went +everywhere. For him a monument in any place is out of place. A cold statue in a +certain square is unsuitable to him as it would be unsuitable to Dickens. If we +put up a statue of Dickens in Portland Place to-morrow we should feel the +stiffness as unnatural. We should fear that the statue might stroll about the +street at night. +</p> + +<p> +But in France the question of whether Zola shall go to the Panthéon when he is +dead is quite as practicable as the question whether he should go to prison +when he was alive. It is the problem of whether the nation shall take one turn +of thought or another. In raising a monument to Zola they do not raise merely a +trophy, but a finger-post. The question is one which will have to be settled in +most European countries; but like all such questions, it has come first to a +head in France; because France is the battlefield of Christendom. That question +is, of course, roughly this: whether in that ill-defined area of verbal licence +on certain dangerous topics it is an extenuation of indelicacy or an +aggravation of it that the indelicacy was deliberate and solemn. Is indecency +more indecent if it is grave, or more indecent if it is gay? For my part, I +belong to an old school in this matter. When a book or a play strikes me as a +crime, I am not disarmed by being told that it is a serious crime. If a man has +written something vile, I am not comforted by the explanation that he quite +meant to do it. I know all the evils of flippancy; I do not like the man who +laughs at the sight of virtue. But I prefer him to the man who weeps at the +sight of virtue and complains bitterly of there being any such thing. I am not +reassured, when ethics are as wild as cannibalism, by the fact that they are +also as grave and sincere as suicide. And I think there is an obvious fallacy +in the bitter contrasts drawn by some moderns between the aversion to Ibsen’s +“Ghosts” and the popularity of some such joke as “Dear Old Charlie.” Surely +there is nothing mysterious or unphilosophic in the popular preference. The +joke of “Dear Old Charlie” is passed—because it is a joke. “Ghosts” are +exorcised—because they are ghosts. +</p> + +<p> +This is, of course, the whole question of Zola. I am grown up, and I do not +worry myself much about Zola’s immorality. The thing I cannot stand is his +morality. If ever a man on this earth lived to embody the tremendous text, “But +if the light in your body be darkness, how great is the darkness,” it was +certainly he. Great men like Ariosto, Rabelais, and Shakspere fall in foul +places, flounder in violent but venial sin, sprawl for pages, exposing their +gigantic weakness, are dirty, are indefensible; and then they struggle up again +and can still speak with a convincing kindness and an unbroken honour of the +best things in the world: Rabelais, of the instruction of ardent and austere +youth; Ariosto, of holy chivalry; Shakspere, of the splendid stillness of +mercy. But in Zola even the ideals are undesirable; Zola’s mercy is colder than +justice—nay, Zola’s mercy is more bitter in the mouth than injustice. When Zola +shows us an ideal training he does not take us, like Rabelais, into the happy +fields of humanist learning. He takes us into the schools of inhumanist +learning, where there are neither books nor flowers, nor wine nor wisdom, but +only deformities in glass bottles, and where the rule is taught from the +exceptions. Zola’s truth answers the exact description of the skeleton in the +cupboard; that is, it is something of which a domestic custom forbids the +discovery, but which is quite dead, even when it is discovered. Macaulay said +that the Puritans hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the bear, but +because it gave pleasure to the spectators. Of such substance also was this +Puritan who had lost his God. A Puritan of this type is worse than the Puritan +who hates pleasure because there is evil in it. This man actually hates evil +because there is pleasure in it. Zola was worse than a pornographer, he was a +pessimist. He did worse than encourage sin: he encouraged discouragement. He +made lust loathsome because to him lust meant life. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>OXFORD FROM WITHOUT</h2> + +<p> +Some time ago I ventured to defend that race of hunted and persecuted outlaws, +the Bishops; but until this week I had no idea of how much persecuted they +were. For instance, the Bishop of Birmingham made some extremely sensible +remarks in the House of Lords, to the effect that Oxford and Cambridge were (as +everybody knows they are) far too much merely plutocratic playgrounds. One +would have thought that an Anglican Bishop might be allowed to know something +about the English University system, and even to have, if anything, some bias +in its favour. But (as I pointed out) the rollicking Radicalism of Bishops has +to be restrained. The man who writes the notes in the weekly paper called the +<i>Outlook</i> feels that it is his business to restrain it. The passage has +such simple sublimity that I must quote it— +</p> + +<p> +“Dr. Gore talked unworthily of his reputation when he spoke of the older +Universities as playgrounds for the rich and idle. In the first place, the rich +men there are not idle. Some of the rich men are, and so are some of the poor +men. On the whole, the sons of noble and wealthy families keep up the best +traditions of academic life.” +</p> + +<p> +So far this seems all very nice. It is a part of the universal principle on +which Englishmen have acted in recent years. As you will not try to make the +best people the most powerful people, persuade yourselves that the most +powerful people are the best people. Mad Frenchmen and Irishmen try to realise +the ideal. To you belongs the nobler (and much easier) task of idealising the +real. First give your Universities entirely into the power of the rich; then +let the rich start traditions; and then congratulate yourselves on the fact +that the sons of the rich keep up these traditions. All that is quite simple +and jolly. But then this critic, who crushes Dr. Gore from the high throne of +the <i>Outlook</i>, goes on in a way that is really perplexing. “It is +distinctly advantageous,” he says, “that rich and poor—<i>i. e.</i>, young men +with a smooth path in life before them, and those who have to hew out a road +for themselves—should be brought into association. Each class learns a great +deal from the other. On the one side, social conceit and exclusiveness give way +to the free spirit of competition amongst all classes; on the other side, +angularities and prejudices are rubbed away.” Even this I might have swallowed. +But the paragraph concludes with this extraordinary sentence: “We get the net +result in such careers as those of Lord Milner, Lord Curzon, and Mr. Asquith.” +</p> + +<p> +Those three names lay my intellect prostrate. The rest of the argument I +understand quite well. The social exclusiveness of aristocrats at Oxford and +Cambridge gives way before the free spirit of competition amongst all classes. +That is to say, there is at Oxford so hot and keen a struggle, consisting of +coal-heavers, London clerks, gypsies, navvies, drapers’ assistants, grocers’ +assistants—in short, all the classes that make up the bulk of England—there is +such a fierce competition at Oxford among all these people that in its presence +aristocratic exclusiveness gives way. That is all quite clear. I am not quite +sure about the facts, but I quite understand the argument. But then, having +been called upon to contemplate this bracing picture of a boisterous turmoil of +all the classes of England, I am suddenly asked to accept as example of it, +Lord Milner, Lord Curzon, and the present Chancellor of the Exchequer. What +part do these gentlemen play in the mental process? Is Lord Curzon one of the +rugged and ragged poor men whose angularities have been rubbed away? Or is he +one of those whom Oxford immediately deprived of all kind of social +exclusiveness? His Oxford reputation does not seem to bear out either account +of him. To regard Lord Milner as a typical product of Oxford would surely be +unfair. It would be to deprive the educational tradition of Germany of one of +its most typical products. English aristocrats have their faults, but they are +not at all like Lord Milner. What Mr. Asquith was meant to prove, whether he +was a rich man who lost his exclusiveness, or a poor man who lost his angles, I +am utterly unable to conceive. +</p> + +<p> +There is, however, one mild but very evident truth that might perhaps be +mentioned. And it is this: that none of those three excellent persons is, or +ever has been, a poor man in the sense that that word is understood by the +overwhelming majority of the English nation. There are no poor men at Oxford in +the sense that the majority of men in the street are poor. The very fact that +the writer in the <i>Outlook</i> can talk about such people as poor shows that +he does not understand what the modern problem is. His kind of poor man rather +reminds me of the Earl in the ballad by that great English satirist, Sir W.S. +Gilbert, whose angles (very acute angles) had, I fear, never been rubbed down +by an old English University. The reader will remember that when the +Periwinkle-girl was adored by two Dukes, the poet added— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A third adorer had the girl,<br/> + A man of lowly station;<br/> +A miserable grovelling Earl<br/> + Besought her approbation.” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, indeed, some allusion to our University system, and to the universal +clash in it of all the classes of the community, may be found in the verse a +little farther on, which says— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He’d had, it happily befell,<br/> + A decent education;<br/> +His views would have befitted well<br/> + A far superior station.” +</p> + +<p> +Possibly there was as simple a chasm between Lord Curzon and Lord Milner. But I +am afraid that the chasm will become almost imperceptible, a microscopic crack, +if we compare it with the chasm that separates either or both of them from the +people of this country. +</p> + +<p> +Of course the truth is exactly as the Bishop of Birmingham put it. I am sure +that he did not put it in any unkindly or contemptuous spirit towards those old +English seats of learning, which whether they are or are not seats of learning, +are, at any rate, old and English, and those are two very good things to be. +The Old English University is a playground for the governing class. That does +not prove that it is a bad thing; it might prove that it was a very good thing. +Certainly if there is a governing class, let there be a playground for the +governing class. I would much rather be ruled by men who know how to play than +by men who do not know how to play. Granted that we are to be governed by a +rich section of the community, it is certainly very important that that section +should be kept tolerably genial and jolly. If the sensitive man on the +<i>Outlook</i> does not like the phrase, “Playground of the rich,” I can +suggest a phrase that describes such a place as Oxford perhaps with more +precision. It is a place for humanising those who might otherwise be tyrants, +or even experts. +</p> + +<p> +To pretend that the aristocrat meets all classes at Oxford is too ludicrous to +be worth discussion. But it may be true that he meets more different kinds of +men than he would meet under a strictly aristocratic <i>regime</i> of private +tutors and small schools. It all comes back to the fact that the English, if +they were resolved to have an aristocracy, were at least resolved to have a +good-natured aristocracy. And it is due to them to say that almost alone among +the peoples of the world, they have succeeded in getting one. One could almost +tolerate the thing, if it were not for the praise of it. One might endure +Oxford, but not the <i>Outlook</i>. +</p> + +<p> +When the poor man at Oxford loses his angles (which means, I suppose, his +independence), he may perhaps, even if his poverty is of that highly relative +type possible at Oxford, gain a certain amount of worldly advantage from the +surrender of those angles. I must confess, however, that I can imagine nothing +nastier than to lose one’s angles. It seems to me that a desire to retain some +angles about one’s person is a desire common to all those human beings who do +not set their ultimate hopes upon looking like Humpty-Dumpty. Our angles are +simply our shapes. I cannot imagine any phrase more full of the subtle and +exquisite vileness which is poisoning and weakening our country than such a +phrase as this, about the desirability of rubbing down the angularities of poor +men. Reduced to permanent and practical human speech, it means nothing whatever +except the corrupting of that first human sense of justice which is the critic +of all human institutions. +</p> + +<p> +It is not in any such spirit of facile and reckless reassurance that we should +approach the really difficult problem of the delicate virtues and the deep +dangers of our two historic seats of learning. A good son does not easily admit +that his sick mother is dying; but neither does a good son cheerily assert that +she is “all right.” There are many good arguments for leaving the two historic +Universities exactly as they are. There are many good arguments for smashing +them or altering them entirely. But in either case the plain truth told by the +Bishop of Birmingham remains. If these Universities were destroyed, they would +not be destroyed as Universities. If they are preserved, they will not be +preserved as Universities. They will be preserved strictly and literally as +playgrounds; places valued for their hours of leisure more than for their hours +of work. I do not say that this is unreasonable; as a matter of private +temperament I find it attractive. It is not only possible to say a great deal +in praise of play; it is really possible to say the highest things in praise of +it. It might reasonably be maintained that the true object of all human life is +play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground. To be at last in such +secure innocence that one can juggle with the universe and the stars, to be so +good that one can treat everything as a joke—that may be, perhaps, the real end +and final holiday of human souls. When we are really holy we may regard the +Universe as a lark; so perhaps it is not essentially wrong to regard the +University as a lark. But the plain and present fact is that our upper classes +do regard the University as a lark, and do not regard it as a University. It +also happens very often that through some oversight they neglect to provide +themselves with that extreme degree of holiness which I have postulated as a +necessary preliminary to such indulgence in the higher frivolity. +</p> + +<p> +Humanity, always dreaming of a happy race, free, fantastic, and at ease, has +sometimes pictured them in some mystical island, sometimes in some celestial +city, sometimes as fairies, gods, or citizens of Atlantis. But one method in +which it has often indulged is to picture them as aristocrats, as a special +human class that could actually be seen hunting in the woods or driving about +the streets. And this never was (as some silly Germans say) a worship of pride +and scorn; mankind never really admired pride; mankind never had any thing but +a scorn for scorn. It was a worship of the spectacle of happiness; especially +of the spectacle of youth. This is what the old Universities in their noblest +aspect really are; and this is why there is always something to be said for +keeping them as they are. Aristocracy is not a tyranny; it is not even merely a +spell. It is a vision. It is a deliberate indulgence in a certain picture of +pleasure painted for the purpose; every Duchess is (in an innocent sense) +painted, like Gainsborough’s “Duchess of Devonshire.” She is only beautiful +because, at the back of all, the English people wanted her to be beautiful. In +the same way, the lads at Oxford and Cambridge are only larking because +England, in the depths of its solemn soul, really wishes them to lark. All this +is very human and pardonable, and would be even harmless if there were no such +things in the world as danger and honour and intellectual responsibility. But +if aristocracy is a vision, it is perhaps the most unpractical of all visions. +It is not a working way of doing things to put all your happiest people on a +lighted platform and stare only at them. It is not a working way of managing +education to be entirely content with the mere fact that you have (to a degree +unexampled in the world) given the luckiest boys the jolliest time. It would be +easy enough, like the writer in the <i>Outlook</i>, to enjoy the pleasures and +deny the perils. Oh what a happy place England would be to live in if only one +did not love it! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>WOMAN</h2> + +<p> +A correspondent has written me an able and interesting letter in the matter of +some allusions of mine to the subject of communal kitchens. He defends communal +kitchens very lucidly from the standpoint of the calculating collectivist; but, +like many of his school, he cannot apparently grasp that there is another test +of the whole matter, with which such calculation has nothing at all to do. He +knows it would be cheaper if a number of us ate at the same time, so as to use +the same table. So it would. It would also be cheaper if a number of us slept +at different times, so as to use the same pair of trousers. But the question is +not how cheap are we buying a thing, but what are we buying? It is cheap to own +a slave. And it is cheaper still to be a slave. +</p> + +<p> +My correspondent also says that the habit of dining out in restaurants, etc., +is growing. So, I believe, is the habit of committing suicide. I do not desire +to connect the two facts together. It seems fairly clear that a man could not +dine at a restaurant because he had just committed suicide; and it would be +extreme, perhaps, to suggest that he commits suicide because he has just dined +at a restaurant. But the two cases, when put side by side, are enough to +indicate the falsity and poltroonery of this eternal modern argument from what +is in fashion. The question for brave men is not whether a certain thing is +increasing; the question is whether we are increasing it. I dine very often in +restaurants because the nature of my trade makes it convenient: but if I +thought that by dining in restaurants I was working for the creation of +communal meals, I would never enter a restaurant again; I would carry bread and +cheese in my pocket or eat chocolate out of automatic machines. For the +personal element in some things is sacred. I heard Mr. Will Crooks put it +perfectly the other day: “The most sacred thing is to be able to shut your own +door.” +</p> + +<p> +My correspondent says, “Would not our women be spared the drudgery of cooking +and all its attendant worries, leaving them free for higher culture?” The first +thing that occurs to me to say about this is very simple, and is, I imagine, a +part of all our experience. If my correspondent can find any way of preventing +women from worrying, he will indeed be a remarkable man. I think the matter is +a much deeper one. First of all, my correspondent overlooks a distinction which +is elementary in our human nature. Theoretically, I suppose, every one would +like to be freed from worries. But nobody in the world would always like to be +freed from worrying occupations. I should very much like (as far as my feelings +at the moment go) to be free from the consuming nuisance of writing this +article. But it does not follow that I should like to be free from the +consuming nuisance of being a journalist. Because we are worried about a thing, +it does not follow that we are not interested in it. The truth is the other +way. If we are not interested, why on earth should we be worried? Women are +worried about housekeeping, but those that are most interested are the most +worried. Women are still more worried about their husbands and their children. +And I suppose if we strangled the children and poleaxed the husbands it would +leave women free for higher culture. That is, it would leave them free to begin +to worry about that. For women would worry about higher culture as much as they +worry about everything else. +</p> + +<p> +I believe this way of talking about women and their higher culture is almost +entirely a growth of the classes which (unlike the journalistic class to which +I belong) have always a reasonable amount of money. One odd thing I specially +notice. Those who write like this seem entirely to forget the existence of the +working and wage-earning classes. They say eternally, like my correspondent, +that the ordinary woman is always a drudge. And what, in the name of the Nine +Gods, is the ordinary man? These people seem to think that the ordinary man is +a Cabinet Minister. They are always talking about man going forth to wield +power, to carve his own way, to stamp his individuality on the world, to +command and to be obeyed. This may be true of a certain class. Dukes, perhaps, +are not drudges; but, then, neither are Duchesses. The Ladies and Gentlemen of +the Smart Set are quite free for the higher culture, which consists chiefly of +motoring and Bridge. But the ordinary man who typifies and constitutes the +millions that make up our civilisation is no more free for the higher culture +than his wife is. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, he is not so free. Of the two sexes the woman is in the more powerful +position. For the average woman is at the head of something with which she can +do as she likes; the average man has to obey orders and do nothing else. He has +to put one dull brick on another dull brick, and do nothing else; he has to add +one dull figure to another dull figure, and do nothing else. The woman’s world +is a small one, perhaps, but she can alter it. The woman can tell the tradesman +with whom she deals some realistic things about himself. The clerk who does +this to the manager generally gets the sack, or shall we say (to avoid the +vulgarism), finds himself free for higher culture. Above all, as I said in my +previous article, the woman does work which is in some small degree creative +and individual. She can put the flowers or the furniture in fancy arrangements +of her own. I fear the bricklayer cannot put the bricks in fancy arrangements +of his own, without disaster to himself and others. If the woman is only +putting a patch into a carpet, she can choose the thing with regard to colour. +I fear it would not do for the office boy dispatching a parcel to choose his +stamps with a view to colour; to prefer the tender mauve of the sixpenny to the +crude scarlet of the penny stamp. A woman cooking may not always cook +artistically; still she can cook artistically. She can introduce a personal and +imperceptible alteration into the composition of a soup. The clerk is not +encouraged to introduce a personal and imperceptible alteration into the +figures in a ledger. +</p> + +<p> +The trouble is that the real question I raised is not discussed. It is argued +as a problem in pennies, not as a problem in people. It is not the proposals of +these reformers that I feel to be false so much as their temper and their +arguments. I am not nearly so certain that communal kitchens are wrong as I am +that the defenders of communal kitchens are wrong. Of course, for one thing, +there is a vast difference between the communal kitchens of which I spoke and +the communal meal (<i>monstrum horrendum, informe</i>) which the darker and +wilder mind of my correspondent diabolically calls up. But in both the trouble +is that their defenders will not defend them humanly as human institutions. +They will not interest themselves in the staring psychological fact that there +are some things that a man or a woman, as the case may be, wishes to do for +himself or herself. He or she must do it inventively, creatively, artistically, +individually—in a word, badly. Choosing your wife (say) is one of these things. +Is choosing your husband’s dinner one of these things? That is the whole +question: it is never asked. +</p> + +<p> +And then the higher culture. I know that culture. I would not set any man free +for it if I could help it. The effect of it on the rich men who are free for it +is so horrible that it is worse than any of the other amusements of the +millionaire—worse than gambling, worse even than philanthropy. It means +thinking the smallest poet in Belgium greater than the greatest poet of +England. It means losing every democratic sympathy. It means being unable to +talk to a navvy about sport, or about beer, or about the Bible, or about the +Derby, or about patriotism, or about anything whatever that he, the navvy, +wants to talk about. It means taking literature seriously, a very amateurish +thing to do. It means pardoning indecency only when it is gloomy indecency. Its +disciples will call a spade a spade; but only when it is a grave-digger’s +spade. The higher culture is sad, cheap, impudent, unkind, without honesty and +without ease. In short, it is “high.” That abominable word (also applied to +game) admirably describes it. +</p> + +<p> +No; if you were setting women free for something else, I might be more melted. +If you can assure me, privately and gravely, that you are setting women free to +dance on the mountains like mænads, or to worship some monstrous goddess, I +will make a note of your request. If you are quite sure that the ladies in +Brixton, the moment they give up cooking, will beat great gongs and blow horns +to Mumbo-Jumbo, then I will agree that the occupation is at least human and is +more or less entertaining. Women have been set free to be Bacchantes; they have +been set free to be Virgin Martyrs; they have been set free to be Witches. Do +not ask them now to sink so low as the higher culture. +</p> + +<p> +I have my own little notions of the possible emancipation of women; but I +suppose I should not be taken very seriously if I propounded them. I should +favour anything that would increase the present enormous authority of women and +their creative action in their own homes. The average woman, as I have said, is +a despot; the average man is a serf. I am for any scheme that any one can +suggest that will make the average woman more of a despot. So far from wishing +her to get her cooked meals from outside, I should like her to cook more wildly +and at her own will than she does. So far from getting always the same meals +from the same place, let her invent, if she likes, a new dish every day of her +life. Let woman be more of a maker, not less. We are right to talk about +“Woman;” only blackguards talk about women. Yet all men talk about men, and +that is the whole difference. Men represent the deliberative and democratic +element in life. Woman represents the despotic. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>THE MODERN MARTYR</h2> + +<p> +The incident of the Suffragettes who chained themselves with iron chains to the +railings of Downing Street is a good ironical allegory of most modern +martyrdom. It generally consists of a man chaining himself up and then +complaining that he is not free. Some say that such larks retard the cause of +female suffrage, others say that such larks alone can advance it; as a matter +of fact, I do not believe that they have the smallest effect one way or the +other. +</p> + +<p> +The modern notion of impressing the public by a mere demonstration of +unpopularity, by being thrown out of meetings or thrown into jail is largely a +mistake. It rests on a fallacy touching the true popular value of martyrdom. +People look at human history and see that it has often happened that +persecutions have not only advertised but even advanced a persecuted creed, and +given to its validity the public and dreadful witness of dying men. The paradox +was pictorially expressed in Christian art, in which saints were shown +brandishing as weapons the very tools that had slain them. And because his +martyrdom is thus a power to the martyr, modern people think that any one who +makes himself slightly uncomfortable in public will immediately be uproariously +popular. This element of inadequate martyrdom is not true only of the +Suffragettes; it is true of many movements I respect and some that I agree +with. It was true, for instance, of the Passive Resisters, who had pieces of +their furniture sold up. The assumption is that if you show your ordinary +sincerity (or even your political ambition) by being a nuisance to yourself as +well as to other people, you will have the strength of the great saints who +passed through the fire. Any one who can be hustled in a hall for five minutes, +or put in a cell for five days, has achieved what was meant by martyrdom, and +has a halo in the Christian art of the future. Miss Pankhurst will be +represented holding a policeman in each hand—the instruments of her martyrdom. +The Passive Resister will be shown symbolically carrying the teapot that was +torn from him by tyrannical auctioneers. +</p> + +<p> +But there is a fallacy in this analogy of martyrdom. The truth is that the +special impressiveness which does come from being persecuted only happens in +the case of extreme persecution. For the fact that the modern enthusiast will +undergo some inconvenience for the creed he holds only proves that he does hold +it, which no one ever doubted. No one doubts that the Nonconformist minister +cares more for Nonconformity than he does for his teapot. No one doubts that +Miss Pankhurst wants a vote more than she wants a quiet afternoon and an +armchair. All our ordinary intellectual opinions are worth a bit of a row: I +remember during the Boer War fighting an Imperialist clerk outside the Queen’s +Hall, and giving and receiving a bloody nose; but I did not think it one of the +incidents that produce the psychological effect of the Roman amphitheatre or +the stake at Smithfield. For in that impression there is something more than +the mere fact that a man is sincere enough to give his time or his comfort. +Pagans were not impressed by the torture of Christians merely because it showed +that they honestly held their opinion; they knew that millions of people +honestly held all sorts of opinions. The point of such extreme martyrdom is +much more subtle. It is that it gives an appearance of a man having something +quite specially strong to back him up, of his drawing upon some power. And this +can only be proved when all his physical contentment is destroyed; when all the +current of his bodily being is reversed and turned to pain. If a man is seen to +be roaring with laughter all the time that he is skinned alive, it would not be +unreasonable to deduce that somewhere in the recesses of his mind he had +thought of a rather good joke. Similarly, if men smiled and sang (as they did) +while they were being boiled or torn in pieces, the spectators felt the +presence of something more than mere mental honesty: they felt the presence of +some new and unintelligible kind of pleasure, which, presumably, came from +somewhere. It might be a strength of madness, or a lying spirit from Hell; but +it was something quite positive and extraordinary; as positive as brandy and as +extraordinary as conjuring. The Pagan said to himself: “If Christianity makes a +man happy while his legs are being eaten by a lion, might it not make me happy +while my legs are still attached to me and walking down the street?” The +Secularists laboriously explain that martyrdoms do not prove a faith to be +true, as if anybody was ever such a fool as to suppose that they did. What they +did prove, or, rather, strongly suggest, was that something had entered human +psychology which was stronger than strong pain. If a young girl, scourged and +bleeding to death, saw nothing but a crown descending on her from God, the +first mental step was not that her philosophy was correct, but that she was +certainly feeding on something. But this particular point of psychology does +not arise at all in the modern cases of mere public discomfort or +inconvenience. The causes of Miss Pankhurst’s cheerfulness require no mystical +explanations. If she were being burned alive as a witch, if she then looked up +in unmixed rapture and saw a ballot-box descending out of heaven, then I should +say that the incident, though not conclusive, was frightfully impressive. It +would not prove logically that she ought to have the vote, or that anybody +ought to have the vote. But it would prove this: that there was, for some +reason, a sacramental reality in the vote, that the soul could take the vote +and feed on it; that it was in itself a positive and overpowering pleasure, +capable of being pitted against positive and overpowering pain. +</p> + +<p> +I should advise modern agitators, therefore, to give up this particular method: +the method of making very big efforts to get a very small punishment. It does +not really go down at all; the punishment is too small, and the efforts are too +obvious. It has not any of the effectiveness of the old savage martyrdom, +because it does not leave the victim absolutely alone with his cause, so that +his cause alone can support him. At the same time it has about it that element +of the pantomimic and the absurd, which was the cruellest part of the slaying +and the mocking of the real prophets. St. Peter was crucified upside down as a +huge inhuman joke; but his human seriousness survived the inhuman joke, +because, in whatever posture, he had died for his faith. The modern martyr of +the Pankhurst type courts the absurdity without making the suffering strong +enough to eclipse the absurdity. She is like a St. Peter who should +deliberately stand on his head for ten seconds and then expect to be canonised +for it. +</p> + +<p> +Or, again, the matter might be put in this way. Modern martyrdoms fail even as +demonstrations, because they do not prove even that the martyrs are completely +serious. I think, as a fact, that the modern martyrs generally are serious, +perhaps a trifle too serious. But their martyrdom does not prove it; and the +public does not always believe it. Undoubtedly, as a fact, Dr. Clifford is +quite honourably indignant with what he considers to be clericalism, but he +does not prove it by having his teapot sold; for a man might easily have his +teapot sold as an actress has her diamonds stolen—as a personal advertisement. +As a matter of fact, Miss Pankhurst is quite in earnest about votes for women. +But she does not prove it by being chucked out of meetings. A person might be +chucked out of meetings just as young men are chucked out of music-halls—for +fun. But no man has himself eaten by a lion as a personal advertisement. No +woman is broiled on a gridiron for fun. That is where the testimony of St. +Perpetua and St. Faith comes in. Doubtless it is no fault of these enthusiasts +that they are not subjected to the old and searching penalties; very likely +they would pass through them as triumphantly as St. Agatha. I am simply +advising them upon a point of policy, things being as they are. And I say that +the average man is not impressed with their sacrifices simply because they are +not and cannot be more decisive than the sacrifices which the average man +himself would make for mere fun if he were drunk. Drunkards would interrupt +meetings and take the consequences. And as for selling a teapot, it is an act, +I imagine, in which any properly constituted drunkard would take a positive +pleasure. The advertisement is not good enough; it does not tell. If I were +really martyred for an opinion (which is more improbable than words can say), +it would certainly only be for one or two of my most central and sacred +opinions. I might, perhaps, be shot for England, but certainly not for the +British Empire. I might conceivably die for political freedom, but I certainly +wouldn’t die for Free Trade. But as for kicking up the particular kind of +shindy that the Suffragettes are kicking up, I would as soon do it for my +shallowest opinion as for my deepest one. It never could be anything worse than +an inconvenience; it never could be anything better than a spree. Hence the +British public, and especially the working classes, regard the whole +demonstration with fundamental indifference; for, while it is a demonstration +that probably is adopted from the most fanatical motives, it is a demonstration +which might be adopted from the most frivolous. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>ON POLITICAL SECRECY</h2> + +<p> +Generally, instinctively, in the absence of any special reason, humanity hates +the idea of anything being hidden—that is, it hates the idea of anything being +successfully hidden. Hide-and-seek is a popular pastime; but it assumes the +truth of the text, “Seek and ye shall find.” Ordinary mankind (gigantic and +unconquerable in its power of joy) can get a great deal of pleasure out of a +game called “hide the thimble,” but that is only because it is really a game of +“see the thimble.” Suppose that at the end of such a game the thimble had not +been found at all; suppose its place was unknown for ever: the result on the +players would not be playful, it would be tragic. That thimble would hag-ride +all their dreams. They would all die in asylums. The pleasure is all in the +poignant moment of passing from not knowing to knowing. Mystery stories are +very popular, especially when sold at sixpence; but that is because the author +of a mystery story reveals. He is enjoyed not because he creates mystery, but +because he destroys mystery. Nobody would have the courage to publish a +detective-story which left the problem exactly where it found it. That would +rouse even the London public to revolution. No one dare publish a +detective-story that did not detect. +</p> + +<p> +There are three broad classes of the special things in which human wisdom does +permit privacy. The first is the case I have mentioned—that of hide-and-seek, +or the police novel, in which it permits privacy only in order to explode and +smash privacy. The author makes first a fastidious secret of how the Bishop was +murdered, only in order that he may at last declare, as from a high tower, to +the whole democracy the great glad news that he was murdered by the governess. +In that case, ignorance is only valued because being ignorant is the best and +purest preparation for receiving the horrible revelations of high life. +Somewhat in the same way being an agnostic is the best and purest preparation +for receiving the happy revelations of St. John. +</p> + +<p> +This first sort of secrecy we may dismiss, for its whole ultimate object is not +to keep the secret, but to tell it. Then there is a second and far more +important class of things which humanity does agree to hide. They are so +important that they cannot possibly be discussed here. But every one will know +the kind of things I mean. In connection with these, I wish to remark that +though they are, in one sense, a secret, they are also always a “sécret de +Polichinelle.” Upon sex and such matters we are in a human freemasonry; the +freemasonry is disciplined, but the freemasonry is free. We are asked to be +silent about these things, but we are not asked to be ignorant about them. On +the contrary, the fundamental human argument is entirely the other way. It is +the thing most common to humanity that is most veiled by humanity. It is +exactly because we all know that it is there that we need not say that it is +there. +</p> + +<p> +Then there is a third class of things on which the best civilisation does +permit privacy, does resent all inquiry or explanation. This is in the case of +things which need not be explained, because they cannot be explained, things +too airy, instinctive, or intangible—caprices, sudden impulses, and the more +innocent kind of prejudice. A man must not be asked why he is talkative or +silent, for the simple reason that he does not know. A man is not asked (even +in Germany) why he walks slow or quick, simply because he could not answer. A +man must take his own road through a wood, and make his own use of a holiday. +And the reason is this: not because he has a strong reason, but actually +because he has a weak reason; because he has a slight and fleeting feeling +about the matter which he could not explain to a policeman, which perhaps the +very appearance of a policeman out of the bushes might destroy. He must act on +the impulse, because the impulse is unimportant, and he may never have the same +impulse again. If you like to put it so he must act on the impulse because the +impulse is not worth a moment’s thought. All these fancies men feel should be +private; and even Fabians have never proposed to interfere with them. +</p> + +<p> +Now, for the last fortnight the newspapers have been full of very varied +comments upon the problem of the secrecy of certain parts of our political +finance, and especially of the problem of the party funds. Some papers have +failed entirely to understand what the quarrel is about. They have urged that +Irish members and Labour members are also under the shadow, or, as some have +said, even more under it. The ground of this frantic statement seems, when +patiently considered, to be simply this: that Irish and Labour members receive +money for what they do. All persons, as far as I know, on this earth receive +money for what they do; the only difference is that some people, like the Irish +members, do it. +</p> + +<p> +I cannot imagine that any human being could think any other human being capable +of maintaining the proposition that men ought not to receive money. The simple +point is that, as we know that some money is given rightly and some wrongly, an +elementary common-sense leads us to look with indifference at the money that is +given in the middle of Ludgate Circus, and to look with particular suspicion at +the money which a man will not give unless he is shut up in a box or a +bathing-machine. In short, it is too silly to suppose that anybody could ever +have discussed the desirability of funds. The only thing that even idiots could +ever have discussed is the concealment of funds. Therefore, the whole question +that we have to consider is whether the concealment of political +money-transactions, the purchase of peerages, the payment of election expenses, +is a kind of concealment that falls under any of the three classes I have +mentioned as those in which human custom and instinct does permit us to +conceal. I have suggested three kinds of secrecy which are human and +defensible. Can this institution be defended by means of any of them? +</p> + +<p> +Now the question is whether this political secrecy is of any of the kinds that +can be called legitimate. We have roughly divided legitimate secrets into three +classes. First comes the secret that is only kept in order to be revealed, as +in the detective stories; secondly, the secret which is kept because everybody +knows it, as in sex; and third, the secret which is kept because it is too +delicate and vague to be explained at all, as in the choice of a country walk. +Do any of these broad human divisions cover such a case as that of secrecy of +the political and party finances? It would be absurd, and even delightfully +absurd, to pretend that any of them did. It would be a wild and charming fancy +to suggest that our politicians keep political secrets only that they may make +political revelations. A modern peer only pretends that he has earned his +peerage in order that he may more dramatically declare, with a scream of scorn +and joy, that he really bought it. The Baronet pretends that he deserved his +title only in order to make more exquisite and startling the grand historical +fact that he did not deserve it. Surely this sounds improbable. Surely all our +statesmen cannot be saving themselves up for the excitement of a death-bed +repentance. The writer of detective tales makes a man a duke solely in order to +blast him with a charge of burglary. But surely the Prime Minister does not +make a man a duke solely in order to blast him with a charge of bribery. No; +the detective-tale theory of the secrecy of political funds must (with a sigh) +be given up. +</p> + +<p> +Neither can we say that the thing is explained by that second case of human +secrecy which is so secret that it is hard to discuss it in public. A decency +is preserved about certain primary human matters precisely because every one +knows all about them. But the decency touching contributions, purchases, and +peerages is not kept up because most ordinary men know what is happening; it is +kept up precisely because most ordinary men do not know what is happening. The +ordinary curtain of decorum covers normal proceedings. But no one will say that +being bribed is a normal proceeding. +</p> + +<p> +And if we apply the third test to this problem of political secrecy, the case +is even clearer and even more funny. Surely no one will say that the purchase +of peerages and such things are kept secret because they are so light and +impulsive and unimportant that they must be matters of individual fancy. A +child sees a flower and for the first time feels inclined to pick it. But +surely no one will say that a brewer sees a coronet and for the first time +suddenly thinks that he would like to be a peer. The child’s impulse need not +be explained to the police, for the simple reason that it could not be +explained to anybody. But does any one believe that the laborious political +ambitions of modern commercial men ever have this airy and incommunicable +character? A man lying on the beach may throw stones into the sea without any +particular reason. But does any one believe that the brewer throws bags of gold +into the party funds without any particular reason? This theory of the secrecy +of political money must also be regretfully abandoned; and with it the two +other possible excuses as well. This secrecy is one which cannot be justified +as a sensational joke nor as a common human freemasonry, nor as an +indescribable personal whim. Strangely enough, indeed, it violates all three +conditions and classes at once. It is not hidden in order to be revealed: it is +hidden in order to be hidden. It is not kept secret because it is a common +secret of mankind, but because mankind must not get hold of it. And it is not +kept secret because it is too unimportant to be told, but because it is much +too important to bear telling. In short, the thing we have is the real and +perhaps rare political phenomenon of an occult government. We have an exoteric +and an esoteric doctrine. England is really ruled by priestcraft, but not by +priests. We have in this country all that has ever been alleged against the +evil side of religion; the peculiar class with privileges, the sacred words +that are unpronounceable; the important things known only to the few. In fact +we lack nothing except the religion. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>EDWARD VII. AND SCOTLAND</h2> + +<p> +I have received a serious, and to me, at any rate, an impressive remonstrance +from the Scottish Patriotic Association. It appears that I recently referred to +Edward VII. of Great Britain and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, under +the horrible description of the King of England. The Scottish Patriotic +Association draws my attention to the fact that by the provisions of the Act of +Union, and the tradition of nationality, the monarch should be referred to as +the King of Britain. The blow thus struck at me is particularly wounding +because it is particularly unjust. I believe in the reality of the independent +nationalities under the British Crown much more passionately and positively +than any other educated Englishman of my acquaintance believes in it. I am +quite certain that Scotland is a nation; I am quite certain that nationality is +the key of Scotland; I am quite certain that all our success with Scotland has +been due to the fact that we have in spirit treated it as a nation. I am quite +certain that Ireland is a nation; I am quite certain that nationality is the +key to Ireland; I am quite certain that all our failure in Ireland arose from +the fact that we would not in spirit treat it as a nation. It would be +difficult to find, even among the innumerable examples that exist, a stronger +example of the immensely superior importance of sentiment to what is called +practicality than this case of the two sister nations. It is not that we have +encouraged a Scotchman to be rich; it is not that we have encouraged a +Scotchman to be active; it is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be +free. It is that we have quite definitely encouraged a Scotchman to be Scotch. +</p> + +<p> +A vague, but vivid impression was received from all our writers of history, +philosophy, and rhetoric that the Scottish element was something really +valuable in itself, was something which even Englishmen were forced to +recognise and respect. If we ever admitted the beauty of Ireland, it was as +something which might be loved by an Englishman but which could hardly be +respected even by an Irishman. A Scotchman might be proud of Scotland; it was +enough for an Irishman that he could be fond of Ireland. Our success with the +two nations has been exactly proportioned to our encouragement of their +independent national emotion; the one that we would not treat nationally has +alone produced Nationalists. The one nation that we would not recognise as a +nation in theory is the one that we have been forced to recognise as a nation +in arms. The Scottish Patriotic Association has no need to draw my attention to +the importance of the separate national sentiment or the need of keeping the +Border as a sacred line. The case is quite sufficiently proved by the positive +history of Scotland. The place of Scottish loyalty to England has been taken by +English admiration of Scotland. They do not need to envy us our titular +leadership, when we seem to envy them their separation. +</p> + +<p> +I wish to make very clear my entire sympathy with the national sentiment of the +Scottish Patriotic Association. But I wish also to make clear this very +enlightening comparison between the fate of Scotch and of Irish patriotism. In +life it is always the little facts that express the large emotions, and if the +English once respected Ireland as they respect Scotland, it would come out in a +hundred small ways. For instance, there are crack regiments in the British Army +which wear the kilt—the kilt which, as Macaulay says with perfect truth, was +regarded by nine Scotchmen out of ten as the dress of a thief. The Highland +officers carry a silver-hilted version of the old barbarous Gaelic broadsword +with a basket-hilt, which split the skulls of so many English soldiers at +Killiecrankie and Prestonpans. When you have a regiment of men in the British +Army carrying ornamental silver shillelaghs you will have done the same thing +for Ireland, and not before—or when you mention Brian Boru with the same +intonation as Bruce. +</p> + +<p> +Let me be considered therefore to have made quite clear that I believe with a +quite special intensity in the independent consideration of Scotland and +Ireland as apart from England. I believe that, in the proper sense of the +words, Scotland is an independent nation, even if Edward VII. is the King of +Scotland. I believe that, in the proper sense of words, Ireland is an +independent nation, even if Edward VII. is King of Ireland. But the fact is +that I have an even bolder and wilder belief than either of these. I believe +that England is an independent nation. I believe that England also has its +independent colour and history, and meaning. I believe that England could +produce costumes quite as queer as the kilt; I believe that England has heroes +fully as untranslateable as Brian Boru, and consequently I believe that Edward +VII. is, among his innumerable other functions, really King of England. If my +Scotch friends insist, let us call it one of his quite obscure, unpopular, and +minor titles; one of his relaxations. A little while ago he was Duke of +Cornwall; but for a family accident he might still have been King of Hanover. +Nor do I think that we should blame the simple Cornishmen if they spoke of him +in a rhetorical moment by his Cornish title, nor the well-meaning Hanoverians +if they classed him with Hanoverian Princes. +</p> + +<p> +Now it so happens that in the passage complained of I said the King of England +merely because I meant the King of England. I was speaking strictly and +especially of English Kings, of Kings in the tradition of the old Kings of +England. I wrote as an English nationalist keenly conscious of the sacred +boundary of the Tweed that keeps (or used to keep) our ancient enemies at bay. +I wrote as an English nationalist resolved for one wild moment to throw off the +tyranny of the Scotch and Irish who govern and oppress my country. I felt that +England was at least spiritually guarded against these surrounding +nationalities. I dreamed that the Tweed was guarded by the ghosts of Scropes +and Percys; I dreamed that St. George’s Channel was guarded by St. George. And +in this insular security I spoke deliberately and specifically of the King of +England, of the representative of the Tudors and Plantagenets. It is true that +the two Kings of England, of whom I especially spoke, Charles II. and George +III., had both an alien origin, not very recent and not very remote. Charles +II. came of a family originally Scotch. George III. came of a family originally +German. But the same, so far as that goes, could be said of the English royal +houses when England stood quite alone. The Plantagenets were originally a +French family. The Tudors were originally a Welsh family. But I was not talking +of the amount of English sentiment in the English Kings. I was talking of the +amount of English sentiment in the English treatment and popularity of the +English Kings. With that Ireland and Scotland have nothing whatever to do. +</p> + +<p> +Charles II. may, for all I know, have not only been King of Scotland; he may, +by virtue of his temper and ancestry, have been a Scotch King of Scotland. +There was something Scotch about his combination of clear-headedness with +sensuality. There was something Scotch about his combination of doing what he +liked with knowing what he was doing. But I was not talking of the personality +of Charles, which may have been Scotch. I was talking of the popularity of +Charles, which was certainly English. One thing is quite certain: whether or no +he ever ceased to be a Scotch man, he ceased as soon as he conveniently could +to be a Scotch King. He had actually tried the experiment of being a national +ruler north of the Tweed, and his people liked him as little as he liked them. +Of Presbyterianism, of the Scottish religion, he left on record the exquisitely +English judgment that it was “no religion for a gentleman.” His popularity then +was purely English; his royalty was purely English; and I was using the words +with the utmost narrowness and deliberation when I spoke of this particular +popularity and royalty as the popularity and royalty of a King of England. I +said of the English people specially that they like to pick up the King’s crown +when he has dropped it. I do not feel at all sure that this does apply to the +Scotch or the Irish. I think that the Irish would knock his crown off for him. +I think that the Scotch would keep it for him after they had picked it up. +</p> + +<p> +For my part, I should be inclined to adopt quite the opposite method of +asserting nationality. Why should good Scotch nationalists call Edward VII. the +King of Britain? They ought to call him King Edward I. of Scotland. What is +Britain? Where is Britain? There is no such place. There never was a nation of +Britain; there never was a King of Britain; unless perhaps Vortigern or Uther +Pendragon had a taste for the title. If we are to develop our Monarchy, I +should be altogether in favour of developing it along the line of local +patriotism and of local proprietorship in the King. I think that the Londoners +ought to call him the King of London, and the Liverpudlians ought to call him +the King of Liverpool. I do not go so far as to say that the people of +Birmingham ought to call Edward VII. the King of Birmingham; for that would be +high treason to a holier and more established power. But I think we might read +in the papers: “The King of Brighton left Brighton at half-past two this +afternoon,” and then immediately afterwards, “The King of Worthing entered +Worthing at ten minutes past three.” Or, “The people of Margate bade a +reluctant farewell to the popular King of Margate this morning,” and then, “His +Majesty the King of Ramsgate returned to his country and capital this afternoon +after his long sojourn in strange lands.” It might be pointed out that by a +curious coincidence the departure of the King of Oxford occurred a very short +time before the triumphal arrival of the King of Reading. I cannot imagine any +method which would more increase the kindly and normal relations between the +Sovereign and his people. Nor do I think that such a method would be in any +sense a depreciation of the royal dignity; for, as a matter of fact, it would +put the King upon the same platform with the gods. The saints, the most exalted +of human figures, were also the most local. It was exactly the men whom we most +easily connected with heaven whom we also most easily connected with earth. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>THOUGHTS AROUND KOEPENICK</h2> + +<p> +A famous and epigrammatic author said that life copied literature; it seems +clear that life really caricatures it. I suggested recently that the Germans +submitted to, and even admired, a solemn and theatrical assertion of authority. +A few hours after I had sent up my “copy,” I saw the first announcement of the +affair of the comic Captain at Koepenick. The most absurd part of this absurd +fraud (at least, to English eyes) is one which, oddly enough, has received +comparatively little comment. I mean the point at which the Mayor asked for a +warrant, and the Captain pointed to the bayonets of his soldiery and said. +“These are my authority.” One would have thought any one would have known that +no soldier would talk like that. The dupes were blamed for not knowing that the +man wore the wrong cap or the wrong sash, or had his sword buckled on the wrong +way; but these are technicalities which they might surely be excused for not +knowing. I certainly should not know if a soldier’s sash were on inside out or +his cap on behind before. But I should know uncommonly well that genuine +professional soldiers do not talk like Adelphi villains and utter theatrical +epigrams in praise of abstract violence. +</p> + +<p> +We can see this more clearly, perhaps, if we suppose it to be the case of any +other dignified and clearly distinguishable profession. Suppose a Bishop called +upon me. My great modesty and my rather distant reverence for the higher clergy +might lead me certainly to a strong suspicion that any Bishop who called on me +was a bogus Bishop. But if I wished to test his genuineness I should not dream +of attempting to do so by examining the shape of his apron or the way his +gaiters were done up. I have not the remotest idea of the way his gaiters ought +to be done up. A very vague approximation to an apron would probably take me +in; and if he behaved like an approximately Christian gentleman he would be +safe enough from my detection. But suppose the Bishop, the moment he entered +the room, fell on his knees on the mat, clasped his hands, and poured out a +flood of passionate and somewhat hysterical extempore prayer, I should say at +once and without the smallest hesitation, “Whatever else this man is, he is not +an elderly and wealthy cleric of the Church of England. They don’t do such +things.” Or suppose a man came to me pretending to be a qualified doctor, and +flourished a stethoscope, or what he said was a stethoscope. I am glad to say +that I have not even the remotest notion of what a stethoscope looks like; so +that if he flourished a musical-box or a coffee-mill it would be all one to me. +But I do think that I am not exaggerating my own sagacity if I say that I +should begin to suspect the doctor if on entering my room he flung his legs and +arms about, crying wildly, “Health! Health! priceless gift of Nature! I possess +it! I overflow with it! I yearn to impart it! Oh, the sacred rapture of +imparting health!” In that case I should suspect him of being rather in a +position to receive than to offer medical superintendence. +</p> + +<p> +Now, it is no exaggeration at all to say that any one who has ever known any +soldiers (I can only answer for English and Irish and Scotch soldiers) would +find it just as easy to believe that a real Bishop would grovel on the carpet +in a religious ecstasy, or that a real doctor would dance about the +drawing-room to show the invigorating effects of his own medicine, as to +believe that a soldier, when asked for his authority, would point to a lot of +shining weapons and declare symbolically that might was right. Of course, a +real soldier would go rather red in the face and huskily repeat the proper +formula, whatever it was, as that he came in the King’s name. +</p> + +<p> +Soldiers have many faults, but they have one redeeming merit; they are never +worshippers of force. Soldiers more than any other men are taught severely and +systematically that might is not right. The fact is obvious. The might is in +the hundred men who obey. The right (or what is held to be right) is in the one +man who commands them. They learn to obey symbols, arbitrary things, stripes on +an arm, buttons on a coat, a title, a flag. These may be artificial things; +they may be unreasonable things; they may, if you will, be wicked things; but +they are weak things. They are not Force, and they do not look like Force. They +are parts of an idea: of the idea of discipline; if you will, of the idea of +tyranny; but still an idea. No soldier could possibly say that his own bayonets +were his authority. No soldier could possibly say that he came in the name of +his own bayonets. It would be as absurd as if a postman said that he came +inside his bag. I do not, as I have said, underrate the evils that really do +arise from militarism and the military ethic. It tends to give people wooden +faces and sometimes wooden heads. It tends moreover (both through its +specialisation and through its constant obedience) to a certain loss of real +independence and strength of character. This has almost always been found when +people made the mistake of turning the soldier into a statesman, under the +mistaken impression that he was a strong man. The Duke of Wellington, for +instance, was a strong soldier and therefore a weak statesman. But the soldier +is always, by the nature of things, loyal to something. And as long as one is +loyal to something one can never be a worshipper of mere force. For mere force, +violence in the abstract, is the enemy of anything we love. To love anything is +to see it at once under lowering skies of danger. Loyalty implies loyalty in +misfortune; and when a soldier has accepted any nation’s uniform he has already +accepted its defeat. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, it does appear to be possible in Germany for a man to point to +fixed bayonets and say, “These are my authority,” and yet to convince +ordinarily sane men that he is a soldier. If this is so, it does really seem to +point to some habit of high-falutin’ in the German nation, such as that of +which I spoke previously. It almost looks as if the advisers, and even the +officials, of the German Army had become infected in some degree with the false +and feeble doctrine that might is right. As this doctrine is invariably +preached by physical weaklings like Nietzsche it is a very serious thing even +to entertain the supposition that it is affecting men who have really to do +military work. It would be the end of German soldiers to be affected by German +philosophy. Energetic people use energy as a means, but only very tired people +ever use energy as a reason. Athletes go in for games, because athletes desire +glory. Invalids go in for calisthenics; for invalids (alone of all human +beings) desire strength. So long as the German Army points to its heraldic +eagle and says, “I come in the name of this fierce but fabulous animal,” the +German Army will be all right. If ever it says, “I come in the name of +bayonets,” the bayonets will break like glass, for only the weak exhibit +strength without an aim. +</p> + +<p> +At the same time, as I said before, do not let us forget our own faults. Do not +let us forget them any the more easily because they are the opposite to the +German faults. Modern England is too prone to present the spectacle of a person +who is enormously delighted because he has not got the contrary disadvantages +to his own. The Englishman is always saying “My house is not damp” at the +moment when his house is on fire. The Englishman is always saying, “I have +thrown off all traces of anæmia” in the middle of a fit of apoplexy. Let us +always remember that if an Englishman wants to swindle English people, he does +not dress up in the uniform of a soldier. If an Englishman wants to swindle +English people he would as soon think of dressing up in the uniform of a +messenger boy. Everything in England is done unofficially, casually, by +conversations and cliques. The one Parliament that really does rule England is +a secret Parliament; the debates of which must not be published—the Cabinet. +The debates of the Commons are sometimes important; but only the debates in the +Lobby, never the debates in the House. Journalists do control public opinion; +but it is not controlled by the arguments they publish—it is controlled by the +arguments between the editor and sub-editor, which they do not publish. This +casualness is our English vice. It is at once casual and secret. Our public +life is conducted privately. Hence it follows that if an English swindler +wished to impress us, the last thing he would think of doing would be to put on +a uniform. He would put on a polite slouching air and a careless, expensive +suit of clothes; he would stroll up to the Mayor, be so awfully sorry to +disturb him, find he had forgotten his card-case, mention, as if he were +ashamed of it, that he was the Duke of Mercia, and carry the whole thing +through with the air of a man who could get two hundred witnesses and two +thousand retainers, but who was too tired to call any of them. And if he did it +very well I strongly suspect that he would be as successful as the indefensible +Captain at Koepenick. +</p> + +<p> +Our tendency for many centuries past has been, not so much towards creating an +aristocracy (which may or may not be a good thing in itself), as towards +substituting an aristocracy for everything else. In England we have an +aristocracy instead of a religion. The nobility are to the English poor what +the saints and the fairies are to the Irish poor, what the large devil with a +black face was to the Scotch poor—the poetry of life. In the same way in +England we have an aristocracy instead of a Government. We rely on a certain +good humour and education in the upper class to interpret to us our +contradictory Constitution. No educated man born of woman will be quite so +absurd as the system that he has to administer. In short, we do not get good +laws to restrain bad people. We get good people to restrain bad laws. And last +of all we in England have an aristocracy instead of an Army. We have an Army of +which the officers are proud of their families and ashamed of their uniforms. +If I were a king of any country whatever, and one of my officers were ashamed +of my uniform, I should be ashamed of my officer. Beware, then, of the really +well-bred and apologetic gentleman whose clothes are at once quiet and +fashionable, whose manner is at once diffident and frank. Beware how you admit +him into your domestic secrets, for he may be a bogus Earl. Or, worse still, a +real one. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>THE BOY</h2> + +<p> +I have no sympathy with international aggression when it is taken seriously, +but I have a certain dark and wild sympathy with it when it is quite absurd. +Raids are all wrong as practical politics, but they are human and imaginable as +practical jokes. In fact, almost any act of ragging or violence can be forgiven +on this strict condition—that it is of no use at all to anybody. If the +aggressor gets anything out of it, then it is quite unpardonable. It is damned +by the least hint of utility or profit. A man of spirit and breeding may brawl, +but he does not steal. A gentleman knocks off his friend’s hat; but he does not +annex his friend’s hat. For this reason (as Mr. Belloc has pointed out +somewhere), the very militant French people have always returned after their +immense raids—the raids of Godfrey the Crusader, the raids of Napoleon; “they +are sucked back, having accomplished nothing but an epic.” +</p> + +<p> +Sometimes I see small fragments of information in the newspapers which make my +heart leap with an irrational patriotic sympathy. I have had the misfortune to +be left comparatively cold by many of the enterprises and proclamations of my +country in recent times. But the other day I found in the <i>Tribune</i> the +following paragraph, which I may be permitted to set down as an example of the +kind of international outrage with which I have by far the most instinctive +sympathy. There is something attractive, too, in the austere simplicity with +which the affair is set forth— +</p> + +<p> +“Geneva, Oct. 31. +</p> + +<p> +“The English schoolboy Allen, who was arrested at Lausanne railway station on +Saturday, for having painted red the statue of General Jomini of Payerne, was +liberated yesterday, after paying a fine of £24. Allen has proceeded to +Germany, where he will continue his studies. The people of Payerne are +indignant, and clamoured for his detention in prison.” +</p> + +<p> +Now I have no doubt that ethics and social necessity require a contrary +attitude, but I will freely confess that my first emotions on reading of this +exploit were those of profound and elemental pleasure. There is something so +large and simple about the operation of painting a whole stone General a bright +red. Of course I can understand that the people of Payerne were indignant. They +had passed to their homes at twilight through the streets of that beautiful +city (or is it a province?), and they had seen against the silver ending of the +sunset the grand grey figure of the hero of that land remaining to guard the +town under the stars. It certainly must have been a shock to come out in the +broad white morning and find a large vermilion General staring under the +staring sun. I do not blame them at all for clamouring for the schoolboy’s +detention in prison; I dare say a little detention in prison would do him no +harm. Still, I think the immense act has something about it human and +excusable; and when I endeavour to analyse the reason of this feeling I find it +to lie, not in the fact that the thing was big or bold or successful, but in +the fact that the thing was perfectly useless to everybody, including the +person who did it. The raid ends in itself; and so Master Allen is sucked back +again, having accomplished nothing but an epic. +</p> + +<p> +There is one thing which, in the presence of average modern journalism, is +perhaps worth saying in connection with such an idle matter as this. The morals +of a matter like this are exactly like the morals of anything else; they are +concerned with mutual contract, or with the rights of independent human lives. +But the whole modern world, or at any rate the whole modern Press, has a +perpetual and consuming terror of plain morals. Men always attempt to avoid +condemning a thing upon merely moral grounds. If I beat my grandmother to death +to-morrow in the middle of Battersea Park, you may be perfectly certain that +people will say everything about it except the simple and fairly obvious fact +that it is wrong. Some will call it insane; that is, will accuse it of a +deficiency of intelligence. This is not necessarily true at all. You could not +tell whether the act was unintelligent or not unless you knew my grandmother. +Some will call it vulgar, disgusting, and the rest of it; that is, they will +accuse it of a lack of manners. Perhaps it does show a lack of manners; but +this is scarcely its most serious disadvantage. Others will talk about the +loathsome spectacle and the revolting scene; that is, they will accuse it of a +deficiency of art, or æsthetic beauty. This again depends on the circumstances: +in order to be quite certain that the appearance of the old lady has definitely +deteriorated under the process of being beaten to death, it is necessary for +the philosophical critic to be quite certain how ugly she was before. Another +school of thinkers will say that the action is lacking in efficiency: that it +is an uneconomic waste of a good grandmother. But that could only depend on the +value, which is again an individual matter. The only real point that is worth +mentioning is that the action is wicked, because your grandmother has a right +not to be beaten to death. But of this simple moral explanation modern +journalism has, as I say, a standing fear. It will call the action anything +else—mad, bestial, vulgar, idiotic, rather than call it sinful. +</p> + +<p> +One example can be found in such cases as that of the prank of the boy and the +statue. When some trick of this sort is played, the newspapers opposed to it +always describe it as “a senseless joke.” What is the good of saying that? +Every joke is a senseless joke. A joke is by its nature a protest against +sense. It is no good attacking nonsense for being successfully nonsensical. Of +course it is nonsensical to paint a celebrated Italian General a bright red; it +is as nonsensical as “Alice in Wonderland.” It is also, in my opinion, very +nearly as funny. But the real answer to the affair is not to say that it is +nonsensical or even to say that it is not funny, but to point out that it is +wrong to spoil statues which belong to other people. If the modern world will +not insist on having some sharp and definite moral law, capable of resisting +the counter-attractions of art and humour, the modern world will simply be +given over as a spoil to anybody who can manage to do a nasty thing in a nice +way. Every murderer who can murder entertainingly will be allowed to murder. +Every burglar who burgles in really humorous attitudes will burgle as much as +he likes. +</p> + +<p> +There is another case of the thing that I mean. Why on earth do the newspapers, +in describing a dynamite outrage or any other political assassination, call it +a “dastardly outrage” or a cowardly outrage? It is perfectly evident that it is +not dastardly in the least. It is perfectly evident that it is about as +cowardly as the Christians going to the lions. The man who does it exposes +himself to the chance of being torn in pieces by two thousand people. What the +thing is, is not cowardly, but profoundly and detestably wicked. The man who +does it is very infamous and very brave. But, again, the explanation is that +our modern Press would rather appeal to physical arrogance, or to anything, +rather than appeal to right and wrong. +</p> + +<p> +In most of the matters of modern England, the real difficulty is that there is +a negative revolution without a positive revolution. Positive aristocracy is +breaking up without any particular appearance of positive democracy taking its +place. The polished class is becoming less polished without becoming less of a +class; the nobleman who becomes a guinea-pig keeps all his privileges but loses +some of his tradition; he becomes less of a gentleman without becoming less of +a nobleman. In the same way (until some recent and happy revivals) it seemed +highly probable that the Church of England would cease to be a religion long +before it had ceased to be a Church. And in the same way, the vulgarisation of +the old, simple middle class does not even have the advantage of doing away +with class distinctions; the vulgar man is always the most distinguished, for +the very desire to be distinguished is vulgar. +</p> + +<p> +At the same time, it must be remembered that when a class has a morality it +does not follow that it is an adequate morality. The middle-class ethic was +inadequate for some purposes; so is the public-school ethic, the ethic of the +upper classes. On this last matter of the public schools Dr. Spenser, the Head +Master of University College School, has lately made some valuable +observations. But even he, I think, overstates the claim of the public schools. +“The strong point of the English public schools,” he says, “has always lain in +their efficiency as agencies for the formation of character and for the +inculcation of the great notion of obligation which distinguishes a gentleman. +On the physical and moral sides the public-school men of England are, I +believe, unequalled.” And he goes on to say that it is on the mental side that +they are defective. But, as a matter of fact, the public-school training is in +the strict sense defective upon the moral side also; it leaves out about half +of morality. Its just claim is that, like the old middle class (and the Zulus), +it trains some virtues and therefore suits some people for some situations. Put +an old English merchant to serve in an army and he would have been irritated +and clumsy. Put the men from English public schools to rule Ireland, and they +make the greatest hash in human history. +</p> + +<p> +Touching the morality of the public schools, I will take one point only, which +is enough to prove the case. People have got into their heads an extraordinary +idea that English public-school boys and English youth generally are taught to +tell the truth. They are taught absolutely nothing of the kind. At no English +public school is it even suggested, except by accident, that it is a man’s duty +to tell the truth. What is suggested is something entirely different: that it +is a man’s duty not to tell lies. So completely does this mistake soak through +all civilisation that we hardly ever think even of the difference between the +two things. When we say to a child, “You must tell the truth,” we do merely +mean that he must refrain from verbal inaccuracies. But the thing we never +teach at all is the general duty of telling the truth, of giving a complete and +fair picture of anything we are talking about, of not misrepresenting, not +evading, not suppressing, not using plausible arguments that we know to be +unfair, not selecting unscrupulously to prove an <i>ex parte</i> case, not +telling all the nice stories about the Scotch, and all the nasty stories about +the Irish, not pretending to be disinterested when you are really angry, not +pretending to be angry when you are really only avaricious. The one thing that +is never taught by any chance in the atmosphere of public schools is exactly +that—that there is a whole truth of things, and that in knowing it and speaking +it we are happy. +</p> + +<p> +If any one has the smallest doubt of this neglect of truth in public schools he +can kill his doubt with one plain question. Can any one on earth believe that +if the seeing and telling of the whole truth were really one of the ideals of +the English governing class, there could conceivably exist such a thing as the +English party system? Why, the English party system is founded upon the +principle that telling the whole truth does not matter. It is founded upon the +principle that half a truth is better than no politics. Our system deliberately +turns a crowd of men who might be impartial into irrational partisans. It +teaches some of them to tell lies and all of them to believe lies. It gives +every man an arbitrary brief that he has to work up as best he may and defend +as best he can. It turns a room full of citizens into a room full of +barristers. I know that it has many charms and virtues, fighting and +good-fellowship; it has all the charms and virtues of a game. I only say that +it would be a stark impossibility in a nation which believed in telling the +truth. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>LIMERICKS AND COUNSELS OF PERFECTION</h2> + +<p> +It is customary to remark that modern problems cannot easily be attacked +because they are so complex. In many cases I believe it is really because they +are so simple. Nobody would believe in such simplicity of scoundrelism even if +it were pointed out. People would say that the truth was a charge of mere +melodramatic villainy; forgetting that nearly all villains really are +melodramatic. Thus, for instance, we say that some good measures are frustrated +or some bad officials kept in power by the press and confusion of public +business; whereas very often the reason is simple healthy human bribery. And +thus especially we say that the Yellow Press is exaggerative, over-emotional, +illiterate, and anarchical, and a hundred other long words; whereas the only +objection to it is that it tells lies. We waste our fine intellects in finding +exquisite phraseology to fit a man, when in a well-ordered society we ought to +be finding handcuffs to fit him. +</p> + +<p> +This criticism of the modern type of righteous indignation must have come into +many people’s minds, I think, in reading Dr. Horton’s eloquent expressions of +disgust at the “corrupt Press,” especially in connection with the Limerick +craze. Upon the Limerick craze itself, I fear Dr. Horton will not have much +effect; such fads perish before one has had time to kill them. But Dr. Horton’s +protest may really do good if it enables us to come to some clear understanding +about what is really wrong with the popular Press, and which means it might be +useful and which permissible to use for its reform. We do not want a censorship +of the Press; but we are long past talking about that. At present it is not we +that silence the Press; it is the Press that silences us. It is not a case of +the Commonwealth settling how much the editors shall say; it is a case of the +editors settling how much the Commonwealth shall know. If we attack the Press +we shall be rebelling, not repressing. But shall we attack it? +</p> + +<p> +Now it is just here that the chief difficulty occurs. It arises from the very +rarity and rectitude of those minds which commonly inaugurate such crusades. I +have the warmest respect for Dr. Horton’s thirst after righteousness; but it +has always seemed to me that his righteousness would be more effective without +his refinement. The curse of the Nonconformists is their universal refinement. +They dimly connect being good with being delicate, and even dapper; with not +being grotesque or loud or violent; with not sitting down on one’s hat. Now it +is always a pleasure to be loud and violent, and sometimes it is a duty. +Certainly it has nothing to do with sin; a man can be loudly and violently +virtuous—nay, he can be loudly and violently saintly, though that is not the +type of saintliness that we recognise in Dr. Horton. And as for sitting on +one’s hat, if it is done for any sublime object (as, for instance, to amuse the +children), it is obviously an act of very beautiful self-sacrifice, the +destruction and surrender of the symbol of personal dignity upon the shrine of +public festivity. Now it will not do to attack the modern editor merely for +being unrefined, like the great mass of mankind. We must be able to say that he +is immoral, not that he is undignified or ridiculous. I do not mind the Yellow +Press editor sitting on his hat. My only objection to him begins to dawn when +he attempts to sit on my hat; or, indeed (as is at present the case), when he +proceeds to sit on my head. +</p> + +<p> +But in reading between the lines of Dr. Horton’s invective one continually +feels that he is not only angry with the popular Press for being unscrupulous: +he is partly angry with the popular Press for being popular. He is not only +irritated with Limericks for causing a mean money-scramble; he is also partly +irritated with Limericks for being Limericks. The enormous size of the levity +gets on his nerves, like the glare and blare of Bank Holiday. Now this is a +motive which, however human and natural, must be strictly kept out of the way. +It takes all sorts to make a world; and it is not in the least necessary that +everybody should have that love of subtle and unobtrusive perfections in the +matter of manners or literature which does often go with the type of the +ethical idealist. It is not in the least desirable that everybody should be +earnest. It is highly desirable that everybody should be honest, but that is a +thing that can go quite easily with a coarse and cheerful character. But the +ineffectualness of most protests against the abuse of the Press has been very +largely due to the instinct of democracy (and the instinct of democracy is like +the instinct of one woman, wild but quite right) that the people who were +trying to purify the Press were also trying to refine it; and to this the +democracy very naturally and very justly objected. We are justified in +enforcing good morals, for they belong to all mankind; but we are not justified +in enforcing good manners, for good manners always mean our own manners. We +have no right to purge the popular Press of all that we think vulgar or +trivial. Dr. Horton may possibly loathe and detest Limericks just as I loathe +and detest riddles; but I have no right to call them flippant and unprofitable; +there are wild people in the world who like riddles. I am so afraid of this +movement passing off into mere formless rhetoric and platform passion that I +will even come close to the earth and lay down specifically some of the things +that, in my opinion, could be, and ought to be, done to reform the Press. +</p> + +<p> +First, I would make a law, if there is none such at present, by which an +editor, proved to have published false news without reasonable verification, +should simply go to prison. This is not a question of influences or +atmospheres; the thing could be carried out as easily and as practically as the +punishment of thieves and murderers. Of course there would be the usual +statement that the guilt was that of a subordinate. Let the accused editor have +the right of proving this if he can; if he does, let the subordinate be tried +and go to prison. Two or three good rich editors and proprietors properly +locked up would take the sting out of the Yellow Press better than centuries of +Dr. Horton. +</p> + +<p> +Second, it’s impossible to pass over altogether the most unpleasant, but the +most important part of this problem. I will deal with it as distantly as +possible. I do not believe there is any harm whatever in reading about murders; +rather, if anything, good; for the thought of death operates very powerfully +with the poor in the creation of brotherhood and a sense of human dignity. I do +not believe there is a pennyworth of harm in the police news, as such. Even +divorce news, though contemptible enough, can really in most cases be left to +the discretion of grown people; and how far children get hold of such things is +a problem for the home and not for the nation. But there is a certain class of +evils which a healthy man or woman can actually go through life without knowing +anything about at all. These, I say, should be stamped and blackened out of +every newspaper with the thickest black of the Russian censor. Such cases +should either be always tried <i>in camera</i> or reporting them should be a +punishable offence. The common weakness of Nature and the sins that flesh is +heir to we can leave people to find in newspapers. Men can safely see in the +papers what they have already seen in the streets. They may safely find in +their journals what they have already found in themselves. But we do not want +the imaginations of rational and decent people clouded with the horrors of some +obscene insanity which has no more to do with human life than the man in Bedlam +who thinks he is a chicken. And, if this vile matter is admitted, let it be +simply with a mention of the Latin or legal name of the crime, and with no +details whatever. As it is, exactly the reverse is true. Papers are permitted +to terrify and darken the fancy of the young with innumerable details, but not +permitted to state in clean legal language what the thing is about. They are +allowed to give any fact about the thing except the fact that it is a sin. +</p> + +<p> +Third, I would do my best to introduce everywhere the practice of signed +articles. Those who urge the advantages of anonymity are either people who do +not realise the special peril of our time or they are people who are profiting +by it. It is true, but futile, for instance, to say that there is something +noble in being nameless when a whole corporate body is bent on a consistent +aim: as in an army or men building a cathedral. The point of modern newspapers +is that there is no such corporate body and common aim; but each man can use +the authority of the paper to further his own private fads and his own private +finances. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>ANONYMITY AND FURTHER COUNSELS</h2> + +<p> +The end of the article which I write is always cut off, and, unfortunately, I +belong to that lower class of animals in whom the tail is important. It is not +anybody’s fault but my own; it arises from the fact that I take such a long +time to get to the point. Somebody, the other day, very reasonably complained +of my being employed to write prefaces. He was perfectly right, for I always +write a preface to the preface, and then I am stopped; also quite justifiably. +</p> + +<p> +In my last article I said that I favoured three things—first, the legal +punishment of deliberately false information; secondly, a distinction, in the +matter of reported immorality, between those sins which any healthy man can see +in himself and those which he had better not see anywhere; and thirdly, an +absolute insistence in the great majority of cases upon the signing of +articles. It was at this point that I was cut short, I will not say by the law +of space, but rather by my own lawlessness in the matter of space. In any case, +there is something more that ought to be said. +</p> + +<p> +It would be an exaggeration to say that I hope some day to see an anonymous +article counted as dishonourable as an anonymous letter. For some time to come, +the idea of the leading article, expressing the policy of the whole paper, must +necessarily remain legitimate; at any rate, we have all written such leading +articles, and should never think the worse of any one for writing one. But I +should certainly say that writing anonymously ought to have some definite +excuse, such as that of the leading article. Writing anonymously ought to be +the exception; writing a signed article ought to be the rule. And anonymity +ought to be not only an exception, but an accidental exception; a man ought +always to be ready to say what anonymous article he had written. The +journalistic habit of counting it something sacred to keep secret the origin of +an article is simply part of the conspiracy which seeks to put us who are +journalists in the position of a much worse sort of Jesuits or Freemasons. +</p> + +<p> +As has often been said, anonymity would be all very well if one could for a +moment imagine that it was established from good motives. Suppose, for +instance, that we were all quite certain that the men on the <i>Thunderer</i> +newspaper were a band of brave young idealists who were so eager to overthrow +Socialism, Municipal and National, that they did not care to which of them +especially was given the glory of striking it down. Unfortunately, however, we +do not believe this. What we believe, or, rather, what we know, is that the +attack on Socialism in the <i>Thunderer</i> arises from a chaos of inconsistent +and mostly evil motives, any one of which would lose simply by being named. A +jerry-builder whose houses have been condemned writes anonymously and becomes +the <i>Thunderer</i>. A Socialist who has quarrelled with the other Socialists +writes anonymously, and he becomes the <i>Thunderer</i>. A monopolist who has +lost his monopoly, and a demagogue who has lost his mob, can both write +anonymously and become the same newspaper. It is quite true that there is a +young and beautiful fanaticism in which men do not care to reveal their names. +But there is a more elderly and a much more common excitement in which men do +not dare to reveal them. +</p> + +<p> +Then there is another rule for making journalism honest on which I should like +to insist absolutely. I should like it to be a fixed thing that the name of the +proprietor as well as the editor should be printed upon every paper. If the +paper is owned by shareholders, let there be a list of shareholders. If (as is +far more common in this singularly undemocratic age) it is owned by one man, +let that one man’s name be printed on the paper, if possible in large red +letters. Then, if there are any obvious interests being served, we shall know +that they are being served. My friends in Manchester are in a terrible state of +excitement about the power of brewers and the dangers of admitting them to +public office. But at least, if a man has controlled politics through beer, +people generally know it: the subject of beer is too fascinating for any one to +miss such personal peculiarities. But a man may control politics through +journalism, and no ordinary English citizen know that he is controlling them at +all. Again and again in the lists of Birthday Honours you and I have seen some +Mr. Robinson suddenly elevated to the Peerage without any apparent reason. Even +the Society papers (which we read with avidity) could tell us nothing about him +except that he was a sportsman or a kind landlord, or interested in the +breeding of badgers. Now I should like the name of that Mr. Robinson to be +already familiar to the British public. I should like them to know already the +public services for which they have to thank him. I should like them to have +seen the name already on the outside of that organ of public opinion called +<i>Tootsie’s Tips</i>, or <i>The Boy Blackmailer</i>, or <i>Nosey Knows</i>, +that bright little financial paper which did so much for the Empire and which +so narrowly escaped a criminal prosecution. If they had seen it thus, they +would estimate more truly and tenderly the full value of the statement in the +Society paper that he is a true gentleman and a sound Churchman. +</p> + +<p> +Finally, it should be practically imposed by custom (it so happens that it +could not possibly be imposed by law) that letters of definite and practical +complaint should be necessarily inserted by any editor in any paper. Editors +have grown very much too lax in this respect. The old editor used dimly to +regard himself as an unofficial public servant for the transmitting of public +news. If he suppressed anything, he was supposed to have some special reason +for doing so; as that the material was actually libellous or literally +indecent. But the modern editor regards himself far too much as a kind of +original artist, who can select and suppress facts with the arbitrary ease of a +poet or a caricaturist. He “makes up” the paper as man “makes up” a fairy tale, +he considers his newspaper solely as a work of art, meant to give pleasure, not +to give news. He puts in this one letter because he thinks it clever. He puts +in these three or four letters because he thinks them silly. He suppresses this +article because he thinks it wrong. He suppresses this other and more dangerous +article because he thinks it right. The old idea that he is simply a mode of +the expression of the public, an “organ” of opinion, seems to have entirely +vanished from his mind. To-day the editor is not only the organ, but the man +who plays on the organ. For in all our modern movements we move away from +Democracy. +</p> + +<p> +This is the whole danger of our time. There is a difference between the +oppression which has been too common in the past and the oppression which seems +only too probable in the future. Oppression in the past, has commonly been an +individual matter. The oppressors were as simple as the oppressed, and as +lonely. The aristocrat sometimes hated his inferiors; he always hated his +equals. The plutocrat was an individualist. But in our time even the plutocrat +has become a Socialist. They have science and combination, and may easily +inaugurate a much greater tyranny than the world has ever seen. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>ON THE CRYPTIC AND THE ELLIPTIC</h2> + +<p> +Surely the art of reporting speeches is in a strange state of degeneration. We +should not object, perhaps, to the reporter’s making the speeches much shorter +than they are; but we do object to his making all the speeches much worse than +they are. And the method which he employs is one which is dangerously unjust. +When a statesman or philosopher makes an important speech, there are several +courses which the reporter might take without being unreasonable. Perhaps the +most reasonable course of all would be not to report the speech at all. Let the +world live and love, marry and give in marriage, without that particular +speech, as they did (in some desperate way) in the days when there were no +newspapers. A second course would be to report a small part of it; but to get +that right. A third course, far better if you can do it, is to understand the +main purpose and argument of the speech, and report that in clear and logical +language of your own. In short, the three possible methods are, first, to leave +the man’s speech alone; second, to report what he says or some complete part of +what he says; and third, to report what he means. But the present way of +reporting speeches (mainly created, I think, by the scrappy methods of the +<i>Daily Mail</i>) is something utterly different from both these ways, and +quite senseless and misleading. +</p> + +<p> +The present method is this: the reporter sits listening to a tide of words +which he does not try to understand, and does not, generally speaking, even try +to take down; he waits until something occurs in the speech which for some +reason sounds funny, or memorable, or very exaggerated, or, perhaps, merely +concrete; then he writes it down and waits for the next one. If the orator says +that the Premier is like a porpoise in the sea under some special +circumstances, the reporter gets in the porpoise even if he leaves out the +Premier. If the orator begins by saying that Mr. Chamberlain is rather like a +violoncello, the reporter does not even wait to hear why he is like a +violoncello. He has got hold of something material, and so he is quite happy. +The strong words all are put in; the chain of thought is left out. If the +orator uses the word “donkey,” down goes the word “donkey.” If the orator uses +the word “damnable,” down goes the word “damnable.” They follow each other so +abruptly in the report that it is often hard to discover the fascinating fact +as to what was damnable or who was being compared with a donkey. And the whole +line of argument in which these things occurred is entirely lost. I have before +me a newspaper report of a speech by Mr. Bernard Shaw, of which one complete +and separate paragraph runs like this— +</p> + +<p> +“Capital meant spare money over and above one’s needs. Their country was not +really their country at all except in patriotic songs.” +</p> + +<p> +I am well enough acquainted with the whole map of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s philosophy +to know that those two statements might have been related to each other in a +hundred ways. But I think that if they were read by an ordinary intelligent +man, who happened not to know Mr. Shaw’s views, he would form no impression at +all except that Mr. Shaw was a lunatic of more than usually abrupt conversation +and disconnected mind. The other two methods would certainly have done Mr. Shaw +more justice: the reporter should either have taken down verbatim what the +speaker really said about Capital, or have given an outline of the way in which +this idea was connected with the idea about patriotic songs. +</p> + +<p> +But we have not the advantage of knowing what Mr. Shaw really did say, so we +had better illustrate the different methods from something that we do know. +Most of us, I suppose, know Mark Antony’s Funeral Speech in “Julius Cæsar.” Now +Mark Antony would have no reason to complain if he were not reported at all; if +the <i>Daily Pilum</i> or the <i>Morning Fasces</i>, or whatever it was, +confined itself to saying, “Mr. Mark Antony also spoke,” or “Mr. Mark Antony, +having addressed the audience, the meeting broke up in some confusion.” The +next honest method, worthy of a noble Roman reporter, would be that since he +could not report the whole of the speech, he should report some of the speech. +He might say—“Mr. Mark Antony, in the course of his speech, said— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘When that the poor have cried Cæsar hath wept:<br/> +Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.’” +</p> + +<p> +In that case one good, solid argument of Mark Antony would be correctly +reported. The third and far higher course for the Roman reporter would be to +give a philosophical statement of the purport of the speech. As thus—“Mr. Mark +Antony, in the course of a powerful speech, conceded the high motives of the +Republican leaders, and disclaimed any intention of raising the people against +them; he thought, however, that many instances could be quoted against the +theory of Cæsar’s ambition, and he concluded by reading, at the request of the +audience, the will of Cæsar, which proved that he had the most benevolent +designs towards the Roman people.” That is (I admit) not quite so fine as +Shakspere, but it is a statement of the man’s political position. But if a +<i>Daily Mail</i> reporter were sent to take down Antony’s oration, he would +simply wait for any expressions that struck him as odd and put them down one +after another without any logical connection at all. It would turn out +something like this: “Mr. Mark Antony wished for his audience’s ears. He had +thrice offered Cæsar a crown. Cæsar was like a deer. If he were Brutus he would +put a wound in every tongue. The stones of Rome would mutiny. See what a rent +the envious Casca paid. Brutus was Cæsar’s angel. The right honourable +gentleman concluded by saying that he and the audience had all fallen down.” +That is the report of a political speech in a modern, progressive, or American +manner, and I wonder whether the Romans would have put up with it. +</p> + +<p> +The reports of the debates in the Houses of Parliament are constantly growing +smaller and smaller in our newspapers. Perhaps this is partly because the +speeches are growing duller and duller. I think in some degree the two things +act and re-act on each other. For fear of the newspapers politicians are dull, +and at last they are too dull even for the newspapers. The speeches in our time +are more careful and elaborate, because they are meant to be read, and not to +be heard. And exactly because they are more careful and elaborate, they are not +so likely to be worthy of a careful and elaborate report. They are not +interesting enough. So the moral cowardice of modern politicians has, after +all, some punishment attached to it by the silent anger of heaven. Precisely +because our political speeches are meant to be reported, they are not worth +reporting. Precisely because they are carefully designed to be read, nobody +reads them. +</p> + +<p> +Thus we may concede that politicians have done something towards degrading +journalism. It was not entirely done by us, the journalists. But most of it +was. It was mostly the fruit of our first and most natural sin—the habit of +regarding ourselves as conjurers rather than priests, for the definition is +that a conjurer is apart from his audience, while a priest is a part of his. +The conjurer despises his congregation; if the priest despises any one, it must +be himself. The curse of all journalism, but especially of that yellow +journalism which is the shame of our profession, is that we think ourselves +cleverer than the people for whom we write, whereas, in fact, we are generally +even stupider. But this insolence has its Nemesis; and that Nemesis is well +illustrated in this matter of reporting. +</p> + +<p> +For the journalist, having grown accustomed to talking down to the public, +commonly talks too low at last, and becomes merely barbaric and unintelligible. +By his very efforts to be obvious he becomes obscure. This just punishment may +specially be noticed in the case of those staggering and staring headlines +which American journalism introduced and which some English journalism +imitates. I once saw a headline in a London paper which ran simply thus: +“Dobbin’s Little Mary.” This was intended to be familiar and popular, and +therefore, presumably, lucid. But it was some time before I realised, after +reading about half the printed matter underneath, that it had something to do +with the proper feeding of horses. At first sight, I took it, as the historical +leader of the future will certainly take it, as containing some allusion to the +little daughter who so monopolised the affections of the Major at the end of +“Vanity Fair.” The Americans carry to an even wilder extreme this darkness by +excess of light. You may find a column in an American paper headed “Poet Brown +Off Orange-flowers,” or “Senator Robinson Shoehorns Hats Now,” and it may be +quite a long time before the full meaning breaks upon you: it has not broken +upon me yet. +</p> + +<p> +And something of this intellectual vengeance pursues also those who adopt the +modern method of reporting speeches. They also become mystical, simply by +trying to be vulgar. They also are condemned to be always trying to write like +George R. Sims, and succeeding, in spite of themselves, in writing like +Maeterlinck. That combination of words which I have quoted from an alleged +speech of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s was written down by the reporter with the idea +that he was being particularly plain and democratic. But, as a matter of fact, +if there is any connection between the two sentences, it must be something as +dark as the deepest roots of Browning, or something as invisible as the most +airy filaments of Meredith. To be simple and to be democratic are two very +honourable and austere achievements; and it is not given to all the snobs and +self-seekers to achieve them. High above even Maeterlinck or Meredith stand +those, like Homer and Milton, whom no one can misunderstand. And Homer and +Milton are not only better poets than Browning (great as he was), but they +would also have been very much better journalists than the young men on the +<i>Daily Mail</i>. +</p> + +<p> +As it is, however, this misrepresentation of speeches is only a part of a vast +journalistic misrepresentation of all life as it is. Journalism is popular, but +it is popular mainly as fiction. Life is one world, and life seen in the +newspapers another; the public enjoys both, but it is more or less conscious of +the difference. People do not believe, for instance, that the debates in the +House of Commons are as dramatic as they appear in the daily papers. If they +did they would go, not to the daily paper, but to the House of Commons. The +galleries would be crowded every night as they were in the French Revolution; +for instead of seeing a printed story for a penny they would be seeing an acted +drama for nothing. But the people know in their hearts that journalism is a +conventional art like any other, that it selects, heightens, and falsifies. +Only its Nemesis is the same as that of other arts: if it loses all care for +truth it loses all form likewise. The modern who paints too cleverly produces a +picture of a cow which might be the earthquake at San Francisco. And the +journalist who reports a speech too cleverly makes it mean nothing at all. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>THE WORSHIP OF THE WEALTHY</h2> + +<p> +There has crept, I notice, into our literature and journalism a new way of +flattering the wealthy and the great. In more straightforward times flattery +itself was more straightforward; falsehood itself was more true. A poor man +wishing to please a rich man simply said that he was the wisest, bravest, +tallest, strongest, most benevolent and most beautiful of mankind; and as even +the rich man probably knew that he wasn’t that, the thing did the less harm. +When courtiers sang the praises of a King they attributed to him things that +were entirely improbable, as that he resembled the sun at noonday, that they +had to shade their eyes when he entered the room, that his people could not +breathe without him, or that he had with his single sword conquered Europe, +Asia, Africa, and America. The safety of this method was its artificiality; +between the King and his public image there was really no relation. But the +moderns have invented a much subtler and more poisonous kind of eulogy. The +modern method is to take the prince or rich man, to give a credible picture of +his type of personality, as that he is business-like, or a sportsman, or fond +of art, or convivial, or reserved; and then enormously exaggerate the value and +importance of these natural qualities. Those who praise Mr. Carnegie do not say +that he is as wise as Solomon and as brave as Mars; I wish they did. It would +be the next most honest thing to giving their real reason for praising him, +which is simply that he has money. The journalists who write about Mr. Pierpont +Morgan do not say that he is as beautiful as Apollo; I wish they did. What they +do is to take the rich man’s superficial life and manner, clothes, hobbies, +love of cats, dislike of doctors, or what not; and then with the assistance of +this realism make the man out to be a prophet and a saviour of his kind, +whereas he is merely a private and stupid man who happens to like cats or to +dislike doctors. The old flatterer took for granted that the King was an +ordinary man, and set to work to make him out extraordinary. The newer and +cleverer flatterer takes for granted that he is extraordinary, and that +therefore even ordinary things about him will be of interest. +</p> + +<p> +I have noticed one very amusing way in which this is done. I notice the method +applied to about six of the wealthiest men in England in a book of interviews +published by an able and well-known journalist. The flatterer contrives to +combine strict truth of fact with a vast atmosphere of awe and mystery by the +simple operation of dealing almost entirely in negatives. Suppose you are +writing a sympathetic study of Mr. Pierpont Morgan. Perhaps there is not much +to say about what he does think, or like, or admire; but you can suggest whole +vistas of his taste and philosophy by talking a great deal about what he does +not think, or like, or admire. You say of him—“But little attracted to the most +recent schools of German philosophy, he stands almost as resolutely aloof from +the tendencies of transcendental Pantheism as from the narrower ecstasies of +Neo-Catholicism.” Or suppose I am called upon to praise the charwoman who has +just come into my house, and who certainly deserves it much more. I say—“It +would be a mistake to class Mrs. Higgs among the followers of Loisy; her +position is in many ways different; nor is she wholly to be identified with the +concrete Hebraism of Harnack.” It is a splendid method, as it gives the +flatterer an opportunity of talking about something else besides the subject of +the flattery, and it gives the subject of the flattery a rich, if somewhat +bewildered, mental glow, as of one who has somehow gone through agonies of +philosophical choice of which he was previously unaware. It is a splendid +method; but I wish it were applied sometimes to charwomen rather than only to +millionaires. +</p> + +<p> +There is another way of flattering important people which has become very +common, I notice, among writers in the newspapers and elsewhere. It consists in +applying to them the phrases “simple,” or “quiet,” or “modest,” without any +sort of meaning or relation to the person to whom they are applied. To be +simple is the best thing in the world; to be modest is the next best thing. I +am not so sure about being quiet. I am rather inclined to think that really +modest people make a great deal of noise. It is quite self-evident that really +simple people make a great deal of noise. But simplicity and modesty, at least, +are very rare and royal human virtues, not to be lightly talked about. Few +human beings, and at rare intervals, have really risen into being modest; not +one man in ten or in twenty has by long wars become simple, as an actual old +soldier does by [**Note: Apparent typesetting error here in original.] long +wars become simple. These virtues are not things to fling about as mere +flattery; many prophets and righteous men have desired to see these things and +have not seen them. But in the description of the births, lives, and deaths of +very luxurious men they are used incessantly and quite without thought. If a +journalist has to describe a great politician or financier (the things are +substantially the same) entering a room or walking down a thoroughfare, he +always says, “Mr. Midas was quietly dressed in a black frock coat, a white +waistcoat, and light grey trousers, with a plain green tie and simple flower in +his button-hole.” As if any one would expect him to have a crimson frock coat +or spangled trousers. As if any one would expect him to have a burning +Catherine wheel in his button-hole. +</p> + +<p> +But this process, which is absurd enough when applied to the ordinary and +external lives of worldly people, becomes perfectly intolerable when it is +applied, as it always is applied, to the one episode which is serious even in +the lives of politicians. I mean their death. When we have been sufficiently +bored with the account of the simple costume of the millionaire, which is +generally about as complicated as any that he could assume without being simply +thought mad; when we have been told about the modest home of the millionaire, a +home which is generally much too immodest to be called a home at all; when we +have followed him through all these unmeaning eulogies, we are always asked +last of all to admire his quiet funeral. I do not know what else people think a +funeral should be except quiet. Yet again and again, over the grave of every +one of those sad rich men, for whom one should surely feel, first and last, a +speechless pity—over the grave of Beit, over the grave of Whiteley—this +sickening nonsense about modesty and simplicity has been poured out. I well +remember that when Beit was buried, the papers said that the mourning-coaches +contained everybody of importance, that the floral tributes were sumptuous, +splendid, intoxicating; but, for all that, it was a simple and quiet funeral. +What, in the name of Acheron, did they expect it to be? Did they think there +would be human sacrifice—the immolation of Oriental slaves upon the tomb? Did +they think that long rows of Oriental dancing-girls would sway hither and +thither in an ecstasy of lament? Did they look for the funeral games of +Patroclus? I fear they had no such splendid and pagan meaning. I fear they were +only using the words “quiet” and “modest” as words to fill up a page—a mere +piece of the automatic hypocrisy which does become too common among those who +have to write rapidly and often. The word “modest” will soon become like the +word “honourable,” which is said to be employed by the Japanese before any word +that occurs in a polite sentence, as “Put honourable umbrella in honourable +umbrella-stand;” or “condescend to clean honourable boots.” We shall read in +the future that the modest King went out in his modest crown, clad from head to +foot in modest gold and attended with his ten thousand modest earls, their +swords modestly drawn. No! if we have to pay for splendour let us praise it as +splendour, not as simplicity. When next I meet a rich man I intend to walk up +to him in the street and address him with Oriental hyperbole. He will probably +run away. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>SCIENCE AND RELIGION</h2> + +<p> +In these days we are accused of attacking science because we want it to be +scientific. Surely there is not any undue disrespect to our doctor in saying +that he is our doctor, not our priest, or our wife, or ourself. It is not the +business of the doctor to say that we must go to a watering-place; it is his +affair to say that certain results of health will follow if we do go to a +watering-place. After that, obviously, it is for us to judge. Physical science +is like simple addition: it is either infallible or it is false. To mix science +up with philosophy is only to produce a philosophy that has lost all its ideal +value and a science that has lost all its practical value. I want my private +physician to tell me whether this or that food will kill me. It is for my +private philosopher to tell me whether I ought to be killed. I apologise for +stating all these truisms. But the truth is, that I have just been reading a +thick pamphlet written by a mass of highly intelligent men who seem never to +have heard of any of these truisms in their lives. +</p> + +<p> +Those who detest the harmless writer of this column are generally reduced (in +their final ecstasy of anger) to calling him “brilliant;” which has long ago in +our journalism become a mere expression of contempt. But I am afraid that even +this disdainful phrase does me too much honour. I am more and more convinced +that I suffer, not from a shiny or showy impertinence, but from a simplicity +that verges upon imbecility. I think more and more that I must be very dull, +and that everybody else in the modern world must be very clever. I have just +been reading this important compilation, sent to me in the name of a number of +men for whom I have a high respect, and called “New Theology and Applied +Religion.” And it is literally true that I have read through whole columns of +the things without knowing what the people were talking about. Either they must +be talking about some black and bestial religion in which they were brought up, +and of which I never even heard, or else they must be talking about some +blazing and blinding vision of God which they have found, which I have never +found, and which by its very splendour confuses their logic and confounds their +speech. But the best instance I can quote of the thing is in connection with +this matter of the business of physical science on the earth, of which I have +just spoken. The following words are written over the signature of a man whose +intelligence I respect, and I cannot make head or tail of them— +</p> + +<p> +“When modern science declared that the cosmic process knew nothing of a +historical event corresponding to a Fall, but told, on the contrary, the story +of an incessant rise in the scale of being, it was quite plain that the Pauline +scheme—I mean the argumentative processes of Paul’s scheme of salvation—had +lost its very foundation; for was not that foundation the total depravity of +the human race inherited from their first parents?.... But now there was no +Fall; there was no total depravity, or imminent danger of endless doom; and, +the basis gone, the superstructure followed.” +</p> + +<p> +It is written with earnestness and in excellent English; it must mean +something. But what can it mean? How could physical science prove that man is +not depraved? You do not cut a man open to find his sins. You do not boil him +until he gives forth the unmistakable green fumes of depravity. How could +physical science find any traces of a moral fall? What traces did the writer +expect to find? Did he expect to find a fossil Eve with a fossil apple inside +her? Did he suppose that the ages would have spared for him a complete skeleton +of Adam attached to a slightly faded fig-leaf? The whole paragraph which I have +quoted is simply a series of inconsequent sentences, all quite untrue in +themselves and all quite irrelevant to each other. Science never said that +there could have been no Fall. There might have been ten Falls, one on top of +the other, and the thing would have been quite consistent with everything that +we know from physical science. Humanity might have grown morally worse for +millions of centuries, and the thing would in no way have contradicted the +principle of Evolution. Men of science (not being raving lunatics) never said +that there had been “an incessant rise in the scale of being;” for an incessant +rise would mean a rise without any relapse or failure; and physical evolution +is full of relapse and failure. There were certainly some physical Falls; there +may have been any number of moral Falls. So that, as I have said, I am honestly +bewildered as to the meaning of such passages as this, in which the advanced +person writes that because geologists know nothing about the Fall, therefore +any doctrine of depravity is untrue. Because science has not found something +which obviously it could not find, therefore something entirely different—the +psychological sense of evil—is untrue. You might sum up this writer’s argument +abruptly, but accurately, in some way like this—“We have not dug up the bones +of the Archangel Gabriel, who presumably had none, therefore little boys, left +to themselves, will not be selfish.” To me it is all wild and whirling; as if a +man said—“The plumber can find nothing wrong with our piano; so I suppose that +my wife does love me.” +</p> + +<p> +I am not going to enter here into the real doctrine of original sin, or into +that probably false version of it which the New Theology writer calls the +doctrine of depravity. But whatever else the worst doctrine of depravity may +have been, it was a product of spiritual conviction; it had nothing to do with +remote physical origins. Men thought mankind wicked because they felt wicked +themselves. If a man feels wicked, I cannot see why he should suddenly feel +good because somebody tells him that his ancestors once had tails. Man’s +primary purity and innocence may have dropped off with his tail, for all +anybody knows. The only thing we all know about that primary purity and +innocence is that we have not got it. Nothing can be, in the strictest sense of +the word, more comic than to set so shadowy a thing as the conjectures made by +the vaguer anthropologists about primitive man against so solid a thing as the +human sense of sin. By its nature the evidence of Eden is something that one +cannot find. By its nature the evidence of sin is something that one cannot +help finding. +</p> + +<p> +Some statements I disagree with; others I do not understand. If a man says, “I +think the human race would be better if it abstained totally from fermented +liquor,” I quite understand what he means, and how his view could be defended. +If a man says, “I wish to abolish beer because I am a temperance man,” his +remark conveys no meaning to my mind. It is like saying, “I wish to abolish +roads because I am a moderate walker.” If a man says, “I am not a Trinitarian,” +I understand. But if he says (as a lady once said to me), “I believe in the +Holy Ghost in a spiritual sense,” I go away dazed. In what other sense could +one believe in the Holy Ghost? And I am sorry to say that this pamphlet of +progressive religious views is full of baffling observations of that kind. What +can people mean when they say that science has disturbed their view of sin? +What sort of view of sin can they have had before science disturbed it? Did +they think that it was something to eat? When people say that science has +shaken their faith in immortality, what do they mean? Did they think that +immortality was a gas? +</p> + +<p> +Of course the real truth is that science has introduced no new principle into +the matter at all. A man can be a Christian to the end of the world, for the +simple reason that a man could have been an Atheist from the beginning of it. +The materialism of things is on the face of things; it does not require any +science to find it out. A man who has lived and loved falls down dead and the +worms eat him. That is Materialism if you like. That is Atheism if you like. If +mankind has believed in spite of that, it can believe in spite of anything. But +why our human lot is made any more hopeless because we know the names of all +the worms who eat him, or the names of all the parts of him that they eat, is +to a thoughtful mind somewhat difficult to discover. My chief objection to +these semi-scientific revolutionists is that they are not at all revolutionary. +They are the party of platitude. They do not shake religion: rather religion +seems to shake them. They can only answer the great paradox by repeating the +truism. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>THE METHUSELAHITE</h2> + +<p> +I Saw in a newspaper paragraph the other day the following entertaining and +deeply philosophical incident. A man was enlisting as a soldier at Portsmouth, +and some form was put before him to be filled up, common, I suppose, to all +such cases, in which was, among other things, an inquiry about what was his +religion. With an equal and ceremonial gravity the man wrote down the word +“Methuselahite.” Whoever looks over such papers must, I should imagine, have +seen some rum religions in his time; unless the Army is going to the dogs. But +with all his specialist knowledge he could not “place” Methuselahism among what +Bossuet called the variations of Protestantism. He felt a fervid curiosity +about the tenets and tendencies of the sect; and he asked the soldier what it +meant. The soldier replied that it was his religion “to live as long as he +could.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, considered as an incident in the religious history of Europe, that answer +of that soldier was worth more than a hundred cartloads of quarterly and +monthly and weekly and daily papers discussing religious problems and religious +books. Every day the daily paper reviews some new philosopher who has some new +religion; and there is not in the whole two thousand words of the whole two +columns one word as witty as or wise as that word “Methuselahite.” The whole +meaning of literature is simply to cut a long story short; that is why our +modern books of philosophy are never literature. That soldier had in him the +very soul of literature; he was one of the great phrase-makers of modern +thought, like Victor Hugo or Disraeli. He found one word that defines the +paganism of to-day. +</p> + +<p> +Henceforward, when the modern philosophers come to me with their new religions +(and there is always a kind of queue of them waiting all the way down the +street) I shall anticipate their circumlocutions and be able to cut them short +with a single inspired word. One of them will begin, “The New Religion, which +is based upon that Primordial Energy in Nature....” “Methuselahite,” I shall +say sharply; “good morning.” “Human Life,” another will say, “Human Life, the +only ultimate sanctity, freed from creed and dogma....” “Methuselahite!” I +shall yell. “Out you go!” “My religion is the Religion of Joy,” a third will +explain (a bald old man with a cough and tinted glasses), “the Religion of +Physical Pride and Rapture, and my....” “Methuselahite!” I shall cry again, and +I shall slap him boisterously on the back, and he will fall down. Then a pale +young poet with serpentine hair will come and say to me (as one did only the +other day): “Moods and impressions are the only realities, and these are +constantly and wholly changing. I could hardly therefore define my +religion....” “I can,” I should say, somewhat sternly. “Your religion is to +live a long time; and if you stop here a moment longer you won’t fulfil it.” +</p> + +<p> +A new philosophy generally means in practice the praise of some old vice. We +have had the sophist who defends cruelty, and calls it masculinity. We have had +the sophist who defends profligacy, and calls it the liberty of the emotions. +We have had the sophist who defends idleness, and calls it art. It will almost +certainly happen—it can almost certainly be prophesied—that in this saturnalia +of sophistry there will at some time or other arise a sophist who desires to +idealise cowardice. And when we are once in this unhealthy world of mere wild +words, what a vast deal there would be to say for cowardice! “Is not life a +lovely thing and worth saving?” the soldier would say as he ran away. “Should I +not prolong the exquisite miracle of consciousness?” the householder would say +as he hid under the table. “As long as there are roses and lilies on the earth +shall I not remain here?” would come the voice of the citizen from under the +bed. It would be quite as easy to defend the coward as a kind of poet and +mystic as it has been, in many recent books, to defend the emotionalist as a +kind of poet and mystic, or the tyrant as a kind of poet and mystic. When that +last grand sophistry and morbidity is preached in a book or on a platform, you +may depend upon it there will be a great stir in its favour, that is, a great +stir among the little people who live among books and platforms. There will be +a new great Religion, the Religion of Methuselahism: with pomps and priests and +altars. Its devout crusaders will vow themselves in thousands with a great vow +to live long. But there is one comfort: they won’t. +</p> + +<p> +For, indeed, the weakness of this worship of mere natural life (which is a +common enough creed to-day) is that it ignores the paradox of courage and fails +in its own aim. As a matter of fact, no men would be killed quicker than the +Methuselahites. The paradox of courage is that a man must be a little careless +of his life even in order to keep it. And in the very case I have quoted we may +see an example of how little the theory of Methuselahism really inspires our +best life. For there is one riddle in that case which cannot easily be cleared +up. If it was the man’s religion to live as long as he could, why on earth was +he enlisting as a soldier? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>SPIRITUALISM</h2> + +<p> +I Have received a letter from a gentleman who is very indignant at what he +considers my flippancy in disregarding or degrading Spiritualism. I thought I +was defending Spiritualism; but I am rather used to being accused of mocking +the thing that I set out to justify. My fate in most controversies is rather +pathetic. It is an almost invariable rule that the man with whom I don’t agree +thinks I am making a fool of myself, and the man with whom I do agree thinks I +am making a fool of him. There seems to be some sort of idea that you are not +treating a subject properly if you eulogise it with fantastic terms or defend +it by grotesque examples. Yet a truth is equally solemn whatever figure or +example its exponent adopts. It is an equally awful truth that four and four +make eight, whether you reckon the thing out in eight onions or eight angels, +or eight bricks or eight bishops, or eight minor poets or eight pigs. +Similarly, if it be true that God made all things, that grave fact can be +asserted by pointing at a star or by waving an umbrella. But the case is +stronger than this. There is a distinct philosophical advantage in using +grotesque terms in a serious discussion. +</p> + +<p> +I think seriously, on the whole, that the more serious is the discussion the +more grotesque should be the terms. For this, as I say, there is an evident +reason. For a subject is really solemn and important in so far as it applies to +the whole cosmos, or to some great spheres and cycles of experience at least. +So far as a thing is universal it is serious. And so far as a thing is +universal it is full of comic things. If you take a small thing, it may be +entirely serious: Napoleon, for instance, was a small thing, and he was +serious: the same applies to microbes. If you isolate a thing, you may get the +pure essence of gravity. But if you take a large thing (such as the Solar +System) it <i>must</i> be comic, at least in parts. The germs are serious, +because they kill you. But the stars are funny, because they give birth to +life, and life gives birth to fun. If you have, let us say, a theory about man, +and if you can only prove it by talking about Plato and George Washington, your +theory may be a quite frivolous thing. But if you can prove it by talking about +the butler or the postman, then it is serious, because it is universal. So far +from it being irreverent to use silly metaphors on serious questions, it is +one’s duty to use silly metaphors on serious questions. It is the test of one’s +seriousness. It is the test of a responsible religion or theory whether it can +take examples from pots and pans and boots and butter-tubs. It is the test of a +good philosophy whether you can defend it grotesquely. It is the test of a good +religion whether you can joke about it. +</p> + +<p> +When I was a very young journalist I used to be irritated at a peculiar habit +of printers, a habit which most persons of a tendency similar to mine have +probably noticed also. It goes along with the fixed belief of printers that to +be a Rationalist is the same thing as to be a Nationalist. I mean the printer’s +tendency to turn the word “cosmic” into the word “comic.” It annoyed me at the +time. But since then I have come to the conclusion that the printers were +right. The democracy is always right. Whatever is cosmic is comic. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, there is another reason that makes it almost inevitable that we +should defend grotesquely what we believe seriously. It is that all +grotesqueness is itself intimately related to seriousness. Unless a thing is +dignified, it cannot be undignified. Why is it funny that a man should sit down +suddenly in the street? There is only one possible or intelligent reason: that +man is the image of God. It is not funny that anything else should fall down; +only that a man should fall down. No one sees anything funny in a tree falling +down. No one sees a delicate absurdity in a stone falling down. No man stops in +the road and roars with laughter at the sight of the snow coming down. The fall +of thunderbolts is treated with some gravity. The fall of roofs and high +buildings is taken seriously. It is only when a man tumbles down that we laugh. +Why do we laugh? Because it is a grave religious matter: it is the Fall of Man. +Only man can be absurd: for only man can be dignified. +</p> + +<p> +The above, which occupies the great part of my article, is a parenthises. It is +time that I returned to my choleric correspondent who rebuked me for being too +frivolous about the problem of Spiritualism. My correspondent, who is evidently +an intelligent man, is very angry with me indeed. He uses the strongest +language. He says I remind him of a brother of his: which seems to open an +abyss or vista of infamy. The main substance of his attack resolves itself into +two propositions. First, he asks me what right I have to talk about +Spiritualism at all, as I admit I have never been to a <i>séance</i>. This is +all very well, but there are a good many things to which I have never been, but +I have not the smallest intention of leaving off talking about them. I refuse +(for instance) to leave off talking about the Siege of Troy. I decline to be +mute in the matter of the French Revolution. I will not be silenced on the late +indefensible assassination of Julius Cæsar. If nobody has any right to judge of +Spiritualism except a man who has been to a <i>séance</i>, the results, +logically speaking, are rather serious: it would almost seem as if nobody had +any right to judge of Christianity who had not been to the first meeting at +Pentecost. Which would be dreadful. I conceive myself capable of forming my +opinion of Spiritualism without seeing spirits, just as I form my opinion of +the Japanese War without seeing the Japanese, or my opinion of American +millionaires without (thank God) seeing an American millionaire. Blessed are +they who have not seen and yet have believed: a passage which some have +considered as a prophecy of modern journalism. +</p> + +<p> +But my correspondent’s second objection is more important. He charges me with +actually ignoring the value of communication (if it exists) between this world +and the next. I do not ignore it. But I do say this—That a different principle +attaches to investigation in this spiritual field from investigation in any +other. If a man baits a line for fish, the fish will come, even if he declares +there are no such things as fishes. If a man limes a twig for birds, the birds +will be caught, even if he thinks it superstitious to believe in birds at all. +But a man cannot bait a line for souls. A man cannot lime a twig to catch gods. +All wise schools have agreed that this latter capture depends to some extent on +the faith of the capturer. So it comes to this: If you have no faith in the +spirits your appeal is in vain; and if you have—is it needed? If you do not +believe, you cannot. If you do—you will not. +</p> + +<p> +That is the real distinction between investigation in this department and +investigation in any other. The priest calls to the goddess, for the same +reason that a man calls to his wife, because he knows she is there. If a man +kept on shouting out very loud the single word “Maria,” merely with the object +of discovering whether if he did it long enough some woman of that name would +come and marry him, he would be more or less in the position of the modern +spiritualist. The old religionist cried out for his God. The new religionist +cries out for some god to be his. The whole point of religion as it has +hitherto existed in the world was that you knew all about your gods, even +before you saw them, if indeed you ever did. Spiritualism seems to me +absolutely right on all its mystical side. The supernatural part of it seems to +me quite natural. The incredible part of it seems to me obviously true. But I +think it so far dangerous or unsatisfactory that it is in some degree +scientific. It inquires whether its gods are worth inquiring into. A man (of a +certain age) may look into the eyes of his lady-love to see that they are +beautiful. But no normal lady will allow that young man to look into her eyes +to see whether they are beautiful. The same vanity and idiosyncrasy has been +generally observed in gods. Praise them; or leave them alone; but do not look +for them unless you know they are there. Do not look for them unless you want +them. It annoys them very much. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>THE ERROR OF IMPARTIALITY</h2> + +<p> +The refusal of the jurors in the Thaw trial to come to an agreement is +certainly a somewhat amusing sequel to the frenzied and even fantastic caution +with which they were selected. Jurymen were set aside for reasons which seem to +have only the very wildest relation to the case—reasons which we cannot +conceive as giving any human being a real bias. It may be questioned whether +the exaggerated theory of impartiality in an arbiter or juryman may not be +carried so far as to be more unjust than partiality itself. What people call +impartiality may simply mean indifference, and what people call partiality may +simply mean mental activity. It is sometimes made an objection, for instance, +to a juror that he has formed some <i>primâ-facie</i> opinion upon a case: if +he can be forced under sharp questioning to admit that he has formed such an +opinion, he is regarded as manifestly unfit to conduct the inquiry. Surely this +is unsound. If his bias is one of interest, of class, or creed, or notorious +propaganda, then that fact certainly proves that he is not an impartial +arbiter. But the mere fact that he did form some temporary impression from the +first facts as far as he knew them—this does not prove that he is not an +impartial arbiter—it only proves that he is not a cold-blooded fool. +</p> + +<p> +If we walk down the street, taking all the jurymen who have not formed opinions +and leaving all the jurymen who have formed opinions, it seems highly probable +that we shall only succeed in taking all the stupid jurymen and leaving all the +thoughtful ones. Provided that the opinion formed is really of this airy and +abstract kind, provided that it has no suggestion of settled motive or +prejudice, we might well regard it not merely as a promise of capacity, but +literally as a promise of justice. The man who took the trouble to deduce from +the police reports would probably be the man who would take the trouble to +deduce further and different things from the evidence. The man who had the +sense to form an opinion would be the man who would have the sense to alter it. +</p> + +<p> +It is worth while to dwell for a moment on this minor aspect of the matter +because the error about impartiality and justice is by no means confined to a +criminal question. In much more serious matters it is assumed that the agnostic +is impartial; whereas the agnostic is merely ignorant. The logical outcome of +the fastidiousness about the Thaw jurors would be that the case ought to be +tried by Esquimaux, or Hottentots, or savages from the Cannibal Islands—by some +class of people who could have no conceivable interest in the parties, and +moreover, no conceivable interest in the case. The pure and starry perfection +of impartiality would be reached by people who not only had no opinion before +they had heard the case, but who also had no opinion after they had heard it. +In the same way, there is in modern discussions of religion and philosophy an +absurd assumption that a man is in some way just and well-poised because he has +come to no conclusion; and that a man is in some way knocked off the list of +fair judges because he has come to a conclusion. It is assumed that the sceptic +has no bias; whereas he has a very obvious bias in favour of scepticism. I +remember once arguing with an honest young atheist, who was very much shocked +at my disputing some of the assumptions which were absolute sanctities to him +(such as the quite unproved proposition of the independence of matter and the +quite improbable proposition of its power to originate mind), and he at length +fell back upon this question, which he delivered with an honourable heat of +defiance and indignation: “Well, can you tell me any man of intellect, great in +science or philosophy, who accepted the miraculous?” I said, “With pleasure. +Descartes, Dr. Johnson, Newton, Faraday, Newman, Gladstone, Pasteur, Browning, +Brunetiere—as many more as you please.” To which that quite admirable and +idealistic young man made this astonishing reply—“Oh, but of course they +<i>had</i> to say that; they were Christians.” First he challenged me to find a +black swan, and then he ruled out all my swans because they were black. The +fact that all these great intellects had come to the Christian view was somehow +or other a proof either that they were not great intellects or that they had +not really come to that view. The argument thus stood in a charmingly +convenient form: “All men that count have come to my conclusion; for if they +come to your conclusion they do not count.” +</p> + +<p> +It did not seem to occur to such controversialists that if Cardinal Newman was +really a man of intellect, the fact that he adhered to dogmatic religion proved +exactly as much as the fact that Professor Huxley, another man of intellect, +found that he could not adhere to dogmatic religion; that is to say (as I +cheerfully admit), it proved precious little either way. If there is one class +of men whom history has proved especially and supremely capable of going quite +wrong in all directions, it is the class of highly intellectual men. I would +always prefer to go by the bulk of humanity; that is why I am a democrat. But +whatever be the truth about exceptional intelligence and the masses, it is +manifestly most unreasonable that intelligent men should be divided upon the +absurd modern principle of regarding every clever man who cannot make up his +mind as an impartial judge, and regarding every clever man who can make up his +mind as a servile fanatic. As it is, we seem to regard it as a positive +objection to a reasoner that he has taken one side or the other. We regard it +(in other words) as a positive objection to a reasoner that he has contrived to +reach the object of his reasoning. We call a man a bigot or a slave of dogma +because he is a thinker who has thought thoroughly and to a definite end. We +say that the juryman is not a juryman because he has brought in a verdict. We +say that the judge is not a judge because he gives judgment. We say that the +sincere believer has no right to vote, simply because he has voted. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>PHONETIC SPELLING</h2> + +<p> +A correspondent asks me to make more lucid my remarks about phonetic spelling. +I have no detailed objection to items of spelling-reform; my objection is to a +general principle; and it is this. It seems to me that what is really wrong +with all modern and highly civilised language is that it does so largely +consist of dead words. Half our speech consists of similes that remind us of no +similarity; of pictorial phrases that call up no picture; of historical +allusions the origin of which we have forgotten. Take any instance on which the +eye happens to alight. I saw in the paper some days ago that the well-known +leader of a certain religious party wrote to a supporter of his the following +curious words: “I have not forgotten the talented way in which you held up the +banner at Birkenhead.” Taking the ordinary vague meaning of the word +“talented,” there is no coherency in the picture. The trumpets blow, the spears +shake and glitter, and in the thick of the purple battle there stands a +gentleman holding up a banner in a talented way. And when we come to the +original force of the word “talent” the matter is worse: a talent is a Greek +coin used in the New Testament as a symbol of the mental capital committed to +an individual at birth. If the religious leader in question had really meant +anything by his phrases, he would have been puzzled to know how a man could use +a Greek coin to hold up a banner. But really he meant nothing by his phrases. +“Holding up the banner” was to him a colourless term for doing the proper +thing, and “talented” was a colourless term for doing it successfully. +</p> + +<p> +Now my own fear touching anything in the way of phonetic spelling is that it +would simply increase this tendency to use words as counters and not as coins. +The original life in a word (as in the word “talent”) burns low as it is: +sensible spelling might extinguish it altogether. Suppose any sentence you +like: suppose a man says, “Republics generally encourage holidays.” It looks +like the top line of a copy-book. Now, it is perfectly true that if you wrote +that sentence exactly as it is pronounced, even by highly educated people, the +sentence would run: “Ripubliks jenrally inkurrij hollidies.” It looks ugly: but +I have not the smallest objection to ugliness. My objection is that these four +words have each a history and hidden treasures in them: that this history and +hidden treasure (which we tend to forget too much as it is) phonetic spelling +tends to make us forget altogether. Republic does not mean merely a mode of +political choice. Republic (as we see when we look at the structure of the +word) means the Public Thing: the abstraction which is us all. +</p> + +<p> +A Republican is not a man who wants a Constitution with a President. A +Republican is a man who prefers to think of Government as impersonal; he is +opposed to the Royalist, who prefers to think of Government as personal. Take +the second word, “generally.” This is always used as meaning “in the majority +of cases.” But, again, if we look at the shape and spelling of the word, we +shall see that “generally” means something more like “generically,” and is akin +to such words as “generation” or “regenerate.” “Pigs are generally dirty” does +not mean that pigs are, in the majority of cases, dirty, but that pigs as a +race or genus are dirty, that pigs as pigs are dirty—an important philosophical +distinction. Take the third word, “encourage.” The word “encourage” is used in +such modern sentences in the merely automatic sense of promote; to encourage +poetry means merely to advance or assist poetry. But to encourage poetry means +properly to put courage into poetry—a fine idea. Take the fourth word, +“holidays.” As long as that word remains, it will always answer the ignorant +slander which asserts that religion was opposed to human cheerfulness; that +word will always assert that when a day is holy it should also be happy. +Properly spelt, these words all tell a sublime story, like Westminster Abbey. +Phonetically spelt, they might lose the last traces of any such story. +“Generally” is an exalted metaphysical term; “jenrally” is not. If you +“encourage” a man, you pour into him the chivalry of a hundred princes; this +does not happen if you merely “inkurrij” him. “Republics,” if spelt +phonetically, might actually forget to be public. “Holidays,” if spelt +phonetically, might actually forget to be holy. +</p> + +<p> +Here is a case that has just occurred. A certain magistrate told somebody whom +he was examining in court that he or she “should always be polite to the +police.” I do not know whether the magistrate noticed the circumstance, but the +word “polite” and the word “police” have the same origin and meaning. +Politeness means the atmosphere and ritual of the city, the symbol of human +civilisation. The policeman means the representative and guardian of the city, +the symbol of human civilisation. Yet it may be doubted whether the two ideas +are commonly connected in the mind. It is probable that we often hear of +politeness without thinking of a policeman; it is even possible that our eyes +often alight upon a policeman without our thoughts instantly flying to the +subject of politeness. Yet the idea of the sacred city is not only the link of +them both, it is the only serious justification and the only serious corrective +of them both. If politeness means too often a mere frippery, it is because it +has not enough to do with serious patriotism and public dignity; if policemen +are coarse or casual, it is because they are not sufficiently convinced that +they are the servants of the beautiful city and the agents of sweetness and +light. Politeness is not really a frippery. Politeness is not really even a +thing merely suave and deprecating. Politeness is an armed guard, stern and +splendid and vigilant, watching over all the ways of men; in other words, +politeness is a policeman. A policeman is not merely a heavy man with a +truncheon: a policeman is a machine for the smoothing and sweetening of the +accidents of everyday existence. In other words, a policeman is politeness; a +veiled image of politeness—sometimes impenetrably veiled. But my point is here +that by losing the original idea of the city, which is the force and youth of +both the words, both the things actually degenerate. Our politeness loses all +manliness because we forget that politeness is only the Greek for patriotism. +Our policemen lose all delicacy because we forget that a policeman is only the +Greek for something civilised. A policeman should often have the functions of a +knight-errant. A policeman should always have the elegance of a knight-errant. +But I am not sure that he would succeed any the better in remembering this +obligation of romantic grace if his name were spelt phonetically, supposing +that it could be spelt phonetically. Some spelling-reformers, I am told, in the +poorer parts of London do spell his name phonetically, very phonetically. They +call him a “pleeceman.” Thus the whole romance of the ancient city disappears +from the word, and the policeman’s reverent courtesy of demeanour deserts him +quite suddenly. This does seem to me the case against any extreme revolution in +spelling. If you spell a word wrong you have some temptation to think it wrong. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>HUMANITARIANISM AND STRENGTH</h2> + +<p> +Somebody writes complaining of something I said about progress. I have +forgotten what I said, but I am quite certain that it was (like a certain Mr. +Douglas in a poem which I have also forgotten) tender and true. In any case, +what I say now is this. Human history is so rich and complicated that you can +make out a case for any course of improvement or retrogression. I could make +out that the world has been growing more democratic, for the English franchise +has certainly grown more democratic. I could also make out that the world has +been growing more aristocratic, for the English Public Schools have certainly +grown more aristocratic. I could prove the decline of militarism by the decline +of flogging; I could prove the increase of militarism by the increase of +standing armies and conscription. But I can prove anything in this way. I can +prove that the world has always been growing greener. Only lately men have +invented absinthe and the <i>Westminster Gazette</i>. I could prove the world +has grown less green. There are no more Robin Hood foresters, and fields are +being covered with houses. I could show that the world was less red with khaki +or more red with the new penny stamps. But in all cases progress means progress +only in some particular thing. Have you ever noticed that strange line of +Tennyson, in which he confesses, half consciously, how very <i>conventional</i> +progress is?— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Even in praising change, he takes for a simile the most unchanging thing. He +calls our modern change a groove. And it is a groove; perhaps there was never +anything so groovy. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing would induce me in so idle a monologue as this to discuss adequately a +great political matter like the question of the military punishments in Egypt. +But I may suggest one broad reality to be observed by both sides, and which is, +generally speaking, observed by neither. Whatever else is right, it is utterly +wrong to employ the argument that we Europeans must do to savages and Asiatics +whatever savages and Asiatics do to us. I have even seen some controversialists +use the metaphor, “We must fight them with their own weapons.” Very well; let +those controversialists take their metaphor, and take it literally. Let us +fight the Soudanese with their own weapons. Their own weapons are large, very +clumsy knives, with an occasional old-fashioned gun. Their own weapons are also +torture and slavery. If we fight them with torture and slavery, we shall be +fighting badly, precisely as if we fought them with clumsy knives and old guns. +That is the whole strength of our Christian civilisation, that it does fight +with its own weapons and not with other people’s. It is not true that +superiority suggests a tit for tat. It is not true that if a small hooligan +puts his tongue out at the Lord Chief Justice, the Lord Chief Justice +immediately realises that his only chance of maintaining his position is to put +his tongue out at the little hooligan. The hooligan may or may not have any +respect at all for the Lord Chief Justice: that is a matter which we may +contentedly leave as a solemn psychological mystery. But if the hooligan has +any respect at all for the Lord Chief Justice, that respect is certainly +extended to the Lord Chief Justice entirely because he does not put his tongue +out. +</p> + +<p> +Exactly in the same way the ruder or more sluggish races regard the +civilisation of Christendom. If they have any respect for it, it is precisely +because it does not use their own coarse and cruel expedients. According to +some modern moralists whenever Zulus cut off the heads of dead Englishmen, +Englishmen must cut off the heads of dead Zulus. Whenever Arabs or Egyptians +constantly use the whip to their slaves, Englishmen must use the whip to their +subjects. And on a similar principle (I suppose), whenever an English Admiral +has to fight cannibals the English Admiral ought to eat them. However +unattractive a menu consisting entirely of barbaric kings may appear to an +English gentleman, he must try to sit down to it with an appetite. He must +fight the Sandwich Islanders with their own weapons; and their own weapons are +knives and forks. But the truth of the matter is, of course, that to do this +kind of thing is to break the whole spell of our supremacy. All the mystery of +the white man, all the fearful poetry of the white man, so far as it exists in +the eyes of these savages, consists in the fact that we do not do such things. +The Zulus point at us and say, “Observe the advent of these inexplicable +demi-gods, these magicians, who do not cut off the noses of their enemies.” The +Soudanese say to each other, “This hardy people never flogs its servants; it is +superior to the simplest and most obvious human pleasures.” And the cannibals +say, “The austere and terrible race, the race that denies itself even boiled +missionary, is upon us: let us flee.” +</p> + +<p> +Whether or no these details are a little conjectural, the general proposition I +suggest is the plainest common sense. The elements that make Europe upon the +whole the most humanitarian civilisation are precisely the elements that make +it upon the whole the strongest. For the power which makes a man able to +entertain a good impulse is the same as that which enables him to make a good +gun; it is imagination. It is imagination that makes a man outwit his enemy, +and it is imagination that makes him spare his enemy. It is precisely because +this picturing of the other man’s point of view is in the main a thing in which +Christians and Europeans specialise that Christians and Europeans, with all +their faults, have carried to such perfection both the arts of peace and war. +</p> + +<p> +They alone have invented machine-guns, and they alone have invented ambulances; +they have invented ambulances (strange as it may sound) for the same reason for +which they have invented machine-guns. Both involve a vivid calculation of +remote events. It is precisely because the East, with all its wisdom, is cruel, +that the East, with all its wisdom, is weak. And it is precisely because +savages are pitiless that they are still—merely savages. If they could imagine +their enemy’s sufferings they could also imagine his tactics. If Zulus did not +cut off the Englishman’s head they might really borrow it. For if you do not +understand a man you cannot crush him. And if you do understand him, very +probably you will not. +</p> + +<p> +When I was about seven years old I used to think that the chief modern danger +was a danger of over-civilisation. I am inclined to think now that the chief +modern danger is that of a slow return towards barbarism, just such a return +towards barbarism as is indicated in the suggestions of barbaric retaliation of +which I have just spoken. Civilisation in the best sense merely means the full +authority of the human spirit over all externals. Barbarism means the worship +of those externals in their crude and unconquered state. Barbarism means the +worship of Nature; and in recent poetry, science, and philosophy there has been +too much of the worship of Nature. Wherever men begin to talk much and with +great solemnity about the forces outside man, the note of it is barbaric. When +men talk much about heredity and environment they are almost barbarians. The +modern men of science are many of them almost barbarians. Mr. Blatchford is in +great danger of becoming a barbarian. For barbarians (especially the truly +squalid and unhappy barbarians) are always talking about these scientific +subjects from morning till night. That is why they remain squalid and unhappy; +that is why they remain barbarians. Hottentots are always talking about +heredity, like Mr. Blatchford. Sandwich Islanders are always talking about +environment, like Mr. Suthers. Savages—those that are truly stunted or +depraved—dedicate nearly all their tales and sayings to the subject of physical +kinship, of a curse on this or that tribe, of a taint in this or that family, +of the invincible law of blood, of the unavoidable evil of places. The true +savage is a slave, and is always talking about what he must do; the true +civilised man is a free man and is always talking about what he may do. Hence +all the Zola heredity and Ibsen heredity that has been written in our time +affects me as not merely evil, but as essentially ignorant and retrogressive. +This sort of science is almost the only thing that can with strict propriety be +called reactionary. Scientific determinism is simply the primal twilight of all +mankind; and some men seem to be returning to it. +</p> + +<p> +Another savage trait of our time is the disposition to talk about material +substances instead of about ideas. The old civilisation talked about the sin of +gluttony or excess. We talk about the Problem of Drink—as if drink could be a +problem. When people have come to call the problem of human intemperance the +Problem of Drink, and to talk about curing it by attacking the drink traffic, +they have reached quite a dim stage of barbarism. The thing is an inverted form +of fetish worship; it is no sillier to say that a bottle is a god than to say +that a bottle is a devil. The people who talk about the curse of drink will +probably progress down that dark hill. In a little while we shall have them +calling the practice of wife-beating the Problem of Pokers; the habit of +housebreaking will be called the Problem of the Skeleton-Key Trade; and for all +I know they may try to prevent forgery by shutting up all the stationers’ shops +by Act of Parliament. +</p> + +<p> +I cannot help thinking that there is some shadow of this uncivilised +materialism lying at present upon a much more dignified and valuable cause. +Every one is talking just now about the desirability of ingeminating peace and +averting war. But even war and peace are physical states rather than moral +states, and in talking about them only we have by no means got to the bottom of +the matter. How, for instance, do we as a matter of fact create peace in one +single community? We do not do it by vaguely telling every one to avoid +fighting and to submit to anything that is done to him. We do it by definitely +defining his rights and then undertaking to avenge his wrongs. We shall never +have a common peace in Europe till we have a common principle in Europe. People +talk of “The United States of Europe;” but they forget that it needed the very +doctrinal “Declaration of Independence” to make the United States of America. +You cannot agree about nothing any more than you can quarrel about nothing. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>WINE WHEN IT IS RED</h2> + +<p> +I suppose that there will be some wigs on the green in connection with the +recent manifesto signed by a string of very eminent doctors on the subject of +what is called “alcohol.” “Alcohol” is, to judge by the sound of it, an Arabic +word, like “algebra” and “Alhambra,” those two other unpleasant things. The +Alhambra in Spain I have never seen; I am told that it is a low and rambling +building; I allude to the far more dignified erection in Leicester Square. If +it is true, as I surmise, that “alcohol” is a word of the Arabs, it is +interesting to realise that our general word for the essence of wine and beer +and such things comes from a people which has made particular war upon them. I +suppose that some aged Moslem chieftain sat one day at the opening of his tent +and, brooding with black brows and cursing in his black beard over wine as the +symbol of Christianity, racked his brains for some word ugly enough to express +his racial and religious antipathy, and suddenly spat out the horrible word +“alcohol.” The fact that the doctors had to use this word for the sake of +scientific clearness was really a great disadvantage to them in fairly +discussing the matter. For the word really involves one of those beggings of +the question which make these moral matters so difficult. It is quite a mistake +to suppose that, when a man desires an alcoholic drink, he necessarily desires +alcohol. +</p> + +<p> +Let a man walk ten miles steadily on a hot summer’s day along a dusty English +road, and he will soon discover why beer was invented. The fact that beer has a +very slight stimulating quality will be quite among the smallest reasons that +induce him to ask for it. In short, he will not be in the least desiring +alcohol; he will be desiring beer. But, of course, the question cannot be +settled in such a simple way. The real difficulty which confronts everybody, +and which especially confronts doctors, is that the extraordinary position of +man in the physical universe makes it practically impossible to treat him in +either one direction or the other in a purely physical way. Man is an +exception, whatever else he is. If he is not the image of God, then he is a +disease of the dust. If it is not true that a divine being fell, then we can +only say that one of the animals went entirely off its head. In neither case +can we really argue very much from the body of man simply considered as the +body of an innocent and healthy animal. His body has got too much mixed up with +his soul, as we see in the supreme instance of sex. It may be worth while +uttering the warning to wealthy philanthropists and idealists that this +argument from the animal should not be thoughtlessly used, even against the +atrocious evils of excess; it is an argument that proves too little or too +much. +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless, it is unnatural to be drunk. But then in a real sense it is +unnatural to be human. Doubtless, the intemperate workman wastes his tissues in +drinking; but no one knows how much the sober workman wastes his tissues by +working. No one knows how much the wealthy philanthropist wastes his tissues by +talking; or, in much rarer conditions, by thinking. All the human things are +more dangerous than anything that affects the beasts—sex, poetry, property, +religion. The real case against drunkenness is not that it calls up the beast, +but that it calls up the Devil. It does not call up the beast, and if it did it +would not matter much, as a rule; the beast is a harmless and rather amiable +creature, as anybody can see by watching cattle. There is nothing bestial about +intoxication; and certainly there is nothing intoxicating or even particularly +lively about beasts. Man is always something worse or something better than an +animal; and a mere argument from animal perfection never touches him at all. +Thus, in sex no animal is either chivalrous or obscene. And thus no animal ever +invented anything so bad as drunkenness—or so good as drink. +</p> + +<p> +The pronouncement of these particular doctors is very clear and uncompromising; +in the modern atmosphere, indeed, it even deserves some credit for moral +courage. The majority of modern people, of course, will probably agree with it +in so far as it declares that alcoholic drinks are often of supreme value in +emergencies of illness; but many people, I fear, will open their eyes at the +emphatic terms in which they describe such drink as considered as a beverage; +but they are not content with declaring that the drink is in moderation +harmless: they distinctly declare that it is in moderation beneficial. But I +fancy that, in saying this, the doctors had in mind a truth that runs somewhat +counter to the common opinion. I fancy that it is the experience of most +doctors that giving any alcohol for illness (though often necessary) is about +the most morally dangerous way of giving it. Instead of giving it to a healthy +person who has many other forms of life, you are giving it to a desperate +person, to whom it is the only form of life. The invalid can hardly be blamed +if by some accident of his erratic and overwrought condition he comes to +remember the thing as the very water of vitality and to use it as such. For in +so far as drinking is really a sin it is not because drinking is wild, but +because drinking is tame; not in so far as it is anarchy, but in so far as it +is slavery. Probably the worst way to drink is to drink medicinally. Certainly +the safest way to drink is to drink carelessly; that is, without caring much +for anything, and especially not caring for the drink. +</p> + +<p> +The doctor, of course, ought to be able to do a great deal in the way of +restraining those individual cases where there is plainly an evil thirst; and +beyond that the only hope would seem to be in some increase, or, rather, some +concentration of ordinary public opinion on the subject. I have always held +consistently my own modest theory on the subject. I believe that if by some +method the local public-house could be as definite and isolated a place as the +local post-office or the local railway station, if all types of people passed +through it for all types of refreshment, you would have the same safeguard +against a man behaving in a disgusting way in a tavern that you have at present +against his behaving in a disgusting way in a post-office: simply the presence +of his ordinary sensible neighbours. In such a place the kind of lunatic who +wants to drink an unlimited number of whiskies would be treated with the same +severity with which the post office authorities would treat an amiable lunatic +who had an appetite for licking an unlimited number of stamps. It is a small +matter whether in either case a technical refusal would be officially employed. +It is an essential matter that in both cases the authorities could rapidly +communicate with the friends and family of the mentally afflicted person. At +least, the postmistress would not dangle a strip of tempting sixpenny stamps +before the enthusiast’s eyes as he was being dragged away with his tongue out. +If we made drinking open and official we might be taking one step towards +making it careless. In such things to be careless is to be sane: for neither +drunkards nor Moslems can be careless about drink. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>DEMAGOGUES AND MYSTAGOGUES</h2> + +<p> +I once heard a man call this age the age of demagogues. Of this I can only say, +in the admirably sensible words of the angry coachman in “Pickwick,” that “that +remark’s political, or what is much the same, it ain’t true.” So far from being +the age of demagogues, this is really and specially the age of mystagogues. So +far from this being a time in which things are praised because they are +popular, the truth is that this is the first time, perhaps, in the whole +history of the world in which things can be praised because they are unpopular. +The demagogue succeeds because he makes himself understood, even if he is not +worth understanding. But the mystagogue succeeds because he gets himself +misunderstood; although, as a rule, he is not even worth misunderstanding. +Gladstone was a demagogue: Disraeli a mystagogue. But ours is specially the +time when a man can advertise his wares not as a universality, but as what the +tradesmen call “a speciality.” We all know this, for instance, about modern +art. Michelangelo and Whistler were both fine artists; but one is obviously +public, the other obviously private, or, rather, not obvious at all. +Michelangelo’s frescoes are doubtless finer than the popular judgment, but they +are plainly meant to strike the popular judgment. Whistler’s pictures seem +often meant to escape the popular judgment; they even seem meant to escape the +popular admiration. They are elusive, fugitive; they fly even from praise. +Doubtless many artists in Michelangelo’s day declared themselves to be great +artists, although they were unsuccessful. But they did not declare themselves +great artists because they were unsuccessful: that is the peculiarity of our +own time, which has a positive bias against the populace. +</p> + +<p> +Another case of the same kind of thing can be found in the latest conceptions +of humour. By the wholesome tradition of mankind, a joke was a thing meant to +amuse men; a joke which did not amuse them was a failure, just as a fire which +did not warm them was a failure. But we have seen the process of secrecy and +aristocracy introduced even into jokes. If a joke falls flat, a small school of +æsthetes only ask us to notice the wild grace of its falling and its perfect +flatness after its fall. The old idea that the joke was not good enough for the +company has been superseded by the new aristocratic idea that the company was +not worthy of the joke. They have introduced an almost insane individualism +into that one form of intercourse which is specially and uproariously communal. +They have made even levities into secrets. They have made laughter lonelier +than tears. +</p> + +<p> +There is a third thing to which the mystagogues have recently been applying the +methods of a secret society: I mean manners. Men who sought to rebuke rudeness +used to represent manners as reasonable and ordinary; now they seek to +represent them as private and peculiar. Instead of saying to a man who blocks +up a street or the fireplace, “You ought to know better than that,” the moderns +say, “You, of course, don’t know better than that.” +</p> + +<p> +I have just been reading an amusing book by Lady Grove called “The Social +Fetich,” which is a positive riot of this new specialism and mystification. It +is due to Lady Grove to say that she has some of the freer and more honourable +qualities of the old Whig aristocracy, as well as their wonderful worldliness +and their strange faith in the passing fashion of our politics. For instance, +she speaks of Jingo Imperialism with a healthy English contempt; and she +perceives stray and striking truths, and records them justly—as, for instance, +the greater democracy of the Southern and Catholic countries of Europe. But in +her dealings with social formulæ here in England she is, it must frankly be +said, a common mystagogue. She does not, like a decent demagogue, wish to make +people understand; she wishes to make them painfully conscious of not +understanding. Her favourite method is to terrify people from doing things that +are quite harmless by telling them that if they do they are the kind of people +who would do other things, equally harmless. If you ask after somebody’s mother +(or whatever it is), you are the kind of person who would have a pillow-case, +or would not have a pillow-case. I forget which it is; and so, I dare say, does +she. If you assume the ordinary dignity of a decent citizen and say that you +don’t see the harm of having a mother or a pillow-case, she would say that of +course <i>you</i> wouldn’t. This is what I call being a mystagogue. It is more +vulgar than being a demagogue; because it is much easier. +</p> + +<p> +The primary point I meant to emphasise is that this sort of aristocracy is +essentially a new sort. All the old despots were demagogues; at least, they +were demagogues whenever they were really trying to please or impress the +demos. If they poured out beer for their vassals it was because both they and +their vassals had a taste for beer. If (in some slightly different mood) they +poured melted lead on their vassals, it was because both they and their vassals +had a strong distaste for melted lead. But they did not make any mystery about +either of the two substances. They did not say, “You don’t like melted +lead?.... Ah! no, of course, <i>you</i> wouldn’t; you are probably the kind of +person who would prefer beer.... It is no good asking you even to imagine the +curious undercurrent of psychological pleasure felt by a refined person under +the seeming shock of melted lead.” Even tyrants when they tried to be popular, +tried to give the people pleasure; they did not try to overawe the people by +giving them something which they ought to regard as pleasure. It was the same +with the popular presentment of aristocracy. Aristocrats tried to impress +humanity by the exhibition of qualities which humanity admires, such as +courage, gaiety, or even mere splendour. The aristocracy might have more +possession in these things, but the democracy had quite equal delight in them. +It was much more sensible to offer yourself for admiration because you had +drunk three bottles of port at a sitting, than to offer yourself for admiration +(as Lady Grove does) because you think it right to say “port wine” while other +people think it right to say “port.” Whether Lady Grove’s preference for port +wine (I mean for the phrase port wine) is a piece of mere nonsense I do not +know; but at least it is a very good example of the futility of such tests in +the matter even of mere breeding. “Port wine” may happen to be the phrase used +in certain good families; but numberless aristocrats say “port,” and all +barmaids say “port wine.” The whole thing is rather more trivial than +collecting tram-tickets; and I will not pursue Lady Grove’s further +distinctions. I pass over the interesting theory that I ought to say to Jones +(even apparently if he is my dearest friend), “How is Mrs. Jones?” instead of +“How is your wife?” and I pass over an impassioned declamation about bedspreads +(I think) which has failed to fire my blood. +</p> + +<p> +The truth of the matter is really quite simple. An aristocracy is a secret +society; and this is especially so when, as in the modern world, it is +practically a plutocracy. The one idea of a secret society is to change the +password. Lady Grove falls naturally into a pure perversity because she feels +subconsciously that the people of England can be more effectively kept at a +distance by a perpetual torrent of new tests than by the persistence of a few +old ones. She knows that in the educated “middle class” there is an idea that +it is vulgar to say port wine; therefore she reverses the idea—she says that +the man who would say “port” is a man who would say, “How is your wife?” She +says it because she knows both these remarks to be quite obvious and +reasonable. +</p> + +<p> +The only thing to be done or said in reply, I suppose, would be to apply the +same principle of bold mystification on our own part. I do not see why I should +not write a book called “Etiquette in Fleet Street,” and terrify every one else +out of that thoroughfare by mysterious allusions to the mistakes that they +generally make. I might say: “This is the kind of man who would wear a green +tie when he went into a tobacconist’s,” or “You don’t see anything wrong in +drinking a Benedictine on Thursday?.... No, of course <i>you</i> wouldn’t.” I +might asseverate with passionate disgust and disdain: “The man who is capable +of writing sonnets as well as triolets is capable of climbing an omnibus while +holding an umbrella.” It seems a simple method; if ever I should master it +perhaps I may govern England. