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diff --git a/470-h/470-h.htm b/470-h/470-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2902dba --- /dev/null +++ b/470-h/470-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6321 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>Heretics | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> +<style> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: “Times New Roman”, serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.finis { text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: larger; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +.ph1, .ph2, .ph3, .ph4, .ph5 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } +.ph1 { font-size: xx-large; margin: .67em auto; } +.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } +.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } +.ph4,.ph5 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2,h3 {page-break-before: avoid;} +.x-ebookmaker-drop {} +.big {font-size: x-large;} +.pre {white-space: pre;} +.cellpadding1 {padding: 1px;} +.tdleft {text-align: left;} +.center {text-align: center;} +.tdright {text-align: right;} +.valigntop {vertical-align: top;} +.valignbottom {vertical-align: bottom;} + </style> + </head> + <body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERETICS ***</div> + + + +<br><br> + +<h1 class="center"> +HERETICS +</h1> + +<br> + +<div class='ph3 center'> +by +</div> + +<div class='ph2 center'> +Gilbert K. Chesterton +</div> + +<br><br> + +<div class='ph3 center'> +“To My Father” +</div> + +<br><br> + +<div class='ph3'> +Source +</div> + +<p> +Heretics was copyrighted in 1905 by the John Lane Company. This +electronic text is derived from the twelfth (1919) edition published by +the John Lane Company of New York City and printed by the Plimpton +Press of Norwood, Massachusetts. The text carefully follows that of +the published edition (including British spelling). +</p> + +<br> + +<div class='ph3'> +The Author +</div> + +<p> +Gilbert Keith Chesterton was born in London, England on the 29th of +May, 1874. Though he considered himself a mere “rollicking +journalist,” he was actually a prolific and gifted writer in virtually +every area of literature. A man of strong opinions and enormously +talented at defending them, his exuberant personality nevertheless +allowed him to maintain warm friendships with people—such as George +Bernard Shaw and H. G. Wells—with whom he vehemently disagreed. +</p> + +<p> +Chesterton had no difficulty standing up for what he believed. He was +one of the few journalists to oppose the Boer War. His 1922 “Eugenics +and Other Evils” attacked what was at that time the most progressive of +all ideas, the idea that the human race could and should breed a +superior version of itself. In the Nazi experience, history +demonstrated the wisdom of his once “reactionary” views. +</p> + +<p> +His poetry runs the gamut from the comic 1908 “On Running After One’s +Hat” to dark and serious ballads. During the dark days of 1940, when +Britain stood virtually alone against the armed might of Nazi Germany, +these lines from his 1911 Ballad of the White Horse were often quoted: +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + I tell you naught for your comfort,<br> + Yea, naught for your desire,<br> + Save that the sky grows darker yet<br> + And the sea rises higher.<br> +</p> + +<p> +Though not written for a scholarly audience, his biographies of authors +and historical figures like Charles Dickens and St. Francis of Assisi +often contain brilliant insights into their subjects. His Father Brown +mystery stories, written between 1911 and 1936, are still being read +and adapted for television. +</p> + +<p> +His politics fitted with his deep distrust of concentrated wealth and +power of any sort. Along with his friend Hilaire Belloc and in books +like the 1910 “What’s Wrong with the World” he advocated a view called +“Distributionism” that was best summed up by his expression that every +man ought to be allowed to own “three acres and a cow.” Though not known +as a political thinker, his political influence has circled the world. +Some see in him the father of the “small is beautiful” movement and a +newspaper article by him is credited with provoking Gandhi to seek a +“genuine” nationalism for India rather than one that imitated the +British. +</p> + +<p> +Heretics belongs to yet another area of literature at which Chesterton +excelled. A fun-loving and gregarious man, he was nevertheless +troubled in his adolescence by thoughts of suicide. In Christianity he +found the answers to the dilemmas and paradoxes he saw in life. Other +books in that same series include his 1908 Orthodoxy (written in +response to attacks on this book) and his 1925 The Everlasting Man. +Orthodoxy is also available as electronic text. +</p> + +<p> +Chesterton died on the 14th of June, 1936 in Beaconsfield, +Buckinghamshire, England. During his life he published 69 books and at +least another ten based on his writings have been published after his +death. Many of those books are still in print. Ignatius Press is +systematically publishing his collected writings. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +Table of Contents +</h2></div> + +<p CLASS="noindent"> + 1. <A href="#chap01">Introductory Remarks on the Importance of Orthodoxy</A><br> + 2. <A href="#chap02">On the Negative Spirit</A><br> + 3. <A href="#chap03">On Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Making the World Small</A><br> + 4. <A href="#chap04">Mr. Bernard Shaw</A><br> + 5. <A href="#chap05">Mr. H. G. Wells and the Giants</A><br> + 6. <A href="#chap06">Christmas and the Esthetes</A><br> + 7. <A href="#chap07">Omar and the Sacred Vine</A><br> + 8. <A href="#chap08">The Mildness of the Yellow Press</A><br> + 9. <A href="#chap09">The Moods of Mr. George Moore</A><br> + 10. <A href="#chap10">On Sandals and Simplicity</A><br> + 11. <A href="#chap11">Science and the Savages</A><br> + 12. <A href="#chap12">Paganism and Mr. Lowes Dickinson</A><br> + 13. <A href="#chap13">Celts and Celtophiles</A><br> + 14. <A href="#chap14">On Certain Modern Writers and the Institution of the Family</A><br> + 15. <A href="#chap15">On Smart Novelists and the Smart Set</A><br> + 16. <A href="#chap16">On Mr. McCabe and a Divine Frivolity</A><br> + 17. <A href="#chap17">On the Wit of Whistler</A><br> + 18. <A href="#chap18">The Fallacy of the Young Nation</A><br> + 19. <A href="#chap19">Slum Novelists and the Slums</A><br> + 20. <A href="#chap20">Concluding Remarks on the Importance of Orthodoxy</A><br> +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap01"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +I. Introductory Remarks on the Importance of Orthodoxy +</h2></div> + +<p> +Nothing more strangely indicates an enormous and silent evil of modern +society than the extraordinary use which is made nowadays of the word +“orthodox.” In former days the heretic was proud of not being a +heretic. It was the kingdoms of the world and the police and the +judges who were heretics. He was orthodox. He had no pride in having +rebelled against them; they had rebelled against him. The armies with +their cruel security, the kings with their cold faces, the decorous +processes of State, the reasonable processes of law—all these like +sheep had gone astray. The man was proud of being orthodox, was proud +of being right. If he stood alone in a howling wilderness he was more +than a man; he was a church. He was the centre of the universe; it was +round him that the stars swung. All the tortures torn out of forgotten +hells could not make him admit that he was heretical. But a few modern +phrases have made him boast of it. He says, with a conscious laugh, “I +suppose I am very heretical,” and looks round for applause. The word +“heresy” not only means no longer being wrong; it practically means +being clear-headed and courageous. The word “orthodoxy” not only no +longer means being right; it practically means being wrong. All this +can mean one thing, and one thing only. It means that people care less +for whether they are philosophically right. For obviously a man ought +to confess himself crazy before he confesses himself heretical. The +Bohemian, with a red tie, ought to pique himself on his orthodoxy. The +dynamiter, laying a bomb, ought to feel that, whatever else he is, at +least he is orthodox. +</p> + +<p> +It is foolish, generally speaking, for a philosopher to set fire to +another philosopher in Smithfield Market because they do not agree in +their theory of the universe. That was done very frequently in the +last decadence of the Middle Ages, and it failed altogether in its +object. But there is one thing that is infinitely more absurd and +unpractical than burning a man for his philosophy. This is the habit of +saying that his philosophy does not matter, and this is done +universally in the twentieth century, in the decadence of the great +revolutionary period. General theories are everywhere contemned; the +doctrine of the Rights of Man is dismissed with the doctrine of the +Fall of Man. Atheism itself is too theological for us to-day. +Revolution itself is too much of a system; liberty itself is too much +of a restraint. We will have no generalizations. Mr. Bernard Shaw has +put the view in a perfect epigram: “The golden rule is that there is +no golden rule.” We are more and more to discuss details in art, +politics, literature. A man’s opinion on tramcars matters; his opinion +on Botticelli matters; his opinion on all things does not matter. He +may turn over and explore a million objects, but he must not find that +strange object, the universe; for if he does he will have a religion, +and be lost. Everything matters—except everything. +</p> + +<p> +Examples are scarcely needed of this total levity on the subject of +cosmic philosophy. Examples are scarcely needed to show that, whatever +else we think of as affecting practical affairs, we do not think it +matters whether a man is a pessimist or an optimist, a Cartesian or a +Hegelian, a materialist or a spiritualist. Let me, however, take a +random instance. At any innocent tea-table we may easily hear a man +say, “Life is not worth living.” We regard it as we regard the +statement that it is a fine day; nobody thinks that it can possibly +have any serious effect on the man or on the world. And yet if that +utterance were really believed, the world would stand on its head. +Murderers would be given medals for saving men from life; firemen would +be denounced for keeping men from death; poisons would be used as +medicines; doctors would be called in when people were well; the Royal +Humane Society would be rooted out like a horde of assassins. Yet we +never speculate as to whether the conversational pessimist will +strengthen or disorganize society; for we are convinced that theories +do not matter. +</p> + +<p> +This was certainly not the idea of those who introduced our freedom. +When the old Liberals removed the gags from all the heresies, their +idea was that religious and philosophical discoveries might thus be +made. Their view was that cosmic truth was so important that every one +ought to bear independent testimony. The modern idea is that cosmic +truth is so unimportant that it cannot matter what any one says. The +former freed inquiry as men loose a noble hound; the latter frees +inquiry as men fling back into the sea a fish unfit for eating. Never +has there been so little discussion about the nature of men as now, +when, for the first time, any one can discuss it. The old restriction +meant that only the orthodox were allowed to discuss religion. Modern +liberty means that nobody is allowed to discuss it. Good taste, the +last and vilest of human superstitions, has succeeded in silencing us +where all the rest have failed. Sixty years ago it was bad taste to be +an avowed atheist. Then came the Bradlaughites, the last religious men, +the last men who cared about God; but they could not alter it. It is +still bad taste to be an avowed atheist. But their agony has achieved +just this—that now it is equally bad taste to be an avowed Christian. +Emancipation has only locked the saint in the same tower of silence as +the heresiarch. Then we talk about Lord Anglesey and the weather, and +call it the complete liberty of all the creeds. +</p> + +<p> +But there are some people, nevertheless—and I am one of them—who +think that the most practical and important thing about a man is still +his view of the universe. We think that for a landlady considering a +lodger, it is important to know his income, but still more important to +know his philosophy. We think that for a general about to fight an +enemy, it is important to know the enemy’s numbers, but still more +important to know the enemy’s philosophy. We think the question is not +whether the theory of the cosmos affects matters, but whether in the +long run, anything else affects them. In the fifteenth century men +cross-examined and tormented a man because he preached some immoral +attitude; in the nineteenth century we feted and flattered Oscar Wilde +because he preached such an attitude, and then broke his heart in penal +servitude because he carried it out. It may be a question which of the +two methods was the more cruel; there can be no kind of question which +was the more ludicrous. The age of the Inquisition has not at least the +disgrace of having produced a society which made an idol of the very +same man for preaching the very same things which it made him a convict +for practising. +</p> + +<p> +Now, in our time, philosophy or religion, our theory, that is, about +ultimate things, has been driven out, more or less simultaneously, from +two fields which it used to occupy. General ideals used to dominate +literature. They have been driven out by the cry of “art for art’s +sake.” General ideals used to dominate politics. They have been driven +out by the cry of “efficiency,” which may roughly be translated as +“politics for politics’ sake.” Persistently for the last twenty years +the ideals of order or liberty have dwindled in our books; the +ambitions of wit and eloquence have dwindled in our parliaments. +Literature has purposely become less political; politics have purposely +become less literary. General theories of the relation of things have +thus been extruded from both; and we are in a position to ask, “What +have we gained or lost by this extrusion? Is literature better, is +politics better, for having discarded the moralist and the philosopher?” +</p> + +<p> +When everything about a people is for the time growing weak and +ineffective, it begins to talk about efficiency. So it is that when a +man’s body is a wreck he begins, for the first time, to talk about +health. Vigorous organisms talk not about their processes, but about +their aims. There cannot be any better proof of the physical efficiency +of a man than that he talks cheerfully of a journey to the end of the +world. And there cannot be any better proof of the practical efficiency +of a nation than that it talks constantly of a journey to the end of +the world, a journey to the Judgment Day and the New Jerusalem. There +can be no stronger sign of a coarse material health than the tendency +to run after high and wild ideals; it is in the first exuberance of +infancy that we cry for the moon. None of the strong men in the strong +ages would have understood what you meant by working for efficiency. +Hildebrand would have said that he was working not for efficiency, but +for the Catholic Church. Danton would have said that he was working not +for efficiency, but for liberty, equality, and fraternity. Even if the +ideal of such men were simply the ideal of kicking a man downstairs, +they thought of the end like men, not of the process like paralytics. +They did not say, “Efficiently elevating my right leg, using, you will +notice, the muscles of the thigh and calf, which are in excellent +order, I—” Their feeling was quite different. They were so filled with +the beautiful vision of the man lying flat at the foot of the staircase +that in that ecstasy the rest followed in a flash. In practice, the +habit of generalizing and idealizing did not by any means mean worldly +weakness. The time of big theories was the time of big results. In the +era of sentiment and fine words, at the end of the eighteenth century, +men were really robust and effective. The sentimentalists conquered +Napoleon. The cynics could not catch De Wet. A hundred years ago our +affairs for good or evil were wielded triumphantly by rhetoricians. Now +our affairs are hopelessly muddled by strong, silent men. And just as +this repudiation of big words and big visions has brought forth a race +of small men in politics, so it has brought forth a race of small men +in the arts. Our modern politicians claim the colossal license of +Caesar and the Superman, claim that they are too practical to be pure +and too patriotic to be moral; but the upshot of it all is that a +mediocrity is Chancellor of the Exchequer. Our new artistic +philosophers call for the same moral license, for a freedom to wreck +heaven and earth with their energy; but the upshot of it all is that a +mediocrity is Poet Laureate. I do not say that there are no stronger +men than these; but will any one say that there are any men stronger +than those men of old who were dominated by their philosophy and +steeped in their religion? Whether bondage be better than freedom may +be discussed. But that their bondage came to more than our freedom it +will be difficult for any one to deny. +</p> + +<p> +The theory of the unmorality of art has established itself firmly in +the strictly artistic classes. They are free to produce anything they +like. They are free to write a “Paradise Lost” in which Satan shall +conquer God. They are free to write a “Divine Comedy” in which heaven +shall be under the floor of hell. And what have they done? Have they +produced in their universality anything grander or more beautiful than +the things uttered by the fierce Ghibbeline Catholic, by the rigid +Puritan schoolmaster? We know that they have produced only a few +roundels. Milton does not merely beat them at his piety, he beats them +at their own irreverence. In all their little books of verse you will +not find a finer defiance of God than Satan’s. Nor will you find the +grandeur of paganism felt as that fiery Christian felt it who described +Faranata lifting his head as in disdain of hell. And the reason is very +obvious. Blasphemy is an artistic effect, because blasphemy depends +upon a philosophical conviction. Blasphemy depends upon belief and is +fading with it. If any one doubts this, let him sit down seriously and +try to think blasphemous thoughts about Thor. I think his family will +find him at the end of the day in a state of some exhaustion. +</p> + +<p> +Neither in the world of politics nor that of literature, then, has the +rejection of general theories proved a success. It may be that there +have been many moonstruck and misleading ideals that have from time to +time perplexed mankind. But assuredly there has been no ideal in +practice so moonstruck and misleading as the ideal of practicality. +Nothing has lost so many opportunities as the opportunism of Lord +Rosebery. He is, indeed, a standing symbol of this epoch—the man who +is theoretically a practical man, and practically more unpractical than +any theorist. Nothing in this universe is so unwise as that kind of +worship of worldly wisdom. A man who is perpetually thinking of whether +this race or that race is strong, of whether this cause or that cause +is promising, is the man who will never believe in anything long enough +to make it succeed. The opportunist politician is like a man who should +abandon billiards because he was beaten at billiards, and abandon golf +because he was beaten at golf. There is nothing which is so weak for +working purposes as this enormous importance attached to immediate +victory. There is nothing that fails like success. +</p> + +<p> +And having discovered that opportunism does fail, I have been induced +to look at it more largely, and in consequence to see that it must +fail. I perceive that it is far more practical to begin at the +beginning and discuss theories. I see that the men who killed each +other about the orthodoxy of the Homoousion were far more sensible than +the people who are quarrelling about the Education Act. For the +Christian dogmatists were trying to establish a reign of holiness, and +trying to get defined, first of all, what was really holy. But our +modern educationists are trying to bring about a religious liberty +without attempting to settle what is religion or what is liberty. If +the old priests forced a statement on mankind, at least they previously +took some trouble to make it lucid. It has been left for the modern +mobs of Anglicans and Nonconformists to persecute for a doctrine +without even stating it. +</p> + +<p> +For these reasons, and for many more, I for one have come to believe in +going back to fundamentals. Such is the general idea of this book. I +wish to deal with my most distinguished contemporaries, not personally +or in a merely literary manner, but in relation to the real body of +doctrine which they teach. I am not concerned with Mr. Rudyard Kipling +as a vivid artist or a vigorous personality; I am concerned with him as +a Heretic—that is to say, a man whose view of things has the hardihood +to differ from mine. I am not concerned with Mr. Bernard Shaw as one +of the most brilliant and one of the most honest men alive; I am +concerned with him as a Heretic—that is to say, a man whose philosophy +is quite solid, quite coherent, and quite wrong. I revert to the +doctrinal methods of the thirteenth century, inspired by the general +hope of getting something done. +</p> + +<p> +Suppose that a great commotion arises in the street about something, +let us say a lamp-post, which many influential persons desire to pull +down. A grey-clad monk, who is the spirit of the Middle Ages, is +approached upon the matter, and begins to say, in the arid manner of +the Schoolmen, “Let us first of all consider, my brethren, the value of +Light. If Light be in itself good—” At this point he is somewhat +excusably knocked down. All the people make a rush for the lamp-post, +the lamp-post is down in ten minutes, and they go about congratulating +each other on their unmediaeval practicality. But as things go on they +do not work out so easily. Some people have pulled the lamp-post down +because they wanted the electric light; some because they wanted old +iron; some because they wanted darkness, because their deeds were evil. +Some thought it not enough of a lamp-post, some too much; some acted +because they wanted to smash municipal machinery; some because they +wanted to smash something. And there is war in the night, no man +knowing whom he strikes. So, gradually and inevitably, to-day, +to-morrow, or the next day, there comes back the conviction that the +monk was right after all, and that all depends on what is the +philosophy of Light. Only what we might have discussed under the +gas-lamp, we now must discuss in the dark. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap02"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +II. On the negative spirit +</h2></div> + +<p> +Much has been said, and said truly, of the monkish morbidity, of the +hysteria which as often gone with the visions of hermits or nuns. But +let us never forget that this visionary religion is, in one sense, +necessarily more wholesome than our modern and reasonable morality. It +is more wholesome for this reason, that it can contemplate the idea of +success or triumph in the hopeless fight towards the ethical ideal, in +what Stevenson called, with his usual startling felicity, “the lost +fight of virtue.” A modern morality, on the other hand, can only point +with absolute conviction to the horrors that follow breaches of law; +its only certainty is a certainty of ill. It can only point to +imperfection. It has no perfection to point to. But the monk +meditating upon Christ or Buddha has in his mind an image of perfect +health, a thing of clear colours and clean air. He may contemplate this +ideal wholeness and happiness far more than he ought; he may +contemplate it to the neglect of exclusion of essential THINGS; he may +contemplate it until he has become a dreamer or a driveller; but still +it is wholeness and happiness that he is contemplating. He may even go +mad; but he is going mad for the love of sanity. But the modern student +of ethics, even if he remains sane, remains sane from an insane dread +of insanity. +</p> + +<p> +The anchorite rolling on the stones in a frenzy of submission is a +healthier person fundamentally than many a sober man in a silk hat who +is walking down Cheapside. For many such are good only through a +withering knowledge of evil. I am not at this moment claiming for the +devotee anything more than this primary advantage, that though he may +be making himself personally weak and miserable, he is still fixing his +thoughts largely on gigantic strength and happiness, on a strength that +has no limits, and a happiness that has no end. Doubtless there are +other objections which can be urged without unreason against the +influence of gods and visions in morality, whether in the cell or +street. But this advantage the mystic morality must always have—it is +always jollier. A young man may keep himself from vice by continually +thinking of disease. He may keep himself from it also by continually +thinking of the Virgin Mary. There may be question about which method +is the more reasonable, or even about which is the more efficient. But +surely there can be no question about which is the more wholesome. +</p> + +<p> +I remember a pamphlet by that able and sincere secularist, Mr. G. W. +Foote, which contained a phrase sharply symbolizing and dividing these +two methods. The pamphlet was called BEER AND BIBLE, those two very +noble things, all the nobler for a conjunction which Mr. Foote, in his +stern old Puritan way, seemed to think sardonic, but which I confess to +thinking appropriate and charming. I have not the work by me, but I +remember that Mr. Foote dismissed very contemptuously any attempts to +deal with the problem of strong drink by religious offices or +intercessions, and said that a picture of a drunkard’s liver would be +more efficacious in the matter of temperance than any prayer or praise. +In that picturesque expression, it seems to me, is perfectly embodied +the incurable morbidity of modern ethics. In that temple the lights are +low, the crowds kneel, the solemn anthems are uplifted. But that upon +the altar to which all men kneel is no longer the perfect flesh, the +body and substance of the perfect man; it is still flesh, but it is +diseased. It is the drunkard’s liver of the New Testament that is +marred for us, which we take in remembrance of him. +</p> + +<p> +Now, it is this great gap in modern ethics, the absence of vivid +pictures of purity and spiritual triumph, which lies at the back of the +real objection felt by so many sane men to the realistic literature of +the nineteenth century. If any ordinary man ever said that he was +horrified by the subjects discussed in Ibsen or Maupassant, or by the +plain language in which they are spoken of, that ordinary man was +lying. The average conversation of average men throughout the whole of +modern civilization in every class or trade is such as Zola would never +dream of printing. Nor is the habit of writing thus of these things a +new habit. On the contrary, it is the Victorian prudery and silence +which is new still, though it is already dying. The tradition of +calling a spade a spade starts very early in our literature and comes +down very late. But the truth is that the ordinary honest man, +whatever vague account he may have given of his feelings, was not +either disgusted or even annoyed at the candour of the moderns. What +disgusted him, and very justly, was not the presence of a clear +realism, but the absence of a clear idealism. Strong and genuine +religious sentiment has never had any objection to realism; on the +contrary, religion was the realistic thing, the brutal thing, the thing +that called names. This is the great difference between some recent +developments of Nonconformity and the great Puritanism of the +seventeenth century. It was the whole point of the Puritans that they +cared nothing for decency. Modern Nonconformist newspapers distinguish +themselves by suppressing precisely those nouns and adjectives which +the founders of Nonconformity distinguished themselves by flinging at +kings and queens. But if it was a chief claim of religion that it spoke +plainly about evil, it was the chief claim of all that it spoke plainly +about good. The thing which is resented, and, as I think, rightly +resented, in that great modern literature of which Ibsen is typical, is +that while the eye that can perceive what are the wrong things +increases in an uncanny and devouring clarity, the eye which sees what +things are right is growing mistier and mistier every moment, till it +goes almost blind with doubt. If we compare, let us say, the morality +of the DIVINE COMEDY with the morality of Ibsen’s GHOSTS, we shall see +all that modern ethics have really done. No one, I imagine, will accuse +the author of the INFERNO of an Early Victorian prudishness or a +Podsnapian optimism. But Dante describes three moral +instruments—Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell, the vision of perfection, the +vision of improvement, and the vision of failure. Ibsen has only +one—Hell. It is often said, and with perfect truth, that no one could +read a play like GHOSTS and remain indifferent to the necessity of an +ethical self-command. That is quite true, and the same is to be said of +the most monstrous and material descriptions of the eternal fire. It is +quite certain the realists like Zola do in one sense promote +morality—they promote it in the sense in which the hangman promotes +it, in the sense in which the devil promotes it. But they only affect +that small minority which will accept any virtue of courage. Most +healthy people dismiss these moral dangers as they dismiss the +possibility of bombs or microbes. Modern realists are indeed +Terrorists, like the dynamiters; and they fail just as much in their +effort to create a thrill. Both realists and dynamiters are +well-meaning people engaged in the task, so obviously ultimately +hopeless, of using science to promote morality. +</p> + +<p> +I do not wish the reader to confuse me for a moment with those vague +persons who imagine that Ibsen is what they call a pessimist. There are +plenty of wholesome people in Ibsen, plenty of good people, plenty of +happy people, plenty of examples of men acting wisely and things ending +well. That is not my meaning. My meaning is that Ibsen has throughout, +and does not disguise, a certain vagueness and a changing attitude as +well as a doubting attitude towards what is really wisdom and virtue in +this life—a vagueness which contrasts very remarkably with the +decisiveness with which he pounces on something which he perceives to +be a root of evil, some convention, some deception, some ignorance. We +know that the hero of GHOSTS is mad, and we know why he is mad. We do +also know that Dr. Stockman is sane; but we do not know why he is sane. +Ibsen does not profess to know how virtue and happiness are brought +about, in the sense that he professes to know how our modern sexual +tragedies are brought about. Falsehood works ruin in THE PILLARS OF +SOCIETY, but truth works equal ruin in THE WILD DUCK. There are no +cardinal virtues of Ibsenism. There is no ideal man of Ibsen. All this +is not only admitted, but vaunted in the most valuable and thoughtful +of all the eulogies upon Ibsen, Mr. Bernard Shaw’s QUINTESSENCE OF +IBSENISM. Mr. Shaw sums up Ibsen’s teaching in the phrase, “The golden +rule is that there is no golden rule.” In his eyes this absence of an +enduring and positive ideal, this absence of a permanent key to virtue, +is the one great Ibsen merit. I am not discussing now with any fulness +whether this is so or not. All I venture to point out, with an +increased firmness, is that this omission, good or bad, does leave us +face to face with the problem of a human consciousness filled with very +definite images of evil, and with no definite image of good. To us +light must be henceforward the dark thing—the thing of which we cannot +speak. To us, as to Milton’s devils in Pandemonium, it is darkness +that is visible. The human race, according to religion, fell once, and +in falling gained knowledge of good and of evil. Now we have fallen a +second time, and only the knowledge of evil remains to us. +</p> + +<p> +A great silent collapse, an enormous unspoken disappointment, has in +our time fallen on our Northern civilization. All previous ages have +sweated and been crucified in an attempt to realize what is really the +right life, what was really the good man. A definite part of the modern +world has come beyond question to the conclusion that there is no +answer to these questions, that the most that we can do is to set up a +few notice-boards at places of obvious danger, to warn men, for +instance, against drinking themselves to death, or ignoring the mere +existence of their neighbours. Ibsen is the first to return from the +baffled hunt to bring us the tidings of great failure. +</p> + +<p> +Every one of the popular modern phrases and ideals is a dodge in order +to shirk the problem of what is good. We are fond of talking about +“liberty”; that, as we talk of it, is a dodge to avoid discussing what +is good. We are fond of talking about “progress”; that is a dodge to +avoid discussing what is good. We are fond of talking about +“education”; that is a dodge to avoid discussing what is good. The +modern man says, “Let us leave all these arbitrary standards and +embrace liberty.” This is, logically rendered, “Let us not decide what +is good, but let it be considered good not to decide it.” He says, +“Away with your old moral formulae; I am for progress.” This, logically +stated, means, “Let us not settle what is good; but let us settle +whether we are getting more of it.” He says, “Neither in religion nor +morality, my friend, lie the hopes of the race, but in education.” +This, clearly expressed, means, “We cannot decide what is good, but let +us give it to our children.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. H.G. Wells, that exceedingly clear-sighted man, has pointed out in +a recent work that this has happened in connection with economic +questions. The old economists, he says, made generalizations, and they +were (in Mr. Wells’s view) mostly wrong. But the new economists, he +says, seem to have lost the power of making any generalizations at all. +And they cover this incapacity with a general claim to be, in specific +cases, regarded as “experts”, a claim “proper enough in a hairdresser +or a fashionable physician, but indecent in a philosopher or a man of +science.” But in spite of the refreshing rationality with which Mr. +Wells has indicated this, it must also be said that he himself has +fallen into the same enormous modern error. In the opening pages of +that excellent book MANKIND IN THE MAKING, he dismisses the ideals of +art, religion, abstract morality, and the rest, and says that he is +going to consider men in their chief function, the function of +parenthood. He is going to discuss life as a “tissue of births.” He is +not going to ask what will produce satisfactory saints or satisfactory +heroes, but what will produce satisfactory fathers and mothers. The +whole is set forward so sensibly that it is a few moments at least +before the reader realises that it is another example of unconscious +shirking. What is the good of begetting a man until we have settled +what is the good of being a man? You are merely handing on to him a +problem you dare not settle yourself. It is as if a man were asked, +“What is the use of a hammer?” and answered, “To make hammers”; and +when asked, “And of those hammers, what is the use?” answered, “To make +hammers again”. Just as such a man would be perpetually putting off the +question of the ultimate use of carpentry, so Mr. Wells and all the +rest of us are by these phrases successfully putting off the question +of the ultimate value of the human life. +</p> + +<p> +The case of the general talk of “progress” is, indeed, an extreme one. +As enunciated to-day, “progress” is simply a comparative of which we +have not settled the superlative. We meet every ideal of religion, +patriotism, beauty, or brute pleasure with the alternative ideal of +progress—that is to say, we meet every proposal of getting something +that we know about, with an alternative proposal of getting a great +deal more of nobody knows what. Progress, properly understood, has, +indeed, a most dignified and legitimate meaning. But as used in +opposition to precise moral ideals, it is ludicrous. So far from it +being the truth that the ideal of progress is to be set against that of +ethical or religious finality, the reverse is the truth. Nobody has any +business to use the word “progress” unless he has a definite creed and +a cast-iron code of morals. Nobody can be progressive without being +doctrinal; I might almost say that nobody can be progressive without +being infallible—at any rate, without believing in some infallibility. +For progress by its very name indicates a direction; and the moment we +are in the least doubtful about the direction, we become in the same +degree doubtful about the progress. Never perhaps since the beginning +of the world has there been an age that had less right to use the word +“progress” than we. In the Catholic twelfth century, in the philosophic +eighteenth century, the direction may have been a good or a bad one, +men may have differed more or less about how far they went, and in what +direction, but about the direction they did in the main agree, and +consequently they had the genuine sensation of progress. But it is +precisely about the direction that we disagree. Whether the future +excellence lies in more law or less law, in more liberty or less +liberty; whether property will be finally concentrated or finally cut +up; whether sexual passion will reach its sanest in an almost virgin +intellectualism or in a full animal freedom; whether we should love +everybody with Tolstoy, or spare nobody with Nietzsche;—these are the +things about which we are actually fighting most. It is not merely +true that the age which has settled least what is progress is this +“progressive” age. It is, moreover, true that the people who have +settled least what is progress are the most “progressive” people in it. +The ordinary mass, the men who have never troubled about progress, +might be trusted perhaps to progress. The particular individuals who +talk about progress would certainly fly to the four winds of heaven +when the pistol-shot started the race. I do not, therefore, say that +the word “progress” is unmeaning; I say it is unmeaning without the +previous definition of a moral doctrine, and that it can only be +applied to groups of persons who hold that doctrine in common. +Progress is not an illegitimate word, but it is logically evident that +it is illegitimate for us. It is a sacred word, a word which could only +rightly be used by rigid believers and in the ages of faith. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap03"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +III. On Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Making the World Small +</h2></div> + +<p> +There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only +thing that can exist is an uninterested person. Nothing is more keenly +required than a defence of bores. When Byron divided humanity into the +bores and bored, he omitted to notice that the higher qualities exist +entirely in the bores, the lower qualities in the bored, among whom he +counted himself. The bore, by his starry enthusiasm, his solemn +happiness, may, in some sense, have proved himself poetical. The bored +has certainly proved himself prosaic. +</p> + +<p> +We might, no doubt, find it a nuisance to count all the blades of grass +or all the leaves of the trees; but this would not be because of our +boldness or gaiety, but because of our lack of boldness and gaiety. The +bore would go onward, bold and gay, and find the blades of grass as +splendid as the swords of an army. The bore is stronger and more +joyous than we are; he is a demigod—nay, he is a god. For it is the +gods who do not tire of the iteration of things; to them the nightfall +is always new, and the last rose as red as the first. +</p> + +<p> +The sense that everything is poetical is a thing solid and absolute; it +is not a mere matter of phraseology or persuasion. It is not merely +true, it is ascertainable. Men may be challenged to deny it; men may +be challenged to mention anything that is not a matter of poetry. I +remember a long time ago a sensible sub-editor coming up to me with a +book in his hand, called “Mr. Smith,” or “The Smith Family,” or some +such thing. He said, “Well, you won’t get any of your damned mysticism +out of this,” or words to that effect. I am happy to say that I +undeceived him; but the victory was too obvious and easy. In most cases +the name is unpoetical, although the fact is poetical. In the case of +Smith, the name is so poetical that it must be an arduous and heroic +matter for the man to live up to it. The name of Smith is the name of +the one trade that even kings respected, it could claim half the glory +of that arma virumque which all epics acclaimed. The spirit of the +smithy is so close to the spirit of song that it has mixed in a million +poems, and every blacksmith is a harmonious blacksmith. +</p> + +<p> +Even the village children feel that in some dim way the smith is +poetic, as the grocer and the cobbler are not poetic, when they feast +on the dancing sparks and deafening blows in the cavern of that +creative violence. The brute repose of Nature, the passionate cunning +of man, the strongest of earthly metals, the wierdest of earthly +elements, the unconquerable iron subdued by its only conqueror, the +wheel and the ploughshare, the sword and the steam-hammer, the arraying +of armies and the whole legend of arms, all these things are written, +briefly indeed, but quite legibly, on the visiting-card of Mr. Smith. +Yet our novelists call their hero “Aylmer Valence,” which means +nothing, or “Vernon Raymond,” which means nothing, when it is in their +power to give him this sacred name of Smith—this name made of iron and +flame. It would be very natural if a certain hauteur, a certain +carriage of the head, a certain curl of the lip, distinguished every +one whose name is Smith. Perhaps it does; I trust so. Whoever else are +parvenus, the Smiths are not parvenus. From the darkest dawn of history +this clan has gone forth to battle; its trophies are on every hand; its +name is everywhere; it is older than the nations, and its sign is the +Hammer of Thor. But as I also remarked, it is not quite the usual case. +It is common enough that common things should be poetical; it is not so +common that common names should be poetical. In most cases it is the +name that is the obstacle. A great many people talk as if this claim of +ours, that all things are poetical, were a mere literary ingenuity, a +play on words. Precisely the contrary is true. It is the idea that +some things are not poetical which is literary, which is a mere product +of words. The word “signal-box” is unpoetical. But the thing +signal-box is not unpoetical; it is a place where men, in an agony of +vigilance, light blood-red and sea-green fires to keep other men from +death. That is the plain, genuine description of what it is; the prose +only comes in with what it is called. The word “pillar-box” is +unpoetical. But the thing pillar-box is not unpoetical; it is the place +to which friends and lovers commit their messages, conscious that when +they have done so they are sacred, and not to be touched, not only by +others, but even (religious touch!) by themselves. That red turret is +one of the last of the temples. Posting a letter and getting married +are among the few things left that are entirely romantic; for to be +entirely romantic a thing must be irrevocable. We think a pillar-box +prosaic, because there is no rhyme to it. We think a pillar-box +unpoetical, because we have never seen it in a poem. But the bold fact +is entirely on the side of poetry. A signal-box is only called a +signal-box; it is a house of life and death. A pillar-box is only +called a pillar-box; it is a sanctuary of human words. If you think +the name of “Smith” prosaic, it is not because you are practical and +sensible; it is because you are too much affected with literary +refinements. The name shouts poetry at you. If you think of it +otherwise, it is because you are steeped and sodden with verbal +reminiscences, because you remember everything in Punch or Comic Cuts +about Mr. Smith being drunk or Mr. Smith being henpecked. All these +things were given to you poetical. It is only by a long and elaborate +process of literary effort that you have made them prosaic. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the first and fairest thing to say about Rudyard Kipling is that +he has borne a brilliant part in thus recovering the lost provinces of +poetry. He has not been frightened by that brutal materialistic air +which clings only to words; he has pierced through to the romantic, +imaginative matter of the things themselves. He has perceived the +significance and philosophy of steam and of slang. Steam may be, if you +like, a dirty by-product of science. Slang may be, if you like, a dirty +by-product of language. But at least he has been among the few who saw +the divine parentage of these things, and knew that where there is +smoke there is fire—that is, that wherever there is the foulest of +things, there also is the purest. Above all, he has had something to +say, a definite view of things to utter, and that always means that a +man is fearless and faces everything. For the moment we have a view of +the universe, we possess it. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the message of Rudyard Kipling, that upon which he has really +concentrated, is the only thing worth worrying about in him or in any +other man. He has often written bad poetry, like Wordsworth. He has +often said silly things, like Plato. He has often given way to mere +political hysteria, like Gladstone. But no one can reasonably doubt +that he means steadily and sincerely to say something, and the only +serious question is, What is that which he has tried to say? Perhaps +the best way of stating this fairly will be to begin with that element +which has been most insisted by himself and by his opponents—I mean +his interest in militarism. But when we are seeking for the real merits +of a man it is unwise to go to his enemies, and much more foolish to go +to himself. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Mr. Kipling is certainly wrong in his worship of militarism, but +his opponents are, generally speaking, quite as wrong as he. The evil +of militarism is not that it shows certain men to be fierce and haughty +and excessively warlike. The evil of militarism is that it shows most +men to be tame and timid and excessively peaceable. The professional +soldier gains more and more power as the general courage of a community +declines. Thus the Pretorian guard became more and more important in +Rome as Rome became more and more luxurious and feeble. The military +man gains the civil power in proportion as the civilian loses the +military virtues. And as it was in ancient Rome so it is in +contemporary Europe. There never was a time when nations were more +militarist. There never was a time when men were less brave. All ages +and all epics have sung of arms and the man; but we have effected +simultaneously the deterioration of the man and the fantastic +perfection of the arms. Militarism demonstrated the decadence of Rome, +and it demonstrates the decadence of Prussia. +</p> + +<p> +And unconsciously Mr. Kipling has proved this, and proved it admirably. +For in so far as his work is earnestly understood the military trade +does not by any means emerge as the most important or attractive. He +has not written so well about soldiers as he has about railway men or +bridge builders, or even journalists. The fact is that what attracts +Mr. Kipling to militarism is not the idea of courage, but the idea of +discipline. There was far more courage to the square mile in the Middle +Ages, when no king had a standing army, but every man had a bow or +sword. But the fascination of the standing army upon Mr. Kipling is not +courage, which scarcely interests him, but discipline, which is, when +all is said and done, his primary theme. The modern army is not a +miracle of courage; it has not enough opportunities, owing to the +cowardice of everybody else. But it is really a miracle of +organization, and that is the truly Kiplingite ideal. Kipling’s subject +is not that valour which properly belongs to war, but that +interdependence and efficiency which belongs quite as much to +engineers, or sailors, or mules, or railway engines. And thus it is +that when he writes of engineers, or sailors, or mules, or +steam-engines, he writes at his best. The real poetry, the “true +romance” which Mr. Kipling has taught, is the romance of the division +of labour and the discipline of all the trades. He sings the arts of +peace much more accurately than the arts of war. And his main +contention is vital and valuable. Every thing is military in the sense +that everything depends upon obedience. There is no perfectly +epicurean corner; there is no perfectly irresponsible place. Everywhere +men have made the way for us with sweat and submission. We may fling +ourselves into a hammock in a fit of divine carelessness. But we are +glad that the net-maker did not make the hammock in a fit of divine +carelessness. We may jump upon a child’s rocking-horse for a joke. But +we are glad that the carpenter did not leave the legs of it unglued for +a joke. So far from having merely preached that a soldier cleaning his +side-arm is to be adored because he is military, Kipling at his best +and clearest has preached that the baker baking loaves and the tailor +cutting coats is as military as anybody. +</p> + +<p> +Being devoted to this multitudinous vision of duty, Mr. Kipling is +naturally a cosmopolitan. He happens to find his examples in the +British Empire, but almost any other empire would do as well, or, +indeed, any other highly civilized country. That which he admires in +the British army he would find even more apparent in the German army; +that which he desires in the British police he would find flourishing, +in the French police. The ideal of discipline is not the whole of life, +but it is spread over the whole of the world. And the worship of it +tends to confirm in Mr. Kipling a certain note of worldly wisdom, of +the experience of the wanderer, which is one of the genuine charms of +his best work. +</p> + +<p> +The great gap in his mind is what may be roughly called the lack of +patriotism—that is to say, he lacks altogether the faculty of +attaching himself to any cause or community finally and tragically; for +all finality must be tragic. He admires England, but he does not love +her; for we admire things with reasons, but love them without reasons. +He admires England because she is strong, not because she is English. +There is no harshness in saying this, for, to do him justice, he avows +it with his usual picturesque candour. In a very interesting poem, he +says that— +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “If England was what England seems”<br> +</p> + +<p CLASS="noindent"> +—that is, weak and inefficient; if England were not what (as he +believes) she is—that is, powerful and practical— +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “How quick we’d chuck ’er! But she ain’t!”<br> +</p> + +<p> +He admits, that is, that his devotion is the result of a criticism, and +this is quite enough to put it in another category altogether from the +patriotism of the Boers, whom he hounded down in South Africa. In +speaking of the really patriotic peoples, such as the Irish, he has +some difficulty in keeping a shrill irritation out of his language. The +frame of mind which he really describes with beauty and nobility is the +frame of mind of the cosmopolitan man who has seen men and cities. +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “For to admire and for to see,<br> + For to be’old this world so wide.”<br> +</p> + +<p> +He is a perfect master of that light melancholy with which a man looks +back on having been the citizen of many communities, of that light +melancholy with which a man looks back on having been the lover of many +women. He is the philanderer of the nations. But a man may have learnt +much about women in flirtations, and still be ignorant of first love; a +man may have known as many lands as Ulysses, and still be ignorant of +patriotism. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Rudyard Kipling has asked in a celebrated epigram what they can +know of England who know England only. It is a far deeper and sharper +question to ask, “What can they know of England who know only the +world?” for the world does not include England any more than it +includes the Church. The moment we care for anything deeply, the +world—that is, all the other miscellaneous interests—becomes our +enemy. Christians showed it when they talked of keeping one’s self +“unspotted from the world;” but lovers talk of it just as much when +they talk of the “world well lost.” Astronomically speaking, I +understand that England is situated on the world; similarly, I suppose +that the Church was a part of the world, and even the lovers +inhabitants of that orb. But they all felt a certain truth—the truth +that the moment you love anything the world becomes your foe. Thus Mr. +Kipling does certainly know the world; he is a man of the world, with +all the narrowness that belongs to those imprisoned in that planet. He +knows England as an intelligent English gentleman knows Venice. He has +been to England a great many times; he has stopped there for long +visits. But he does not belong to it, or to any place; and the proof +of it is this, that he thinks of England as a place. The moment we are +rooted in a place, the place vanishes. We live like a tree with the +whole strength of the universe. +</p> + +<p> +The globe-trotter lives in a smaller world than the peasant. He is +always breathing, an air of locality. London is a place, to be +compared to Chicago; Chicago is a place, to be compared to Timbuctoo. +But Timbuctoo is not a place, since there, at least, live men who +regard it as the universe, and breathe, not an air of locality, but the +winds of the world. The man in the saloon steamer has seen all the +races of men, and he is thinking of the things that divide men—diet, +dress, decorum, rings in the nose as in Africa, or in the ears as in +Europe, blue paint among the ancients, or red paint among the modern +Britons. The man in the cabbage field has seen nothing at all; but he +is thinking of the things that unite men—hunger and babies, and the +beauty of women, and the promise or menace of the sky. Mr. Kipling, +with all his merits, is the globe-trotter; he has not the patience to +become part of anything. So great and genuine a man is not to be +accused of a merely cynical cosmopolitanism; still, his cosmopolitanism +is his weakness. That weakness is splendidly expressed in one of his +finest poems, “The Sestina of the Tramp Royal,” in which a man declares +that he can endure anything in the way of hunger or horror, but not +permanent presence in one place. In this there is certainly danger. +The more dead and dry and dusty a thing is the more it travels about; +dust is like this and the thistle-down and the High Commissioner in +South Africa. Fertile things are somewhat heavier, like the heavy +fruit trees on the pregnant mud of the Nile. In the heated idleness of +youth we were all rather inclined to quarrel with the implication of +that proverb which says that a rolling stone gathers no moss. We were +inclined to ask, “Who wants to gather moss, except silly old ladies?” +But for all that we begin to perceive that the proverb is right. The +rolling stone rolls echoing from rock to rock; but the rolling stone is +dead. The moss is silent because the moss is alive. +</p> + +<p> +The truth is that exploration and enlargement make the world smaller. +The telegraph and the steamboat make the world smaller. The telescope +makes the world smaller; it is only the microscope that makes it +larger. Before long the world will be cloven with a war between the +telescopists and the microscopists. The first study large things and +live in a small world; the second study small things and live in a +large world. It is inspiriting without doubt to whizz in a motor-car +round the earth, to feel Arabia as a whirl of sand or China as a flash +of rice-fields. But Arabia is not a whirl of sand and China is not a +flash of rice-fields. They are ancient civilizations with strange +virtues buried like treasures. If we wish to understand them it must +not be as tourists or inquirers, it must be with the loyalty of +children and the great patience of poets. To conquer these places is to +lose them. The man standing in his own kitchen-garden, with fairyland +opening at the gate, is the man with large ideas. His mind creates +distance; the motor-car stupidly destroys it. Moderns think of the +earth as a globe, as something one can easily get round, the spirit of +a schoolmistress. This is shown in the odd mistake perpetually made +about Cecil Rhodes. His enemies say that he may have had large ideas, +but he was a bad man. His friends say that he may have been a bad man, +but he certainly had large ideas. The truth is that he was not a man +essentially bad, he was a man of much geniality and many good +intentions, but a man with singularly small views. There is nothing +large about painting the map red; it is an innocent game for children. +It is just as easy to think in continents as to think in cobble-stones. +The difficulty comes in when we seek to know the substance of either of +them. Rhodes’ prophecies about the Boer resistance are an admirable +comment on how the “large ideas” prosper when it is not a question of +thinking in continents but of understanding a few two-legged men. And +under all this vast illusion of the cosmopolitan planet, with its +empires and its Reuter’s agency, the real life of man goes on concerned +with this tree or that temple, with this harvest or that drinking-song, +totally uncomprehended, totally untouched. And it watches from its +splendid parochialism, possibly with a smile of amusement, motor-car +civilization going its triumphant way, outstripping time, consuming +space, seeing all and seeing nothing, roaring on at last to the capture +of the solar system, only to find the sun cockney and the stars +suburban. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap04"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +IV. Mr. Bernard Shaw +</h2></div> + +<p> +In the glad old days, before the rise of modern morbidities, when +genial old Ibsen filled the world with wholesome joy, and the kindly +tales of the forgotten Emile Zola kept our firesides merry and pure, it +used to be thought a disadvantage to be misunderstood. It may be +doubted whether it is always or even generally a disadvantage. The man +who is misunderstood has always this advantage over his enemies, that +they do not know his weak point or his plan of campaign. They go out +against a bird with nets and against a fish with arrows. There are +several modern examples of this situation. Mr. Chamberlain, for +instance, is a very good one. He constantly eludes or vanquishes his +opponents because his real powers and deficiencies are quite different +to those with which he is credited, both by friends and foes. His +friends depict him as a strenuous man of action; his opponents depict +him as a coarse man of business; when, as a fact, he is neither one nor +the other, but an admirable romantic orator and romantic actor. He has +one power which is the soul of melodrama—the power of pretending, even +when backed by a huge majority, that he has his back to the wall. For +all mobs are so far chivalrous that their heroes must make some show of +misfortune—that sort of hypocrisy is the homage that strength pays to +weakness. He talks foolishly and yet very finely about his own city +that has never deserted him. He wears a flaming and fantastic flower, +like a decadent minor poet. As for his bluffness and toughness and +appeals to common sense, all that is, of course, simply the first trick +of rhetoric. He fronts his audiences with the venerable affectation of +Mark Antony— +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “I am no orator, as Brutus is;<br> + But as you know me all, a plain blunt man.”<br> +</p> + +<p> +It is the whole difference between the aim of the orator and the aim of +any other artist, such as the poet or the sculptor. The aim of the +sculptor is to convince us that he is a sculptor; the aim of the +orator, is to convince us that he is not an orator. Once let Mr. +Chamberlain be mistaken for a practical man, and his game is won. He +has only to compose a theme on empire, and people will say that these +plain men say great things on great occasions. He has only to drift in +the large loose notions common to all artists of the second rank, and +people will say that business men have the biggest ideals after all. +All his schemes have ended in smoke; he has touched nothing that he did +not confuse. About his figure there is a Celtic pathos; like the Gaels +in Matthew Arnold’s quotation, “he went forth to battle, but he always +fell.” He is a mountain of proposals, a mountain of failures; but still +a mountain. And a mountain is always romantic. +</p> + +<p> +There is another man in the modern world who might be called the +antithesis of Mr. Chamberlain in every point, who is also a standing +monument of the advantage of being misunderstood. Mr. Bernard Shaw is +always represented by those who disagree with him, and, I fear, also +(if such exist) by those who agree with him, as a capering humorist, a +dazzling acrobat, a quick-change artist. It is said that he cannot be +taken seriously, that he will defend anything or attack anything, that +he will do anything to startle and amuse. All this is not only untrue, +but it is, glaringly, the opposite of the truth; it is as wild as to +say that Dickens had not the boisterous masculinity of Jane Austen. +The whole force and triumph of Mr. Bernard Shaw lie in the fact that he +is a thoroughly consistent man. So far from his power consisting in +jumping through hoops or standing on his head, his power consists in +holding his own fortress night and day. He puts the Shaw test rapidly +and rigorously to everything that happens in heaven or earth. His +standard never varies. The thing which weak-minded revolutionists and +weak-minded Conservatives really hate (and fear) in him, is exactly +this, that his scales, such as they are, are held even, and that his +law, such as it is, is justly enforced. You may attack his principles, +as I do; but I do not know of any instance in which you can attack +their application. If he dislikes lawlessness, he dislikes the +lawlessness of Socialists as much as that of Individualists. If he +dislikes the fever of patriotism, he dislikes it in Boers and Irishmen +as well as in Englishmen. If he dislikes the vows and bonds of +marriage, he dislikes still more the fiercer bonds and wilder vows that +are made by lawless love. If he laughs at the authority of priests, he +laughs louder at the pomposity of men of science. If he condemns the +irresponsibility of faith, he condemns with a sane consistency the +equal irresponsibility of art. He has pleased all the bohemians by +saying that women are equal to men; but he has infuriated them by +suggesting that men are equal to women. He is almost mechanically just; +he has something of the terrible quality of a machine. The man who is +really wild and whirling, the man who is really fantastic and +incalculable, is not Mr. Shaw, but the average Cabinet Minister. It is +Sir Michael Hicks-Beach who jumps through hoops. It is Sir Henry +Fowler who stands on his head. The solid and respectable statesman of +that type does really leap from position to position; he is really +ready to defend anything or nothing; he is really not to be taken +seriously. I know perfectly well what Mr. Bernard Shaw will be saying +thirty years hence; he will be saying what he has always said. If +thirty years hence I meet Mr. Shaw, a reverent being with a silver +beard sweeping the earth, and say to him, “One can never, of course, +make a verbal attack upon a lady,” the patriarch will lift his aged +hand and fell me to the earth. We know, I say, what Mr. Shaw will be, +saying thirty years hence. But is there any one so darkly read in stars +and oracles that he will dare to predict what Mr. Asquith will be +saying thirty years hence? +</p> + +<p> +The truth is, that it is quite an error to suppose that absence of +definite convictions gives the mind freedom and agility. A man who +believes something is ready and witty, because he has all his weapons +about him. He can apply his test in an instant. The man engaged in +conflict with a man like Mr. Bernard Shaw may fancy he has ten faces; +similarly a man engaged against a brilliant duellist may fancy that the +sword of his foe has turned to ten swords in his hand. But this is not +really because the man is playing with ten swords, it is because he is +aiming very straight with one. Moreover, a man with a definite belief +always appears bizarre, because he does not change with the world; he +has climbed into a fixed star, and the earth whizzes below him like a +zoetrope. Millions of mild black-coated men call themselves sane and +sensible merely because they always catch the fashionable insanity, +because they are hurried into madness after madness by the maelstrom of +the world. +</p> + +<p> +People accuse Mr. Shaw and many much sillier persons of “proving that +black is white.” But they never ask whether the current +colour-language is always correct. Ordinary sensible phraseology +sometimes calls black white, it certainly calls yellow white and green +white and reddish-brown white. We call wine “white wine” which is as +yellow as a Blue-coat boy’s legs. We call grapes “white grapes” which +are manifestly pale green. We give to the European, whose complexion is +a sort of pink drab, the horrible title of a “white man”—a picture +more blood-curdling than any spectre in Poe. +</p> + +<p> +Now, it is undoubtedly true that if a man asked a waiter in a +restaurant for a bottle of yellow wine and some greenish-yellow grapes, +the waiter would think him mad. It is undoubtedly true that if a +Government official, reporting on the Europeans in Burmah, said, “There +are only two thousand pinkish men here” he would be accused of cracking +jokes, and kicked out of his post. But it is equally obvious that both +men would have come to grief through telling the strict truth. That too +truthful man in the restaurant; that too truthful man in Burmah, is Mr. +Bernard Shaw. He appears eccentric and grotesque because he will not +accept the general belief that white is yellow. He has based all his +brilliancy and solidity upon the hackneyed, but yet forgotten, fact +that truth is stranger than fiction. Truth, of course, must of +necessity be stranger than fiction, for we have made fiction to suit +ourselves. +</p> + +<p> +So much then a reasonable appreciation will find in Mr. Shaw to be +bracing and excellent. He claims to see things as they are; and some +things, at any rate, he does see as they are, which the whole of our +civilization does not see at all. But in Mr. Shaw’s realism there is +something lacking, and that thing which is lacking is serious. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Shaw’s old and recognized philosophy was that powerfully presented +in “The Quintessence of Ibsenism.” It was, in brief, that conservative +ideals were bad, not because they were conservative, but because they +were ideals. Every ideal prevented men from judging justly the +particular case; every moral generalization oppressed the individual; +the golden rule was there was no golden rule. And the objection to this +is simply that it pretends to free men, but really restrains them from +doing the only thing that men want to do. What is the good of telling a +community that it has every liberty except the liberty to make laws? +The liberty to make laws is what constitutes a free people. And what +is the good of telling a man (or a philosopher) that he has every +liberty except the liberty to make generalizations. Making +generalizations is what makes him a man. In short, when Mr. Shaw +forbids men to have strict moral ideals, he is acting like one who +should forbid them to have children. The saying that “the golden rule +is that there is no golden rule,” can, indeed, be simply answered by +being turned round. That there is no golden rule is itself a golden +rule, or rather it is much worse than a golden rule. It is an iron +rule; a fetter on the first movement of a man. +</p> + +<p> +But the sensation connected with Mr. Shaw in recent years has been his +sudden development of the religion of the Superman. He who had to all +appearance mocked at the faiths in the forgotten past discovered a new +god in the unimaginable future. He who had laid all the blame on +ideals set up the most impossible of all ideals, the ideal of a new +creature. But the truth, nevertheless, is that any one who knows Mr. +Shaw’s mind adequately, and admires it properly, must have guessed all +this long ago. +</p> + +<p> +For the truth is that Mr. Shaw has never seen things as they really +are. If he had he would have fallen on his knees before them. He has +always had a secret ideal that has withered all the things of this +world. He has all the time been silently comparing humanity with +something that was not human, with a monster from Mars, with the Wise +Man of the Stoics, with the Economic Man of the Fabians, with Julius +Caesar, with Siegfried, with the Superman. Now, to have this inner and +merciless standard may be a very good thing, or a very bad one, it may +be excellent or unfortunate, but it is not seeing things as they are. +It is not seeing things as they are to think first of a Briareus with a +hundred hands, and then call every man a cripple for only having two. +It is not seeing things as they are to start with a vision of Argus +with his hundred eyes, and then jeer at every man with two eyes as if +he had only one. And it is not seeing things as they are to imagine a +demigod of infinite mental clarity, who may or may not appear in the +latter days of the earth, and then to see all men as idiots. And this +is what Mr. Shaw has always in some degree done. When we really see +men as they are, we do not criticise, but worship; and very rightly. +For a monster with mysterious eyes and miraculous thumbs, with strange +dreams in his skull, and a queer tenderness for this place or that +baby, is truly a wonderful and unnerving matter. It is only the quite +arbitrary and priggish habit of comparison with something else which +makes it possible to be at our ease in front of him. A sentiment of +superiority keeps us cool and practical; the mere facts would make our +knees knock under as with religious fear. It is the fact that every +instant of conscious life is an unimaginable prodigy. It is the fact +that every face in the street has the incredible unexpectedness of a +fairy-tale. The thing which prevents a man from realizing this is not +any clear-sightedness or experience, it is simply a habit of pedantic +and fastidious comparisons between one thing and another. Mr. Shaw, on +the practical side perhaps the most humane man alive, is in this sense +inhumane. He has even been infected to some extent with the primary +intellectual weakness of his new master, Nietzsche, the strange notion +that the greater and stronger a man was the more he would despise other +things. The greater and stronger a man is the more he would be +inclined to prostrate himself before a periwinkle. That Mr. Shaw keeps +a lifted head and a contemptuous face before the colossal panorama of +empires and civilizations, this does not in itself convince one that he +sees things as they are. I should be most effectively convinced that he +did if I found him staring with religious astonishment at his own feet. +“What are those two beautiful and industrious beings,” I can imagine +him murmuring to himself, “whom I see everywhere, serving me I know not +why? What fairy godmother bade them come trotting out of elfland when I +was born? What god of the borderland, what barbaric god of legs, must +I propitiate with fire and wine, lest they run away with me?” +</p> + +<p> +The truth is, that all genuine appreciation rests on a certain mystery +of humility and almost of darkness. The man who said, “Blessed is he +that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed,” put the +eulogy quite inadequately and even falsely. The truth “Blessed is he +that expecteth nothing, for he shall be gloriously surprised.” The man +who expects nothing sees redder roses than common men can see, and +greener grass, and a more startling sun. Blessed is he that expecteth +nothing, for he shall possess the cities and the mountains; blessed is +the meek, for he shall inherit the earth. Until we realize that things +might not be we cannot realize that things are. Until we see the +background of darkness we cannot admire the light as a single and +created thing. As soon as we have seen that darkness, all light is +lightening, sudden, blinding, and divine. Until we picture nonentity we +underrate the victory of God, and can realize none of the trophies of +His ancient war. It is one of the million wild jests of truth that we +know nothing until we know nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Now this is, I say deliberately, the only defect in the greatness of +Mr. Shaw, the only answer to his claim to be a great man, that he is +not easily pleased. He is an almost solitary exception to the general +and essential maxim, that little things please great minds. And from +this absence of that most uproarious of all things, humility, comes +incidentally the peculiar insistence on the Superman. After belabouring +a great many people for a great many years for being unprogressive, Mr. +Shaw has discovered, with characteristic sense, that it is very +doubtful whether any existing human being with two legs can be +progressive at all. Having come to doubt whether humanity can be +combined with progress, most people, easily pleased, would have elected +to abandon progress and remain with humanity. Mr. Shaw, not being +easily pleased, decides to throw over humanity with all its limitations +and go in for progress for its own sake. If man, as we know him, is +incapable of the philosophy of progress, Mr. Shaw asks, not for a new +kind of philosophy, but for a new kind of man. It is rather as if a +nurse had tried a rather bitter food for some years on a baby, and on +discovering that it was not suitable, should not throw away the food +and ask for a new food, but throw the baby out of window, and ask for a +new baby. Mr. Shaw cannot understand that the thing which is valuable +and lovable in our eyes is man—the old beer-drinking, creed-making, +fighting, failing, sensual, respectable man. And the things that have +been founded on this creature immortally remain; the things that have +been founded on the fancy of the Superman have died with the dying +civilizations which alone have given them birth. When Christ at a +symbolic moment was establishing His great society, He chose for its +corner-stone neither the brilliant Paul nor the mystic John, but a +shuffler, a snob a coward—in a word, a man. And upon this rock He has +built His Church, and the gates of Hell have not prevailed against it. +All the empires and the kingdoms have failed, because of this inherent +and continual weakness, that they were founded by strong men and upon +strong men. But this one thing, the historic Christian Church, was +founded on a weak man, and for that reason it is indestructible. For no +chain is stronger than its weakest link. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap05"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +V. Mr. H. G. Wells and the Giants +</h2></div> + +<p> +We ought to see far enough into a hypocrite to see even his sincerity. +We ought to be interested in that darkest and most real part of a man +in which dwell not the vices that he does not display, but the virtues +that he cannot. And the more we approach the problems of human history +with this keen and piercing charity, the smaller and smaller space we +shall allow to pure hypocrisy of any kind. The hypocrites shall not +deceive us into thinking them saints; but neither shall they deceive us +into thinking them hypocrites. And an increasing number of cases will +crowd into our field of inquiry, cases in which there is really no +question of hypocrisy at all, cases in which people were so ingenuous +that they seemed absurd, and so absurd that they seemed disingenuous. +</p> + +<p> +There is one striking instance of an unfair charge of hypocrisy. It is +always urged against the religious in the past, as a point of +inconsistency and duplicity, that they combined a profession of almost +crawling humility with a keen struggle for earthly success and +considerable triumph in attaining it. It is felt as a piece of humbug, +that a man should be very punctilious in calling himself a miserable +sinner, and also very punctilious in calling himself King of France. +But the truth is that there is no more conscious inconsistency between +the humility of a Christian and the rapacity of a Christian than there +is between the humility of a lover and the rapacity of a lover. The +truth is that there are no things for which men will make such +herculean efforts as the things of which they know they are unworthy. +There never was a man in love who did not declare that, if he strained +every nerve to breaking, he was going to have his desire. And there +never was a man in love who did not declare also that he ought not to +have it. The whole secret of the practical success of Christendom lies +in the Christian humility, however imperfectly fulfilled. For with the +removal of all question of merit or payment, the soul is suddenly +released for incredible voyages. If we ask a sane man how much he +merits, his mind shrinks instinctively and instantaneously. It is +doubtful whether he merits six feet of earth. But if you ask him what +he can conquer—he can conquer the stars. Thus comes the thing called +Romance, a purely Christian product. A man cannot deserve adventures; +he cannot earn dragons and hippogriffs. The mediaeval Europe which +asserted humility gained Romance; the civilization which gained Romance +has gained the habitable globe. How different the Pagan and Stoical +feeling was from this has been admirably expressed in a famous +quotation. Addison makes the great Stoic say— +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “’Tis not in mortals to command success;<br> + But we’ll do more, Sempronius, we’ll deserve it.”