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>THE “EATANSWILL GAZETTE”</h2> + +<p> +The other day some one presented me with a paper called the <i>Eatanswill +Gazette</i>. I need hardly say that I could not have been more startled if I +had seen a coach coming down the road with old Mr. Tony Weller on the box. But, +indeed, the case is much more extraordinary than that would be. Old Mr. Weller +was a good man, a specially and seriously good man, a proud father, a very +patient husband, a sane moralist, and a reliable ally. One could not be so very +much surprised if somebody pretended to be Tony Weller. But the <i>Eatanswill +Gazette</i> is definitely depicted in “Pickwick” as a dirty and unscrupulous +rag, soaked with slander and nonsense. It was really interesting to find a +modern paper proud to take its name. The case cannot be compared to anything so +simple as a resurrection of one of the “Pickwick” characters; yet a very good +parallel could easily be found. It is almost exactly as if a firm of solicitors +were to open their offices to-morrow under the name of Dodson and Fogg. +</p> + +<p> +It was at once apparent, of course, that the thing was a joke. But what was not +apparent, what only grew upon the mind with gradual wonder and terror, was the +fact that it had its serious side. The paper is published in the well-known +town of Sudbury, in Suffolk. And it seems that there is a standing quarrel +between Sudbury and the county town of Ipswich as to which was the town +described by Dickens in his celebrated sketch of an election. Each town +proclaims with passion that it was Eatanswill. If each town proclaimed with +passion that it was not Eatanswill, I might be able to understand it. +Eatanswill, according to Dickens, was a town alive with loathsome corruption, +hypocritical in all its public utterances, and venal in all its votes. Yet, two +highly respectable towns compete for the honour of having been this particular +cesspool, just as ten cities fought to be the birthplace of Homer. They claim +to be its original as keenly as if they were claiming to be the original of +More’s “Utopia” or Morris’s “Earthly Paradise.” They grow seriously heated over +the matter. The men of Ipswich say warmly, “It must have been our town; for +Dickens says it was corrupt, and a more corrupt town than our town you couldn’t +have met in a month.” The men of Sudbury reply with rising passion, “Permit us +to tell you, gentlemen, that our town was quite as corrupt as your town any day +of the week. Our town was a common nuisance; and we defy our enemies to +question it.” “Perhaps you will tell us,” sneer the citizens of Ipswich, “that +your politics were ever as thoroughly filthy as----” “As filthy as anything,” +answer the Sudbury men, undauntedly. “Nothing in politics could be filthier. +Dickens must have noticed how disgusting we were.” “And could he have failed to +notice,” the others reason indignantly, “how disgusting we were? You could +smell us a mile off. You Sudbury fellows may think yourselves very fine, but +let me tell you that, compared to our city, Sudbury was an honest place.” And +so the controversy goes on. It seems to me to be a new and odd kind of +controversy. +</p> + +<p> +Naturally, an outsider feels inclined to ask why Eatanswill should be either +one or the other. As a matter of fact, I fear Eatanswill was every town in the +country. It is surely clear that when Dickens described the Eatanswill election +he did not mean it as a satire on Sudbury or a satire on Ipswich; he meant it +as a satire on England. The Eatanswill election is not a joke against +Eatanswill; it is a joke against elections. If the satire is merely local, it +practically loses its point; just as the “Circumlocution Office” would lose its +point if it were not supposed to be a true sketch of all Government offices; +just as the Lord Chancellor in “Bleak House” would lose his point if he were +not supposed to be symbolic and representative of all Lord Chancellors. The +whole moral meaning would vanish if we supposed that Oliver Twist had got by +accident into an exceptionally bad workhouse, or that Mr. Dorrit was in the +only debtors’ prison that was not well managed. Dickens was making game, not of +places, but of methods. He poured all his powerful genius into trying to make +the people ashamed of the methods. But he seems only to have succeeded in +making people proud of the places. In any case, the controversy is conducted in +a truly extraordinary way. No one seems to allow for the fact that, after all, +Dickens was writing a novel, and a highly fantastic novel at that. Facts in +support of Sudbury or Ipswich are quoted not only from the story itself, which +is wild and wandering enough, but even from the yet wilder narratives which +incidentally occur in the story, such as Sam Weller’s description of how his +father, on the way to Eatanswill, tipped all the voters into the canal. This +may quite easily be (to begin with) an entertaining tarradiddle of Sam’s own +invention, told, like many other even more improbable stories, solely to amuse +Mr. Pickwick. Yet the champions of these two towns positively ask each other to +produce a canal, or to fail for ever in their attempt to prove themselves the +most corrupt town in England. As far as I remember, Sam’s story of the canal +ends with Mr. Pickwick eagerly asking whether everybody was rescued, and Sam +solemnly replying that one old gentleman’s hat was found, but that he was not +sure whether his head was in it. If the canal is to be taken as realistic, why +not the hat and the head? If these critics ever find the canal I recommend them +to drag it for the body of the old gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Both sides refuse to allow for the fact that the characters in the story are +comic characters. For instance, Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, the eminent student of +Dickens, writes to the <i>Eatanswill Gazette</i> to say that Sudbury, a small +town, could not have been Eatanswill, because one of the candidates speaks of +its great manufactures. But obviously one of the candidates would have spoken +of its great manufactures if it had had nothing but a row of apple-stalls. One +of the candidates might have said that the commerce of Eatanswill eclipsed +Carthage, and covered every sea; it would have been quite in the style of +Dickens. But when the champion of Sudbury answers him, he does not point out +this plain mistake. He answers by making another mistake exactly of the same +kind. He says that Eatanswill was not a busy, important place. And his odd +reason is that Mrs. Pott said she was dull there. But obviously Mrs. Pott would +have said she was dull anywhere. She was setting her cap at Mr. Winkle. +Moreover, it was the whole point of her character in any case. Mrs. Pott was +that kind of woman. If she had been in Ipswich she would have said that she +ought to be in London. If she was in London she would have said that she ought +to be in Paris. The first disputant proves Eatanswill grand because a servile +candidate calls it grand. The second proves it dull because a discontented +woman calls it dull. +</p> + +<p> +The great part of the controversy seems to be conducted in the spirit of highly +irrelevant realism. Sudbury cannot be Eatanswill, because there was a +fancy-dress shop at Eatanswill, and there is no record of a fancy-dress shop at +Sudbury. Sudbury must be Eatanswill because there were heavy roads outside +Eatanswill, and there are heavy roads outside Sudbury. Ipswich cannot be +Eatanswill, because Mrs. Leo Hunter’s country seat would not be near a big +town. Ipswich must be Eatanswill because Mrs. Leo Hunter’s country seat would +be near a large town. Really, Dickens might have been allowed to take liberties +with such things as these, even if he had been mentioning the place by name. If +I were writing a story about the town of Limerick, I should take the liberty of +introducing a bun-shop without taking a journey to Limerick to see whether +there was a bun-shop there. If I wrote a romance about Torquay, I should hold +myself free to introduce a house with a green door without having studied a +list of all the coloured doors in the town. But if, in order to make it +particularly obvious that I had not meant the town for a photograph either of +Torquay or Limerick, I had gone out of my way to give the place a wild, +fictitious name of my own, I think that in that case I should be justified in +tearing my hair with rage if the people of Limerick or Torquay began to argue +about bun-shops and green doors. No reasonable man would expect Dickens to be +so literal as all that even about Bath or Bury St. Edmunds, which do exist; far +less need he be literal about Eatanswill, which didn’t exist. +</p> + +<p> +I must confess, however, that I incline to the Sudbury side of the argument. +This does not only arise from the sympathy which all healthy people have for +small places as against big ones; it arises from some really good qualities in +this particular Sudbury publication. First of all, the champions of Sudbury +seem to be more open to the sensible and humorous view of the book than the +champions of Ipswich—at least, those that appear in this discussion. Even the +Sudbury champion, bent on finding realistic clothes, rebels (to his eternal +honour) when Mr. Percy Fitzgerald tries to show that Bob Sawyer’s famous +statement that he was neither Buff nor Blue, “but a sort of plaid,” must have +been copied from some silly man at Ipswich who said that his politics were +“half and half.” Anybody might have made either of the two jokes. But it was +the whole glory and meaning of Dickens that he confined himself to making jokes +that anybody might have made a little better than anybody would have made them. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>FAIRY TALES</h2> + +<p> +Some solemn and superficial people (for nearly all very superficial people are +solemn) have declared that the fairy-tales are immoral; they base this upon +some accidental circumstances or regrettable incidents in the war between +giants and boys, some cases in which the latter indulged in unsympathetic +deceptions or even in practical jokes. The objection, however, is not only +false, but very much the reverse of the facts. The fairy-tales are at root not +only moral in the sense of being innocent, but moral in the sense of being +didactic, moral in the sense of being moralising. It is all very well to talk +of the freedom of fairyland, but there was precious little freedom in fairyland +by the best official accounts. Mr. W.B. Yeats and other sensitive modern souls, +feeling that modern life is about as black a slavery as ever oppressed mankind +(they are right enough there), have especially described elfland as a place of +utter ease and abandonment—a place where the soul can turn every way at will +like the wind. Science denounces the idea of a capricious God; but Mr. Yeats’s +school suggests that in that world every one is a capricious god. Mr. Yeats +himself has said a hundred times in that sad and splendid literary style which +makes him the first of all poets now writing in English (I will not say of all +English poets, for Irishmen are familiar with the practice of physical +assault), he has, I say, called up a hundred times the picture of the terrible +freedom of the fairies, who typify the ultimate anarchy of art— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Where nobody grows old or weary or wise,<br/> +Where nobody grows old or godly or grave.” +</p> + +<p> +But, after all (it is a shocking thing to say), I doubt whether Mr. Yeats +really knows the real philosophy of the fairies. He is not simple enough; he is +not stupid enough. Though I say it who should not, in good sound human +stupidity I would knock Mr. Yeats out any day. The fairies like me better than +Mr. Yeats; they can take me in more. And I have my doubts whether this feeling +of the free, wild spirits on the crest of hill or wave is really the central +and simple spirit of folk-lore. I think the poets have made a mistake: because +the world of the fairy-tales is a brighter and more varied world than ours, +they have fancied it less moral; really it is brighter and more varied because +it is more moral. Suppose a man could be born in a modern prison. It is +impossible, of course, because nothing human can happen in a modern prison, +though it could sometimes in an ancient dungeon. A modern prison is always +inhuman, even when it is not inhumane. But suppose a man were born in a modern +prison, and grew accustomed to the deadly silence and the disgusting +indifference; and suppose he were then suddenly turned loose upon the life and +laughter of Fleet Street. He would, of course, think that the literary men in +Fleet Street were a free and happy race; yet how sadly, how ironically, is this +the reverse of the case! And so again these toiling serfs in Fleet Street, when +they catch a glimpse of the fairies, think the fairies are utterly free. But +fairies are like journalists in this and many other respects. Fairies and +journalists have an apparent gaiety and a delusive beauty. Fairies and +journalists seem to be lovely and lawless; they seem to be both of them too +exquisite to descend to the ugliness of everyday duty. But it is an illusion +created by the sudden sweetness of their presence. Journalists live under law; +and so in fact does fairyland. +</p> + +<p> +If you really read the fairy-tales, you will observe that one idea runs from +one end of them to the other—the idea that peace and happiness can only exist +on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the +nursery-tales. The whole happiness of fairyland hangs upon a thread, upon one +thread. Cinderella may have a dress woven on supernatural looms and blazing +with unearthly brilliance; but she must be back when the clock strikes twelve. +The king may invite fairies to the christening, but he must invite all the +fairies or frightful results will follow. Bluebeard’s wife may open all doors +but one. A promise is broken to a cat, and the whole world goes wrong. A +promise is broken to a yellow dwarf, and the whole world goes wrong. A girl may +be the bride of the God of Love himself if she never tries to see him; she sees +him, and he vanishes away. A girl is given a box on condition she does not open +it; she opens it, and all the evils of this world rush out at her. A man and +woman are put in a garden on condition that they do not eat one fruit: they eat +it, and lose their joy in all the fruits of the earth. +</p> + +<p> +This great idea, then, is the backbone of all folk-lore—the idea that all +happiness hangs on one thin veto; all positive joy depends on one negative. +Now, it is obvious that there are many philosophical and religious ideas akin +to or symbolised by this; but it is not with them I wish to deal here. It is +surely obvious that all ethics ought to be taught to this fairy-tale tune; +that, if one does the thing forbidden, one imperils all the things provided. A +man who breaks his promise to his wife ought to be reminded that, even if she +is a cat, the case of the fairy-cat shows that such conduct may be incautious. +A burglar just about to open some one else’s safe should be playfully reminded +that he is in the perilous posture of the beautiful Pandora: he is about to +lift the forbidden lid and loosen evils unknown. The boy eating some one’s +apples in some one’s apple tree should be a reminder that he has come to a +mystical moment of his life, when one apple may rob him of all others. This is +the profound morality of fairy-tales; which, so far from being lawless, go to +the root of all law. Instead of finding (like common books of ethics) a +rationalistic basis for each Commandment, they find the great mystical basis +for all Commandments. We are in this fairyland on sufferance; it is not for us +to quarrel with the conditions under which we enjoy this wild vision of the +world. The vetoes are indeed extraordinary, but then so are the concessions. +The idea of property, the idea of some one else’s apples, is a rum idea; but +then the idea of there being any apples is a rum idea. It is strange and weird +that I cannot with safety drink ten bottles of champagne; but then the +champagne itself is strange and weird, if you come to that. If I have drunk of +the fairies’ drink it is but just I should drink by the fairies’ rules. We may +not see the direct logical connection between three beautiful silver spoons and +a large ugly policeman; but then who in fairy tales ever could see the direct +logical connection between three bears and a giant, or between a rose and a +roaring beast? Not only can these fairy-tales be enjoyed because they are +moral, but morality can be enjoyed because it puts us in fairyland, in a world +at once of wonder and of war. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>TOM JONES AND MORALITY</h2> + +<p> +The two hundredth anniversary of Henry Fielding is very justly celebrated, even +if, as far as can be discovered, it is only celebrated by the newspapers. It +would be too much to expect that any such merely chronological incident should +induce the people who write about Fielding to read him; this kind of neglect is +only another name for glory. A great classic means a man whom one can praise +without having read. This is not in itself wholly unjust; it merely implies a +certain respect for the realisation and fixed conclusions of the mass of +mankind. I have never read Pindar (I mean I have never read the Greek Pindar; +Peter Pindar I have read all right), but the mere fact that I have not read +Pindar, I think, ought not to prevent me and certainly would not prevent me +from talking of “the masterpieces of Pindar,” or of “great poets like Pindar or +Æschylus.” The very learned men are angularly unenlightened on this as on +many other subjects; and the position they take up is really quite +unreasonable. If any ordinary journalist or man of general reading alludes to +Villon or to Homer, they consider it a quite triumphant sneer to say to the +man, “You cannot read mediæval French,” or “You cannot read Homeric Greek.” But +it is not a triumphant sneer—or, indeed, a sneer at all. A man has got as much +right to employ in his speech the established and traditional facts of human +history as he has to employ any other piece of common human information. And it +is as reasonable for a man who knows no French to assume that Villon was a good +poet as it would be for a man who has no ear for music to assume that Beethoven +was a good musician. Because he himself has no ear for music, that is no reason +why he should assume that the human race has no ear for music. Because I am +ignorant (as I am), it does not follow that I ought to assume that I am +deceived. The man who would not praise Pindar unless he had read him would be a +low, distrustful fellow, the worst kind of sceptic, who doubts not only God, +but man. He would be like a man who could not call Mount Everest high unless he +had climbed it. He would be like a man who would not admit that the North Pole +was cold until he had been there. +</p> + +<p> +But I think there is a limit, and a highly legitimate limit, to this process. I +think a man may praise Pindar without knowing the top of a Greek letter from +the bottom. But I think that if a man is going to abuse Pindar, if he is going +to denounce, refute, and utterly expose Pindar, if he is going to show Pindar +up as the utter ignoramus and outrageous impostor that he is, then I think it +will be just as well perhaps—I think, at any rate, it would do no harm—if he +did know a little Greek, and even had read a little Pindar. And I think the +same situation would be involved if the critic were concerned to point out that +Pindar was scandalously immoral, pestilently cynical, or low and beastly in his +views of life. When people brought such attacks against the morality of Pindar, +I should regret that they could not read Greek; and when they bring such +attacks against the morality of Fielding, I regret very much that they cannot +read English. +</p> + +<p> +There seems to be an extraordinary idea abroad that Fielding was in some way an +immoral or offensive writer. I have been astounded by the number of the leading +articles, literary articles, and other articles written about him just now in +which there is a curious tone of apologising for the man. One critic says that +after all he couldn’t help it, because he lived in the eighteenth century; +another says that we must allow for the change of manners and ideas; another +says that he was not altogether without generous and humane feelings; another +suggests that he clung feebly, after all, to a few of the less important +virtues. What on earth does all this mean? Fielding described Tom Jones as +going on in a certain way, in which, most unfortunately, a very large number of +young men do go on. It is unnecessary to say that Henry Fielding knew that it +was an unfortunate way of going on. Even Tom Jones knew that. He said in so +many words that it was a very unfortunate way of going on; he said, one may +almost say, that it had ruined his life; the passage is there for the benefit +of any one who may take the trouble to read the book. There is ample evidence +(though even this is of a mystical and indirect kind), there is ample evidence +that Fielding probably thought that it was better to be Tom Jones than to be an +utter coward and sneak. There is simply not one rag or thread or speck of +evidence to show that Fielding thought that it was better to be Tom Jones than +to be a good man. All that he is concerned with is the description of a +definite and very real type of young man; the young man whose passions and +whose selfish necessities sometimes seemed to be stronger than anything else in +him. +</p> + +<p> +The practical morality of Tom Jones is bad, though not so bad, +<i>spiritually</i> speaking, as the practical morality of Arthur Pendennis or +the practical morality of Pip, and certainly nothing like so bad as the +profound practical immorality of Daniel Deronda. The practical morality of Tom +Jones is bad; but I cannot see any proof that his theoretical morality was +particularly bad. There is no need to tell the majority of modern young men +even to live up to the theoretical ethics of Henry Fielding. They would +suddenly spring into the stature of archangels if they lived up to the +theoretic ethics of poor Tom Jones. Tom Jones is still alive, with all his good +and all his evil; he is walking about the streets; we meet him every day. We +meet with him, we drink with him, we smoke with him, we talk with him, we talk +about him. The only difference is that we have no longer the intellectual +courage to write about him. We split up the supreme and central human being, +Tom Jones, into a number of separate aspects. We let Mr. J.M. Barrie write +about him in his good moments, and make him out better than he is. We let Zola +write about him in his bad moments, and make him out much worse than he is. We +let Maeterlinck celebrate those moments of spiritual panic which he knows to be +cowardly; we let Mr. Rudyard Kipling celebrate those moments of brutality which +he knows to be far more cowardly. We let obscene writers write about the +obscenities of this ordinary man. We let puritan writers write about the +purities of this ordinary man. We look through one peephole that makes men out +as devils, and we call it the new art. We look through another peephole that +makes men out as angels, and we call it the New Theology. But if we pull down +some dusty old books from the bookshelf, if we turn over some old mildewed +leaves, and if in that obscurity and decay we find some faint traces of a tale +about a complete man, such a man as is walking on the pavement outside, we +suddenly pull a long face, and we call it the coarse morals of a bygone age. +</p> + +<p> +The truth is that all these things mark a certain change in the general view of +morals; not, I think, a change for the better. We have grown to associate +morality in a book with a kind of optimism and prettiness; according to us, a +moral book is a book about moral people. But the old idea was almost exactly +the opposite; a moral book was a book about immoral people. A moral book was +full of pictures like Hogarth’s “Gin Lane” or “Stages of Cruelty,” or it +recorded, like the popular broadsheet, “God’s dreadful judgment” against some +blasphemer or murderer. There is a philosophical reason for this change. The +homeless scepticism of our time has reached a sub-conscious feeling that +morality is somehow merely a matter of human taste—an accident of psychology. +And if goodness only exists in certain human minds, a man wishing to praise +goodness will naturally exaggerate the amount of it that there is in human +minds or the number of human minds in which it is supreme. Every confession +that man is vicious is a confession that virtue is visionary. Every book which +admits that evil is real is felt in some vague way to be admitting that good is +unreal. The modern instinct is that if the heart of man is evil, there is +nothing that remains good. But the older feeling was that if the heart of man +was ever so evil, there was something that remained good—goodness remained +good. An actual avenging virtue existed outside the human race; to that men +rose, or from that men fell away. Therefore, of course, this law itself was as +much demonstrated in the breach as in the observance. If Tom Jones violated +morality, so much the worse for Tom Jones. Fielding did not feel, as a +melancholy modern would have done, that every sin of Tom Jones was in some way +breaking the spell, or we may even say destroying the fiction of morality. Men +spoke of the sinner breaking the law; but it was rather the law that broke him. +And what modern people call the foulness and freedom of Fielding is generally +the severity and moral stringency of Fielding. He would not have thought that +he was serving morality at all if he had written a book all about nice people. +Fielding would have considered Mr. Ian Maclaren extremely immoral; and there is +something to be said for that view. Telling the truth about the terrible +struggle of the human soul is surely a very elementary part of the ethics of +honesty. If the characters are not wicked, the book is. This older and firmer +conception of right as existing outside human weakness and without reference to +human error can be felt in the very lightest and loosest of the works of old +English literature. It is commonly unmeaning enough to call Shakspere a great +moralist; but in this particular way Shakspere is a very typical moralist. +Whenever he alludes to right and wrong it is always with this old implication. +Right is right, even if nobody does it. Wrong is wrong, even if everybody is +wrong about it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>THE MAID OF ORLEANS</h2> + +<p> +A considerable time ago (at far too early an age, in fact) I read Voltaire’s +“La Pucelle,” a savage sarcasm on the traditional purity of Joan of Arc, very +dirty, and very funny. I had not thought of it again for years, but it came +back into my mind this morning because I began to turn over the leaves of the +new “Jeanne d’Arc,” by that great and graceful writer, Anatole France. It is +written in a tone of tender sympathy, and a sort of sad reverence; it never +loses touch with a noble tact and courtesy, like that of a gentleman escorting +a peasant girl through the modern crowd. It is invariably respectful to Joan, +and even respectful to her religion. And being myself a furious admirer of Joan +the Maid, I have reflectively compared the two methods, and I come to the +conclusion that I prefer Voltaire’s. +</p> + +<p> +When a man of Voltaire’s school has to explode a saint or a great religious +hero, he says that such a person is a common human fool, or a common human +fraud. But when a man like Anatole France has to explode a saint, he explains a +saint as somebody belonging to his particular fussy little literary set. +Voltaire read human nature into Joan of Arc, though it was only the brutal part +of human nature. At least it was not specially Voltaire’s nature. But M. France +read M. France’s nature into Joan of Arc—all the cold kindness, all the +homeless sentimental sin of the modern literary man. There is one book that it +recalled to me with startling vividness, though I have not seen the matter +mentioned anywhere; Renan’s “Vie de Jésus.” It has just the same general +intention: that if you do not attack Christianity, you can at least patronise +it. My own instinct, apart from my opinions, would be quite the other way. If I +disbelieved in Christianity, I should be the loudest blasphemer in Hyde Park. +Nothing ought to be too big for a brave man to attack; but there are some +things too big for a man to patronise. +</p> + +<p> +And I must say that the historical method seems to me excessively unreasonable. +I have no knowledge of history, but I have as much knowledge of reason as +Anatole France. And, if anything is irrational, it seems to me that the +Renan-France way of dealing with miraculous stories is irrational. The +Renan-France method is simply this: you explain supernatural stories that have +some foundation simply by inventing natural stories that have no foundation. +Suppose that you are confronted with the statement that Jack climbed up the +beanstalk into the sky. It is perfectly philosophical to reply that you do not +think that he did. It is (in my opinion) even more philosophical to reply that +he may very probably have done so. But the Renan-France method is to write like +this: “When we consider Jack’s curious and even perilous heredity, which no +doubt was derived from a female greengrocer and a profligate priest, we can +easily understand how the ideas of heaven and a beanstalk came to be combined +in his mind. Moreover, there is little doubt that he must have met some +wandering conjurer from India, who told him about the tricks of the mango +plant, and how it is sent up to the sky. We can imagine these two friends, the +old man and the young, wandering in the woods together at evening, looking at +the red and level clouds, as on that night when the old man pointed to a small +beanstalk, and told his too imaginative companion that this also might be made +to scale the heavens. And then, when we remember the quite exceptional +psychology of Jack, when we remember how there was in him a union of the +prosaic, the love of plain vegetables, with an almost irrelevant eagerness for +the unattainable, for invisibility and the void, we shall no longer wonder that +it was to him especially that was sent this sweet, though merely symbolic, +dream of the tree uniting earth and heaven.” That is the way that Renan and +France write, only they do it better. But, really, a rationalist like myself +becomes a little impatient and feels inclined to say, “But, hang it all, what +do you know about the heredity of Jack or the psychology of Jack? You know +nothing about Jack at all, except that some people say that he climbed up a +beanstalk. Nobody would ever have thought of mentioning him if he hadn’t. You +must interpret him in terms of the beanstalk religion; you cannot merely +interpret religion in terms of him. We have the materials of this story, and we +can believe them or not. But we have not got the materials to make another +story.” +</p> + +<p> +It is no exaggeration to say that this is the manner of M. Anatole France in +dealing with Joan of Arc. Because her miracle is incredible to his somewhat +old-fashioned materialism, he does not therefore dismiss it and her to +fairyland with Jack and the Beanstalk. He tries to invent a real story, for +which he can find no real evidence. He produces a scientific explanation which +is quite destitute of any scientific proof. It is as if I (being entirely +ignorant of botany and chemistry) said that the beanstalk grew to the sky +because nitrogen and argon got into the subsidiary ducts of the corolla. To +take the most obvious example, the principal character in M. France’s story is +a person who never existed at all. All Joan’s wisdom and energy, it seems, came +from a certain priest, of whom there is not the tiniest trace in all the +multitudinous records of her life. The only foundation I can find for this +fancy is the highly undemocratic idea that a peasant girl could not possibly +have any ideas of her own. It is very hard for a freethinker to remain +democratic. The writer seems altogether to forget what is meant by the moral +atmosphere of a community. To say that Joan must have learnt her vision of a +virgin overthrowing evil from <i>a</i> priest, is like saying that some modern +girl in London, pitying the poor, must have learnt it from <i>a</i> Labour +Member. She would learn it where the Labour Member learnt it—in the whole state +of our society. +</p> + +<p> +But that is the modern method: the method of the reverent sceptic. When you +find a life entirely incredible and incomprehensible from the outside, you +pretend that you understand the inside. As Renan, the rationalist, could not +make any sense out of Christ’s most public acts, he proceeded to make an +ingenious system out of His private thoughts. As Anatole France, on his own +intellectual principle, cannot believe in what Joan of Arc did, he professes to +be her dearest friend, and to know exactly what she meant. I cannot feel it to +be a very rational manner of writing history; and sooner or later we shall have +to find some more solid way of dealing with those spiritual phenomena with +which all history is as closely spotted and spangled as the sky is with stars. +</p> + +<p> +Joan of Arc is a wild and wonderful thing enough, but she is much saner than +most of her critics and biographers. We shall not recover the common sense of +Joan until we have recovered her mysticism. Our wars fail, because they begin +with something sensible and obvious—such as getting to Pretoria by Christmas. +But her war succeeded—because it began with something wild and perfect—the +saints delivering France. She put her idealism in the right place, and her +realism also in the right place: we moderns get both displaced. She put her +dreams and her sentiment into her aims, where they ought to be; she put her +practicality into her practice. In modern Imperial wars, the case is reversed. +Our dreams, our aims are always, we insist, quite practical. It is our practice +that is dreamy. +</p> + +<p> +It is not for us to explain this flaming figure in terms of our tired and +querulous culture. Rather we must try to explain ourselves by the blaze of such +fixed stars. Those who called her a witch hot from hell were much more sensible +than those who depict her as a silly sentimental maiden prompted by her parish +priest. If I have to choose between the two schools of her scattered enemies, I +could take my place with those subtle clerks who thought her divine mission +devilish, rather than with those rustic aunts and uncles who thought it +impossible. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>A DEAD POET</h2> + +<p> +With Francis Thompson we lose the greatest poetic energy since Browning. His +energy was of somewhat the same kind. Browning was intellectually intricate +because he was morally simple. He was too simple to explain himself; he was too +humble to suppose that other people needed any explanation. But his real +energy, and the real energy of Francis Thompson, was best expressed in the fact +that both poets were at once fond of immensity and also fond of detail. Any +common Imperialist can have large ideas so long as he is not called upon to +have small ideas also. Any common scientific philosopher can have small ideas +so long as he is not called upon to have large ideas as well. But great poets +use the telescope and also the microscope. Great poets are obscure for two +opposite reasons; now, because they are talking about something too large for +any one to understand, and now again because they are talking about something +too small for any one to see. Francis Thompson possessed both these infinities. +He escaped by being too small, as the microbe escapes; or he escaped by being +too large, as the universe escapes. Any one who knows Francis Thompson’s poetry +knows quite well the truth to which I refer. For the benefit of any person who +does not know it, I may mention two cases taken from memory. I have not the +book by me, so I can only render the poetical passages in a clumsy paraphrase. +But there was one poem of which the image was so vast that it was literally +difficult for a time to take it in; he was describing the evening earth with +its mist and fume and fragrance, and represented the whole as rolling upwards +like a smoke; then suddenly he called the whole ball of the earth a thurible, +and said that some gigantic spirit swung it slowly before God. That is the case +of the image too large for comprehension. Another instance sticks in my mind of +the image which is too small. In one of his poems, he says that abyss between +the known and the unknown is bridged by “Pontifical death.” There are about ten +historical and theological puns in that one word. That a priest means a +pontiff, that a pontiff means a bridge-maker, that death is certainly a bridge, +that death may turn out after all to be a reconciling priest, that at least +priests and bridges both attest to the fact that one thing can get separated +from another thing—these ideas, and twenty more, are all actually concentrated +in the word “pontifical.” In Francis Thompson’s poetry, as in the poetry of the +universe, you can work infinitely out and out, but yet infinitely in and in. +These two infinities are the mark of greatness; and he was a great poet. +</p> + +<p> +Beneath the tide of praise which was obviously due to the dead poet, there is +an evident undercurrent of discussion about him; some charges of moral weakness +were at least important enough to be authoritatively contradicted in the +<i>Nation</i>; and, in connection with this and other things, there has been a +continuous stir of comment upon his attraction to and gradual absorption in +Catholic theological ideas. This question is so important that I think it ought +to be considered and understood even at the present time. It is, of course, +true that Francis Thompson devoted himself more and more to poems not only +purely Catholic, but, one may say, purely ecclesiastical. And it is, moreover, +true that (if things go on as they are going on at present) more and more good +poets will do the same. Poets will tend towards Christian orthodoxy for a +perfectly plain reason; because it is about the simplest and freest thing now +left in the world. On this point it is very necessary to be clear. When people +impute special vices to the Christian Church, they seem entirely to forget that +the world (which is the only other thing there is) has these vices much more. +The Church has been cruel; but the world has been much more cruel. The Church +has plotted; but the world has plotted much more. The Church has been +superstitious; but it has never been so superstitious as the world is when left +to itself. +</p> + +<p> +Now, poets in our epoch will tend towards ecclesiastical religion strictly +because it is just a little more free than anything else. Take, for instance, +the case of symbol and ritualism. All reasonable men believe in symbol; but +some reasonable men do not believe in ritualism; by which they mean, I imagine, +a symbolism too complex, elaborate, and mechanical. But whenever they talk of +ritualism they always seem to mean the ritualism of the Church. Why should they +not mean the ritual of the world? It is much more ritualistic. The ritual of +the Army, the ritual of the Navy, the ritual of the Law Courts, the ritual of +Parliament are much more ritualistic. The ritual of a dinner-party is much more +ritualistic. Priests may put gold and great jewels on the chalice; but at least +there is only one chalice to put them on. When you go to a dinner-party they +put in front of you five different chalices, of five weird and heraldic shapes, +to symbolise five different kinds of wine; an insane extension of ritual from +which Mr. Percy Dearmer would fly shrieking. A bishop wears a mitre; but he is +not thought more or less of a bishop according to whether you can see the very +latest curves in his mitre. But a swell is thought more or less of a swell +according to whether you can see the very latest curves in his hat. There is +more <i>fuss</i> about symbols in the world than in the Church. +</p> + +<p> +And yet (strangely enough) though men fuss more about the worldly symbols, they +mean less by them. It is the mark of religious forms that they declare +something unknown. But it is the mark of worldly forms that they declare +something which is known, and which is known to be untrue. When the Pope in an +Encyclical calls himself your father, it is a matter of faith or of doubt. But +when the Duke of Devonshire in a letter calls himself yours obediently, you +know that he means the opposite of what he says. Religious forms are, at the +worst, fables; they might be true. Secular forms are falsehoods; they are not +true. Take a more topical case. The German Emperor has more uniforms than the +Pope. But, moreover, the Pope’s vestments all imply a claim to be something +purely mystical and doubtful. Many of the German Emperor’s uniforms imply a +claim to be something which he certainly is not and which it would be highly +disgusting if he were. The Pope may or may not be the Vicar of Christ. But the +Kaiser certainly is not an English Colonel. If the thing were reality it would +be treason. If it is mere ritual, it is by far the most unreal ritual on earth. +</p> + +<p> +Now, poetical people like Francis Thompson will, as things stand, tend away +from secular society and towards religion for the reason above described: that +there are crowds of symbols in both, but that those of religion are simpler and +mean more. To take an evident type, the Cross is more poetical than the Union +Jack, because it is simpler. The more simple an idea is, the more it is fertile +in variations. Francis Thompson could have written any number of good poems on +the Cross, because it is a primary symbol. The number of poems which Mr. +Rudyard Kipling could write on the Union Jack is, fortunately, limited, because +the Union Jack is too complex to produce luxuriance. The same principle applies +to any possible number of cases. A poet like Francis Thompson could deduce +perpetually rich and branching meanings out of two plain facts like bread and +wine; with bread and wine he can expand everything to everywhere. But with a +French menu he cannot expand anything; except perhaps himself. Complicated +ideas do not produce any more ideas. Mongrels do not breed. Religious ritual +attracts because there is some sense in it. Religious imagery, so far from +being subtle, is the only simple thing left for poets. So far from being merely +superhuman, it is the only human thing left for human beings. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHRISTMAS</h2> + +<p> +There is no more dangerous or disgusting habit than that of celebrating +Christmas before it comes, as I am doing in this article. It is the very +essence of a festival that it breaks upon one brilliantly and abruptly, that at +one moment the great day is not and the next moment the great day is. Up to a +certain specific instant you are feeling ordinary and sad; for it is only +Wednesday. At the next moment your heart leaps up and your soul and body dance +together like lovers; for in one burst and blaze it has become Thursday. I am +assuming (of course) that you are a worshipper of Thor, and that you celebrate +his day once a week, possibly with human sacrifice. If, on the other hand, you +are a modern Christian Englishman, you hail (of course) with the same explosion +of gaiety the appearance of the English Sunday. But I say that whatever the day +is that is to you festive or symbolic, it is essential that there should be a +quite clear black line between it and the time going before. And all the old +wholesome customs in connection with Christmas were to the effect that one +should not touch or see or know or speak of something before the actual coming +of Christmas Day. Thus, for instance, children were never given their presents +until the actual coming of the appointed hour. The presents were kept tied up +in brown-paper parcels, out of which an arm of a doll or the leg of a donkey +sometimes accidentally stuck. I wish this principle were adopted in respect of +modern Christmas ceremonies and publications. Especially it ought to be +observed in connection with what are called the Christmas numbers of magazines. +The editors of the magazines bring out their Christmas numbers so long before +the time that the reader is more likely to be still lamenting for the turkey of +last year than to have seriously settled down to a solid anticipation of the +turkey which is to come. Christmas numbers of magazines ought to be tied up in +brown paper and kept for Christmas Day. On consideration, I should favour the +editors being tied up in brown paper. Whether the leg or arm of an editor +should ever be allowed to protrude I leave to individual choice. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, all this secrecy about Christmas is merely sentimental and +ceremonial; if you do not like what is sentimental and ceremonial, do not +celebrate Christmas at all. You will not be punished if you don’t; also, since +we are no longer ruled by those sturdy Puritans who won for us civil and +religious liberty, you will not even be punished if you do. But I cannot +understand why any one should bother about a ceremonial except ceremonially. If +a thing only exists in order to be graceful, do it gracefully or do not do it. +If a thing only exists as something professing to be solemn, do it solemnly or +do not do it. There is no sense in doing it slouchingly; nor is there even any +liberty. I can understand the man who takes off his hat to a lady because it is +the customary symbol. I can understand him, I say; in fact, I know him quite +intimately. I can also understand the man who refuses to take off his hat to a +lady, like the old Quakers, because he thinks that a symbol is superstition. +But what point would there be in so performing an arbitrary form of respect +that it was not a form of respect? We respect the gentleman who takes off his +hat to the lady; we respect the fanatic who will not take off his hat to the +lady. But what should we think of the man who kept his hands in his pockets and +asked the lady to take his hat off for him because he felt tired? +</p> + +<p> +This is combining insolence and superstition; and the modern world is full of +the strange combination. There is no mark of the immense weak-mindedness of +modernity that is more striking than this general disposition to keep up old +forms, but to keep them up informally and feebly. Why take something which was +only meant to be respectful and preserve it disrespectfully? Why take something +which you could easily abolish as a superstition and carefully perpetuate it as +a bore? There have been many instances of this half-witted compromise. Was it +not true, for instance, that the other day some mad American was trying to buy +Glastonbury Abbey and transfer it stone by stone to America? Such things are +not only illogical, but idiotic. There is no particular reason why a pushing +American financier should pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey at all. But if he is +to pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey, he must pay respect to Glastonbury. If it +is a matter of sentiment, why should he spoil the scene? If it is not a matter +of sentiment, why should he ever have visited the scene? To call this kind of +thing Vandalism is a very inadequate and unfair description. The Vandals were +very sensible people. They did not believe in a religion, and so they insulted +it; they did not see any use for certain buildings, and so they knocked them +down. But they were not such fools as to encumber their march with the +fragments of the edifice they had themselves spoilt. They were at least +superior to the modern American mode of reasoning. They did not desecrate the +stones because they held them sacred. +</p> + +<p> +Another instance of the same illogicality I observed the other day at some kind +of “At Home.” I saw what appeared to be a human being dressed in a black +evening-coat, black dress-waistcoat, and black dress-trousers, but with a +shirt-front made of Jaegar wool. What can be the sense of this sort of thing? +If a man thinks hygiene more important than convention (a selfish and heathen +view, for the beasts that perish are more hygienic than man, and man is only +above them because he is more conventional), if, I say, a man thinks that +hygiene is more important than convention, what on earth is there to oblige him +to wear a shirt-front at all? But to take a costume of which the only +conceivable cause or advantage is that it is a sort of uniform, and then not +wear it in the uniform way—this is to be neither a Bohemian nor a gentleman. It +is a foolish affectation, I think, in an English officer of the Life Guards +never to wear his uniform if he can help it. But it would be more foolish still +if he showed himself about town in a scarlet coat and a Jaeger breast-plate. It +is the custom nowadays to have Ritual Commissions and Ritual Reports to make +rather unmeaning compromises in the ceremonial of the Church of England. So +perhaps we shall have an ecclesiastical compromise by which all the Bishops +shall wear Jaeger copes and Jaeger mitres. Similarly the King might insist on +having a Jaeger crown. But I do not think he will, for he understands the logic +of the matter better than that. The modern monarch, like a reasonable fellow, +wears his crown as seldom as he can; but if he does it at all, then the only +point of a crown is that it is a crown. So let me assure the unknown gentleman +in the woollen vesture that the only point of a white shirt-front is that it is +a white shirt-front. Stiffness may be its impossible defect; but it is +certainly its only possible merit. +</p> + +<p> +Let us be consistent, therefore, about Christmas, and either keep customs or +not keep them. If you do not like sentiment and symbolism, you do not like +Christmas; go away and celebrate something else; I should suggest the birthday +of Mr. M’Cabe. No doubt you could have a sort of scientific Christmas with a +hygienic pudding and highly instructive presents stuffed into a Jaeger +stocking; go and have it then. If you like those things, doubtless you are a +good sort of fellow, and your intentions are excellent. I have no doubt that +you are really interested in humanity; but I cannot think that humanity will +ever be much interested in you. Humanity is unhygienic from its very nature and +beginning. It is so much an exception in Nature that the laws of Nature really +mean nothing to it. Now Christmas is attacked also on the humanitarian ground. +Ouida called it a feast of slaughter and gluttony. Mr. Shaw suggested that it +was invented by poulterers. That should be considered before it becomes more +considerable. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know whether an animal killed at Christmas has had a better or a worse +time than it would have had if there had been no Christmas or no Christmas +dinners. But I do know that the fighting and suffering brotherhood to which I +belong and owe everything, Mankind, would have a much worse time if there were +no such thing as Christmas or Christmas dinners. Whether the turkey which +Scrooge gave to Bob Cratchit had experienced a lovelier or more melancholy +career than that of less attractive turkeys is a subject upon which I cannot +even conjecture. But that Scrooge was better for giving the turkey and Cratchit +happier for getting it I know as two facts, as I know that I have two feet. +What life and death may be to a turkey is not my business; but the soul of +Scrooge and the body of Cratchit are my business. Nothing shall induce me to +darken human homes, to destroy human festivities, to insult human gifts and +human benefactions for the sake of some hypothetical knowledge which Nature +curtained from our eyes. We men and women are all in the same boat, upon a +stormy sea. We owe to each other a terrible and tragic loyalty. If we catch +sharks for food, let them be killed most mercifully; let any one who likes love +the sharks, and pet the sharks, and tie ribbons round their necks and give them +sugar and teach them to dance. But if once a man suggests that a shark is to be +valued against a sailor, or that the poor shark might be permitted to bite off +a nigger’s leg occasionally; then I would court-martial the man—he is a traitor +to the ship. +</p> + +<p> +And while I take this view of humanitarianism of the anti-Christmas kind, it is +cogent to say that I am a strong anti-vivisectionist. That is, if there is any +vivisection, I am against it. I am against the cutting-up of conscious dogs for +the same reason that I am in favour of the eating of dead turkeys. The +connection may not be obvious; but that is because of the strangely unhealthy +condition of modern thought. I am against cruel vivisection as I am against a +cruel anti-Christmas asceticism, because they both involve the upsetting of +existing fellowships and the shocking of normal good feelings for the sake of +something that is intellectual, fanciful, and remote. It is not a human thing, +it is not a humane thing, when you see a poor woman staring hungrily at a +bloater, to think, not of the obvious feelings of the woman, but of the +unimaginable feelings of the deceased bloater. Similarly, it is not human, it +is not humane, when you look at a dog to think about what theoretic discoveries +you might possibly make if you were allowed to bore a hole in his head. Both +the humanitarians’ fancy about the feelings concealed inside the bloater, and +the vivisectionists’ fancy about the knowledge concealed inside the dog, are +unhealthy fancies, because they upset a human sanity that is certain for the +sake of something that is of necessity uncertain. The vivisectionist, for the +sake of doing something that may or may not be useful, does something that +certainly is horrible. The anti-Christmas humanitarian, in seeking to have a +sympathy with a turkey which no man can have with a turkey, loses the sympathy +he has already with the happiness of millions of the poor. +</p> + +<p> +It is not uncommon nowadays for the insane extremes in reality to meet. Thus I +have always felt that brutal Imperialism and Tolstoian non-resistance were not +only not opposite, but were the same thing. They are the same contemptible +thought that conquest cannot be resisted, looked at from the two standpoints of +the conqueror and the conquered. Thus again teetotalism and the really degraded +gin-selling and dram-drinking have exactly the same moral philosophy. They are +both based on the idea that fermented liquor is not a drink, but a drug. But I +am specially certain that the extreme of vegetarian humanity is, as I have +said, akin to the extreme of scientific cruelty—they both permit a dubious +speculation to interfere with their ordinary charity. The sound moral rule in +such matters as vivisection always presents itself to me in this way. There is +no ethical necessity more essential and vital than this: that casuistical +exceptions, though admitted, should be admitted as exceptions. And it follows +from this, I think, that, though we may do a horrid thing in a horrid +situation, we must be quite certain that we actually and already are in that +situation. Thus, all sane moralists admit that one may sometimes tell a lie; +but no sane moralist would approve of telling a little boy to practise telling +lies, in case he might one day have to tell a justifiable one. Thus, morality +has often justified shooting a robber or a burglar. But it would not justify +going into the village Sunday school and shooting all the little boys who +looked as if they might grow up into burglars. The need may arise; but the need +must have arisen. It seems to me quite clear that if you step across this limit +you step off a precipice. +</p> + +<p> +Now, whether torturing an animal is or is not an immoral thing, it is, at +least, a dreadful thing. It belongs to the order of exceptional and even +desperate acts. Except for some extraordinary reason I would not grievously +hurt an animal; with an extraordinary reason I would grievously hurt him. If +(for example) a mad elephant were pursuing me and my family, and I could only +shoot him so that he would die in agony, he would have to die in agony. But the +elephant would be there. I would not do it to a hypothetical elephant. Now, it +always seems to me that this is the weak point in the ordinary vivisectionist +argument, “Suppose your wife were dying.” Vivisection is not done by a man +whose wife is dying. If it were it might be lifted to the level of the moment, +as would be lying or stealing bread, or any other ugly action. But this ugly +action is done in cold blood, at leisure, by men who are not sure that it will +be of any use to anybody—men of whom the most that can be said is that they may +conceivably make the beginnings of some discovery which may perhaps save the +life of some one else’s wife in some remote future. That is too cold and +distant to rob an act of its immediate horror. That is like training the child +to tell lies for the sake of some great dilemma that may never come to him. You +are doing a cruel thing, but not with enough passion to make it a kindly one. +</p> + +<p> +So much for why I am an anti-vivisectionist; and I should like to say, in +conclusion, that all other anti-vivisectionists of my acquaintance weaken their +case infinitely by forming this attack on a scientific speciality in which the +human heart is commonly on their side, with attacks upon universal human +customs in which the human heart is not at all on their side. I have heard +humanitarians, for instance, speak of vivisection and field sports as if they +were the same kind of thing. The difference seems to me simple and enormous. In +sport a man goes into a wood and mixes with the existing life of that wood; +becomes a destroyer only in the simple and healthy sense in which all the +creatures are destroyers; becomes for one moment to them what they are to +him—another animal. In vivisection a man takes a simpler creature and subjects +it to subtleties which no one but man could inflict on him, and for which man +is therefore gravely and terribly responsible. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, it remains true that I shall eat a great deal of turkey this +Christmas; and it is not in the least true (as the vegetarians say) that I +shall do it because I do not realise what I am doing, or because I do what I +know is wrong, or that I do it with shame or doubt or a fundamental unrest of +conscience. In one sense I know quite well what I am doing; in another sense I +know quite well that I know not what I do. Scrooge and the Cratchits and I are, +as I have said, all in one boat; the turkey and I are, to say the most of it, +ships that pass in the night, and greet each other in passing. I wish him well; +but it is really practically impossible to discover whether I treat him well. I +can avoid, and I do avoid with horror, all special and artificial tormenting of +him, sticking pins in him for fun or sticking knives in him for scientific +investigation. But whether by feeding him slowly and killing him quickly for +the needs of my brethren, I have improved in his own solemn eyes his own +strange and separate destiny, whether I have made him in the sight of God a +slave or a martyr, or one whom the gods love and who die young—that is far more +removed from my possibilities of knowledge than the most abstruse intricacies +of mysticism or theology. A turkey is more occult and awful than all the angels +and archangels. In so far as God has partly revealed to us an angelic world, he +has partly told us what an angel means. But God has never told us what a turkey +means. And if you go and stare at a live turkey for an hour or two, you will +find by the end of it that the enigma has rather increased than diminished. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THINGS CONSIDERED ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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