<br> +</p> + +<p> +But the spirit of Romance and Christendom, the spirit which is in every +lover, the spirit which has bestridden the earth with European +adventure, is quite opposite. ’Tis not in mortals to deserve success. +But we’ll do more, Sempronius; we’ll obtain it. +</p> + +<p> +And this gay humility, this holding of ourselves lightly and yet ready +for an infinity of unmerited triumphs, this secret is so simple that +every one has supposed that it must be something quite sinister and +mysterious. Humility is so practical a virtue that men think it must be +a vice. Humility is so successful that it is mistaken for pride. It is +mistaken for it all the more easily because it generally goes with a +certain simple love of splendour which amounts to vanity. Humility will +always, by preference, go clad in scarlet and gold; pride is that which +refuses to let gold and scarlet impress it or please it too much. In a +word, the failure of this virtue actually lies in its success; it is +too successful as an investment to be believed in as a virtue. +Humility is not merely too good for this world; it is too practical for +this world; I had almost said it is too worldly for this world. +</p> + +<p> +The instance most quoted in our day is the thing called the humility of +the man of science; and certainly it is a good instance as well as a +modern one. Men find it extremely difficult to believe that a man who +is obviously uprooting mountains and dividing seas, tearing down +temples and stretching out hands to the stars, is really a quiet old +gentleman who only asks to be allowed to indulge his harmless old hobby +and follow his harmless old nose. When a man splits a grain of sand and +the universe is turned upside down in consequence, it is difficult to +realize that to the man who did it, the splitting of the grain is the +great affair, and the capsizing of the cosmos quite a small one. It is +hard to enter into the feelings of a man who regards a new heaven and a +new earth in the light of a by-product. But undoubtedly it was to this +almost eerie innocence of the intellect that the great men of the great +scientific period, which now appears to be closing, owed their enormous +power and triumph. If they had brought the heavens down like a house of +cards their plea was not even that they had done it on principle; their +quite unanswerable plea was that they had done it by accident. Whenever +there was in them the least touch of pride in what they had done, there +was a good ground for attacking them; but so long as they were wholly +humble, they were wholly victorious. There were possible answers to +Huxley; there was no answer possible to Darwin. He was convincing +because of his unconsciousness; one might almost say because of his +dulness. This childlike and prosaic mind is beginning to wane in the +world of science. Men of science are beginning to see themselves, as +the fine phrase is, in the part; they are beginning to be proud of +their humility. They are beginning to be aesthetic, like the rest of +the world, beginning to spell truth with a capital T, beginning to talk +of the creeds they imagine themselves to have destroyed, of the +discoveries that their forbears made. Like the modern English, they +are beginning to be soft about their own hardness. They are becoming +conscious of their own strength—that is, they are growing weaker. But +one purely modern man has emerged in the strictly modern decades who +does carry into our world the clear personal simplicity of the old +world of science. One man of genius we have who is an artist, but who +was a man of science, and who seems to be marked above all things with +this great scientific humility. I mean Mr. H. G. Wells. And in his +case, as in the others above spoken of, there must be a great +preliminary difficulty in convincing the ordinary person that such a +virtue is predicable of such a man. Mr. Wells began his literary work +with violent visions—visions of the last pangs of this planet; can it +be that a man who begins with violent visions is humble? He went on to +wilder and wilder stories about carving beasts into men and shooting +angels like birds. Is the man who shoots angels and carves beasts into +men humble? Since then he has done something bolder than either of +these blasphemies; he has prophesied the political future of all men; +prophesied it with aggressive authority and a ringing decision of +detail. Is the prophet of the future of all men humble? It will indeed +be difficult, in the present condition of current thought about such +things as pride and humility, to answer the query of how a man can be +humble who does such big things and such bold things. For the only +answer is the answer which I gave at the beginning of this essay. It +is the humble man who does the big things. It is the humble man who +does the bold things. It is the humble man who has the sensational +sights vouchsafed to him, and this for three obvious reasons: first, +that he strains his eyes more than any other men to see them; second, +that he is more overwhelmed and uplifted with them when they come; +third, that he records them more exactly and sincerely and with less +adulteration from his more commonplace and more conceited everyday +self. Adventures are to those to whom they are most unexpected—that +is, most romantic. Adventures are to the shy: in this sense +adventures are to the unadventurous. +</p> + +<p> +Now, this arresting, mental humility in Mr. H. G. Wells may be, like a +great many other things that are vital and vivid, difficult to +illustrate by examples, but if I were asked for an example of it, I +should have no difficulty about which example to begin with. The most +interesting thing about Mr. H. G. Wells is that he is the only one of +his many brilliant contemporaries who has not stopped growing. One can +lie awake at night and hear him grow. Of this growth the most evident +manifestation is indeed a gradual change of opinions; but it is no mere +change of opinions. It is not a perpetual leaping from one position to +another like that of Mr. George Moore. It is a quite continuous +advance along a quite solid road in a quite definable direction. But +the chief proof that it is not a piece of fickleness and vanity is the +fact that it has been upon the whole an advance from more startling +opinions to more humdrum opinions. It has been even in some sense an +advance from unconventional opinions to conventional opinions. This +fact fixes Mr. Wells’s honesty and proves him to be no poseur. Mr. +Wells once held that the upper classes and the lower classes would be +so much differentiated in the future that one class would eat the +other. Certainly no paradoxical charlatan who had once found arguments +for so startling a view would ever have deserted it except for +something yet more startling. Mr. Wells has deserted it in favour of +the blameless belief that both classes will be ultimately subordinated +or assimilated to a sort of scientific middle class, a class of +engineers. He has abandoned the sensational theory with the same +honourable gravity and simplicity with which he adopted it. Then he +thought it was true; now he thinks it is not true. He has come to the +most dreadful conclusion a literary man can come to, the conclusion +that the ordinary view is the right one. It is only the last and +wildest kind of courage that can stand on a tower before ten thousand +people and tell them that twice two is four. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. H. G. Wells exists at present in a gay and exhilarating progress of +conservativism. He is finding out more and more that conventions, +though silent, are alive. As good an example as any of this humility +and sanity of his may be found in his change of view on the subject of +science and marriage. He once held, I believe, the opinion which some +singular sociologists still hold, that human creatures could +successfully be paired and bred after the manner of dogs or horses. He +no longer holds that view. Not only does he no longer hold that view, +but he has written about it in “Mankind in the Making” with such +smashing sense and humour, that I find it difficult to believe that +anybody else can hold it either. It is true that his chief objection to +the proposal is that it is physically impossible, which seems to me a +very slight objection, and almost negligible compared with the others. +The one objection to scientific marriage which is worthy of final +attention is simply that such a thing could only be imposed on +unthinkable slaves and cowards. I do not know whether the scientific +marriage-mongers are right (as they say) or wrong (as Mr. Wells says) +in saying that medical supervision would produce strong and healthy +men. I am only certain that if it did, the first act of the strong and +healthy men would be to smash the medical supervision. +</p> + +<p> +The mistake of all that medical talk lies in the very fact that it +connects the idea of health with the idea of care. What has health to +do with care? Health has to do with carelessness. In special and +abnormal cases it is necessary to have care. When we are peculiarly +unhealthy it may be necessary to be careful in order to be healthy. But +even then we are only trying to be healthy in order to be careless. If +we are doctors we are speaking to exceptionally sick men, and they +ought to be told to be careful. But when we are sociologists we are +addressing the normal man, we are addressing humanity. And humanity +ought to be told to be recklessness itself. For all the fundamental +functions of a healthy man ought emphatically to be performed with +pleasure and for pleasure; they emphatically ought not to be performed +with precaution or for precaution. A man ought to eat because he has a +good appetite to satisfy, and emphatically not because he has a body to +sustain. A man ought to take exercise not because he is too fat, but +because he loves foils or horses or high mountains, and loves them for +their own sake. And a man ought to marry because he has fallen in love, +and emphatically not because the world requires to be populated. The +food will really renovate his tissues as long as he is not thinking +about his tissues. The exercise will really get him into training so +long as he is thinking about something else. And the marriage will +really stand some chance of producing a generous-blooded generation if +it had its origin in its own natural and generous excitement. It is the +first law of health that our necessities should not be accepted as +necessities; they should be accepted as luxuries. Let us, then, be +careful about the small things, such as a scratch or a slight illness, +or anything that can be managed with care. But in the name of all +sanity, let us be careless about the important things, such as +marriage, or the fountain of our very life will fail. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wells, however, is not quite clear enough of the narrower +scientific outlook to see that there are some things which actually +ought not to be scientific. He is still slightly affected with the +great scientific fallacy; I mean the habit of beginning not with the +human soul, which is the first thing a man learns about, but with some +such thing as protoplasm, which is about the last. The one defect in +his splendid mental equipment is that he does not sufficiently allow +for the stuff or material of men. In his new Utopia he says, for +instance, that a chief point of the Utopia will be a disbelief in +original sin. If he had begun with the human soul—that is, if he had +begun on himself—he would have found original sin almost the first +thing to be believed in. He would have found, to put the matter +shortly, that a permanent possibility of selfishness arises from the +mere fact of having a self, and not from any accidents of education or +ill-treatment. And the weakness of all Utopias is this, that they take +the greatest difficulty of man and assume it to be overcome, and then +give an elaborate account of the overcoming of the smaller ones. They +first assume that no man will want more than his share, and then are +very ingenious in explaining whether his share will be delivered by +motor-car or balloon. And an even stronger example of Mr. Wells’s +indifference to the human psychology can be found in his +cosmopolitanism, the abolition in his Utopia of all patriotic +boundaries. He says in his innocent way that Utopia must be a +world-state, or else people might make war on it. It does not seem to +occur to him that, for a good many of us, if it were a world-state we +should still make war on it to the end of the world. For if we admit +that there must be varieties in art or opinion what sense is there in +thinking there will not be varieties in government? The fact is very +simple. Unless you are going deliberately to prevent a thing being +good, you cannot prevent it being worth fighting for. It is impossible +to prevent a possible conflict of civilizations, because it is +impossible to prevent a possible conflict between ideals. If there were +no longer our modern strife between nations, there would only be a +strife between Utopias. For the highest thing does not tend to union +only; the highest thing, tends also to differentiation. You can often +get men to fight for the union; but you can never prevent them from +fighting also for the differentiation. This variety in the highest +thing is the meaning of the fierce patriotism, the fierce nationalism +of the great European civilization. It is also, incidentally, the +meaning of the doctrine of the Trinity. +</p> + +<p> +But I think the main mistake of Mr. Wells’s philosophy is a somewhat +deeper one, one that he expresses in a very entertaining manner in the +introductory part of the new Utopia. His philosophy in some sense +amounts to a denial of the possibility of philosophy itself. At least, +he maintains that there are no secure and reliable ideas upon which we +can rest with a final mental satisfaction. It will be both clearer, +however, and more amusing to quote Mr. Wells himself. +</p> + +<p> +He says, “Nothing endures, nothing is precise and certain (except the +mind of a pedant).... Being indeed!—there is no being, but a +universal becoming of individualities, and Plato turned his back on +truth when he turned towards his museum of specific ideals.” Mr. Wells +says, again, “There is no abiding thing in what we know. We change from +weaker to stronger lights, and each more powerful light pierces our +hitherto opaque foundations and reveals fresh and different opacities +below.” Now, when Mr. Wells says things like this, I speak with all +respect when I say that he does not observe an evident mental +distinction. It cannot be true that there is nothing abiding in what we +know. For if that were so we should not know it all and should not call +it knowledge. Our mental state may be very different from that of +somebody else some thousands of years back; but it cannot be entirely +different, or else we should not be conscious of a difference. Mr. +Wells must surely realize the first and simplest of the paradoxes that +sit by the springs of truth. He must surely see that the fact of two +things being different implies that they are similar. The hare and the +tortoise may differ in the quality of swiftness, but they must agree in +the quality of motion. The swiftest hare cannot be swifter than an +isosceles triangle or the idea of pinkness. When we say the hare moves +faster, we say that the tortoise moves. And when we say of a thing that +it moves, we say, without need of other words, that there are things +that do not move. And even in the act of saying that things change, we +say that there is something unchangeable. +</p> + +<p> +But certainly the best example of Mr. Wells’s fallacy can be found in +the example which he himself chooses. It is quite true that we see a +dim light which, compared with a darker thing, is light, but which, +compared with a stronger light, is darkness. But the quality of light +remains the same thing, or else we should not call it a stronger light +or recognize it as such. If the character of light were not fixed in +the mind, we should be quite as likely to call a denser shadow a +stronger light, or vice versa If the character of light became even for +an instant unfixed, if it became even by a hair’s-breadth doubtful, if, +for example, there crept into our idea of light some vague idea of +blueness, then in that flash we have become doubtful whether the new +light has more light or less. In brief, the progress may be as varying +as a cloud, but the direction must be as rigid as a French road. North +and South are relative in the sense that I am North of Bournemouth and +South of Spitzbergen. But if there be any doubt of the position of the +North Pole, there is in equal degree a doubt of whether I am South of +Spitzbergen at all. The absolute idea of light may be practically +unattainable. We may not be able to procure pure light. We may not be +able to get to the North Pole. But because the North Pole is +unattainable, it does not follow that it is indefinable. And it is only +because the North Pole is not indefinable that we can make a +satisfactory map of Brighton and Worthing. +</p> + +<p> +In other words, Plato turned his face to truth but his back on Mr. H. +G. Wells, when he turned to his museum of specified ideals. It is +precisely here that Plato shows his sense. It is not true that +everything changes; the things that change are all the manifest and +material things. There is something that does not change; and that is +precisely the abstract quality, the invisible idea. Mr. Wells says +truly enough, that a thing which we have seen in one connection as dark +we may see in another connection as light. But the thing common to both +incidents is the mere idea of light—which we have not seen at all. +Mr. Wells might grow taller and taller for unending aeons till his head +was higher than the loneliest star. I can imagine his writing a good +novel about it. In that case he would see the trees first as tall +things and then as short things; he would see the clouds first as high +and then as low. But there would remain with him through the ages in +that starry loneliness the idea of tallness; he would have in the awful +spaces for companion and comfort the definite conception that he was +growing taller and not (for instance) growing fatter. +</p> + +<p> +And now it comes to my mind that Mr. H. G. Wells actually has written a +very delightful romance about men growing as tall as trees; and that +here, again, he seems to me to have been a victim of this vague +relativism. “The Food of the Gods” is, like Mr. Bernard Shaw’s play, +in essence a study of the Superman idea. And it lies, I think, even +through the veil of a half-pantomimic allegory, open to the same +intellectual attack. We cannot be expected to have any regard for a +great creature if he does not in any manner conform to our standards. +For unless he passes our standard of greatness we cannot even call him +great. Nietszche summed up all that is interesting in the Superman +idea when he said, “Man is a thing which has to be surpassed.” But the +very word “surpass” implies the existence of a standard common to us +and the thing surpassing us. If the Superman is more manly than men +are, of course they will ultimately deify him, even if they happen to +kill him first. But if he is simply more supermanly, they may be quite +indifferent to him as they would be to another seemingly aimless +monstrosity. He must submit to our test even in order to overawe us. +Mere force or size even is a standard; but that alone will never make +men think a man their superior. Giants, as in the wise old +fairy-tales, are vermin. Supermen, if not good men, are vermin. +</p> + +<p> +“The Food of the Gods” is the tale of “Jack the Giant-Killer” told from +the point of view of the giant. This has not, I think, been done +before in literature; but I have little doubt that the psychological +substance of it existed in fact. I have little doubt that the giant +whom Jack killed did regard himself as the Superman. It is likely +enough that he considered Jack a narrow and parochial person who wished +to frustrate a great forward movement of the life-force. If (as not +unfrequently was the case) he happened to have two heads, he would +point out the elementary maxim which declares them to be better than +one. He would enlarge on the subtle modernity of such an equipment, +enabling a giant to look at a subject from two points of view, or to +correct himself with promptitude. But Jack was the champion of the +enduring human standards, of the principle of one man one head and one +man one conscience, of the single head and the single heart and the +single eye. Jack was quite unimpressed by the question of whether the +giant was a particularly gigantic giant. All he wished to know was +whether he was a good giant—that is, a giant who was any good to us. +What were the giant’s religious views; what his views on politics and +the duties of the citizen? Was he fond of children—or fond of them +only in a dark and sinister sense? To use a fine phrase for emotional +sanity, was his heart in the right place? Jack had sometimes to cut him +up with a sword in order to find out. The old and correct story of Jack +the Giant-Killer is simply the whole story of man; if it were +understood we should need no Bibles or histories. But the modern world +in particular does not seem to understand it at all. The modern world, +like Mr. Wells is on the side of the giants; the safest place, and +therefore the meanest and the most prosaic. The modern world, when it +praises its little Caesars, talks of being strong and brave: but it +does not seem to see the eternal paradox involved in the conjunction of +these ideas. The strong cannot be brave. Only the weak can be brave; +and yet again, in practice, only those who can be brave can be trusted, +in time of doubt, to be strong. The only way in which a giant could +really keep himself in training against the inevitable Jack would be by +continually fighting other giants ten times as big as himself. That is +by ceasing to be a giant and becoming a Jack. Thus that sympathy with +the small or the defeated as such, with which we Liberals and +Nationalists have been often reproached, is not a useless +sentimentalism at all, as Mr. Wells and his friends fancy. It is the +first law of practical courage. To be in the weakest camp is to be in +the strongest school. Nor can I imagine anything that would do humanity +more good than the advent of a race of Supermen, for them to fight like +dragons. If the Superman is better than we, of course we need not fight +him; but in that case, why not call him the Saint? But if he is merely +stronger (whether physically, mentally, or morally stronger, I do not +care a farthing), then he ought to have to reckon with us at least for +all the strength we have. If we are weaker than he, that is no reason +why we should be weaker than ourselves. If we are not tall enough to +touch the giant’s knees, that is no reason why we should become shorter +by falling on our own. But that is at bottom the meaning of all modern +hero-worship and celebration of the Strong Man, the Caesar the +Superman. That he may be something more than man, we must be something +less. +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless there is an older and better hero-worship than this. But the +old hero was a being who, like Achilles, was more human than humanity +itself. Nietzsche’s Superman is cold and friendless. Achilles is so +foolishly fond of his friend that he slaughters armies in the agony of +his bereavement. Mr. Shaw’s sad Caesar says in his desolate pride, “He +who has never hoped can never despair.” The Man-God of old answers from +his awful hill, “Was ever sorrow like unto my sorrow?” A great man is +not a man so strong that he feels less than other men; he is a man so +strong that he feels more. And when Nietszche says, “A new commandment +I give to you, ‘be hard,’” he is really saying, “A new commandment I +give to you, ‘be dead.’” Sensibility is the definition of life. +</p> + +<p> +I recur for a last word to Jack the Giant-Killer. I have dwelt on this +matter of Mr. Wells and the giants, not because it is specially +prominent in his mind; I know that the Superman does not bulk so large +in his cosmos as in that of Mr. Bernard Shaw. I have dwelt on it for +the opposite reason; because this heresy of immoral hero-worship has +taken, I think, a slighter hold of him, and may perhaps still be +prevented from perverting one of the best thinkers of the day. In the +course of “The New Utopia” Mr. Wells makes more than one admiring +allusion to Mr. W. E. Henley. That clever and unhappy man lived in +admiration of a vague violence, and was always going back to rude old +tales and rude old ballads, to strong and primitive literatures, to +find the praise of strength and the justification of tyranny. But he +could not find it. It is not there. The primitive literature is shown +in the tale of Jack the Giant-Killer. The strong old literature is all +in praise of the weak. The rude old tales are as tender to minorities +as any modern political idealist. The rude old ballads are as +sentimentally concerned for the under-dog as the Aborigines Protection +Society. When men were tough and raw, when they lived amid hard knocks +and hard laws, when they knew what fighting really was, they had only +two kinds of songs. The first was a rejoicing that the weak had +conquered the strong, the second a lamentation that the strong had, for +once in a way, conquered the weak. For this defiance of the statu quo, +this constant effort to alter the existing balance, this premature +challenge to the powerful, is the whole nature and inmost secret of the +psychological adventure which is called man. It is his strength to +disdain strength. The forlorn hope is not only a real hope, it is the +only real hope of mankind. In the coarsest ballads of the greenwood men +are admired most when they defy, not only the king, but what is more to +the point, the hero. The moment Robin Hood becomes a sort of Superman, +that moment the chivalrous chronicler shows us Robin thrashed by a poor +tinker whom he thought to thrust aside. And the chivalrous chronicler +makes Robin Hood receive the thrashing in a glow of admiration. This +magnanimity is not a product of modern humanitarianism; it is not a +product of anything to do with peace. This magnanimity is merely one of +the lost arts of war. The Henleyites call for a sturdy and fighting +England, and they go back to the fierce old stories of the sturdy and +fighting English. And the thing that they find written across that +fierce old literature everywhere, is “the policy of Majuba.” +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap06"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +VI. Christmas and the Aesthetes +</h2></div> + +<p> +The world is round, so round that the schools of optimism and pessimism +have been arguing from the beginning whether it is the right way up. +The difficulty does not arise so much from the mere fact that good and +evil are mingled in roughly equal proportions; it arises chiefly from +the fact that men always differ about what parts are good and what +evil. Hence the difficulty which besets “undenominational religions.” +They profess to include what is beautiful in all creeds, but they +appear to many to have collected all that is dull in them. All the +colours mixed together in purity ought to make a perfect white. Mixed +together on any human paint-box, they make a thing like mud, and a +thing very like many new religions. Such a blend is often something +much worse than any one creed taken separately, even the creed of the +Thugs. The error arises from the difficulty of detecting what is really +the good part and what is really the bad part of any given religion. +And this pathos falls rather heavily on those persons who have the +misfortune to think of some religion or other, that the parts commonly +counted good are bad, and the parts commonly counted bad are good. +</p> + +<p> +It is tragic to admire and honestly admire a human group, but to admire +it in a photographic negative. It is difficult to congratulate all +their whites on being black and all their blacks on their whiteness. +This will often happen to us in connection with human religions. Take +two institutions which bear witness to the religious energy of the +nineteenth century. Take the Salvation Army and the philosophy of +Auguste Comte. +</p> + +<p> +The usual verdict of educated people on the Salvation Army is expressed +in some such words as these: “I have no doubt they do a great deal of +good, but they do it in a vulgar and profane style; their aims are +excellent, but their methods are wrong.” To me, unfortunately, the +precise reverse of this appears to be the truth. I do not know whether +the aims of the Salvation Army are excellent, but I am quite sure their +methods are admirable. Their methods are the methods of all intense and +hearty religions; they are popular like all religion, military like all +religion, public and sensational like all religion. They are not +reverent any more than Roman Catholics are reverent, for reverence in +the sad and delicate meaning of the term reverence is a thing only +possible to infidels. That beautiful twilight you will find in +Euripides, in Renan, in Matthew Arnold; but in men who believe you will +not find it—you will find only laughter and war. A man cannot pay +that kind of reverence to truth solid as marble; they can only be +reverent towards a beautiful lie. And the Salvation Army, though their +voice has broken out in a mean environment and an ugly shape, are +really the old voice of glad and angry faith, hot as the riots of +Dionysus, wild as the gargoyles of Catholicism, not to be mistaken for +a philosophy. Professor Huxley, in one of his clever phrases, called +the Salvation Army “corybantic Christianity.” Huxley was the last and +noblest of those Stoics who have never understood the Cross. If he had +understood Christianity he would have known that there never has been, +and never can be, any Christianity that is not corybantic. +</p> + +<p> +And there is this difference between the matter of aims and the matter +of methods, that to judge of the aims of a thing like the Salvation +Army is very difficult, to judge of their ritual and atmosphere very +easy. No one, perhaps, but a sociologist can see whether General +Booth’s housing scheme is right. But any healthy person can see that +banging brass cymbals together must be right. A page of statistics, a +plan of model dwellings, anything which is rational, is always +difficult for the lay mind. But the thing which is irrational any one +can understand. That is why religion came so early into the world and +spread so far, while science came so late into the world and has not +spread at all. History unanimously attests the fact that it is only +mysticism which stands the smallest chance of being understanded of the +people. Common sense has to be kept as an esoteric secret in the dark +temple of culture. And so while the philanthropy of the Salvationists +and its genuineness may be a reasonable matter for the discussion of +the doctors, there can be no doubt about the genuineness of their brass +bands, for a brass band is purely spiritual, and seeks only to quicken +the internal life. The object of philanthropy is to do good; the +object of religion is to be good, if only for a moment, amid a crash of +brass. +</p> + +<p> +And the same antithesis exists about another modern religion—I mean +the religion of Comte, generally known as Positivism, or the worship of +humanity. Such men as Mr. Frederic Harrison, that brilliant and +chivalrous philosopher, who still, by his mere personality, speaks for +the creed, would tell us that he offers us the philosophy of Comte, but +not all Comte’s fantastic proposals for pontiffs and ceremonials, the +new calendar, the new holidays and saints’ days. He does not mean that +we should dress ourselves up as priests of humanity or let off +fireworks because it is Milton’s birthday. To the solid English Comtist +all this appears, he confesses, to be a little absurd. To me it +appears the only sensible part of Comtism. As a philosophy it is +unsatisfactory. It is evidently impossible to worship humanity, just +as it is impossible to worship the Savile Club; both are excellent +institutions to which we may happen to belong. But we perceive clearly +that the Savile Club did not make the stars and does not fill the +universe. And it is surely unreasonable to attack the doctrine of the +Trinity as a piece of bewildering mysticism, and then to ask men to +worship a being who is ninety million persons in one God, neither +confounding the persons nor dividing the substance. +</p> + +<p> +But if the wisdom of Comte was insufficient, the folly of Comte was +wisdom. In an age of dusty modernity, when beauty was thought of as +something barbaric and ugliness as something sensible, he alone saw +that men must always have the sacredness of mummery. He saw that while +the brutes have all the useful things, the things that are truly human +are the useless ones. He saw the falsehood of that almost universal +notion of to-day, the notion that rites and forms are something +artificial, additional, and corrupt. Ritual is really much older than +thought; it is much simpler and much wilder than thought. A feeling +touching the nature of things does not only make men feel that there +are certain proper things to say; it makes them feel that there are +certain proper things to do. The more agreeable of these consist of +dancing, building temples, and shouting very loud; the less agreeable, +of wearing green carnations and burning other philosophers alive. But +everywhere the religious dance came before the religious hymn, and man +was a ritualist before he could speak. If Comtism had spread the world +would have been converted, not by the Comtist philosophy, but by the +Comtist calendar. By discouraging what they conceive to be the +weakness of their master, the English Positivists have broken the +strength of their religion. A man who has faith must be prepared not +only to be a martyr, but to be a fool. It is absurd to say that a man +is ready to toil and die for his convictions when he is not even ready +to wear a wreath round his head for them. I myself, to take a corpus +vile, am very certain that I would not read the works of Comte through +for any consideration whatever. But I can easily imagine myself with +the greatest enthusiasm lighting a bonfire on Darwin Day. +</p> + +<p> +That splendid effort failed, and nothing in the style of it has +succeeded. There has been no rationalist festival, no rationalist +ecstasy. Men are still in black for the death of God. When +Christianity was heavily bombarded in the last century upon no point +was it more persistently and brilliantly attacked than upon that of its +alleged enmity to human joy. Shelley and Swinburne and all their armies +have passed again and again over the ground, but they have not altered +it. They have not set up a single new trophy or ensign for the world’s +merriment to rally to. They have not given a name or a new occasion of +gaiety. Mr. Swinburne does not hang up his stocking on the eve of the +birthday of Victor Hugo. Mr. William Archer does not sing carols +descriptive of the infancy of Ibsen outside people’s doors in the snow. +In the round of our rational and mournful year one festival remains out +of all those ancient gaieties that once covered the whole earth. +Christmas remains to remind us of those ages, whether Pagan or +Christian, when the many acted poetry instead of the few writing it. In +all the winter in our woods there is no tree in glow but the holly. +</p> + +<p> +The strange truth about the matter is told in the very word “holiday.” +A bank holiday means presumably a day which bankers regard as holy. A +half-holiday means, I suppose, a day on which a schoolboy is only +partially holy. It is hard to see at first sight why so human a thing +as leisure and larkiness should always have a religious origin. +Rationally there appears no reason why we should not sing and give each +other presents in honour of anything—the birth of Michael Angelo or +the opening of Euston Station. But it does not work. As a fact, men +only become greedily and gloriously material about something +spiritualistic. Take away the Nicene Creed and similar things, and you +do some strange wrong to the sellers of sausages. Take away the strange +beauty of the saints, and what has remained to us is the far stranger +ugliness of Wandsworth. Take away the supernatural, and what remains is +the unnatural. +</p> + +<p> +And now I have to touch upon a very sad matter. There are in the +modern world an admirable class of persons who really make protest on +behalf of that antiqua pulchritudo of which Augustine spoke, who do +long for the old feasts and formalities of the childhood of the world. +William Morris and his followers showed how much brighter were the dark +ages than the age of Manchester. Mr. W. B. Yeats frames his steps in +prehistoric dances, but no man knows and joins his voice to forgotten +choruses that no one but he can hear. Mr. George Moore collects every +fragment of Irish paganism that the forgetfulness of the Catholic +Church has left or possibly her wisdom preserved. There are innumerable +persons with eye-glasses and green garments who pray for the return of +the maypole or the Olympian games. But there is about these people a +haunting and alarming something which suggests that it is just possible +that they do not keep Christmas. It is painful to regard human nature +in such a light, but it seems somehow possible that Mr. George Moore +does not wave his spoon and shout when the pudding is set alight. It is +even possible that Mr. W. B. Yeats never pulls crackers. If so, where +is the sense of all their dreams of festive traditions? Here is a solid +and ancient festive tradition still plying a roaring trade in the +streets, and they think it vulgar. if this is so, let them be very +certain of this, that they are the kind of people who in the time of +the maypole would have thought the maypole vulgar; who in the time of +the Canterbury pilgrimage would have thought the Canterbury pilgrimage +vulgar; who in the time of the Olympian games would have thought the +Olympian games vulgar. Nor can there be any reasonable doubt that they +were vulgar. Let no man deceive himself; if by vulgarity we mean +coarseness of speech, rowdiness of behaviour, gossip, horseplay, and +some heavy drinking, vulgarity there always was wherever there was joy, +wherever there was faith in the gods. Wherever you have belief you +will have hilarity, wherever you have hilarity you will have some +dangers. And as creed and mythology produce this gross and vigorous +life, so in its turn this gross and vigorous life will always produce +creed and mythology. If we ever get the English back on to the English +land they will become again a religious people, if all goes well, a +superstitious people. The absence from modern life of both the higher +and lower forms of faith is largely due to a divorce from nature and +the trees and clouds. If we have no more turnip ghosts it is chiefly +from the lack of turnips. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap07"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +VII. Omar and the Sacred Vine +</h2></div> + +<p> +A new morality has burst upon us with some violence in connection with +the problem of strong drink; and enthusiasts in the matter range from +the man who is violently thrown out at 12.30, to the lady who smashes +American bars with an axe. In these discussions it is almost always +felt that one very wise and moderate position is to say that wine or +such stuff should only be drunk as a medicine. With this I should +venture to disagree with a peculiar ferocity. The one genuinely +dangerous and immoral way of drinking wine is to drink it as a +medicine. And for this reason, If a man drinks wine in order to obtain +pleasure, he is trying to obtain something exceptional, something he +does not expect every hour of the day, something which, unless he is a +little insane, he will not try to get every hour of the day. But if a +man drinks wine in order to obtain health, he is trying to get +something natural; something, that is, that he ought not to be without; +something that he may find it difficult to reconcile himself to being +without. The man may not be seduced who has seen the ecstasy of being +ecstatic; it is more dazzling to catch a glimpse of the ecstasy of +being ordinary. If there were a magic ointment, and we took it to a +strong man, and said, “This will enable you to jump off the Monument,” +doubtless he would jump off the Monument, but he would not jump off the +Monument all day long to the delight of the City. But if we took it to +a blind man, saying, “This will enable you to see,” he would be under a +heavier temptation. It would be hard for him not to rub it on his eyes +whenever he heard the hoof of a noble horse or the birds singing at +daybreak. It is easy to deny one’s self festivity; it is difficult to +deny one’s self normality. Hence comes the fact which every doctor +knows, that it is often perilous to give alcohol to the sick even when +they need it. I need hardly say that I do not mean that I think the +giving of alcohol to the sick for stimulus is necessarily +unjustifiable. But I do mean that giving it to the healthy for fun is +the proper use of it, and a great deal more consistent with health. +</p> + +<p> +The sound rule in the matter would appear to be like many other sound +rules—a paradox. Drink because you are happy, but never because you +are miserable. Never drink when you are wretched without it, or you +will be like the grey-faced gin-drinker in the slum; but drink when you +would be happy without it, and you will be like the laughing peasant of +Italy. Never drink because you need it, for this is rational drinking, +and the way to death and hell. But drink because you do not need it, +for this is irrational drinking, and the ancient health of the world. +</p> + +<p> +For more than thirty years the shadow and glory of a great Eastern +figure has lain upon our English literature. Fitzgerald’s translation +of Omar Khayyam concentrated into an immortal poignancy all the dark +and drifting hedonism of our time. Of the literary splendour of that +work it would be merely banal to speak; in few other of the books of +men has there been anything so combining the gay pugnacity of an +epigram with the vague sadness of a song. But of its philosophical, +ethical, and religious influence which has been almost as great as its +brilliancy, I should like to say a word, and that word, I confess, one +of uncompromising hostility. There are a great many things which might +be said against the spirit of the Rubaiyat, and against its prodigious +influence. But one matter of indictment towers ominously above the +rest—a genuine disgrace to it, a genuine calamity to us. This is the +terrible blow that this great poem has struck against sociability and +the joy of life. Some one called Omar “the sad, glad old Persian.” Sad +he is; glad he is not, in any sense of the word whatever. He has been a +worse foe to gladness than the Puritans. +</p> + +<p> +A pensive and graceful Oriental lies under the rose-tree with his +wine-pot and his scroll of poems. It may seem strange that any one’s +thoughts should, at the moment of regarding him, fly back to the dark +bedside where the doctor doles out brandy. It may seem stranger still +that they should go back to the grey wastrel shaking with gin in +Houndsditch. But a great philosophical unity links the three in an evil +bond. Omar Khayyam’s wine-bibbing is bad, not because it is +wine-bibbing. It is bad, and very bad, because it is medical +wine-bibbing. It is the drinking of a man who drinks because he is not +happy. His is the wine that shuts out the universe, not the wine that +reveals it. It is not poetical drinking, which is joyous and +instinctive; it is rational drinking, which is as prosaic as an +investment, as unsavoury as a dose of camomile. Whole heavens above +it, from the point of view of sentiment, though not of style, rises the +splendour of some old English drinking-song— +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “Then pass the bowl, my comrades all,<br> + And let the zider vlow.”<br> +</p> + +<p> +For this song was caught up by happy men to express the worth of truly +worthy things, of brotherhood and garrulity, and the brief and kindly +leisure of the poor. Of course, the great part of the more stolid +reproaches directed against the Omarite morality are as false and +babyish as such reproaches usually are. One critic, whose work I have +read, had the incredible foolishness to call Omar an atheist and a +materialist. It is almost impossible for an Oriental to be either; the +East understands metaphysics too well for that. Of course, the real +objection which a philosophical Christian would bring against the +religion of Omar, is not that he gives no place to God, it is that he +gives too much place to God. His is that terrible theism which can +imagine nothing else but deity, and which denies altogether the +outlines of human personality and human will. +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “The ball no question makes of Ayes or Noes,<br> + But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;<br> + And He that tossed you down into the field,<br> + He knows about it all—he knows—he knows.”<br> +</p> + +<p> +A Christian thinker such as Augustine or Dante would object to this +because it ignores freewill, which is the valour and dignity of the +soul. The quarrel of the highest Christianity with this scepticism is +not in the least that the scepticism denies the existence of God; it is +that it denies the existence of man. +</p> + +<p> +In this cult of the pessimistic pleasure-seeker the Rubaiyat stands +first in our time; but it does not stand alone. Many of the most +brilliant intellects of our time have urged us to the same +self-conscious snatching at a rare delight. Walter Pater said that we +were all under sentence of death, and the only course was to enjoy +exquisite moments simply for those moments’ sake. The same lesson was +taught by the very powerful and very desolate philosophy of Oscar +Wilde. It is the carpe diem religion; but the carpe diem religion is +not the religion of happy people, but of very unhappy people. Great joy +does, not gather the rosebuds while it may; its eyes are fixed on the +immortal rose which Dante saw. Great joy has in it the sense of +immortality; the very splendour of youth is the sense that it has all +space to stretch its legs in. In all great comic literature, in +“Tristram Shandy” or “Pickwick”, there is this sense of space and +incorruptibility; we feel the characters are deathless people in an +endless tale. +</p> + +<p> +It is true enough, of course, that a pungent happiness comes chiefly in +certain passing moments; but it is not true that we should think of +them as passing, or enjoy them simply “for those moments’ sake.” To do +this is to rationalize the happiness, and therefore to destroy it. +Happiness is a mystery like religion, and should never be rationalized. +Suppose a man experiences a really splendid moment of pleasure. I do +not mean something connected with a bit of enamel, I mean something +with a violent happiness in it—an almost painful happiness. A man may +have, for instance, a moment of ecstasy in first love, or a moment of +victory in battle. The lover enjoys the moment, but precisely not for +the moment’s sake. He enjoys it for the woman’s sake, or his own sake. +The warrior enjoys the moment, but not for the sake of the moment; he +enjoys it for the sake of the flag. The cause which the flag stands for +may be foolish and fleeting; the love may be calf-love, and last a +week. But the patriot thinks of the flag as eternal; the lover thinks +of his love as something that cannot end. These moments are filled +with eternity; these moments are joyful because they do not seem +momentary. Once look at them as moments after Pater’s manner, and they +become as cold as Pater and his style. Man cannot love mortal things. +He can only love immortal things for an instant. +</p> + +<p> +Pater’s mistake is revealed in his most famous phrase. He asks us to +burn with a hard, gem-like flame. Flames are never hard and never +gem-like—they cannot be handled or arranged. So human emotions are +never hard and never gem-like; they are always dangerous, like flames, +to touch or even to examine. There is only one way in which our +passions can become hard and gem-like, and that is by becoming as cold +as gems. No blow then has ever been struck at the natural loves and +laughter of men so sterilizing as this carpe diem of the aesthetes. For +any kind of pleasure a totally different spirit is required; a certain +shyness, a certain indeterminate hope, a certain boyish expectation. +Purity and simplicity are essential to passions—yes even to evil +passions. Even vice demands a sort of virginity. +</p> + +<p> +Omar’s (or Fitzgerald’s) effect upon the other world we may let go, his +hand upon this world has been heavy and paralyzing. The Puritans, as I +have said, are far jollier than he. The new ascetics who follow Thoreau +or Tolstoy are much livelier company; for, though the surrender of +strong drink and such luxuries may strike us as an idle negation, it +may leave a man with innumerable natural pleasures, and, above all, +with man’s natural power of happiness. Thoreau could enjoy the sunrise +without a cup of coffee. If Tolstoy cannot admire marriage, at least +he is healthy enough to admire mud. Nature can be enjoyed without even +the most natural luxuries. A good bush needs no wine. But neither +nature nor wine nor anything else can be enjoyed if we have the wrong +attitude towards happiness, and Omar (or Fitzgerald) did have the wrong +attitude towards happiness. He and those he has influenced do not see +that if we are to be truly gay, we must believe that there is some +eternal gaiety in the nature of things. We cannot enjoy thoroughly even +a pas-de-quatre at a subscription dance unless we believe that the +stars are dancing to the same tune. No one can be really hilarious but +the serious man. “Wine,” says the Scripture, “maketh glad the heart of +man,” but only of the man who has a heart. The thing called high +spirits is possible only to the spiritual. Ultimately a man cannot +rejoice in anything except the nature of things. Ultimately a man can +enjoy nothing except religion. Once in the world’s history men did +believe that the stars were dancing to the tune of their temples, and +they danced as men have never danced since. With this old pagan +eudaemonism the sage of the Rubaiyat has quite as little to do as he +has with any Christian variety. He is no more a Bacchanal than he is a +saint. Dionysus and his church was grounded on a serious joie-de-vivre +like that of Walt Whitman. Dionysus made wine, not a medicine, but a +sacrament. Jesus Christ also made wine, not a medicine, but a +sacrament. But Omar makes it, not a sacrament, but a medicine. He +feasts because life is not joyful; he revels because he is not glad. +“Drink,” he says, “for you know not whence you come nor why. Drink, for +you know not when you go nor where. Drink, because the stars are cruel +and the world as idle as a humming-top. Drink, because there is nothing +worth trusting, nothing worth fighting for. Drink, because all things +are lapsed in a base equality and an evil peace.” So he stands +offering us the cup in his hand. And at the high altar of Christianity +stands another figure, in whose hand also is the cup of the vine. +“Drink” he says “for the whole world is as red as this wine, with the +crimson of the love and wrath of God. Drink, for the trumpets are +blowing for battle and this is the stirrup-cup. Drink, for this my +blood of the new testament that is shed for you. Drink, for I know of +whence you come and why. Drink, for I know of when you go and where.” +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap08"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +VIII. The Mildness of the Yellow Press +</h2></div> + +<p> +There is a great deal of protest made from one quarter or another +nowadays against the influence of that new journalism which is +associated with the names of Sir Alfred Harmsworth and Mr. Pearson. But +almost everybody who attacks it attacks on the ground that it is very +sensational, very violent and vulgar and startling. I am speaking in no +affected contrariety, but in the simplicity of a genuine personal +impression, when I say that this journalism offends as being not +sensational or violent enough. The real vice is not that it is +startling, but that it is quite insupportably tame. The whole object is +to keep carefully along a certain level of the expected and the +commonplace; it may be low, but it must take care also to be flat. +Never by any chance in it is there any of that real plebeian pungency +which can be heard from the ordinary cabman in the ordinary street. We +have heard of a certain standard of decorum which demands that things +should be funny without being vulgar, but the standard of this decorum +demands that if things are vulgar they shall be vulgar without being +funny. This journalism does not merely fail to exaggerate life—it +positively underrates it; and it has to do so because it is intended +for the faint and languid recreation of men whom the fierceness of +modern life has fatigued. This press is not the yellow press at all; it +is the drab press. Sir Alfred Harmsworth must not address to the tired +clerk any observation more witty than the tired clerk might be able to +address to Sir Alfred Harmsworth. It must not expose anybody (anybody +who is powerful, that is), it must not offend anybody, it must not even +please anybody, too much. A general vague idea that in spite of all +this, our yellow press is sensational, arises from such external +accidents as large type or lurid headlines. It is quite true that these +editors print everything they possibly can in large capital letters. +But they do this, not because it is startling, but because it is +soothing. To people wholly weary or partly drunk in a dimly lighted +train, it is a simplification and a comfort to have things presented in +this vast and obvious manner. The editors use this gigantic alphabet in +dealing with their readers, for exactly the same reason that parents +and governesses use a similar gigantic alphabet in teaching children to +spell. The nursery authorities do not use an A as big as a horseshoe in +order to make the child jump; on the contrary, they use it to put the +child at his ease, to make things smoother and more evident. Of the +same character is the dim and quiet dame school which Sir Alfred +Harmsworth and Mr. Pearson keep. All their sentiments are +spelling-book sentiments—that is to say, they are sentiments with +which the pupil is already respectfully familiar. All their wildest +posters are leaves torn from a copy-book. +</p> + +<p> +Of real sensational journalism, as it exists in France, in Ireland, and +in America, we have no trace in this country. When a journalist in +Ireland wishes to create a thrill, he creates a thrill worth talking +about. He denounces a leading Irish member for corruption, or he +charges the whole police system with a wicked and definite conspiracy. +When a French journalist desires a frisson there is a frisson; he +discovers, let us say, that the President of the Republic has murdered +three wives. Our yellow journalists invent quite as unscrupulously as +this; their moral condition is, as regards careful veracity, about the +same. But it is their mental calibre which happens to be such that they +can only invent calm and even reassuring things. The fictitious version +of the massacre of the envoys of Pekin was mendacious, but it was not +interesting, except to those who had private reasons for terror or +sorrow. It was not connected with any bold and suggestive view of the +Chinese situation. It revealed only a vague idea that nothing could be +impressive except a great deal of blood. Real sensationalism, of which +I happen to be very fond, may be either moral or immoral. But even when +it is most immoral, it requires moral courage. For it is one of the +most dangerous things on earth genuinely to surprise anybody. If you +make any sentient creature jump, you render it by no means improbable +that it will jump on you. But the leaders of this movement have no +moral courage or immoral courage; their whole method consists in +saying, with large and elaborate emphasis, the things which everybody +else says casually, and without remembering what they have said. When +they brace themselves up to attack anything, they never reach the point +of attacking anything which is large and real, and would resound with +the shock. They do not attack the army as men do in France, or the +judges as men do in Ireland, or the democracy itself as men did in +England a hundred years ago. They attack something like the War +Office—something, that is, which everybody attacks and nobody bothers +to defend, something which is an old joke in fourth-rate comic papers. +just as a man shows he has a weak voice by straining it to shout, so +they show the hopelessly unsensational nature of their minds when they +really try to be sensational. With the whole world full of big and +dubious institutions, with the whole wickedness of civilization staring +them in the face, their idea of being bold and bright is to attack the +War Office. They might as well start a campaign against the weather, or +form a secret society in order to make jokes about mothers-in-law. Nor +is it only from the point of view of particular amateurs of the +sensational such as myself, that it is permissible to say, in the words +of Cowper’s Alexander Selkirk, that “their tameness is shocking to me.” +The whole modern world is pining for a genuinely sensational +journalism. This has been discovered by that very able and honest +journalist, Mr. Blatchford, who started his campaign against +Christianity, warned on all sides, I believe, that it would ruin his +paper, but who continued from an honourable sense of intellectual +responsibility. He discovered, however, that while he had undoubtedly +shocked his readers, he had also greatly advanced his newspaper. It was +bought—first, by all the people who agreed with him and wanted to read +it; and secondly, by all the people who disagreed with him, and wanted +to write him letters. Those letters were voluminous (I helped, I am +glad to say, to swell their volume), and they were generally inserted +with a generous fulness. Thus was accidentally discovered (like the +steam-engine) the great journalistic maxim—that if an editor can only +make people angry enough, they will write half his newspaper for him +for nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Some hold that such papers as these are scarcely the proper objects of +so serious a consideration; but that can scarcely be maintained from a +political or ethical point of view. In this problem of the mildness and +tameness of the Harmsworth mind there is mirrored the outlines of a +much larger problem which is akin to it. +</p> + +<p> +The Harmsworthian journalist begins with a worship of success and +violence, and ends in sheer timidity and mediocrity. But he is not +alone in this, nor does he come by this fate merely because he happens +personally to be stupid. Every man, however brave, who begins by +worshipping violence, must end in mere timidity. Every man, however +wise, who begins by worshipping success, must end in mere mediocrity. +This strange and paradoxical fate is involved, not in the individual, +but in the philosophy, in the point of view. It is not the folly of the +man which brings about this necessary fall; it is his wisdom. The +worship of success is the only one out of all possible worships of +which this is true, that its followers are foredoomed to become slaves +and cowards. A man may be a hero for the sake of Mrs. Gallup’s ciphers +or for the sake of human sacrifice, but not for the sake of success. +For obviously a man may choose to fail because he loves Mrs. Gallup or +human sacrifice; but he cannot choose to fail because he loves success. +When the test of triumph is men’s test of everything, they never endure +long enough to triumph at all. As long as matters are really hopeful, +hope is a mere flattery or platitude; it is only when everything is +hopeless that hope begins to be a strength at all. Like all the +Christian virtues, it is as unreasonable as it is indispensable. +</p> + +<p> +It was through this fatal paradox in the nature of things that all +these modern adventurers come at last to a sort of tedium and +acquiescence. They desired strength; and to them to desire strength was +to admire strength; to admire strength was simply to admire the statu +quo. They thought that he who wished to be strong ought to respect the +strong. They did not realize the obvious verity that he who wishes to +be strong must despise the strong. They sought to be everything, to +have the whole force of the cosmos behind them, to have an energy that +would drive the stars. But they did not realize the two great +facts—first, that in the attempt to be everything the first and most +difficult step is to be something; second, that the moment a man is +something, he is essentially defying everything. The lower animals, say +the men of science, fought their way up with a blind selfishness. If +this be so, the only real moral of it is that our unselfishness, if it +is to triumph, must be equally blind. The mammoth did not put his head +on one side and wonder whether mammoths were a little out of date. +Mammoths were at least as much up to date as that individual mammoth +could make them. The great elk did not say, “Cloven hoofs are very much +worn now.” He polished his own weapons for his own use. But in the +reasoning animal there has arisen a more horrible danger, that he may +fail through perceiving his own failure. When modern sociologists talk +of the necessity of accommodating one’s self to the trend of the time, +they forget that the trend of the time at its best consists entirely of +people who will not accommodate themselves to anything. At its worst it +consists of many millions of frightened creatures all accommodating +themselves to a trend that is not there. And that is becoming more and +more the situation of modern England. Every man speaks of public +opinion, and means by public opinion, public opinion minus his opinion. +Every man makes his contribution negative under the erroneous +impression that the next man’s contribution is positive. Every man +surrenders his fancy to a general tone which is itself a surrender. And +over all the heartless and fatuous unity spreads this new and wearisome +and platitudinous press, incapable of invention, incapable of audacity, +capable only of a servility all the more contemptible because it is not +even a servility to the strong. But all who begin with force and +conquest will end in this. +</p> + +<p> +The chief characteristic of the “New journalism” is simply that it is +bad journalism. It is beyond all comparison the most shapeless, +careless, and colourless work done in our day. +</p> + +<p> +I read yesterday a sentence which should be written in letters of gold +and adamant; it is the very motto of the new philosophy of Empire. I +found it (as the reader has already eagerly guessed) in Pearson’s +Magazine, while I was communing (soul to soul) with Mr. C. Arthur +Pearson, whose first and suppressed name I am afraid is Chilperic. It +occurred in an article on the American Presidential Election. This is +the sentence, and every one should read it carefully, and roll it on +the tongue, till all the honey be tasted. +</p> + +<p> +“A little sound common sense often goes further with an audience of +American working-men than much high-flown argument. A speaker who, as +he brought forward his points, hammered nails into a board, won +hundreds of votes for his side at the last Presidential Election.” +</p> + +<p> +I do not wish to soil this perfect thing with comment; the words of +Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. But just think for a +moment of the mind, the strange inscrutable mind, of the man who wrote +that, of the editor who approved it, of the people who are probably +impressed by it, of the incredible American working-man, of whom, for +all I know, it may be true. Think what their notion of “common sense” +must be! It is delightful to realize that you and I are now able to +win thousands of votes should we ever be engaged in a Presidential +Election, by doing something of this kind. For I suppose the nails and +the board are not essential to the exhibition of “common sense;” there +may be variations. We may read— +</p> + +<p> +“A little common sense impresses American working-men more than +high-flown argument. A speaker who, as he made his points, pulled +buttons off his waistcoat, won thousands of votes for his side.” Or, +“Sound common sense tells better in America than high-flown argument. +Thus Senator Budge, who threw his false teeth in the air every time he +made an epigram, won the solid approval of American working-men.” Or +again, “The sound common sense of a gentleman from Earlswood, who stuck +straws in his hair during the progress of his speech, assured the +victory of Mr. Roosevelt.” +</p> + +<p> +There are many other elements in this article on which I should love to +linger. But the matter which I wish to point out is that in that +sentence is perfectly revealed the whole truth of what our +Chamberlainites, hustlers, bustlers, Empire-builders, and strong, +silent men, really mean by “commonsense.” They mean knocking, with +deafening noise and dramatic effect, meaningless bits of iron into a +useless bit of wood. A man goes on to an American platform and behaves +like a mountebank fool with a board and a hammer; well, I do not blame +him; I might even admire him. He may be a dashing and quite decent +strategist. He may be a fine romantic actor, like Burke flinging the +dagger on the floor. He may even (for all I know) be a sublime mystic, +profoundly impressed with the ancient meaning of the divine trade of +the Carpenter, and offering to the people a parable in the form of a +ceremony. All I wish to indicate is the abyss of mental confusion in +which such wild ritualism can be called “sound common sense.” And it is +in that abyss of mental confusion, and in that alone, that the new +Imperialism lives and moves and has its being. The whole glory and +greatness of Mr. Chamberlain consists in this: that if a man hits the +right nail on the head nobody cares where he hits it to or what it +does. They care about the noise of the hammer, not about the silent +drip of the nail. Before and throughout the African war, Mr. +Chamberlain was always knocking in nails, with ringing decisiveness. +But when we ask, “But what have these nails held together? Where is +your carpentry? Where are your contented Outlanders? Where is your +free South Africa? Where is your British prestige? What have your +nails done?” then what answer is there? We must go back (with an +affectionate sigh) to our Pearson for the answer to the question of +what the nails have done: “The speaker who hammered nails into a board +won thousands of votes.” +</p> + +<p> +Now the whole of this passage is admirably characteristic of the new +journalism which Mr. Pearson represents, the new journalism which has +just purchased the Standard. To take one instance out of hundreds, the +incomparable man with the board and nails is described in the Pearson’s +article as calling out (as he smote the symbolic nail), “Lie number +one. Nailed to the Mast! Nailed to the Mast!” In the whole office +there was apparently no compositor or office-boy to point out that we +speak of lies being nailed to the counter, and not to the mast. Nobody +in the office knew that Pearson’s Magazine was falling into a stale +Irish bull, which must be as old as St. Patrick. This is the real and +essential tragedy of the sale of the Standard. It is not merely that +journalism is victorious over literature. It is that bad journalism is +victorious over good journalism. +</p> + +<p> +It is not that one article which we consider costly and beautiful is +being ousted by another kind of article which we consider common or +unclean. It is that of the same article a worse quality is preferred to +a better. If you like popular journalism (as I do), you will know that +Pearson’s Magazine is poor and weak popular journalism. You will know +it as certainly as you know bad butter. You will know as certainly +that it is poor popular journalism as you know that the Strand, in the +great days of Sherlock Holmes, was good popular journalism. Mr. Pearson +has been a monument of this enormous banality. About everything he says +and does there is something infinitely weak-minded. He clamours for +home trades and employs foreign ones to print his paper. When this +glaring fact is pointed out, he does not say that the thing was an +oversight, like a sane man. He cuts it off with scissors, like a child +of three. His very cunning is infantile. And like a child of three, +he does not cut it quite off. In all human records I doubt if there is +such an example of a profound simplicity in deception. This is the +sort of intelligence which now sits in the seat of the sane and +honourable old Tory journalism. If it were really the triumph of the +tropical exuberance of the Yankee press, it would be vulgar, but still +tropical. But it is not. We are delivered over to the bramble, and +from the meanest of the shrubs comes the fire upon the cedars of +Lebanon. +</p> + +<p> +The only question now is how much longer the fiction will endure that +journalists of this order represent public opinion. It may be doubted +whether any honest and serious Tariff Reformer would for a moment +maintain that there was any majority for Tariff Reform in the country +comparable to the ludicrous preponderance which money has given it +among the great dailies. The only inference is that for purposes of +real public opinion the press is now a mere plutocratic oligarchy. +Doubtless the public buys the wares of these men, for one reason or +another. But there is no more reason to suppose that the public admires +their politics than that the public admires the delicate philosophy of +Mr. Crosse or the darker and sterner creed of Mr. Blackwell. If these +men are merely tradesmen, there is nothing to say except that there are +plenty like them in the Battersea Park Road, and many much better. But +if they make any sort of attempt to be politicians, we can only point +out to them that they are not as yet even good journalists. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap09"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +IX. The Moods of Mr. George Moore +</h2></div> + +<p> +Mr. George Moore began his literary career by writing his personal +confessions; nor is there any harm in this if he had not continued them +for the remainder of his life. He is a man of genuinely forcible mind +and of great command over a kind of rhetorical and fugitive conviction +which excites and pleases. He is in a perpetual state of temporary +honesty. He has admired all the most admirable modern eccentrics until +they could stand it no longer. Everything he writes, it is to be fully +admitted, has a genuine mental power. His account of his reason for +leaving the Roman Catholic Church is possibly the most admirable +tribute to that communion which has been written of late years. For the +fact of the matter is, that the weakness which has rendered barren the +many brilliancies of Mr. Moore is actually that weakness which the +Roman Catholic Church is at its best in combating. Mr. Moore hates +Catholicism because it breaks up the house of looking-glasses in which +he lives. Mr. Moore does not dislike so much being asked to believe in +the spiritual existence of miracles or sacraments, but he does +fundamentally dislike being asked to believe in the actual existence of +other people. Like his master Pater and all the aesthetes, his real +quarrel with life is that it is not a dream that can be moulded by the +dreamer. It is not the dogma of the reality of the other world that +troubles him, but the dogma of the reality of this world. +</p> + +<p> +The truth is that the tradition of Christianity (which is still the +only coherent ethic of Europe) rests on two or three paradoxes or +mysteries which can easily be impugned in argument and as easily +justified in life. One of them, for instance, is the paradox of hope or +faith—that the more hopeless is the situation the more hopeful must be +the man. Stevenson understood this, and consequently Mr. Moore cannot +understand Stevenson. Another is the paradox of charity or chivalry +that the weaker a thing is the more it should be respected, that the +more indefensible a thing is the more it should appeal to us for a +certain kind of defence. Thackeray understood this, and therefore Mr. +Moore does not understand Thackeray. Now, one of these very practical +and working mysteries in the Christian tradition, and one which the +Roman Catholic Church, as I say, has done her best work in singling +out, is the conception of the sinfulness of pride. Pride is a weakness +in the character; it dries up laughter, it dries up wonder, it dries up +chivalry and energy. The Christian tradition understands this; +therefore Mr. Moore does not understand the Christian tradition. +</p> + +<p> +For the truth is much stranger even than it appears in the formal +doctrine of the sin of pride. It is not only true that humility is a +much wiser and more vigorous thing than pride. It is also true that +vanity is a much wiser and more vigorous thing than pride. Vanity is +social—it is almost a kind of comradeship; pride is solitary and +uncivilized. Vanity is active; it desires the applause of infinite +multitudes; pride is passive, desiring only the applause of one person, +which it already has. Vanity is humorous, and can enjoy the joke even +of itself; pride is dull, and cannot even smile. And the whole of this +difference is the difference between Stevenson and Mr. George Moore, +who, as he informs us, has “brushed Stevenson aside.” I do not know +where he has been brushed to, but wherever it is I fancy he is having a +good time, because he had the wisdom to be vain, and not proud. +Stevenson had a windy vanity; Mr. Moore has a dusty egoism. Hence +Stevenson could amuse himself as well as us with his vanity; while the +richest effects of Mr. Moore’s absurdity are hidden from his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +If we compare this solemn folly with the happy folly with which +Stevenson belauds his own books and berates his own critics, we shall +not find it difficult to guess why it is that Stevenson at least found +a final philosophy of some sort to live by, while Mr. Moore is always +walking the world looking for a new one. Stevenson had found that the +secret of life lies in laughter and humility. Self is the gorgon. +Vanity sees it in the mirror of other men and lives. Pride studies it +for itself and is turned to stone. +</p> + +<p> +It is necessary to dwell on this defect in Mr. Moore, because it is +really the weakness of work which is not without its strength. Mr. +Moore’s egoism is not merely a moral weakness, it is a very constant +and influential aesthetic weakness as well. We should really be much +more interested in Mr. Moore if he were not quite so interested in +himself. We feel as if we were being shown through a gallery of really +fine pictures, into each of which, by some useless and discordant +convention, the artist had represented the same figure in the same +attitude. “The Grand Canal with a distant view of Mr. Moore,” “Effect +of Mr. Moore through a Scotch Mist,” “Mr. Moore by Firelight,” “Ruins +of Mr. Moore by Moonlight,” and so on, seems to be the endless series. +He would no doubt reply that in such a book as this he intended to +reveal himself. But the answer is that in such a book as this he does +not succeed. One of the thousand objections to the sin of pride lies +precisely in this, that self-consciousness of necessity destroys +self-revelation. A man who thinks a great deal about himself will try +to be many-sided, attempt a theatrical excellence at all points, will +try to be an encyclopaedia of culture, and his own real personality +will be lost in that false universalism. Thinking about himself will +lead to trying to be the universe; trying to be the universe will lead +to ceasing to be anything. If, on the other hand, a man is sensible +enough to think only about the universe; he will think about it in his +own individual way. He will keep virgin the secret of God; he will see +the grass as no other man can see it, and look at a sun that no man has +ever known. This fact is very practically brought out in Mr. Moore’s +“Confessions.” In reading them we do not feel the presence of a +clean-cut personality like that of Thackeray and Matthew Arnold. We +only read a number of quite clever and largely conflicting opinions +which might be uttered by any clever person, but which we are called +upon to admire specifically, because they are uttered by Mr. Moore. He +is the only thread that connects Catholicism and Protestantism, realism +and mysticism—he or rather his name. He is profoundly absorbed even +in views he no longer holds, and he expects us to be. And he intrudes +the capital “I” even where it need not be intruded—even where it +weakens the force of a plain statement. Where another man would say, +“It is a fine day,” Mr. Moore says, “Seen through my temperament, the +day appeared fine.” Where another man would say “Milton has obviously a +fine style,” Mr. Moore would say, “As a stylist Milton had always +impressed me.” The Nemesis of this self-centred spirit is that of being +totally ineffectual. Mr. Moore has started many interesting crusades, +but he has abandoned them before his disciples could begin. Even when +he is on the side of the truth he is as fickle as the children of +falsehood. Even when he has found reality he cannot find rest. One +Irish quality he has which no Irishman was ever without—pugnacity; and +that is certainly a great virtue, especially in the present age. But he +has not the tenacity of conviction which goes with the fighting spirit +in a man like Bernard Shaw. His weakness of introspection and +selfishness in all their glory cannot prevent him fighting; but they +will always prevent him winning. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap10"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +X. On Sandals and Simplicity +</h2></div> + +<p> +The great misfortune of the modern English is not at all that they are +more boastful than other people (they are not); it is that they are +boastful about those particular things which nobody can boast of +without losing them. A Frenchman can be proud of being bold and +logical, and still remain bold and logical. A German can be proud of +being reflective and orderly, and still remain reflective and orderly. +But an Englishman cannot be proud of being simple and direct, and still +remain simple and direct. In the matter of these strange virtues, to +know them is to kill them. A man may be conscious of being heroic or +conscious of being divine, but he cannot (in spite of all the +Anglo-Saxon poets) be conscious of being unconscious. +</p> + +<p> +Now, I do not think that it can be honestly denied that some portion of +this impossibility attaches to a class very different in their own +opinion, at least, to the school of Anglo-Saxonism. I mean that school +of the simple life, commonly associated with Tolstoy. If a perpetual +talk about one’s own robustness leads to being less robust, it is even +more true that a perpetual talking about one’s own simplicity leads to +being less simple. One great complaint, I think, must stand against the +modern upholders of the simple life—the simple life in all its varied +forms, from vegetarianism to the honourable consistency of the +Doukhobors. This complaint against them stands, that they would make us +simple in the unimportant things, but complex in the important things. +They would make us simple in the things that do not matter—that is, in +diet, in costume, in etiquette, in economic system. But they would make +us complex in the things that do matter—in philosophy, in loyalty, in +spiritual acceptance, and spiritual rejection. It does not so very much +matter whether a man eats a grilled tomato or a plain tomato; it does +very much matter whether he eats a plain tomato with a grilled mind. +The only kind of simplicity worth preserving is the simplicity of the +heart, the simplicity which accepts and enjoys. There may be a +reasonable doubt as to what system preserves this; there can surely be +no doubt that a system of simplicity destroys it. There is more +simplicity in the man who eats caviar on impulse than in the man who +eats grape-nuts on principle. The chief error of these people is to be +found in the very phrase to which they are most attached—“plain living +and high thinking.” These people do not stand in need of, will not be +improved by, plain living and high thinking. They stand in need of the +contrary. They would be improved by high living and plain thinking. A +little high living (I say, having a full sense of responsibility, a +little high living) would teach them the force and meaning of the human +festivities, of the banquet that has gone on from the beginning of the +world. It would teach them the historic fact that the artificial is, +if anything, older than the natural. It would teach them that the +loving-cup is as old as any hunger. It would teach them that ritualism +is older than any religion. And a little plain thinking would teach +them how harsh and fanciful are the mass of their own ethics, how very +civilized and very complicated must be the brain of the Tolstoyan who +really believes it to be evil to love one’s country and wicked to +strike a blow. +</p> + +<p> +A man approaches, wearing sandals and simple raiment, a raw tomato held +firmly in his right hand, and says, “The affections of family and +country alike are hindrances to the fuller development of human love;” +but the plain thinker will only answer him, with a wonder not untinged +with admiration, “What a great deal of trouble you must have taken in +order to feel like that.” High living will reject the tomato. Plain +thinking will equally decisively reject the idea of the invariable +sinfulness of war. High living will convince us that nothing is more +materialistic than to despise a pleasure as purely material. And plain +thinking will convince us that nothing is more materialistic than to +reserve our horror chiefly for material wounds. +</p> + +<p> +The only simplicity that matters is the simplicity of the heart. If +that be gone, it can be brought back by no turnips or cellular +clothing; but only by tears and terror and the fires that are not +quenched. If that remain, it matters very little if a few Early +Victorian armchairs remain along with it. Let us put a complex entree +into a simple old gentleman; let us not put a simple entree into a +complex old gentleman. So long as human society will leave my +spiritual inside alone, I will allow it, with a comparative submission, +to work its wild will with my physical interior. I will submit to +cigars. I will meekly embrace a bottle of Burgundy. I will humble +myself to a hansom cab. If only by this means I may preserve to myself +the virginity of the spirit, which enjoys with astonishment and fear. I +do not say that these are the only methods of preserving it. I incline +to the belief that there are others. But I will have nothing to do +with simplicity which lacks the fear, the astonishment, and the joy +alike. I will have nothing to do with the devilish vision of a child +who is too simple to like toys. +</p> + +<p> +The child is, indeed, in these, and many other matters, the best guide. +And in nothing is the child so righteously childlike, in nothing does +he exhibit more accurately the sounder order of simplicity, than in the +fact that he sees everything with a simple pleasure, even the complex +things. The false type of naturalness harps always on the distinction +between the natural and the artificial. The higher kind of naturalness +ignores that distinction. To the child the tree and the lamp-post are +as natural and as artificial as each other; or rather, neither of them +are natural but both supernatural. For both are splendid and +unexplained. The flower with which God crowns the one, and the flame +with which Sam the lamplighter crowns the other, are equally of the +gold of fairy-tales. In the middle of the wildest fields the most +rustic child is, ten to one, playing at steam-engines. And the only +spiritual or philosophical objection to steam-engines is not that men +pay for them or work at them, or make them very ugly, or even that men +are killed by them; but merely that men do not play at them. The evil +is that the childish poetry of clockwork does not remain. The wrong is +not that engines are too much admired, but that they are not admired +enough. The sin is not that engines are mechanical, but that men are +mechanical. +</p> + +<p> +In this matter, then, as in all the other matters treated in this book, +our main conclusion is that it is a fundamental point of view, a +philosophy or religion which is needed, and not any change in habit or +social routine. The things we need most for immediate practical +purposes are all abstractions. We need a right view of the human lot, +a right view of the human society; and if we were living eagerly and +angrily in the enthusiasm of those things, we should, ipso facto, be +living simply in the genuine and spiritual sense. Desire and danger +make every one simple. And to those who talk to us with interfering +eloquence about Jaeger and the pores of the skin, and about Plasmon and +the coats of the stomach, at them shall only be hurled the words that +are hurled at fops and gluttons, “Take no thought what ye shall eat or +what ye shall drink, or wherewithal ye shall be clothed. For after all +these things do the Gentiles seek. But seek first the kingdom of God +and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.” +Those amazing words are not only extraordinarily good, practical +politics; they are also superlatively good hygiene. The one supreme +way of making all those processes go right, the processes of health, +and strength, and grace, and beauty, the one and only way of making +certain of their accuracy, is to think about something else. If a man +is bent on climbing into the seventh heaven, he may be quite easy about +the pores of his skin. If he harnesses his waggon to a star, the +process will have a most satisfactory effect upon the coats of his +stomach. For the thing called “taking thought,” the thing for which +the best modern word is “rationalizing,” is in its nature, inapplicable +to all plain and urgent things. Men take thought and ponder +rationalistically, touching remote things—things that only +theoretically matter, such as the transit of Venus. But only at their +peril can men rationalize about so practical a matter as health. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap11"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XI. Science and the Savages +</h2></div> + +<p> +A permanent disadvantage of the study of folk-lore and kindred subjects +is that the man of science can hardly be in the nature of things very +frequently a man of the world. He is a student of nature; he is +scarcely ever a student of human nature. And even where this difficulty +is overcome, and he is in some sense a student of human nature, this is +only a very faint beginning of the painful progress towards being +human. For the study of primitive race and religion stands apart in +one important respect from all, or nearly all, the ordinary scientific +studies. A man can understand astronomy only by being an astronomer; he +can understand entomology only by being an entomologist (or, perhaps, +an insect); but he can understand a great deal of anthropology merely +by being a man. He is himself the animal which he studies. Hence +arises the fact which strikes the eye everywhere in the records of +ethnology and folk-lore—the fact that the same frigid and detached +spirit which leads to success in the study of astronomy or botany leads +to disaster in the study of mythology or human origins. It is necessary +to cease to be a man in order to do justice to a microbe; it is not +necessary to cease to be a man in order to do justice to men. That +same suppression of sympathies, that same waving away of intuitions or +guess-work which make a man preternaturally clever in dealing with the +stomach of a spider, will make him preternaturally stupid in dealing +with the heart of man. He is making himself inhuman in order to +understand humanity. An ignorance of the other world is boasted by many +men of science; but in this matter their defect arises, not from +ignorance of the other world, but from ignorance of this world. For +the secrets about which anthropologists concern themselves can be best +learnt, not from books or voyages, but from the ordinary commerce of +man with man. The secret of why some savage tribe worships monkeys or +the moon is not to be found even by travelling among those savages and +taking down their answers in a notebook, although the cleverest man +may pursue this course. The answer to the riddle is in England; it is +in London; nay, it is in his own heart. When a man has discovered why +men in Bond Street wear black hats he will at the same moment have +discovered why men in Timbuctoo wear red feathers. The mystery in the +heart of some savage war-dance should not be studied in books of +scientific travel; it should be studied at a subscription ball. If a +man desires to find out the origins of religions, let him not go to the +Sandwich Islands; let him go to church. If a man wishes to know the +origin of human society, to know what society, philosophically +speaking, really is, let him not go into the British Museum; let him go +into society. +</p> + +<p> +This total misunderstanding of the real nature of ceremonial gives rise +to the most awkward and dehumanized versions of the conduct of men in +rude lands or ages. The man of science, not realizing that ceremonial +is essentially a thing which is done without a reason, has to find a +reason for every sort of ceremonial, and, as might be supposed, the +reason is generally a very absurd one—absurd because it originates not +in the simple mind of the barbarian, but in the sophisticated mind of +the professor. The teamed man will say, for instance, “The natives of +Mumbojumbo Land believe that the dead man can eat and will require food +upon his journey to the other world. This is attested by the fact that +they place food in the grave, and that any family not complying with +this rite is the object of the anger of the priests and the tribe.” To +any one acquainted with humanity this way of talking is topsy-turvy. It +is like saying, “The English in the twentieth century believed that a +dead man could smell. This is attested by the fact that they always +covered his grave with lilies, violets, or other flowers. Some priestly +and tribal terrors were evidently attached to the neglect of this +action, as we have records of several old ladies who were very much +disturbed in mind because their wreaths had not arrived in time for the +funeral.” It may be of course that savages put food with a dead man +because they think that a dead man can eat, or weapons with a dead man +because they think that a dead man can fight. But personally I do not +believe that they think anything of the kind. I believe they put food +or weapons on the dead for the same reason that we put flowers, because +it is an exceedingly natural and obvious thing to do. We do not +understand, it is true, the emotion which makes us think it obvious and +natural; but that is because, like all the important emotions of human +existence it is essentially irrational. We do not understand the +savage for the same reason that the savage does not understand himself. +And the savage does not understand himself for the same reason that we +do not understand ourselves either. +</p> + +<p> +The obvious truth is that the moment any matter has passed through the +human mind it is finally and for ever spoilt for all purposes of +science. It has become a thing incurably mysterious and infinite; this +mortal has put on immortality. Even what we call our material desires +are spiritual, because they are human. Science can analyse a pork-chop, +and say how much of it is phosphorus and how much is protein; but +science cannot analyse any man’s wish for a pork-chop, and say how much +of it is hunger, how much custom, how much nervous fancy, how much a +haunting love of the beautiful. The man’s desire for the pork-chop +remains literally as mystical and ethereal as his desire for heaven. +All attempts, therefore, at a science of any human things, at a science +of history, a science of folk-lore, a science of sociology, are by +their nature not merely hopeless, but crazy. You can no more be certain +in economic history that a man’s desire for money was merely a desire +for money than you can be certain in hagiology that a saint’s desire +for God was merely a desire for God. And this kind of vagueness in the +primary phenomena of the study is an absolutely final blow to anything +in the nature of a science. Men can construct a science with very few +instruments, or with very plain instruments; but no one on earth could +construct a science with unreliable instruments. A man might work out +the whole of mathematics with a handful of pebbles, but not with a +handful of clay which was always falling apart into new fragments, and +falling together into new combinations. A man might measure heaven and +earth with a reed, but not with a growing reed. +</p> + +<p> +As one of the enormous follies of folk-lore, let us take the case of +the transmigration of stories, and the alleged unity of their source. +Story after story the scientific mythologists have cut out of its place +in history, and pinned side by side with similar stories in their +museum of fables. The process is industrious, it is fascinating, and +the whole of it rests on one of the plainest fallacies in the world. +That a story has been told all over the place at some time or other, +not only does not prove that it never really happened; it does not even +faintly indicate or make slightly more probable that it never happened. +That a large number of fishermen have falsely asserted that they have +caught a pike two feet long, does not in the least affect the question +of whether any one ever really did so. That numberless journalists +announce a Franco-German war merely for money is no evidence one way or +the other upon the dark question of whether such a war ever occurred. +Doubtless in a few hundred years the innumerable Franco-German wars +that did not happen will have cleared the scientific mind of any belief +in the legendary war of ’70 which did. But that will be because if +folk-lore students remain at all, their nature will be unchanged; and +their services to folk-lore will be still as they are at present, +greater than they know. For in truth these men do something far more +god-like than studying legends; they create them. +</p> + +<p> +There are two kinds of stories which the scientists say cannot be true, +because everybody tells them. The first class consists of the stories +which are told everywhere, because they are somewhat odd or clever; +there is nothing in the world to prevent their having happened to +somebody as an adventure any more than there is anything to prevent +their having occurred, as they certainly did occur, to somebody as an +idea. But they are not likely to have happened to many people. The +second class of their “myths” consist of the stories that are told +everywhere for the simple reason that they happen everywhere. Of the +first class, for instance, we might take such an example as the story +of William Tell, now generally ranked among legends upon the sole +ground that it is found in the tales of other peoples. Now, it is +obvious that this was told everywhere because whether true or +fictitious it is what is called “a good story;” it is odd, exciting, +and it has a climax. But to suggest that some such eccentric incident +can never have happened in the whole history of archery, or that it did +not happen to any particular person of whom it is told, is stark +impudence. The idea of shooting at a mark attached to some valuable or +beloved person is an idea doubtless that might easily have occurred to +any inventive poet. But it is also an idea that might easily occur to +any boastful archer. It might be one of the fantastic caprices of some +story-teller. It might equally well be one of the fantastic caprices of +some tyrant. It might occur first in real life and afterwards occur in +legends. Or it might just as well occur first in legends and afterwards +occur in real life. If no apple has ever been shot off a boy’s head +from the beginning of the world, it may be done to-morrow morning, and +by somebody who has never heard of William Tell. +</p> + +<p> +This type of tale, indeed, may be pretty fairly paralleled with the +ordinary anecdote terminating in a repartee or an Irish bull. Such a +retort as the famous “je ne vois pas la necessite” we have all seen +attributed to Talleyrand, to Voltaire, to Henri Quatre, to an anonymous +judge, and so on. But this variety does not in any way make it more +likely that the thing was never said at all. It is highly likely that +it was really said by somebody unknown. It is highly likely that it was +really said by Talleyrand. In any case, it is not any more difficult to +believe that the mot might have occurred to a man in conversation than +to a man writing memoirs. It might have occurred to any of the men I +have mentioned. But there is this point of distinction about it, that +it is not likely to have occurred to all of them. And this is where +the first class of so-called myth differs from the second to which I +have previously referred. For there is a second class of incident +found to be common to the stories of five or six heroes, say to Sigurd, +to Hercules, to Rustem, to the Cid, and so on. And the peculiarity of +this myth is that not only is it highly reasonable to imagine that it +really happened to one hero, but it is highly reasonable to imagine +that it really happened to all of them. Such a story, for instance, is +that of a great man having his strength swayed or thwarted by the +mysterious weakness of a woman. The anecdotal story, the story of +William Tell, is as I have said, popular, because it is peculiar. But +this kind of story, the story of Samson and Delilah of Arthur and +Guinevere, is obviously popular because it is not peculiar. It is +popular as good, quiet fiction is popular, because it tells the truth +about people. If the ruin of Samson by a woman, and the ruin of +Hercules by a woman, have a common legendary origin, it is gratifying +to know that we can also explain, as a fable, the ruin of Nelson by a +woman and the ruin of Parnell by a woman. And, indeed, I have no doubt +whatever that, some centuries hence, the students of folk-lore will +refuse altogether to believe that Elizabeth Barrett eloped with Robert +Browning, and will prove their point up to the hilt by the +unquestionable fact that the whole fiction of the period was full of +such elopements from end to end. +</p> + +<p> +Possibly the most pathetic of all the delusions of the modern students +of primitive belief is the notion they have about the thing they call +anthropomorphism. They believe that primitive men attributed phenomena +to a god in human form in order to explain them, because his mind in +its sullen limitation could not reach any further than his own clownish +existence. The thunder was called the voice of a man, the lightning +the eyes of a man, because by this explanation they were made more +reasonable and comfortable. The final cure for all this kind of +philosophy is to walk down a lane at night. Any one who does so will +discover very quickly that men pictured something semi-human at the +back of all things, not because such a thought was natural, but because +it was supernatural; not because it made things more comprehensible, +but because it made them a hundred times more incomprehensible and +mysterious. For a man walking down a lane at night can see the +conspicuous fact that as long as nature keeps to her own course, she +has no power with us at all. As long as a tree is a tree, it is a +top-heavy monster with a hundred arms, a thousand tongues, and only one +leg. But so long as a tree is a tree, it does not frighten us at all. +It begins to be something alien, to be something strange, only when it +looks like ourselves. When a tree really looks like a man our knees +knock under us. And when the whole universe looks like a man we fall +on our faces. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap12"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XII. Paganism and Mr. Lowes Dickinson +</h2></div> + +<p> +Of the New Paganism (or neo-Paganism), as it was preached flamboyantly +by Mr. Swinburne or delicately by Walter Pater, there is no necessity +to take any very grave account, except as a thing which left behind it +incomparable exercises in the English language. The New Paganism is no +longer new, and it never at any time bore the smallest resemblance to +Paganism. The ideas about the ancient civilization which it has left +loose in the public mind are certainly extraordinary enough. The term +“pagan” is continually used in fiction and light literature as meaning +a man without any religion, whereas a pagan was generally a man with +about half a dozen. The pagans, according to this notion, were +continually crowning themselves with flowers and dancing about in an +irresponsible state, whereas, if there were two things that the best +pagan civilization did honestly believe in, they were a rather too +rigid dignity and a much too rigid responsibility. Pagans are depicted +as above all things inebriate and lawless, whereas they were above all +things reasonable and respectable. They are praised as disobedient when +they had only one great virtue—civic obedience. They are envied and +admired as shamelessly happy when they had only one great sin—despair. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Lowes Dickinson, the most pregnant and provocative of recent +writers on this and similar subjects, is far too solid a man to have +fallen into this old error of the mere anarchy of Paganism. In order to +make hay of that Hellenic enthusiasm which has as its ideal mere +appetite and egotism, it is not necessary to know much philosophy, but +merely to know a little Greek. Mr. Lowes Dickinson knows a great deal +of philosophy, and also a great deal of Greek, and his error, if error +he has, is not that of the crude hedonist. But the contrast which he +offers between Christianity and Paganism in the matter of moral +ideals—a contrast which he states very ably in a paper called “How +long halt ye?” which appeared in the Independent Review—does, I think, +contain an error of a deeper kind. According to him, the ideal of +Paganism was not, indeed, a mere frenzy of lust and liberty and +caprice, but was an ideal of full and satisfied humanity. According to +him, the ideal of Christianity was the ideal of asceticism. When I say +that I think this idea wholly wrong as a matter of philosophy and +history, I am not talking for the moment about any ideal Christianity +of my own, or even of any primitive Christianity undefiled by after +events. I am not, like so many modern Christian idealists, basing my +case upon certain things which Christ said. Neither am I, like so many +other Christian idealists, basing my case upon certain things that +Christ forgot to say. I take historic Christianity with all its sins +upon its head; I take it, as I would take Jacobinism, or Mormonism, or +any other mixed or unpleasing human product, and I say that the meaning +of its action was not to be found in asceticism. I say that its point +of departure from Paganism was not asceticism. I say that its point of +difference with the modern world was not asceticism. I say that St. +Simeon Stylites had not his main inspiration in asceticism. I say that +the main Christian impulse cannot be described as asceticism, even in +the ascetics. +</p> + +<p> +Let me set about making the matter clear. There is one broad fact +about the relations of Christianity and Paganism which is so simple +that many will smile at it, but which is so important that all moderns +forget it. The primary fact about Christianity and Paganism is that +one came after the other. Mr. Lowes Dickinson speaks of them as if +they were parallel ideals—even speaks as if Paganism were the newer of +the two, and the more fitted for a new age. He suggests that the Pagan +ideal will be the ultimate good of man; but if that is so, we must at +least ask with more curiosity than he allows for, why it was that man +actually found his ultimate good on earth under the stars, and threw it +away again. It is this extraordinary enigma to which I propose to +attempt an answer. +</p> + +<p> +There is only one thing in the modern world that has been face to face +with Paganism; there is only one thing in the modern world which in +that sense knows anything about Paganism: and that is Christianity. +That fact is really the weak point in the whole of that hedonistic +neo-Paganism of which I have spoken. All that genuinely remains of the +ancient hymns or the ancient dances of Europe, all that has honestly +come to us from the festivals of Phoebus or Pan, is to be found in the +festivals of the Christian Church. If any one wants to hold the end of +a chain which really goes back to the heathen mysteries, he had better +take hold of a festoon of flowers at Easter or a string of sausages at +Christmas. Everything else in the modern world is of Christian origin, +even everything that seems most anti-Christian. The French Revolution +is of Christian origin. The newspaper is of Christian origin. The +anarchists are of Christian origin. Physical science is of Christian +origin. The attack on Christianity is of Christian origin. There is +one thing, and one thing only, in existence at the present day which +can in any sense accurately be said to be of pagan origin, and that is +Christianity. +</p> + +<p> +The real difference between Paganism and Christianity is perfectly +summed up in the difference between the pagan, or natural, virtues, and +those three virtues of Christianity which the Church of Rome calls +virtues of grace. The pagan, or rational, virtues are such things as +justice and temperance, and Christianity has adopted them. The three +mystical virtues which Christianity has not adopted, but invented, are +faith, hope, and charity. Now much easy and foolish Christian rhetoric +could easily be poured out upon those three words, but I desire to +confine myself to the two facts which are evident about them. The +first evident fact (in marked contrast to the delusion of the dancing +pagan)—the first evident fact, I say, is that the pagan virtues, such +as justice and temperance, are the sad virtues, and that the mystical +virtues of faith, hope, and charity are the gay and exuberant virtues. +And the second evident fact, which is even more evident, is the fact +that the pagan virtues are the reasonable virtues, and that the +Christian virtues of faith, hope, and charity are in their essence as +unreasonable as they can be. +</p> + +<p> +As the word “unreasonable” is open to misunderstanding, the matter may +be more accurately put by saying that each one of these Christian or +mystical virtues involves a paradox in its own nature, and that this is +not true of any of the typically pagan or rationalist virtues. Justice +consists in finding out a certain thing due to a certain man and giving +it to him. Temperance consists in finding out the proper limit of a +particular indulgence and adhering to that. But charity means +pardoning what is unpardonable, or it is no virtue at all. Hope means +hoping when things are hopeless, or it is no virtue at all. And faith +means believing the incredible, or it is no virtue at all. +</p> + +<p> +It is somewhat amusing, indeed, to notice the difference between the +fate of these three paradoxes in the fashion of the modern mind. +Charity is a fashionable virtue in our time; it is lit up by the +gigantic firelight of Dickens. Hope is a fashionable virtue to-day; +our attention has been arrested for it by the sudden and silver trumpet +of Stevenson. But faith is unfashionable, and it is customary on every +side to cast against it the fact that it is a paradox. Everybody +mockingly repeats the famous childish definition that faith is “the +power of believing that which we know to be untrue.” Yet it is not one +atom more paradoxical than hope or charity. Charity is the power of +defending that which we know to be indefensible. Hope is the power of +being cheerful in circumstances which we know to be desperate. It is +true that there is a state of hope which belongs to bright prospects +and the morning; but that is not the virtue of hope. The virtue of hope +exists only in earthquake and, eclipse. It is true that there is a +thing crudely called charity, which means charity to the deserving +poor; but charity to the deserving is not charity at all, but justice. +It is the undeserving who require it, and the ideal either does not +exist at all, or exists wholly for them. For practical purposes it is +at the hopeless moment that we require the hopeful man, and the virtue +either does not exist at all, or begins to exist at that moment. +Exactly at the instant when hope ceases to be reasonable it begins to +be useful. Now the old pagan world went perfectly straightforward until +it discovered that going straightforward is an enormous mistake. It was +nobly and beautifully reasonable, and discovered in its death-pang this +lasting and valuable truth, a heritage for the ages, that +reasonableness will not do. The pagan age was truly an Eden or golden +age, in this essential sense, that it is not to be recovered. And it is +not to be recovered in this sense again that, while we are certainly +jollier than the pagans, and much more right than the pagans, there is +not one of us who can, by the utmost stretch of energy, be so sensible +as the pagans. That naked innocence of the intellect cannot be +recovered by any man after Christianity; and for this excellent reason, +that every man after Christianity knows it to be misleading. Let me +take an example, the first that occurs to the mind, of this impossible +plainness in the pagan point of view. The greatest tribute to +Christianity in the modern world is Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” The poet +reads into the story of Ulysses the conception of an incurable desire +to wander. But the real Ulysses does not desire to wander at all. He +desires to get home. He displays his heroic and unconquerable +qualities in resisting the misfortunes which baulk him; but that is +all. There is no love of adventure for its own sake; that is a +Christian product. There is no love of Penelope for her own sake; that +is a Christian product. Everything in that old world would appear to +have been clean and obvious. A good man was a good man; a bad man was +a bad man. For this reason they had no charity; for charity is a +reverent agnosticism towards the complexity of the soul. For this +reason they had no such thing as the art of fiction, the novel; for the +novel is a creation of the mystical idea of charity. For them a +pleasant landscape was pleasant, and an unpleasant landscape +unpleasant. Hence they had no idea of romance; for romance consists in +thinking a thing more delightful because it is dangerous; it is a +Christian idea. In a word, we cannot reconstruct or even imagine the +beautiful and astonishing pagan world. It was a world in which common +sense was really common. +</p> + +<p> +My general meaning touching the three virtues of which I have spoken +will now, I hope, be sufficiently clear. They are all three +paradoxical, they are all three practical, and they are all three +paradoxical because they are practical. it is the stress of ultimate +need, and a terrible knowledge of things as they are, which led men to +set up these riddles, and to die for them. Whatever may be the meaning +of the contradiction, it is the fact that the only kind of hope that is +of any use in a battle is a hope that denies arithmetic. Whatever may +be the meaning of the contradiction, it is the fact that the only kind +of charity which any weak spirit wants, or which any generous spirit +feels, is the charity which forgives the sins that are like scarlet. +Whatever may be the meaning of faith, it must always mean a certainty +about something we cannot prove. Thus, for instance, we believe by +faith in the existence of other people. +</p> + +<p> +But there is another Christian virtue, a virtue far more obviously and +historically connected with Christianity, which will illustrate even +better the connection between paradox and practical necessity. This +virtue cannot be questioned in its capacity as a historical symbol; +certainly Mr. Lowes Dickinson will not question it. It has been the +boast of hundreds of the champions of Christianity. It has been the +taunt of hundreds of the opponents of Christianity. It is, in essence, +the basis of Mr. Lowes Dickinson’s whole distinction between +Christianity and Paganism. I mean, of course, the virtue of humility. +I admit, of course, most readily, that a great deal of false Eastern +humility (that is, of strictly ascetic humility) mixed itself with the +main stream of European Christianity. We must not forget that when we +speak of Christianity we are speaking of a whole continent for about a +thousand years. But of this virtue even more than of the other three, +I would maintain the general proposition adopted above. Civilization +discovered Christian humility for the same urgent reason that it +discovered faith and charity—that is, because Christian civilization +had to discover it or die. +</p> + +<p> +The great psychological discovery of Paganism, which turned it into +Christianity, can be expressed with some accuracy in one phrase. The +pagan set out, with admirable sense, to enjoy himself. By the end of +his civilization he had discovered that a man cannot enjoy himself and +continue to enjoy anything else. Mr. Lowes Dickinson has pointed out in +words too excellent to need any further elucidation, the absurd +shallowness of those who imagine that the pagan enjoyed himself only in +a materialistic sense. Of course, he enjoyed himself, not only +intellectually even, he enjoyed himself morally, he enjoyed himself +spiritually. But it was himself that he was enjoying; on the face of +it, a very natural thing to do. Now, the psychological discovery is +merely this, that whereas it had been supposed that the fullest +possible enjoyment is to be found by extending our ego to infinity, the +truth is that the fullest possible enjoyment is to be found by reducing +our ego to zero. +</p> + +<p> +Humility is the thing which is for ever renewing the earth and the +stars. It is humility, and not duty, which preserves the stars from +wrong, from the unpardonable wrong of casual resignation; it is through +humility that the most ancient heavens for us are fresh and strong. The +curse that came before history has laid on us all a tendency to be +weary of wonders. If we saw the sun for the first time it would be the +most fearful and beautiful of meteors. Now that we see it for the +hundredth time we call it, in the hideous and blasphemous phrase of +Wordsworth, “the light of common day.” We are inclined to increase our +claims. We are inclined to demand six suns, to demand a blue sun, to +demand a green sun. Humility is perpetually putting us back in the +primal darkness. There all light is lightning, startling and +instantaneous. Until we understand that original dark, in which we have +neither sight nor expectation, we can give no hearty and childlike +praise to the splendid sensationalism of things. The terms “pessimism” +and “optimism,” like most modern terms, are unmeaning. But if they can +be used in any vague sense as meaning something, we may say that in +this great fact pessimism is the very basis of optimism. The man who +destroys himself creates the universe. To the humble man, and to the +humble man alone, the sun is really a sun; to the humble man, and to +the humble man alone, the sea is really a sea. When he looks at all the +faces in the street, he does not only realize that men are alive, he +realizes with a dramatic pleasure that they are not dead. +</p> + +<p> +I have not spoken of another aspect of the discovery of humility as a +psychological necessity, because it is more commonly insisted on, and +is in itself more obvious. But it is equally clear that humility is a +permanent necessity as a condition of effort and self-examination. It +is one of the deadly fallacies of Jingo politics that a nation is +stronger for despising other nations. As a matter of fact, the +strongest nations are those, like Prussia or Japan, which began from +very mean beginnings, but have not been too proud to sit at the feet of +the foreigner and learn everything from him. Almost every obvious and +direct victory has been the victory of the plagiarist. This is, indeed, +only a very paltry by-product of humility, but it is a product of +humility, and, therefore, it is successful. Prussia had no Christian +humility in its internal arrangements; hence its internal arrangements +were miserable. But it had enough Christian humility slavishly to copy +France (even down to Frederick the Great’s poetry), and that which it +had the humility to copy it had ultimately the honour to conquer. The +case of the Japanese is even more obvious; their only Christian and +their only beautiful quality is that they have humbled themselves to be +exalted. All this aspect of humility, however, as connected with the +matter of effort and striving for a standard set above us, I dismiss as +having been sufficiently pointed out by almost all idealistic writers. +</p> + +<p> +It may be worth while, however, to point out the interesting disparity +in the matter of humility between the modern notion of the strong man +and the actual records of strong men. Carlyle objected to the +statement that no man could be a hero to his valet. Every sympathy can +be extended towards him in the matter if he merely or mainly meant that +the phrase was a disparagement of hero-worship. Hero-worship is +certainly a generous and human impulse; the hero may be faulty, but the +worship can hardly be. It may be that no man would be a hero to his +valet. But any man would be a valet to his hero. But in truth both the +proverb itself and Carlyle’s stricture upon it ignore the most +essential matter at issue. The ultimate psychological truth is not +that no man is a hero to his valet. The ultimate psychological truth, +the foundation of Christianity, is that no man is a hero to himself. +Cromwell, according to Carlyle, was a strong man. According to +Cromwell, he was a weak one. +</p> + +<p> +The weak point in the whole of Carlyle’s case for aristocracy lies, +indeed, in his most celebrated phrase. Carlyle said that men were +mostly fools. Christianity, with a surer and more reverent realism, +says that they are all fools. This doctrine is sometimes called the +doctrine of original sin. It may also be described as the doctrine of +the equality of men. But the essential point of it is merely this, that +whatever primary and far-reaching moral dangers affect any man, affect +all men. All men can be criminals, if tempted; all men can be heroes, +if inspired. And this doctrine does away altogether with Carlyle’s +pathetic belief (or any one else’s pathetic belief) in “the wise few.” +There are no wise few. Every aristocracy that has ever existed has +behaved, in all essential points, exactly like a small mob. Every +oligarchy is merely a knot of men in the street—that is to say, it is +very jolly, but not infallible. And no oligarchies in the world’s +history have ever come off so badly in practical affairs as the very +proud oligarchies—the oligarchy of Poland, the oligarchy of Venice. +And the armies that have most swiftly and suddenly broken their enemies +in pieces have been the religious armies—the Moslem Armies, for +instance, or the Puritan Armies. And a religious army may, by its +nature, be defined as an army in which every man is taught not to exalt +but to abase himself. Many modern Englishmen talk of themselves as the +sturdy descendants of their sturdy Puritan fathers. As a fact, they +would run away from a cow. If you asked one of their Puritan fathers, +if you asked Bunyan, for instance, whether he was sturdy, he would have +answered, with tears, that he was as weak as water. And because of +this he would have borne tortures. And this virtue of humility, while +being practical enough to win battles, will always be paradoxical +enough to puzzle pedants. It is at one with the virtue of charity in +this respect. Every generous person will admit that the one kind of sin +which charity should cover is the sin which is inexcusable. And every +generous person will equally agree that the one kind of pride which is +wholly damnable is the pride of the man who has something to be proud +of. The pride which, proportionally speaking, does not hurt the +character, is the pride in things which reflect no credit on the person +at all. Thus it does a man no harm to be proud of his country, and +comparatively little harm to be proud of his remote ancestors. It does +him more harm to be proud of having made money, because in that he has +a little more reason for pride. It does him more harm still to be proud +of what is nobler than money—intellect. And it does him most harm of +all to value himself for the most valuable thing on earth—goodness. +The man who is proud of what is really creditable to him is the +Pharisee, the man whom Christ Himself could not forbear to strike. +</p> + +<p> +My objection to Mr. Lowes Dickinson and the reassertors of the pagan +ideal is, then, this. I accuse them of ignoring definite human +discoveries in the moral world, discoveries as definite, though not as +material, as the discovery of the circulation of the blood. We cannot +go back to an ideal of reason and sanity. For mankind has discovered +that reason does not lead to sanity. We cannot go back to an ideal of +pride and enjoyment. For mankind has discovered that pride does not +lead to enjoyment. I do not know by what extraordinary mental accident +modern writers so constantly connect the idea of progress with the idea +of independent thinking. Progress is obviously the antithesis of +independent thinking. For under independent or individualistic +thinking, every man starts at the beginning, and goes, in all +probability, just as far as his father before him. But if there really +be anything of the nature of progress, it must mean, above all things, +the careful study and assumption of the whole of the past. I accuse +Mr. Lowes Dickinson and his school of reaction in the only real sense. +If he likes, let him ignore these great historic mysteries—the mystery +of charity, the mystery of chivalry, the mystery of faith. If he likes, +let him ignore the plough or the printing-press. But if we do revive +and pursue the pagan ideal of a simple and rational self-completion we +shall end—where Paganism ended. I do not mean that we shall end in +destruction. I mean that we shall end in Christianity. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap13"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XIII. Celts and Celtophiles +</h2></div> + +<p> +Science in the modern world has many uses; its chief use, however, is +to provide long words to cover the errors of the rich. The word +“kleptomania” is a vulgar example of what I mean. It is on a par with +that strange theory, always advanced when a wealthy or prominent person +is in the dock, that exposure is more of a punishment for the rich than +for the poor. Of course, the very reverse is the truth. Exposure is +more of a punishment for the poor than for the rich. The richer a man +is the easier it is for him to be a tramp. The richer a man is the +easier it is for him to be popular and generally respected in the +Cannibal Islands. But the poorer a man is the more likely it is that +he will have to use his past life whenever he wants to get a bed for +the night. Honour is a luxury for aristocrats, but it is a necessity +for hall-porters. This is a secondary matter, but it is an example of +the general proposition I offer—the proposition that an enormous +amount of modern ingenuity is expended on finding defences for the +indefensible conduct of the powerful. As I have said above, these +defences generally exhibit themselves most emphatically in the form of +appeals to physical science. And of all the forms in which science, or +pseudo-science, has come to the rescue of the rich and stupid, there is +none so singular as the singular invention of the theory of races. +</p> + +<p> +When a wealthy nation like the English discovers the perfectly patent +fact that it is making a ludicrous mess of the government of a poorer +nation like the Irish, it pauses for a moment in consternation, and +then begins to talk about Celts and Teutons. As far as I can +understand the theory, the Irish are Celts and the English are Teutons. +Of course, the Irish are not Celts any more than the English are +Teutons. I have not followed the ethnological discussion with much +energy, but the last scientific conclusion which I read inclined on the +whole to the summary that the English were mainly Celtic and the Irish +mainly Teutonic. But no man alive, with even the glimmering of a real +scientific sense, would ever dream of applying the terms “Celtic” or +“Teutonic” to either of them in any positive or useful sense. +</p> + +<p> +That sort of thing must be left to people who talk about the +Anglo-Saxon race, and extend the expression to America. How much of the +blood of the Angles and Saxons (whoever they were) there remains in our +mixed British, Roman, German, Dane, Norman, and Picard stock is a +matter only interesting to wild antiquaries. And how much of that +diluted blood can possibly remain in that roaring whirlpool of America +into which a cataract of Swedes, Jews, Germans, Irishmen, and Italians +is perpetually pouring, is a matter only interesting to lunatics. It +would have been wiser for the English governing class to have called +upon some other god. All other gods, however weak and warring, at least +boast of being constant. But science boasts of being in a flux for +ever; boasts of being unstable as water. +</p> + +<p> +And England and the English governing class never did call on this +absurd deity of race until it seemed, for an instant, that they had no +other god to call on. All the most genuine Englishmen in history would +have yawned or laughed in your face if you had begun to talk about +Anglo-Saxons. If you had attempted to substitute the ideal of race for +the ideal of nationality, I really do not like to think what they would +have said. I certainly should not like to have been the officer of +Nelson who suddenly discovered his French blood on the eve of +Trafalgar. I should not like to have been the Norfolk or Suffolk +gentleman who had to expound to Admiral Blake by what demonstrable ties +of genealogy he was irrevocably bound to the Dutch. The truth of the +whole matter is very simple. Nationality exists, and has nothing in the +world to do with race. Nationality is a thing like a church or a secret +society; it is a product of the human soul and will; it is a spiritual +product. And there are men in the modern world who would think anything +and do anything rather than admit that anything could be a spiritual +product. +</p> + +<p> +A nation, however, as it confronts the modern world, is a purely +spiritual product. Sometimes it has been born in independence, like +Scotland. Sometimes it has been born in dependence, in subjugation, +like Ireland. Sometimes it is a large thing cohering out of many +smaller things, like Italy. Sometimes it is a small thing breaking +away from larger things, like Poland. But in each and every case its +quality is purely spiritual, or, if you will, purely psychological. It +is a moment when five men become a sixth man. Every one knows it who +has ever founded a club. It is a moment when five places become one +place. Every one must know it who has ever had to repel an invasion. +Mr. Timothy Healy, the most serious intellect in the present House of +Commons, summed up nationality to perfection when he simply called it +something for which people will die, As he excellently said in reply to +Lord Hugh Cecil, “No one, not even the noble lord, would die for the +meridian of Greenwich.” And that is the great tribute to its purely +psychological character. It is idle to ask why Greenwich should not +cohere in this spiritual manner while Athens or Sparta did. It is like +asking why a man falls in love with one woman and not with another. +</p> + +<p> +Now, of this great spiritual coherence, independent of external +circumstances, or of race, or of any obvious physical thing, Ireland is +the most remarkable example. Rome conquered nations, but Ireland has +conquered races. The Norman has gone there and become Irish, the +Scotchman has gone there and become Irish, the Spaniard has gone there +and become Irish, even the bitter soldier of Cromwell has gone there +and become Irish. Ireland, which did not exist even politically, has +been stronger than all the races that existed scientifically. The +purest Germanic blood, the purest Norman blood, the purest blood of the +passionate Scotch patriot, has not been so attractive as a nation +without a flag. Ireland, unrecognized and oppressed, has easily +absorbed races, as such trifles are easily absorbed. She has easily +disposed of physical science, as such superstitions are easily disposed +of. Nationality in its weakness has been stronger than ethnology in +its strength. Five triumphant races have been absorbed, have been +defeated by a defeated nationality. +</p> + +<p> +This being the true and strange glory of Ireland, it is impossible to +hear without impatience of the attempt so constantly made among her +modern sympathizers to talk about Celts and Celticism. Who were the +Celts? I defy anybody to say. Who are the Irish? I defy any one to be +indifferent, or to pretend not to know. Mr. W. B. Yeats, the great +Irish genius who has appeared in our time, shows his own admirable +penetration in discarding altogether the argument from a Celtic race. +But he does not wholly escape, and his followers hardly ever escape, +the general objection to the Celtic argument. The tendency of that +argument is to represent the Irish or the Celts as a strange and +separate race, as a tribe of eccentrics in the modern world immersed in +dim legends and fruitless dreams. Its tendency is to exhibit the Irish +as odd, because they see the fairies. Its trend is to make the Irish +seem weird and wild because they sing old songs and join in strange +dances. But this is quite an error; indeed, it is the opposite of the +truth. It is the English who are odd because they do not see the +fairies. It is the inhabitants of Kensington who are weird and wild +because they do not sing old songs and join in strange dances. In all +this the Irish are not in the least strange and separate, are not in +the least Celtic, as the word is commonly and popularly used. In all +this the Irish are simply an ordinary sensible nation, living the life +of any other ordinary and sensible nation which has not been either +sodden with smoke or oppressed by money-lenders, or otherwise corrupted +with wealth and science. There is nothing Celtic about having legends. +It is merely human. The Germans, who are (I suppose) Teutonic, have +hundreds of legends, wherever it happens that the Germans are human. +There is nothing Celtic about loving poetry; the English loved poetry +more, perhaps, than any other people before they came under the shadow +of the chimney-pot and the shadow of the chimney-pot hat. It is not +Ireland which is mad and mystic; it is Manchester which is mad and +mystic, which is incredible, which is a wild exception among human +things. Ireland has no need to play the silly game of the science of +races; Ireland has no need to pretend to be a tribe of visionaries +apart. In the matter of visions, Ireland is more than a nation, it is a +model nation. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap14"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XIV. On Certain Modern Writers and the Institution of the Family +</h2></div> + +<p> +The family may fairly be considered, one would think, an ultimate human +institution. Every one would admit that it has been the main cell and +central unit of almost all societies hitherto, except, indeed, such +societies as that of Lacedaemon, which went in for “efficiency,” and +has, therefore, perished, and left not a trace behind. Christianity, +even enormous as was its revolution, did not alter this ancient and +savage sanctity; it merely reversed it. It did not deny the trinity of +father, mother, and child. It merely read it backwards, making it run +child, mother, father. This it called, not the family, but the Holy +Family, for many things are made holy by being turned upside down. But +some sages of our own decadence have made a serious attack on the +family. They have impugned it, as I think wrongly; and its defenders +have defended it, and defended it wrongly. The common defence of the +family is that, amid the stress and fickleness of life, it is peaceful, +pleasant, and at one. But there is another defence of the family which +is possible, and to me evident; this defence is that the family is not +peaceful and not pleasant and not at one. +</p> + +<p> +It is not fashionable to say much nowadays of the advantages of the +small community. We are told that we must go in for large empires and +large ideas. There is one advantage, however, in the small state, the +city, or the village, which only the wilfully blind can overlook. The +man who lives in a small community lives in a much larger world. He +knows much more of the fierce varieties and uncompromising divergences +of men. The reason is obvious. In a large community we can choose our +companions. In a small community our companions are chosen for us. +Thus in all extensive and highly civilized societies groups come into +existence founded upon what is called sympathy, and shut out the real +world more sharply than the gates of a monastery. There is nothing +really narrow about the clan; the thing which is really narrow is the +clique. The men of the clan live together because they all wear the +same tartan or are all descended from the same sacred cow; but in their +souls, by the divine luck of things, there will always be more colours +than in any tartan. But the men of the clique live together because +they have the same kind of soul, and their narrowness is a narrowness +of spiritual coherence and contentment, like that which exists in hell. +A big society exists in order to form cliques. A big society is a +society for the promotion of narrowness. It is a machinery for the +purpose of guarding the solitary and sensitive individual from all +experience of the bitter and bracing human compromises. It is, in the +most literal sense of the words, a society for the prevention of +Christian knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +We can see this change, for instance, in the modern transformation of +the thing called a club. When London was smaller, and the parts of +London more self-contained and parochial, the club was what it still is +in villages, the opposite of what it is now in great cities. Then the +club was valued as a place where a man could be sociable. Now the club +is valued as a place where a man can be unsociable. The more the +enlargement and elaboration of our civilization goes on the more the +club ceases to be a place where a man can have a noisy argument, and +becomes more and more a place where a man can have what is somewhat +fantastically called a quiet chop. Its aim is to make a man +comfortable, and to make a man comfortable is to make him the opposite +of sociable. Sociability, like all good things, is full of +discomforts, dangers, and renunciations. The club tends to produce the +most degraded of all combinations—the luxurious anchorite, the man who +combines the self-indulgence of Lucullus with the insane loneliness of +St. Simeon Stylites. +</p> + +<p> +If we were to-morrow morning snowed up in the street in which we live, +we should step suddenly into a much larger and much wilder world than +we have ever known. And it is the whole effort of the typically modern +person to escape from the street in which he lives. First he invents +modern hygiene and goes to Margate. Then he invents modern culture and +goes to Florence. Then he invents modern imperialism and goes to +Timbuctoo. He goes to the fantastic borders of the earth. He pretends +to shoot tigers. He almost rides on a camel. And in all this he is +still essentially fleeing from the street in which he was born; and of +this flight he is always ready with his own explanation. He says he is +fleeing from his street because it is dull; he is lying. He is really +fleeing from his street because it is a great deal too exciting. It is +exciting because it is exacting; it is exacting because it is alive. He +can visit Venice because to him the Venetians are only Venetians; the +people in his own street are men. He can stare at the Chinese because +for him the Chinese are a passive thing to be stared at; if he stares +at the old lady in the next garden, she becomes active. He is forced to +flee, in short, from the too stimulating society of his equals—of free +men, perverse, personal, deliberately different from himself. The +street in Brixton is too glowing and overpowering. He has to soothe and +quiet himself among tigers and vultures, camels and crocodiles. These +creatures are indeed very different from himself. But they do not put +their shape or colour or custom into a decisive intellectual +competition with his own. They do not seek to destroy his principles +and assert their own; the stranger monsters of the suburban street do +seek to do this. The camel does not contort his features into a fine +sneer because Mr. Robinson has not got a hump; the cultured gentleman +at No. 5 does exhibit a sneer because Robinson has not got a dado. The +vulture will not roar with laughter because a man does not fly; but the +major at No. 9 will roar with laughter because a man does not smoke. +The complaint we commonly have to make of our neighbours is that they +will not, as we express it, mind their own business. We do not really +mean that they will not mind their own business. If our neighbours did +not mind their own business they would be asked abruptly for their +rent, and would rapidly cease to be our neighbours. What we really mean +when we say that they cannot mind their own business is something much +deeper. We do not dislike them because they have so little force and +fire that they cannot be interested in themselves. We dislike them +because they have so much force and fire that they can be interested in +us as well. What we dread about our neighbours, in short, is not the +narrowness of their horizon, but their superb tendency to broaden it. +And all aversions to ordinary humanity have this general character. +They are not aversions to its feebleness (as is pretended), but to its +energy. The misanthropes pretend that they despise humanity for its +weakness. As a matter of fact, they hate it for its strength. +</p> + +<p> +Of course, this shrinking from the brutal vivacity and brutal variety +of common men is a perfectly reasonable and excusable thing as long as +it does not pretend to any point of superiority. It is when it calls +itself aristocracy or aestheticism or a superiority to the bourgeoisie +that its inherent weakness has in justice to be pointed out. +Fastidiousness is the most pardonable of vices; but it is the most +unpardonable of virtues. Nietzsche, who represents most prominently +this pretentious claim of the fastidious, has a description +somewhere—a very powerful description in the purely literary sense—of +the disgust and disdain which consume him at the sight of the common +people with their common faces, their common voices, and their common +minds. As I have said, this attitude is almost beautiful if we may +regard it as pathetic. Nietzsche’s aristocracy has about it all the +sacredness that belongs to the weak. When he makes us feel that he +cannot endure the innumerable faces, the incessant voices, the +overpowering omnipresence which belongs to the mob, he will have the +sympathy of anybody who has ever been sick on a steamer or tired in a +crowded omnibus. Every man has hated mankind when he was less than a +man. Every man has had humanity in his eyes like a blinding fog, +humanity in his nostrils like a suffocating smell. But when Nietzsche +has the incredible lack of humour and lack of imagination to ask us to +believe that his aristocracy is an aristocracy of strong muscles or an +aristocracy of strong wills, it is necessary to point out the truth. It +is an aristocracy of weak nerves. +</p> + +<p> +We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next-door +neighbour. Hence he comes to us clad in all the careless terrors of +nature; he is as strange as the stars, as reckless and indifferent as +the rain. He is Man, the most terrible of the beasts. That is why the +old religions and the old scriptural language showed so sharp a wisdom +when they spoke, not of one’s duty towards humanity, but one’s duty +towards one’s neighbour. The duty towards humanity may often take the +form of some choice which is personal or even pleasurable. That duty +may be a hobby; it may even be a dissipation. We may work in the East +End because we are peculiarly fitted to work in the East End, or +because we think we are; we may fight for the cause of international +peace because we are very fond of fighting. The most monstrous +martyrdom, the most repulsive experience, may be the result of choice +or a kind of taste. We may be so made as to be particularly fond of +lunatics or specially interested in leprosy. We may love negroes +because they are black or German Socialists because they are pedantic. +But we have to love our neighbour because he is there—a much more +alarming reason for a much more serious operation. He is the sample of +humanity which is actually given us. Precisely because he may be +anybody he is everybody. He is a symbol because he is an accident. +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless men flee from small environments into lands that are very +deadly. But this is natural enough; for they are not fleeing from +death. They are fleeing from life. And this principle applies to ring +within ring of the social system of humanity. It is perfectly +reasonable that men should seek for some particular variety of the +human type, so long as they are seeking for that variety of the human +type, and not for mere human variety. It is quite proper that a British +diplomatist should seek the society of Japanese generals, if what he +wants is Japanese generals. But if what he wants is people different +from himself, he had much better stop at home and discuss religion with +the housemaid. It is quite reasonable that the village genius should +come up to conquer London if what he wants is to conquer London. But +if he wants to conquer something fundamentally and symbolically hostile +and also very strong, he had much better remain where he is and have a +row with the rector. The man in the suburban street is quite right if +he goes to Ramsgate for the sake of Ramsgate—a difficult thing to +imagine. But if, as he expresses it, he goes to Ramsgate “for a +change,” then he would have a much more romantic and even melodramatic +change if he jumped over the wall into his neighbours garden. The +consequences would be bracing in a sense far beyond the possibilities +of Ramsgate hygiene. +</p> + +<p> +Now, exactly as this principle applies to the empire, to the nation +within the empire, to the city within the nation, to the street within +the city, so it applies to the home within the street. The institution +of the family is to be commended for precisely the same reasons that +the institution of the nation, or the institution of the city, are in +this matter to be commended. It is a good thing for a man to live in a +family for the same reason that it is a good thing for a man to be +besieged in a city. It is a good thing for a man to live in a family in +the same sense that it is a beautiful and delightful thing for a man to +be snowed up in a street. They all force him to realize that life is +not a thing from outside, but a thing from inside. Above all, they all +insist upon the fact that life, if it be a truly stimulating and +fascinating life, is a thing which, of its nature, exists in spite of +ourselves. The modern writers who have suggested, in a more or less +open manner, that the family is a bad institution, have generally +confined themselves to suggesting, with much sharpness, bitterness, or +pathos, that perhaps the family is not always very congenial. Of course +the family is a good institution because it is uncongenial. It is +wholesome precisely because it contains so many divergencies and +varieties. It is, as the sentimentalists say, like a little kingdom, +and, like most other little kingdoms, is generally in a state of +something resembling anarchy. It is exactly because our brother George +is not interested in our religious difficulties, but is interested in +the Trocadero Restaurant, that the family has some of the bracing +qualities of the commonwealth. It is precisely because our uncle Henry +does not approve of the theatrical ambitions of our sister Sarah that +the family is like humanity. The men and women who, for good reasons +and bad, revolt against the family, are, for good reasons and bad, +simply revolting against mankind. Aunt Elizabeth is unreasonable, like +mankind. Papa is excitable, like mankind Our youngest brother is +mischievous, like mankind. Grandpapa is stupid, like the world; he is +old, like the world. +</p> + +<p> +Those who wish, rightly or wrongly, to step out of all this, do +definitely wish to step into a narrower world. They are dismayed and +terrified by the largeness and variety of the family. Sarah wishes to +find a world wholly consisting of private theatricals; George wishes to +think the Trocadero a cosmos. I do not say, for a moment, that the +flight to this narrower life may not be the right thing for the +individual, any more than I say the same thing about flight into a +monastery. But I do say that anything is bad and artificial which +tends to make these people succumb to the strange delusion that they +are stepping into a world which is actually larger and more varied than +their own. The best way that a man could test his readiness to +encounter the common variety of mankind would be to climb down a +chimney into any house at random, and get on as well as possible with +the people inside. And that is essentially what each one of us did on +the day that he was born. +</p> + +<p> +This is, indeed, the sublime and special romance of the family. It is +romantic because it is a toss-up. It is romantic because it is +everything that its enemies call it. It is romantic because it is +arbitrary. It is romantic because it is there. So long as you have +groups of men chosen rationally, you have some special or sectarian +atmosphere. It is when you have groups of men chosen irrationally that +you have men. The element of adventure begins to exist; for an +adventure is, by its nature, a thing that comes to us. It is a thing +that chooses us, not a thing that we choose. Falling in love has been +often regarded as the supreme adventure, the supreme romantic accident. +In so much as there is in it something outside ourselves, something of +a sort of merry fatalism, this is very true. Love does take us and +transfigure and torture us. It does break our hearts with an +unbearable beauty, like the unbearable beauty of music. But in so far +as we have certainly something to do with the matter; in so far as we +are in some sense prepared to fall in love and in some sense jump into +it; in so far as we do to some extent choose and to some extent even +judge—in all this falling in love is not truly romantic, is not truly +adventurous at all. In this degree the supreme adventure is not +falling in love. The supreme adventure is being born. There we do walk +suddenly into a splendid and startling trap. There we do see something +of which we have not dreamed before. Our father and mother do lie in +wait for us and leap out on us, like brigands from a bush. Our uncle +is a surprise. Our aunt is, in the beautiful common expression, a bolt +from the blue. When we step into the family, by the act of being born, +we do step into a world which is incalculable, into a world which has +its own strange laws, into a world which could do without us, into a +world that we have not made. In other words, when we step into the +family we step into a fairy-tale. +</p> + +<p> +This colour as of a fantastic narrative ought to cling to the family +and to our relations with it throughout life. Romance is the deepest +thing in life; romance is deeper even than reality. For even if +reality could be proved to be misleading, it still could not be proved +to be unimportant or unimpressive. Even if the facts are false, they +are still very strange. And this strangeness of life, this unexpected +and even perverse element of things as they fall out, remains incurably +interesting. The circumstances we can regulate may become tame or +pessimistic; but the “circumstances over which we have no control” +remain god-like to those who, like Mr. Micawber, can call on them and +renew their strength. People wonder why the novel is the most popular +form of literature; people wonder why it is read more than books of +science or books of metaphysics. The reason is very simple; it is +merely that the novel is more true than they are. Life may sometimes +legitimately appear as a book of science. Life may sometimes appear, +and with a much greater legitimacy, as a book of metaphysics. But life +is always a novel. Our existence may cease to be a song; it may cease +even to be a beautiful lament. Our existence may not be an intelligible +justice, or even a recognizable wrong. But our existence is still a +story. In the fiery alphabet of every sunset is written, “to be +continued in our next.” If we have sufficient intellect, we can finish +a philosophical and exact deduction, and be certain that we are +finishing it right. With the adequate brain-power we could finish any +scientific discovery, and be certain that we were finishing it right. +But not with the most gigantic intellect could we finish the simplest +or silliest story, and be certain that we were finishing it right. That +is because a story has behind it, not merely intellect which is partly +mechanical, but will, which is in its essence divine. The narrative +writer can send his hero to the gallows if he likes in the last chapter +but one. He can do it by the same divine caprice whereby he, the +author, can go to the gallows himself, and to hell afterwards if he +chooses. And the same civilization, the chivalric European +civilization which asserted freewill in the thirteenth century, +produced the thing called “fiction” in the eighteenth. When Thomas +Aquinas asserted the spiritual liberty of man, he created all the bad +novels in the circulating libraries. +</p> + +<p> +But in order that life should be a story or romance to us, it is +necessary that a great part of it, at any rate, should be settled for +us without our permission. If we wish life to be a system, this may be +a nuisance; but if we wish it to be a drama, it is an essential. It +may often happen, no doubt, that a drama may be written by somebody +else which we like very little. But we should like it still less if the +author came before the curtain every hour or so, and forced on us the +whole trouble of inventing the next act. A man has control over many +things in his life; he has control over enough things to be the hero of +a novel. But if he had control over everything, there would be so much +hero that there would be no novel. And the reason why the lives of the +rich are at bottom so tame and uneventful is simply that they can +choose the events. They are dull because they are omnipotent. They +fail to feel adventures because they can make the adventures. The thing +which keeps life romantic and full of fiery possibilities is the +existence of these great plain limitations which force all of us to +meet the things we do not like or do not expect. It is vain for the +supercilious moderns to talk of being in uncongenial surroundings. To +be in a romance is to be in uncongenial surroundings. To be born into +this earth is to be born into uncongenial surroundings, hence to be +born into a romance. Of all these great limitations and frameworks +which fashion and create the poetry and variety of life, the family is +the most definite and important. Hence it is misunderstood by the +moderns, who imagine that romance would exist most perfectly in a +complete state of what they call liberty. They think that if a man +makes a gesture it would be a startling and romantic matter that the +sun should fall from the sky. But the startling and romantic thing +about the sun is that it does not fall from the sky. They are seeking +under every shape and form a world where there are no limitations—that +is, a world where there are no outlines; that is, a world where there +are no shapes. There is nothing baser than that infinity. They say +they wish to be as strong as the universe, but they really wish the +whole universe as weak as themselves. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap15"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XV. On Smart Novelists and the Smart Set +</h2></div> + +<p> +In one sense, at any rate, it is more valuable to read bad literature +than good literature. Good literature may tell us the mind of one man; +but bad literature may tell us the mind of many men. A good novel tells +us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about +its author. It does much more than that, it tells us the truth about +its readers; and, oddly enough, it tells us this all the more the more +cynical and immoral be the motive of its manufacture. The more +dishonest a book is as a book the more honest it is as a public +document. A sincere novel exhibits the simplicity of one particular +man; an insincere novel exhibits the simplicity of mankind. The +pedantic decisions and definable readjustments of man may be found in +scrolls and statute books and scriptures; but men’s basic assumptions +and everlasting energies are to be found in penny dreadfuls and +halfpenny novelettes. Thus a man, like many men of real culture in our +day, might learn from good literature nothing except the power to +appreciate good literature. But from bad literature he might learn to +govern empires and look over the map of mankind. +</p> + +<p> +There is one rather interesting example of this state of things in +which the weaker literature is really the stronger and the stronger the +weaker. It is the case of what may be called, for the sake of an +approximate description, the literature of aristocracy; or, if you +prefer the description, the literature of snobbishness. Now if any one +wishes to find a really effective and comprehensible and permanent case +for aristocracy well and sincerely stated, let him read, not the modern +philosophical conservatives, not even Nietzsche, let him read the Bow +Bells Novelettes. Of the case of Nietzsche I am confessedly more +doubtful. Nietzsche and the Bow Bells Novelettes have both obviously +the same fundamental character; they both worship the tall man with +curling moustaches and herculean bodily power, and they both worship +him in a manner which is somewhat feminine and hysterical. Even here, +however, the Novelette easily maintains its philosophical superiority, +because it does attribute to the strong man those virtues which do +commonly belong to him, such virtues as laziness and kindliness and a +rather reckless benevolence, and a great dislike of hurting the weak. +Nietzsche, on the other hand, attributes to the strong man that scorn +against weakness which only exists among invalids. It is not, however, +of the secondary merits of the great German philosopher, but of the +primary merits of the Bow Bells Novelettes, that it is my present +affair to speak. The picture of aristocracy in the popular sentimental +novelette seems to me very satisfactory as a permanent political and +philosophical guide. It may be inaccurate about details such as the +title by which a baronet is addressed or the width of a mountain chasm +which a baronet can conveniently leap, but it is not a bad description +of the general idea and intention of aristocracy as they exist in human +affairs. The essential dream of aristocracy is magnificence and valour; +and if the Family Herald Supplement sometimes distorts or exaggerates +these things, at least, it does not fall short in them. It never errs +by making the mountain chasm too narrow or the title of the baronet +insufficiently impressive. But above this sane reliable old literature +of snobbishness there has arisen in our time another kind of literature +of snobbishness which, with its much higher pretensions, seems to me +worthy of very much less respect. Incidentally (if that matters), it +is much better literature. But it is immeasurably worse philosophy, +immeasurably worse ethics and politics, immeasurably worse vital +rendering of aristocracy and humanity as they really are. From such +books as those of which I wish now to speak we can discover what a +clever man can do with the idea of aristocracy. But from the Family +Herald Supplement literature we can learn what the idea of aristocracy +can do with a man who is not clever. And when we know that we know +English history. +</p> + +<p> +This new aristocratic fiction must have caught the attention of +everybody who has read the best fiction for the last fifteen years. It +is that genuine or alleged literature of the Smart Set which represents +that set as distinguished, not only by smart dresses, but by smart +sayings. To the bad baronet, to the good baronet, to the romantic and +misunderstood baronet who is supposed to be a bad baronet, but is a +good baronet, this school has added a conception undreamed of in the +former years—the conception of an amusing baronet. The aristocrat is +not merely to be taller than mortal men and stronger and handsomer, he +is also to be more witty. He is the long man with the short epigram. +Many eminent, and deservedly eminent, modern novelists must accept some +responsibility for having supported this worst form of snobbishness—an +intellectual snobbishness. The talented author of “Dodo” is +responsible for having in some sense created the fashion as a fashion. +Mr. Hichens, in the “Green Carnation,” reaffirmed the strange idea that +young noblemen talk well; though his case had some vague biographical +foundation, and in consequence an excuse. Mrs. Craigie is considerably +guilty in the matter, although, or rather because, she has combined the +aristocratic note with a note of some moral and even religious +sincerity. When you are saving a man’s soul, even in a novel, it is +indecent to mention that he is a gentleman. Nor can blame in this +matter be altogether removed from a man of much greater ability, and a +man who has proved his possession of the highest of human instinct, the +romantic instinct—I mean Mr. Anthony Hope. In a galloping, impossible +melodrama like “The Prisoner of Zenda,” the blood of kings fanned an +excellent fantastic thread or theme. But the blood of kings is not a +thing that can be taken seriously. And when, for example, Mr. Hope +devotes so much serious and sympathetic study to the man called +Tristram of Blent, a man who throughout burning boyhood thought of +nothing but a silly old estate, we feel even in Mr. Hope the hint of +this excessive concern about the oligarchic idea. It is hard for any +ordinary person to feel so much interest in a young man whose whole aim +is to own the house of Blent at the time when every other young man is +owning the stars. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hope, however, is a very mild case, and in him there is not only an +element of romance, but also a fine element of irony which warns us +against taking all this elegance too seriously. Above all, he shows his +sense in not making his noblemen so incredibly equipped with impromptu +repartee. This habit of insisting on the wit of the wealthier classes +is the last and most servile of all the servilities. It is, as I have +said, immeasurably more contemptible than the snobbishness of the +novelette which describes the nobleman as smiling like an Apollo or +riding a mad elephant. These may be exaggerations of beauty and +courage, but beauty and courage are the unconscious ideals of +aristocrats, even of stupid aristocrats. +</p> + +<p> +The nobleman of the novelette may not be sketched with any very close +or conscientious attention to the daily habits of noblemen. But he is +something more important than a reality; he is a practical ideal. The +gentleman of fiction may not copy the gentleman of real life; but the +gentleman of real life is copying the gentleman of fiction. He may not +be particularly good-looking, but he would rather be good-looking than +anything else; he may not have ridden on a mad elephant, but he rides a +pony as far as possible with an air as if he had. And, upon the whole, +the upper class not only especially desire these qualities of beauty +and courage, but in some degree, at any rate, especially possess them. +Thus there is nothing really mean or sycophantic about the popular +literature which makes all its marquises seven feet high. It is +snobbish, but it is not servile. Its exaggeration is based on an +exuberant and honest admiration; its honest admiration is based upon +something which is in some degree, at any rate, really there. The +English lower classes do not fear the English upper classes in the +least; nobody could. They simply and freely and sentimentally worship +them. The strength of the aristocracy is not in the aristocracy at all; +it is in the slums. It is not in the House of Lords; it is not in the +Civil Service; it is not in the Government offices; it is not even in +the huge and disproportionate monopoly of the English land. It is in a +certain spirit. It is in the fact that when a navvy wishes to praise a +man, it comes readily to his tongue to say that he has behaved like a +gentleman. From a democratic point of view he might as well say that +he had behaved like a viscount. The oligarchic character of the modern +English commonwealth does not rest, like many oligarchies, on the +cruelty of the rich to the poor. It does not even rest on the kindness +of the rich to the poor. It rests on the perennial and unfailing +kindness of the poor to the rich. +</p> + +<p> +The snobbishness of bad literature, then, is not servile; but the +snobbishness of good literature is servile. The old-fashioned +halfpenny romance where the duchesses sparkled with diamonds was not +servile; but the new romance where they sparkle with epigrams is +servile. For in thus attributing a special and startling degree of +intellect and conversational or controversial power to the upper +classes, we are attributing something which is not especially their +virtue or even especially their aim. We are, in the words of Disraeli +(who, being a genius and not a gentleman, has perhaps primarily to +answer for the introduction of this method of flattering the gentry), +we are performing the essential function of flattery which is +flattering the people for the qualities they have not got. Praise may +be gigantic and insane without having any quality of flattery so long +as it is praise of something that is noticeably in existence. A man +may say that a giraffe’s head strikes the stars, or that a whale fills +the German Ocean, and still be only in a rather excited state about a +favourite animal. But when he begins to congratulate the giraffe on his +feathers, and the whale on the elegance of his legs, we find ourselves +confronted with that social element which we call flattery. The middle +and lower orders of London can sincerely, though not perhaps safely, +admire the health and grace of the English aristocracy. And this for +the very simple reason that the aristocrats are, upon the whole, more +healthy and graceful than the poor. But they cannot honestly admire the +wit of the aristocrats. And this for the simple reason that the +aristocrats are not more witty than the poor, but a very great deal +less so. A man does not hear, as in the smart novels, these gems of +verbal felicity dropped between diplomatists at dinner. Where he +really does hear them is between two omnibus conductors in a block in +Holborn. The witty peer whose impromptus fill the books of Mrs. +Craigie or Miss Fowler, would, as a matter of fact, be torn to shreds +in the art of conversation by the first boot-black he had the +misfortune to fall foul of. The poor are merely sentimental, and very +excusably sentimental, if they praise the gentleman for having a ready +hand and ready money. But they are strictly slaves and sycophants if +they praise him for having a ready tongue. For that they have far more +themselves. +</p> + +<p> +The element of oligarchical sentiment in these novels, however, has, I +think, another and subtler aspect, an aspect more difficult to +understand and more worth understanding. The modern gentleman, +particularly the modern English gentleman, has become so central and +important in these books, and through them in the whole of our current +literature and our current mode of thought, that certain qualities of +his, whether original or recent, essential or accidental, have altered +the quality of our English comedy. In particular, that stoical ideal, +absurdly supposed to be the English ideal, has stiffened and chilled +us. It is not the English ideal; but it is to some extent the +aristocratic ideal; or it may be only the ideal of aristocracy in its +autumn or decay. The gentleman is a Stoic because he is a sort of +savage, because he is filled with a great elemental fear that some +stranger will speak to him. That is why a third-class carriage is a +community, while a first-class carriage is a place of wild hermits. But +this matter, which is difficult, I may be permitted to approach in a +more circuitous way. +</p> + +<p> +The haunting element of ineffectualness which runs through so much of +the witty and epigrammatic fiction fashionable during the last eight or +ten years, which runs through such works of a real though varying +ingenuity as “Dodo,” or “Concerning Isabel Carnaby,” or even “Some +Emotions and a Moral,” may be expressed in various ways, but to most of +us I think it will ultimately amount to the same thing. This new +frivolity is inadequate because there is in it no strong sense of an +unuttered joy. The men and women who exchange the repartees may not +only be hating each other, but hating even themselves. Any one of them +might be bankrupt that day, or sentenced to be shot the next. They are +joking, not because they are merry, but because they are not; out of +the emptiness of the heart the mouth speaketh. Even when they talk pure +nonsense it is a careful nonsense—a nonsense of which they are +economical, or, to use the perfect expression of Mr. W. S. Gilbert in +“Patience,” it is such “precious nonsense.” Even when they become +light-headed they do not become light-hearted. All those who have read +anything of the rationalism of the moderns know that their Reason is a +sad thing. But even their unreason is sad. +</p> + +<p> +The causes of this incapacity are also not very difficult to indicate. +The chief of all, of course, is that miserable fear of being +sentimental, which is the meanest of all the modern terrors—meaner +even than the terror which produces hygiene. Everywhere the robust and +uproarious humour has come from the men who were capable not merely of +sentimentalism, but a very silly sentimentalism. There has been no +humour so robust or uproarious as that of the sentimentalist Steele or +the sentimentalist Sterne or the sentimentalist Dickens. These +creatures who wept like women were the creatures who laughed like men. +It is true that the humour of Micawber is good literature and that the +pathos of little Nell is bad. But the kind of man who had the courage +to write so badly in the one case is the kind of man who would have the +courage to write so well in the other. The same unconsciousness, the +same violent innocence, the same gigantesque scale of action which +brought the Napoleon of Comedy his Jena brought him also his Moscow. +And herein is especially shown the frigid and feeble limitations of our +modern wits. They make violent efforts, they make heroic and almost +pathetic efforts, but they cannot really write badly. There are +moments when we almost think that they are achieving the effect, but +our hope shrivels to nothing the moment we compare their little +failures with the enormous imbecilities of Byron or Shakespeare. +</p> + +<p> +For a hearty laugh it is necessary to have touched the heart. I do not +know why touching the heart should always be connected only with the +idea of touching it to compassion or a sense of distress. The heart can +be touched to joy and triumph; the heart can be touched to amusement. +But all our comedians are tragic comedians. These later fashionable +writers are so pessimistic in bone and marrow that they never seem able +to imagine the heart having any concern with mirth. When they speak of +the heart, they always mean the pangs and disappointments of the +emotional life. When they say that a man’s heart is in the right place, +they mean, apparently, that it is in his boots. Our ethical societies +understand fellowship, but they do not understand good fellowship. +Similarly, our wits understand talk, but not what Dr. Johnson called a +good talk. In order to have, like Dr. Johnson, a good talk, it is +emphatically necessary to be, like Dr. Johnson, a good man—to have +friendship and honour and an abysmal tenderness. Above all, it is +necessary to be openly and indecently humane, to confess with fulness +all the primary pities and fears of Adam. Johnson was a clear-headed +humorous man, and therefore he did not mind talking seriously about +religion. Johnson was a brave man, one of the bravest that ever +walked, and therefore he did not mind avowing to any one his consuming +fear of death. +</p> + +<p> +The idea that there is something English in the repression of one’s +feelings is one of those ideas which no Englishman ever heard of until +England began to be governed exclusively by Scotchmen, Americans, and +Jews. At the best, the idea is a generalization from the Duke of +Wellington—who was an Irishman. At the worst, it is a part of that +silly Teutonism which knows as little about England as it does about +anthropology, but which is always talking about Vikings. As a matter of +fact, the Vikings did not repress their feelings in the least. They +cried like babies and kissed each other like girls; in short, they +acted in that respect like Achilles and all strong heroes the children +of the gods. And though the English nationality has probably not much +more to do with the Vikings than the French nationality or the Irish +nationality, the English have certainly been the children of the +Vikings in the matter of tears and kisses. It is not merely true that +all the most typically English men of letters, like Shakespeare and +Dickens, Richardson and Thackeray, were sentimentalists. It is also +true that all the most typically English men of action were +sentimentalists, if possible, more sentimental. In the great +Elizabethan age, when the English nation was finally hammered out, in +the great eighteenth century when the British Empire was being built up +everywhere, where in all these times, where was this symbolic stoical +Englishman who dresses in drab and black and represses his feelings? +Were all the Elizabethan palladins and pirates like that? Were any of +them like that? Was Grenville concealing his emotions when he broke +wine-glasses to pieces with his teeth and bit them till the blood +poured down? Was Essex restraining his excitement when he threw his hat +into the sea? Did Raleigh think it sensible to answer the Spanish guns +only, as Stevenson says, with a flourish of insulting trumpets? Did +Sydney ever miss an opportunity of making a theatrical remark in the +whole course of his life and death? Were even the Puritans Stoics? The +English Puritans repressed a good deal, but even they were too English +to repress their feelings. It was by a great miracle of genius +assuredly that Carlyle contrived to admire simultaneously two things so +irreconcilably opposed as silence and Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell was the +very reverse of a strong, silent man. Cromwell was always talking, when +he was not crying. Nobody, I suppose, will accuse the author of “Grace +Abounding” of being ashamed of his feelings. Milton, indeed, it might +be possible to represent as a Stoic; in some sense he was a Stoic, just +as he was a prig and a polygamist and several other unpleasant and +heathen things. But when we have passed that great and desolate name, +which may really be counted an exception, we find the tradition of +English emotionalism immediately resumed and unbrokenly continuous. +Whatever may have been the moral beauty of the passions of Etheridge +and Dorset, Sedley and Buckingham, they cannot be accused of the fault +of fastidiously concealing them. Charles the Second was very popular +with the English because, like all the jolly English kings, he +displayed his passions. William the Dutchman was very unpopular with +the English because, not being an Englishman, he did hide his emotions. +He was, in fact, precisely the ideal Englishman of our modern theory; +and precisely for that reason all the real Englishmen loathed him like +leprosy. With the rise of the great England of the eighteenth century, +we find this open and emotional tone still maintained in letters and +politics, in arts and in arms. Perhaps the only quality which was +possessed in common by the great Fielding, and the great Richardson was +that neither of them hid their feelings. Swift, indeed, was hard and +logical, because Swift was Irish. And when we pass to the soldiers and +the rulers, the patriots and the empire-builders of the eighteenth +century, we find, as I have said, that they were, If possible, more +romantic than the romancers, more poetical than the poets. Chatham, +who showed the world all his strength, showed the House of Commons all +his weakness. Wolfe walked about the room with a drawn sword calling +himself Caesar and Hannibal, and went to death with poetry in his +mouth. Clive was a man of the same type as Cromwell or Bunyan, or, for +the matter of that, Johnson—that is, he was a strong, sensible man +with a kind of running spring of hysteria and melancholy in him. Like +Johnson, he was all the more healthy because he was morbid. The tales +of all the admirals and adventurers of that England are full of +braggadocio, of sentimentality, of splendid affectation. But it is +scarcely necessary to multiply examples of the essentially romantic +Englishman when one example towers above them all. Mr. Rudyard Kipling +has said complacently of the English, “We do not fall on the neck and +kiss when we come together.” It is true that this ancient and universal +custom has vanished with the modern weakening of England. Sydney would +have thought nothing of kissing Spenser. But I willingly concede that +Mr. Broderick would not be likely to kiss Mr. Arnold-Foster, if that be +any proof of the increased manliness and military greatness of England. +But the Englishman who does not show his feelings has not altogether +given up the power of seeing something English in the great sea-hero of +the Napoleonic war. You cannot break the legend of Nelson. And across +the sunset of that glory is written in flaming letters for ever the +great English sentiment, “Kiss me, Hardy.” +</p> + +<p> +This ideal of self-repression, then, is, whatever else it is, not +English. It is, perhaps, somewhat Oriental, it is slightly Prussian, +but in the main it does not come, I think, from any racial or national +source. It is, as I have said, in some sense aristocratic; it comes not +from a people, but from a class. Even aristocracy, I think, was not +quite so stoical in the days when it was really strong. But whether +this unemotional ideal be the genuine tradition of the gentleman, or +only one of the inventions of the modern gentleman (who may be called +the decayed gentleman), it certainly has something to do with the +unemotional quality in these society novels. From representing +aristocrats as people who suppressed their feelings, it has been an +easy step to representing aristocrats as people who had no feelings to +suppress. Thus the modern oligarchist has made a virtue for the +oligarchy of the hardness as well as the brightness of the diamond. +Like a sonneteer addressing his lady in the seventeenth century, he +seems to use the word “cold” almost as a eulogium, and the word +“heartless” as a kind of compliment. Of course, in people so incurably +kind-hearted and babyish as are the English gentry, it would be +impossible to create anything that can be called positive cruelty; so +in these books they exhibit a sort of negative cruelty. They cannot be +cruel in acts, but they can be so in words. All this means one thing, +and one thing only. It means that the living and invigorating ideal of +England must be looked for in the masses; it must be looked for where +Dickens found it—Dickens among whose glories it was to be a humorist, +to be a sentimentalist, to be an optimist, to be a poor man, to be an +Englishman, but the greatest of whose glories was that he saw all +mankind in its amazing and tropical luxuriance, and did not even notice +the aristocracy; Dickens, the greatest of whose glories was that he +could not describe a gentleman. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap16"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XVI. On Mr. McCabe and a Divine Frivolity +</h2></div> + +<p> +A critic once remonstrated with me saying, with an air of indignant +reasonableness, “If you must make jokes, at least you need not make +them on such serious subjects.” I replied with a natural simplicity +and wonder, “About what other subjects can one make jokes except +serious subjects?” It is quite useless to talk about profane jesting. +All jesting is in its nature profane, in the sense that it must be the +sudden realization that something which thinks itself solemn is not so +very solemn after all. If a joke is not a joke about religion or +morals, it is a joke about police-magistrates or scientific professors +or undergraduates dressed up as Queen Victoria. And people joke about +the police-magistrate more than they joke about the Pope, not because +the police-magistrate is a more frivolous subject, but, on the +contrary, because the police-magistrate is a more serious subject than +the Pope. The Bishop of Rome has no jurisdiction in this realm of +England; whereas the police-magistrate may bring his solemnity to bear +quite suddenly upon us. Men make jokes about old scientific +professors, even more than they make them about bishops—not because +science is lighter than religion, but because science is always by its +nature more solemn and austere than religion. It is not I; it is not +even a particular class of journalists or jesters who make jokes about +the matters which are of most awful import; it is the whole human race. +If there is one thing more than another which any one will admit who +has the smallest knowledge of the world, it is that men are always +speaking gravely and earnestly and with the utmost possible care about +the things that are not important, but always talking frivolously about +the things that are. Men talk for hours with the faces of a college of +cardinals about things like golf, or tobacco, or waistcoats, or party +politics. But all the most grave and dreadful things in the world are +the oldest jokes in the world—being married; being hanged. +</p> + +<p> +One gentleman, however, Mr. McCabe, has in this matter made to me +something that almost amounts to a personal appeal; and as he happens +to be a man for whose sincerity and intellectual virtue I have a high +respect, I do not feel inclined to let it pass without some attempt to +satisfy my critic in the matter. Mr. McCabe devotes a considerable part +of the last essay in the collection called “Christianity and +Rationalism on Trial” to an objection, not to my thesis, but to my +method, and a very friendly and dignified appeal to me to alter it. I +am much inclined to defend myself in this matter out of mere respect +for Mr. McCabe, and still more so out of mere respect for the truth +which is, I think, in danger by his error, not only in this question, +but in others. In order that there may be no injustice done in the +matter, I will quote Mr. McCabe himself. “But before I follow Mr. +Chesterton in some detail I would make a general observation on his +method. He is as serious as I am in his ultimate purpose, and I respect +him for that. He knows, as I do, that humanity stands at a solemn +parting of the ways. Towards some unknown goal it presses through the +ages, impelled by an overmastering desire of happiness. To-day it +hesitates, lightheartedly enough, but every serious thinker knows how +momentous the decision may be. It is, apparently, deserting the path +of religion and entering upon the path of secularism. Will it lose +itself in quagmires of sensuality down this new path, and pant and toil +through years of civic and industrial anarchy, only to learn it had +lost the road, and must return to religion? Or will it find that at +last it is leaving the mists and the quagmires behind it; that it is +ascending the slope of the hill so long dimly discerned ahead, and +making straight for the long-sought Utopia? This is the drama of our +time, and every man and every woman should understand it. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Chesterton understands it. Further, he gives us credit for +understanding it. He has nothing of that paltry meanness or strange +density of so many of his colleagues, who put us down as aimless +iconoclasts or moral anarchists. He admits that we are waging a +thankless war for what we take to be Truth and Progress. He is doing +the same. But why, in the name of all that is reasonable, should we, +when we are agreed on the momentousness of the issue either way, +forthwith desert serious methods of conducting the controversy? Why, +when the vital need of our time is to induce men and women to collect +their thoughts occasionally, and be men and women—nay, to remember +that they are really gods that hold the destinies of humanity on their +knees—why should we think that this kaleidoscopic play of phrases is +inopportune? The ballets of the Alhambra, and the fireworks of the +Crystal Palace, and Mr. Chesterton’s Daily News articles, have their +place in life. But how a serious social student can think of curing the +thoughtlessness of our generation by strained paradoxes; of giving +people a sane grasp of social problems by literary sleight-of-hand; of +settling important questions by a reckless shower of rocket-metaphors +and inaccurate ‘facts,’ and the substitution of imagination for +judgment, I cannot see.” +</p> + +<p> +I quote this passage with a particular pleasure, because Mr. McCabe +certainly cannot put too strongly the degree to which I give him and +his school credit for their complete sincerity and responsibility of +philosophical attitude. I am quite certain that they mean every word +they say. I also mean every word I say. But why is it that Mr. McCabe +has some sort of mysterious hesitation about admitting that I mean +every word I say; why is it that he is not quite as certain of my +mental responsibility as I am of his mental responsibility? If we +attempt to answer the question directly and well, we shall, I think, +have come to the root of the matter by the shortest cut. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. McCabe thinks that I am not serious but only funny, because Mr. +McCabe thinks that funny is the opposite of serious. Funny is the +opposite of not funny, and of nothing else. The question of whether a +man expresses himself in a grotesque or laughable phraseology, or in a +stately and restrained phraseology, is not a question of motive or of +moral state, it is a question of instinctive language and +self-expression. Whether a man chooses to tell the truth in long +sentences or short jokes is a problem analogous to whether he chooses +to tell the truth in French or German. Whether a man preaches his +gospel grotesquely or gravely is merely like the question of whether he +preaches it in prose or verse. The question of whether Swift was funny +in his irony is quite another sort of question to the question of +whether Swift was serious in his pessimism. Surely even Mr. McCabe +would not maintain that the more funny “Gulliver” is in its method the +less it can be sincere in its object. The truth is, as I have said, +that in this sense the two qualities of fun and seriousness have +nothing whatever to do with each other, they are no more comparable +than black and triangular. Mr. Bernard Shaw is funny and sincere. Mr. +George Robey is funny and not sincere. Mr. McCabe is sincere and not +funny. The average Cabinet Minister is not sincere and not funny. +</p> + +<p> +In short, Mr. McCabe is under the influence of a primary fallacy which +I have found very common in men of the clerical type. Numbers of +clergymen have from time to time reproached me for making jokes about +religion; and they have almost always invoked the authority of that +very sensible commandment which says, “Thou shalt not take the name of +the Lord thy God in vain.” Of course, I pointed out that I was not in +any conceivable sense taking the name in vain. To take a thing and +make a joke out of it is not to take it in vain. It is, on the +contrary, to take it and use it for an uncommonly good object. To use +a thing in vain means to use it without use. But a joke may be +exceedingly useful; it may contain the whole earthly sense, not to +mention the whole heavenly sense, of a situation. And those who find +in the Bible the commandment can find in the Bible any number of the +jokes. In the same book in which God’s name is fenced from being taken +in vain, God himself overwhelms Job with a torrent of terrible +levities. The same book which says that God’s name must not be taken +vainly, talks easily and carelessly about God laughing and God winking. +Evidently it is not here that we have to look for genuine examples of +what is meant by a vain use of the name. And it is not very difficult +to see where we have really to look for it. The people (as I tactfully +pointed out to them) who really take the name of the Lord in vain are +the clergymen themselves. The thing which is fundamentally and really +frivolous is not a careless joke. The thing which is fundamentally and +really frivolous is a careless solemnity. If Mr. McCabe really wishes +to know what sort of guarantee of reality and solidity is afforded by +the mere act of what is called talking seriously, let him spend a happy +Sunday in going the round of the pulpits. Or, better still, let him +drop in at the House of Commons or the House of Lords. Even Mr. McCabe +would admit that these men are solemn—more solemn than I am. And even +Mr. McCabe, I think, would admit that these men are frivolous—more +frivolous than I am. Why should Mr. McCabe be so eloquent about the +danger arising from fantastic and paradoxical writers? Why should he be +so ardent in desiring grave and verbose writers? There are not so very +many fantastic and paradoxical writers. But there are a gigantic number +of grave and verbose writers; and it is by the efforts of the grave and +verbose writers that everything that Mr. McCabe detests (and everything +that I detest, for that matter) is kept in existence and energy. How +can it have come about that a man as intelligent as Mr. McCabe can +think that paradox and jesting stop the way? It is solemnity that is +stopping the way in every department of modern effort. It is his own +favourite “serious methods;” it is his own favourite “momentousness;” +it is his own favourite “judgment” which stops the way everywhere. +Every man who has ever headed a deputation to a minister knows this. +Every man who has ever written a letter to the Times knows it. Every +rich man who wishes to stop the mouths of the poor talks about +“momentousness.” Every Cabinet minister who has not got an answer +suddenly develops a “judgment.” Every sweater who uses vile methods +recommends “serious methods.” I said a moment ago that sincerity had +nothing to do with solemnity, but I confess that I am not so certain +that I was right. In the modern world, at any rate, I am not so sure +that I was right. In the modern world solemnity is the direct enemy of +sincerity. In the modern world sincerity is almost always on one side, +and solemnity almost always on the other. The only answer possible to +the fierce and glad attack of sincerity is the miserable answer of +solemnity. Let Mr. McCabe, or any one else who is much concerned that +we should be grave in order to be sincere, simply imagine the scene in +some government office in which Mr. Bernard Shaw should head a +Socialist deputation to Mr. Austen Chamberlain. On which side would be +the solemnity? And on which the sincerity? +</p> + +<p> +I am, indeed, delighted to discover that Mr. McCabe reckons Mr. Shaw +along with me in his system of condemnation of frivolity. He said once, +I believe, that he always wanted Mr. Shaw to label his paragraphs +serious or comic. I do not know which paragraphs of Mr. Shaw are +paragraphs to be labelled serious; but surely there can be no doubt +that this paragraph of Mr. McCabe’s is one to be labelled comic. He +also says, in the article I am now discussing, that Mr. Shaw has the +reputation of deliberately saying everything which his hearers do not +expect him to say. I need not labour the inconclusiveness and weakness +of this, because it has already been dealt with in my remarks on Mr. +Bernard Shaw. Suffice it to say here that the only serious reason which +I can imagine inducing any one person to listen to any other is, that +the first person looks to the second person with an ardent faith and a +fixed attention, expecting him to say what he does not expect him to +say. It may be a paradox, but that is because paradoxes are true. It +may not be rational, but that is because rationalism is wrong. But +clearly it is quite true that whenever we go to hear a prophet or +teacher we may or may not expect wit, we may or may not expect +eloquence, but we do expect what we do not expect. We may not expect +the true, we may not even expect the wise, but we do expect the +unexpected. If we do not expect the unexpected, why do we go there at +all? If we expect the expected, why do we not sit at home and expect it +by ourselves? If Mr. McCabe means merely this about Mr. Shaw, that he +always has some unexpected application of his doctrine to give to those +who listen to him, what he says is quite true, and to say it is only to +say that Mr. Shaw is an original man. But if he means that Mr. Shaw has +ever professed or preached any doctrine but one, and that his own, then +what he says is not true. It is not my business to defend Mr. Shaw; as +has been seen already, I disagree with him altogether. But I do not +mind, on his behalf offering in this matter a flat defiance to all his +ordinary opponents, such as Mr. McCabe. I defy Mr. McCabe, or anybody +else, to mention one single instance in which Mr. Shaw has, for the +sake of wit or novelty, taken up any position which was not directly +deducible from the body of his doctrine as elsewhere expressed. I have +been, I am happy to say, a tolerably close student of Mr. Shaw’s +utterances, and I request Mr. McCabe, if he will not believe that I +mean anything else, to believe that I mean this challenge. +</p> + +<p> +All this, however, is a parenthesis. The thing with which I am here +immediately concerned is Mr. McCabe’s appeal to me not to be so +frivolous. Let me return to the actual text of that appeal. There are, +of course, a great many things that I might say about it in detail. But +I may start with saying that Mr. McCabe is in error in supposing that +the danger which I anticipate from the disappearance of religion is the +increase of sensuality. On the contrary, I should be inclined to +anticipate a decrease in sensuality, because I anticipate a decrease in +life. I do not think that under modern Western materialism we should +have anarchy. I doubt whether we should have enough individual valour +and spirit even to have liberty. It is quite an old-fashioned fallacy +to suppose that our objection to scepticism is that it removes the +discipline from life. Our objection to scepticism is that it removes +the motive power. Materialism is not a thing which destroys mere +restraint. Materialism itself is the great restraint. The McCabe +school advocates a political liberty, but it denies spiritual liberty. +That is, it abolishes the laws which could be broken, and substitutes +laws that cannot. And that is the real slavery. +</p> + +<p> +The truth is that the scientific civilization in which Mr. McCabe +believes has one rather particular defect; it is perpetually tending to +destroy that democracy or power of the ordinary man in which Mr. McCabe +also believes. Science means specialism, and specialism means +oligarchy. If you once establish the habit of trusting particular men +to produce particular results in physics or astronomy, you leave the +door open for the equally natural demand that you should trust +particular men to do particular things in government and the coercing +of men. If, you feel it to be reasonable that one beetle should be the +only study of one man, and that one man the only student of that one +beetle, it is surely a very harmless consequence to go on to say that +politics should be the only study of one man, and that one man the only +student of politics. As I have pointed out elsewhere in this book, the +expert is more aristocratic than the aristocrat, because the aristocrat +is only the man who lives well, while the expert is the man who knows +better. But if we look at the progress of our scientific civilization +we see a gradual increase everywhere of the specialist over the popular +function. Once men sang together round a table in chorus; now one man +sings alone, for the absurd reason that he can sing better. If +scientific civilization goes on (which is most improbable) only one man +will laugh, because he can laugh better than the rest. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know that I can express this more shortly than by taking as a +text the single sentence of Mr. McCabe, which runs as follows: “The +ballets of the Alhambra and the fireworks of the Crystal Palace and Mr. +Chesterton’s Daily News articles have their places in life.” I wish +that my articles had as noble a place as either of the other two things +mentioned. But let us ask ourselves (in a spirit of love, as Mr. +Chadband would say), what are the ballets of the Alhambra? The ballets +of the Alhambra are institutions in which a particular selected row of +persons in pink go through an operation known as dancing. Now, in all +commonwealths dominated by a religion—in the Christian commonwealths +of the Middle Ages and in many rude societies—this habit of dancing +was a common habit with everybody, and was not necessarily confined to +a professional class. A person could dance without being a dancer; a +person could dance without being a specialist; a person could dance +without being pink. And, in proportion as Mr. McCabe’s scientific +civilization advances—that is, in proportion as religious civilization +(or real civilization) decays—the more and more “well trained,” the +more and more pink, become the people who do dance, and the more and +more numerous become the people who don’t. Mr. McCabe may recognize an +example of what I mean in the gradual discrediting in society of the +ancient European waltz or dance with partners, and the substitution of +that horrible and degrading oriental interlude which is known as +skirt-dancing. That is the whole essence of decadence, the effacement +of five people who do a thing for fun by one person who does it for +money. Now it follows, therefore, that when Mr. McCabe says that the +ballets of the Alhambra and my articles “have their place in life,” it +ought to be pointed out to him that he is doing his best to create a +world in which dancing, properly speaking, will have no place in life +at all. He is, indeed, trying to create a world in which there will be +no life for dancing to have a place in. The very fact that Mr. McCabe +thinks of dancing as a thing belonging to some hired women at the +Alhambra is an illustration of the same principle by which he is able +to think of religion as a thing belonging to some hired men in white +neckties. Both these things are things which should not be done for us, +but by us. If Mr. McCabe were really religious he would be happy. If +he were really happy he would dance. +</p> + +<p> +Briefly, we may put the matter in this way. The main point of modern +life is not that the Alhambra ballet has its place in life. The main +point, the main enormous tragedy of modern life, is that Mr. McCabe has +not his place in the Alhambra ballet. The joy of changing and graceful +posture, the joy of suiting the swing of music to the swing of limbs, +the joy of whirling drapery, the joy of standing on one leg,—all these +should belong by rights to Mr. McCabe and to me; in short, to the +ordinary healthy citizen. Probably we should not consent to go through +these evolutions. But that is because we are miserable moderns and +rationalists. We do not merely love ourselves more than we love duty; +we actually love ourselves more than we love joy. +</p> + +<p> +When, therefore, Mr. McCabe says that he gives the Alhambra dances (and +my articles) their place in life, I think we are justified in pointing +out that by the very nature of the case of his philosophy and of his +favourite civilization he gives them a very inadequate place. For (if I +may pursue the too flattering parallel) Mr. McCabe thinks of the +Alhambra and of my articles as two very odd and absurd things, which +some special people do (probably for money) in order to amuse him. But +if he had ever felt himself the ancient, sublime, elemental, human +instinct to dance, he would have discovered that dancing is not a +frivolous thing at all, but a very serious thing. He would have +discovered that it is the one grave and chaste and decent method of +expressing a certain class of emotions. And similarly, if he had ever +had, as Mr. Shaw and I have had, the impulse to what he calls paradox, +he would have discovered that paradox again is not a frivolous thing, +but a very serious thing. He would have found that paradox simply means +a certain defiant joy which belongs to belief. I should regard any +civilization which was without a universal habit of uproarious dancing +as being, from the full human point of view, a defective civilization. +And I should regard any mind which had not got the habit in one form or +another of uproarious thinking as being, from the full human point of +view, a defective mind. It is vain for Mr. McCabe to say that a ballet +is a part of him. He should be part of a ballet, or else he is only +part of a man. It is in vain for him to say that he is “not quarrelling +with the importation of humour into the controversy.” He ought himself +to be importing humour into every controversy; for unless a man is in +part a humorist, he is only in part a man. To sum up the whole matter +very simply, if Mr. McCabe asks me why I import frivolity into a +discussion of the nature of man, I answer, because frivolity is a part +of the nature of man. If he asks me why I introduce what he calls +paradoxes into a philosophical problem, I answer, because all +philosophical problems tend to become paradoxical. If he objects to my +treating of life riotously, I reply that life is a riot. And I say +that the Universe as I see it, at any rate, is very much more like the +fireworks at the Crystal Palace than it is like his own philosophy. +About the whole cosmos there is a tense and secret festivity—like +preparations for Guy Fawkes’ day. Eternity is the eve of something. I +never look up at the stars without feeling that they are the fires of a +schoolboy’s rocket, fixed in their everlasting fall. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap17"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XVII. On the Wit of Whistler +</h2></div> + +<p> +That capable and ingenious writer, Mr. Arthur Symons, has included in a +book of essays recently published, I believe, an apologia for “London +Nights,” in which he says that morality should be wholly subordinated +to art in criticism, and he uses the somewhat singular argument that +art or the worship of beauty is the same in all ages, while morality +differs in every period and in every respect. He appears to defy his +critics or his readers to mention any permanent feature or quality in +ethics. This is surely a very curious example of that extravagant bias +against morality which makes so many ultra-modern aesthetes as morbid +and fanatical as any Eastern hermit. Unquestionably it is a very +common phrase of modern intellectualism to say that the morality of one +age can be entirely different to the morality of another. And like a +great many other phrases of modern intellectualism, it means literally +nothing at all. If the two moralities are entirely different, why do +you call them both moralities? It is as if a man said, “Camels in +various places are totally diverse; some have six legs, some have none, +some have scales, some have feathers, some have horns, some have wings, +some are green, some are triangular. There is no point which they have +in common.” The ordinary man of sense would reply, “Then what makes +you call them all camels? What do you mean by a camel? How do you know +a camel when you see one?” Of course, there is a permanent substance of +morality, as much as there is a permanent substance of art; to say that +is only to say that morality is morality, and that art is art. An +ideal art-critic would, no doubt, see the enduring beauty under every +school; equally an ideal moralist would see the enduring ethic under +every code. But practically some of the best Englishmen that ever lived +could see nothing but filth and idolatry in the starry piety of the +Brahmin. And it is equally true that practically the greatest group of +artists that the world has ever seen, the giants of the Renaissance, +could see nothing but barbarism in the ethereal energy of Gothic. +</p> + +<p> +This bias against morality among the modern aesthetes is nothing very +much paraded. And yet it is not really a bias against morality; it is +a bias against other people’s morality. It is generally founded on a +very definite moral preference for a certain sort of life, pagan, +plausible, humane. The modern aesthete, wishing us to believe that he +values beauty more than conduct, reads Mallarme, and drinks absinthe in +a tavern. But this is not only his favourite kind of beauty; it is +also his favourite kind of conduct. If he really wished us to believe +that he cared for beauty only, he ought to go to nothing but Wesleyan +school treats, and paint the sunlight in the hair of the Wesleyan +babies. He ought to read nothing but very eloquent theological sermons +by old-fashioned Presbyterian divines. Here the lack of all possible +moral sympathy would prove that his interest was purely verbal or +pictorial, as it is; in all the books he reads and writes he clings to +the skirts of his own morality and his own immorality. The champion of +l’art pour l’art is always denouncing Ruskin for his moralizing. If he +were really a champion of l’art pour l’art, he would be always +insisting on Ruskin for his style. +</p> + +<p> +The doctrine of the distinction between art and morality owes a great +part of its success to art and morality being hopelessly mixed up in +the persons and performances of its greatest exponents. Of this lucky +contradiction the very incarnation was Whistler. No man ever preached +the impersonality of art so well; no man ever preached the +impersonality of art so personally. For him pictures had nothing to do +with the problems of character; but for all his fiercest admirers his +character was, as a matter of fact far more interesting than his +pictures. He gloried in standing as an artist apart from right and +wrong. But he succeeded by talking from morning till night about his +rights and about his wrongs. His talents were many, his virtues, it +must be confessed, not many, beyond that kindness to tried friends, on +which many of his biographers insist, but which surely is a quality of +all sane men, of pirates and pickpockets; beyond this, his outstanding +virtues limit themselves chiefly to two admirable ones—courage and an +abstract love of good work. Yet I fancy he won at last more by those +two virtues than by all his talents. A man must be something of a +moralist if he is to preach, even if he is to preach unmorality. +Professor Walter Raleigh, in his “In Memoriam: James McNeill Whistler,” +insists, truly enough, on the strong streak of an eccentric honesty in +matters strictly pictorial, which ran through his complex and slightly +confused character. “He would destroy any of his works rather than +leave a careless or inexpressive touch within the limits of the frame. +He would begin again a hundred times over rather than attempt by +patching to make his work seem better than it was.” +</p> + +<p> +No one will blame Professor Raleigh, who had to read a sort of funeral +oration over Whistler at the opening of the Memorial Exhibition, if, +finding himself in that position, he confined himself mostly to the +merits and the stronger qualities of his subject. We should naturally +go to some other type of composition for a proper consideration of the +weaknesses of Whistler. But these must never be omitted from our view +of him. Indeed, the truth is that it was not so much a question of the +weaknesses of Whistler as of the intrinsic and primary weakness of +Whistler. He was one of those people who live up to their emotional +incomes, who are always taut and tingling with vanity. Hence he had no +strength to spare; hence he had no kindness, no geniality; for +geniality is almost definable as strength to spare. He had no god-like +carelessness; he never forgot himself; his whole life was, to use his +own expression, an arrangement. He went in for “the art of living”—a +miserable trick. In a word, he was a great artist; but emphatically not +a great man. In this connection I must differ strongly with Professor +Raleigh upon what is, from a superficial literary point of view, one of +his most effective points. He compares Whistler’s laughter to the +laughter of another man who was a great man as well as a great artist. +“His attitude to the public was exactly the attitude taken up by Robert +Browning, who suffered as long a period of neglect and mistake, in +those lines of ‘The Ring and the Book’— +</p> + +<p CLASS="poem"> + “‘Well, British Public, ye who like me not,<br> + (God love you!) and will have your proper laugh<br> + At the dark question; laugh it! I’d laugh first.’<br> +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Whistler,” adds Professor Raleigh, “always laughed first.” The +truth is, I believe, that Whistler never laughed at all. There was no +laughter in his nature; because there was no thoughtlessness and +self-abandonment, no humility. I cannot understand anybody reading +“The Gentle Art of Making Enemies” and thinking that there is any +laughter in the wit. His wit is a torture to him. He twists himself +into arabesques of verbal felicity; he is full of a fierce carefulness; +he is inspired with the complete seriousness of sincere malice. He +hurts himself to hurt his opponent. Browning did laugh, because +Browning did not care; Browning did not care, because Browning was a +great man. And when Browning said in brackets to the simple, sensible +people who did not like his books, “God love you!” he was not sneering +in the least. He was laughing—that is to say, he meant exactly what he +said. +</p> + +<p> +There are three distinct classes of great satirists who are also great +men—that is to say, three classes of men who can laugh at something +without losing their souls. The satirist of the first type is the man +who, first of all enjoys himself, and then enjoys his enemies. In this +sense he loves his enemy, and by a kind of exaggeration of Christianity +he loves his enemy the more the more he becomes an enemy. He has a sort +of overwhelming and aggressive happiness in his assertion of anger; his +curse is as human as a benediction. Of this type of satire the great +example is Rabelais. This is the first typical example of satire, the +satire which is voluble, which is violent, which is indecent, but which +is not malicious. The satire of Whistler was not this. He was never in +any of his controversies simply happy; the proof of it is that he never +talked absolute nonsense. There is a second type of mind which +produces satire with the quality of greatness. That is embodied in the +satirist whose passions are released and let go by some intolerable +sense of wrong. He is maddened by the sense of men being maddened; his +tongue becomes an unruly member, and testifies against all mankind. +Such a man was Swift, in whom the saeva indignatio was a bitterness to +others, because it was a bitterness to himself. Such a satirist +Whistler was not. He did not laugh because he was happy, like +Rabelais. But neither did he laugh because he was unhappy, like Swift. +</p> + +<p> +The third type of great satire is that in which he satirist is enabled +to rise superior to his victim in the only serious sense which +superiority can bear, in that of pitying the sinner and respecting the +man even while he satirises both. Such an achievement can be found in +a thing like Pope’s “Atticus” a poem in which the satirist feels that +he is satirising the weaknesses which belong specially to literary +genius. Consequently he takes a pleasure in pointing out his enemy’s +strength before he points out his weakness. That is, perhaps, the +highest and most honourable form of satire. That is not the satire of +Whistler. He is not full of a great sorrow for the wrong done to human +nature; for him the wrong is altogether done to himself. +</p> + +<p> +He was not a great personality, because he thought so much about +himself. And the case is stronger even than that. He was sometimes not +even a great artist, because he thought so much about art. Any man +with a vital knowledge of the human psychology ought to have the most +profound suspicion of anybody who claims to be an artist, and talks a +great deal about art. Art is a right and human thing, like walking or +saying one’s prayers; but the moment it begins to be talked about very +solemnly, a man may be fairly certain that the thing has come into a +congestion and a kind of difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +The artistic temperament is a disease that afflicts amateurs. It is a +disease which arises from men not having sufficient power of expression +to utter and get rid of the element of art in their being. It is +healthful to every sane man to utter the art within him; it is +essential to every sane man to get rid of the art within him at all +costs. Artists of a large and wholesome vitality get rid of their art +easily, as they breathe easily, or perspire easily. But in artists of +less force, the thing becomes a pressure, and produces a definite pain, +which is called the artistic temperament. Thus, very great artists are +able to be ordinary men—men like Shakespeare or Browning. There are +many real tragedies of the artistic temperament, tragedies of vanity or +violence or fear. But the great tragedy of the artistic temperament is +that it cannot produce any art. +</p> + +<p> +Whistler could produce art; and in so far he was a great man. But he +could not forget art; and in so far he was only a man with the artistic +temperament. There can be no stronger manifestation of the man who is +a really great artist than the fact that he can dismiss the subject of +art; that he can, upon due occasion, wish art at the bottom of the sea. +Similarly, we should always be much more inclined to trust a solicitor +who did not talk about conveyancing over the nuts and wine. What we +really desire of any man conducting any business is that the full force +of an ordinary man should be put into that particular study. We do not +desire that the full force of that study should be put into an ordinary +man. We do not in the least wish that our particular law-suit should +pour its energy into our barrister’s games with his children, or rides +on his bicycle, or meditations on the morning star. But we do, as a +matter of fact, desire that his games with his children, and his rides +on his bicycle, and his meditations on the morning star should pour +something of their energy into our law-suit. We do desire that if he +has gained any especial lung development from the bicycle, or any +bright and pleasing metaphors from the morning star, that the should be +placed at our disposal in that particular forensic controversy. In a +word, we are very glad that he is an ordinary man, since that may help +him to be an exceptional lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +Whistler never ceased to be an artist. As Mr. Max Beerbohm pointed out +in one of his extraordinarily sensible and sincere critiques, Whistler +really regarded Whistler as his greatest work of art. The white lock, +the single eyeglass, the remarkable hat—these were much dearer to him +than any nocturnes or arrangements that he ever threw off. He could +throw off the nocturnes; for some mysterious reason he could not throw +off the hat. He never threw off from himself that disproportionate +accumulation of aestheticism which is the burden of the amateur. +</p> + +<p> +It need hardly be said that this is the real explanation of the thing +which has puzzled so many dilettante critics, the problem of the +extreme ordinariness of the behaviour of so many great geniuses in +history. Their behaviour was so ordinary that it was not recorded; +hence it was so ordinary that it seemed mysterious. Hence people say +that Bacon wrote Shakespeare. The modern artistic temperament cannot +understand how a man who could write such lyrics as Shakespeare wrote, +could be as keen as Shakespeare was on business transactions in a +little town in Warwickshire. The explanation is simple enough; it is +that Shakespeare had a real lyrical impulse, wrote a real lyric, and so +got rid of the impulse and went about his business. Being an artist did +not prevent him from being an ordinary man, any more than being a +sleeper at night or being a diner at dinner prevented him from being an +ordinary man. +</p> + +<p> +All very great teachers and leaders have had this habit of assuming +their point of view to be one which was human and casual, one which +would readily appeal to every passing man. If a man is genuinely +superior to his fellows the first thing that he believes in is the +equality of man. We can see this, for instance, in that strange and +innocent rationality with which Christ addressed any motley crowd that +happened to stand about Him. “What man of you having a hundred sheep, +and losing one, would not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, +and go after that which was lost?” Or, again, “What man of you if his +son ask for bread will he give him a stone, or if he ask for a fish +will he give him a serpent?” This plainness, this almost prosaic +camaraderie, is the note of all very great minds. +</p> + +<p> +To very great minds the things on which men agree are so immeasurably +more important than the things on which they differ, that the latter, +for all practical purposes, disappear. They have too much in them of +an ancient laughter even to endure to discuss the difference between +the hats of two men who were both born of a woman, or between the +subtly varied cultures of two men who have both to die. The first-rate +great man is equal with other men, like Shakespeare. The second-rate +great man is on his knees to other men, like Whitman. The third-rate +great man is superior to other men, like Whistler. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap18"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XVIII. The Fallacy of the Young Nation +</h2></div> + +<p> +To say that a man is an idealist is merely to say that he is a man; +but, nevertheless, it might be possible to effect some valid +distinction between one kind of idealist and another. One possible +distinction, for instance, could be effected by saying that humanity is +divided into conscious idealists and unconscious idealists. In a +similar way, humanity is divided into conscious ritualists and +unconscious ritualists. The curious thing is, in that example as in +others, that it is the conscious ritualism which is comparatively +simple, the unconscious ritual which is really heavy and complicated. +The ritual which is comparatively rude and straightforward is the +ritual which people call “ritualistic.” It consists of plain things +like bread and wine and fire, and men falling on their faces. But the +ritual which is really complex, and many coloured, and elaborate, and +needlessly formal, is the ritual which people enact without knowing it. +It consists not of plain things like wine and fire, but of really +peculiar, and local, and exceptional, and ingenious things—things like +door-mats, and door-knockers, and electric bells, and silk hats, and +white ties, and shiny cards, and confetti. The truth is that the modern +man scarcely ever gets back to very old and simple things except when +he is performing some religious mummery. The modern man can hardly get +away from ritual except by entering a ritualistic church. In the case +of these old and mystical formalities we can at least say that the +ritual is not mere ritual; that the symbols employed are in most cases +symbols which belong to a primary human poetry. The most ferocious +opponent of the Christian ceremonials must admit that if Catholicism +had not instituted the bread and wine, somebody else would most +probably have done so. Any one with a poetical instinct will admit that +to the ordinary human instinct bread symbolizes something which cannot +very easily be symbolized otherwise; that wine, to the ordinary human +instinct, symbolizes something which cannot very easily be symbolized +otherwise. But white ties in the evening are ritual, and nothing else +but ritual. No one would pretend that white ties in the evening are +primary and poetical. Nobody would maintain that the ordinary human +instinct would in any age or country tend to symbolize the idea of +evening by a white necktie. Rather, the ordinary human instinct would, +I imagine, tend to symbolize evening by cravats with some of the +colours of the sunset, not white neckties, but tawny or crimson +neckties—neckties of purple or olive, or some darkened gold. Mr. J. +A. Kensit, for example, is under the impression that he is not a +ritualist. But the daily life of Mr. J. A. Kensit, like that of any +ordinary modern man, is, as a matter of fact, one continual and +compressed catalogue of mystical mummery and flummery. To take one +instance out of an inevitable hundred: I imagine that Mr. Kensit takes +off his hat to a lady; and what can be more solemn and absurd, +considered in the abstract, than, symbolizing the existence of the +other sex by taking off a portion of your clothing and waving it in the +air? This, I repeat, is not a natural and primitive symbol, like fire +or food. A man might just as well have to take off his waistcoat to a +lady; and if a man, by the social ritual of his civilization, had to +take off his waistcoat to a lady, every chivalrous and sensible man +would take off his waistcoat to a lady. In short, Mr. Kensit, and +those who agree with him, may think, and quite sincerely think, that +men give too much incense and ceremonial to their adoration of the +other world. But nobody thinks that he can give too much incense and +ceremonial to the adoration of this world. All men, then, are +ritualists, but are either conscious or unconscious ritualists. The +conscious ritualists are generally satisfied with a few very simple and +elementary signs; the unconscious ritualists are not satisfied with +anything short of the whole of human life, being almost insanely +ritualistic. The first is called a ritualist because he invents and +remembers one rite; the other is called an anti-ritualist because he +obeys and forgets a thousand. And a somewhat similar distinction to +this which I have drawn with some unavoidable length, between the +conscious ritualist and the unconscious ritualist, exists between the +conscious idealist and the unconscious idealist. It is idle to inveigh +against cynics and materialists—there are no cynics, there are no +materialists. Every man is idealistic; only it so often happens that +he has the wrong ideal. Every man is incurably sentimental; but, +unfortunately, it is so often a false sentiment. When we talk, for +instance, of some unscrupulous commercial figure, and say that he would +do anything for money, we use quite an inaccurate expression, and we +slander him very much. He would not do anything for money. He would do +some things for money; he would sell his soul for money, for instance; +and, as Mirabeau humorously said, he would be quite wise “to take money +for muck.” He would oppress humanity for money; but then it happens +that humanity and the soul are not things that he believes in; they are +not his ideals. But he has his own dim and delicate ideals; and he +would not violate these for money. He would not drink out of the +soup-tureen, for money. He would not wear his coat-tails in front, for +money. He would not spread a report that he had softening of the +brain, for money. In the actual practice of life we find, in the matter +of ideals, exactly what we have already found in the matter of ritual. +We find that while there is a perfectly genuine danger of fanaticism +from the men who have unworldly ideals, the permanent and urgent danger +of fanaticism is from the men who have worldly ideals. +</p> + +<p> +People who say that an ideal is a dangerous thing, that it deludes and +intoxicates, are perfectly right. But the ideal which intoxicates most +is the least idealistic kind of ideal. The ideal which intoxicates +least is the very ideal ideal; that sobers us suddenly, as all heights +and precipices and great distances do. Granted that it is a great evil +to mistake a cloud for a cape; still, the cloud, which can be most +easily mistaken for a cape, is the cloud that is nearest the earth. +Similarly, we may grant that it may be dangerous to mistake an ideal +for something practical. But we shall still point out that, in this +respect, the most dangerous ideal of all is the ideal which looks a +little practical. It is difficult to attain a high ideal; consequently, +it is almost impossible to persuade ourselves that we have attained it. +But it is easy to attain a low ideal; consequently, it is easier still +to persuade ourselves that we have attained it when we have done +nothing of the kind. To take a random example. It might be called a +high ambition to wish to be an archangel; the man who entertained such +an ideal would very possibly exhibit asceticism, or even frenzy, but +not, I think, delusion. He would not think he was an archangel, and go +about flapping his hands under the impression that they were wings. But +suppose that a sane man had a low ideal; suppose he wished to be a +gentleman. Any one who knows the world knows that in nine weeks he +would have persuaded himself that he was a gentleman; and this being +manifestly not the case, the result will be very real and practical +dislocations and calamities in social life. It is not the wild ideals +which wreck the practical world; it is the tame ideals. +</p> + +<p> +The matter may, perhaps, be illustrated by a parallel from our modern +politics. When men tell us that the old Liberal politicians of the +type of Gladstone cared only for ideals, of course, they are talking +nonsense—they cared for a great many other things, including votes. +And when men tell us that modern politicians of the type of Mr. +Chamberlain or, in another way, Lord Rosebery, care only for votes or +for material interest, then again they are talking nonsense—these men +care for ideals like all other men. But the real distinction which may +be drawn is this, that to the older politician the ideal was an ideal, +and nothing else. To the new politician his dream is not only a good +dream, it is a reality. The old politician would have said, “It would +be a good thing if there were a Republican Federation dominating the +world.” But the modern politician does not say, “It would be a good +thing if there were a British Imperialism dominating the world.” He +says, “It is a good thing that there is a British Imperialism +dominating the world;” whereas clearly there is nothing of the kind. +The old Liberal would say “There ought to be a good Irish government in +Ireland.” But the ordinary modern Unionist does not say, “There ought +to be a good English government in Ireland.” He says, “There is a good +English government in Ireland;” which is absurd. In short, the modern +politicians seem to think that a man becomes practical merely by making +assertions entirely about practical things. Apparently, a delusion does +not matter as long as it is a materialistic delusion. Instinctively +most of us feel that, as a practical matter, even the contrary is true. +I certainly would much rather share my apartments with a gentleman who +thought he was God than with a gentleman who thought he was a +grasshopper. To be continually haunted by practical images and +practical problems, to be constantly thinking of things as actual, as +urgent, as in process of completion—these things do not prove a man to +be practical; these things, indeed, are among the most ordinary signs +of a lunatic. That our modern statesmen are materialistic is nothing +against their being also morbid. Seeing angels in a vision may make a +man a supernaturalist to excess. But merely seeing snakes in delirium +tremens does not make him a naturalist. +</p> + +<p> +And when we come actually to examine the main stock notions of our +modern practical politicians, we find that those main stock notions are +mainly delusions. A great many instances might be given of the fact. +We might take, for example, the case of that strange class of notions +which underlie the word “union,” and all the eulogies heaped upon it. +Of course, union is no more a good thing in itself than separation is a +good thing in itself. To have a party in favour of union and a party +in favour of separation is as absurd as to have a party in favour of +going upstairs and a party in favour of going downstairs. The question +is not whether we go up or down stairs, but where we are going to, and +what we are going, for? Union is strength; union is also weakness. It +is a good thing to harness two horses to a cart; but it is not a good +thing to try and turn two hansom cabs into one four-wheeler. Turning +ten nations into one empire may happen to be as feasible as turning ten +shillings into one half-sovereign. Also it may happen to be as +preposterous as turning ten terriers into one mastiff. The question in +all cases is not a question of union or absence of union, but of +identity or absence of identity. Owing to certain historical and moral +causes, two nations may be so united as upon the whole to help each +other. Thus England and Scotland pass their time in paying each other +compliments; but their energies and atmospheres run distinct and +parallel, and consequently do not clash. Scotland continues to be +educated and Calvinistic; England continues to be uneducated and happy. +But owing to certain other Moral and certain other political causes, +two nations may be so united as only to hamper each other; their lines +do clash and do not run parallel. Thus, for instance, England and +Ireland are so united that the Irish can sometimes rule England, but +can never rule Ireland. The educational systems, including the last +Education Act, are here, as in the case of Scotland, a very good test +of the matter. The overwhelming majority of Irishmen believe in a +strict Catholicism; the overwhelming majority of Englishmen believe in +a vague Protestantism. The Irish party in the Parliament of Union is +just large enough to prevent the English education being indefinitely +Protestant, and just small enough to prevent the Irish education being +definitely Catholic. Here we have a state of things which no man in his +senses would ever dream of wishing to continue if he had not been +bewitched by the sentimentalism of the mere word “union.” +</p> + +<p> +This example of union, however, is not the example which I propose to +take of the ingrained futility and deception underlying all the +assumptions of the modern practical politician. I wish to speak +especially of another and much more general delusion. It pervades the +minds and speeches of all the practical men of all parties; and it is a +childish blunder built upon a single false metaphor. I refer to the +universal modern talk about young nations and new nations; about +America being young, about New Zealand being new. The whole thing is a +trick of words. America is not young, New Zealand is not new. It is a +very discussable question whether they are not both much older than +England or Ireland. +</p> + +<p> +Of course we may use the metaphor of youth about America or the +colonies, if we use it strictly as implying only a recent origin. But +if we use it (as we do use it) as implying vigour, or vivacity, or +crudity, or inexperience, or hope, or a long life before them or any of +the romantic attributes of youth, then it is surely as clear as +daylight that we are duped by a stale figure of speech. We can easily +see the matter clearly by applying it to any other institution parallel +to the institution of an independent nationality. If a club called “The +Milk and Soda League” (let us say) was set up yesterday, as I have no +doubt it was, then, of course, “The Milk and Soda League” is a young +club in the sense that it was set up yesterday, but in no other sense. +It may consist entirely of moribund old gentlemen. It may be moribund +itself. We may call it a young club, in the light of the fact that it +was founded yesterday. We may also call it a very old club in the +light of the fact that it will most probably go bankrupt to-morrow. All +this appears very obvious when we put it in this form. Any one who +adopted the young-community delusion with regard to a bank or a +butcher’s shop would be sent to an asylum. But the whole modern +political notion that America and the colonies must be very vigorous +because they are very new, rests upon no better foundation. That +America was founded long after England does not make it even in the +faintest degree more probable that America will not perish a long time +before England. That England existed before her colonies does not make +it any the less likely that she will exist after her colonies. And +when we look at the actual history of the world, we find that great +European nations almost invariably have survived the vitality of their +colonies. When we look at the actual history of the world, we find, +that if there is a thing that is born old and dies young, it is a +colony. The Greek colonies went to pieces long before the Greek +civilization. The Spanish colonies have gone to pieces long before the +nation of Spain—nor does there seem to be any reason to doubt the +possibility or even the probability of the conclusion that the colonial +civilization, which owes its origin to England, will be much briefer +and much less vigorous than the civilization of England itself. The +English nation will still be going the way of all European nations when +the Anglo-Saxon race has gone the way of all fads. Now, of course, the +interesting question is, have we, in the case of America and the +colonies, any real evidence of a moral and intellectual youth as +opposed to the indisputable triviality of a merely chronological youth? +Consciously or unconsciously, we know that we have no such evidence, +and consciously or unconsciously, therefore, we proceed to make it up. +Of this pure and placid invention, a good example, for instance, can be +found in a recent poem of Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s. Speaking of the +English people and the South African War Mr. Kipling says that “we +fawned on the younger nations for the men that could shoot and ride.” +Some people considered this sentence insulting. All that I am +concerned with at present is the evident fact that it is not true. The +colonies provided very useful volunteer troops, but they did not +provide the best troops, nor achieve the most successful exploits. The +best work in the war on the English side was done, as might have been +expected, by the best English regiments. The men who could shoot and +ride were not the enthusiastic corn merchants from Melbourne, any more +than they were the enthusiastic clerks from Cheapside. The men who +could shoot and ride were the men who had been taught to shoot and ride +in the discipline of the standing army of a great European power. Of +course, the colonials are as brave and athletic as any other average +white men. Of course, they acquitted themselves with reasonable credit. +All I have here to indicate is that, for the purposes of this theory of +the new nation, it is necessary to maintain that the colonial forces +were more useful or more heroic than the gunners at Colenso or the +Fighting Fifth. And of this contention there is not, and never has +been, one stick or straw of evidence. +</p> + +<p> +A similar attempt is made, and with even less success, to represent the +literature of the colonies as something fresh and vigorous and +important. The imperialist magazines are constantly springing upon us +some genius from Queensland or Canada, through whom we are expected to +smell the odours of the bush or the prairie. As a matter of fact, any +one who is even slightly interested in literature as such (and I, for +one, confess that I am only slightly interested in literature as such), +will freely admit that the stories of these geniuses smell of nothing +but printer’s ink, and that not of first-rate quality. By a great +effort of Imperial imagination the generous English people reads into +these works a force and a novelty. But the force and the novelty are +not in the new writers; the force and the novelty are in the ancient +heart of the English. Anybody who studies them impartially will know +that the first-rate writers of the colonies are not even particularly +novel in their note and atmosphere, are not only not producing a new +kind of good literature, but are not even in any particular sense +producing a new kind of bad literature. The first-rate writers of the +new countries are really almost exactly like the second-rate writers of +the old countries. Of course they do feel the mystery of the +wilderness, the mystery of the bush, for all simple and honest men feel +this in Melbourne, or Margate, or South St. Pancras. But when they +write most sincerely and most successfully, it is not with a background +of the mystery of the bush, but with a background, expressed or +assumed, of our own romantic cockney civilization. What really moves +their souls with a kindly terror is not the mystery of the wilderness, +but the Mystery of a Hansom Cab. +</p> + +<p> +Of course there are some exceptions to this generalization. The one +really arresting exception is Olive Schreiner, and she is quite as +certainly an exception that proves the rule. Olive Schreiner is a +fierce, brilliant, and realistic novelist; but she is all this +precisely because she is not English at all. Her tribal kinship is with +the country of Teniers and Maarten Maartens—that is, with a country of +realists. Her literary kinship is with the pessimistic fiction of the +continent; with the novelists whose very pity is cruel. Olive +Schreiner is the one English colonial who is not conventional, for the +simple reason that South Africa is the one English colony which is not +English, and probably never will be. And, of course, there are +individual exceptions in a minor way. I remember in particular some +Australian tales by Mr. McIlwain which were really able and effective, +and which, for that reason, I suppose, are not presented to the public +with blasts of a trumpet. But my general contention if put before any +one with a love of letters, will not be disputed if it is understood. +It is not the truth that the colonial civilization as a whole is giving +us, or shows any signs of giving us, a literature which will startle +and renovate our own. It may be a very good thing for us to have an +affectionate illusion in the matter; that is quite another affair. The +colonies may have given England a new emotion; I only say that they +have not given the world a new book. +</p> + +<p> +Touching these English colonies, I do not wish to be misunderstood. I +do not say of them or of America that they have not a future, or that +they will not be great nations. I merely deny the whole established +modern expression about them. I deny that they are “destined” to a +future. I deny that they are “destined” to be great nations. I deny +(of course) that any human thing is destined to be anything. All the +absurd physical metaphors, such as youth and age, living and dying, +are, when applied to nations, but pseudo-scientific attempts to conceal +from men the awful liberty of their lonely souls. +</p> + +<p> +In the case of America, indeed, a warning to this effect is instant and +essential. America, of course, like every other human thing, can in +spiritual sense live or die as much as it chooses. But at the present +moment the matter which America has very seriously to consider is not +how near it is to its birth and beginning, but how near it may be to +its end. It is only a verbal question whether the American +civilization is young; it may become a very practical and urgent +question whether it is dying. When once we have cast aside, as we +inevitably have after a moment’s thought, the fanciful physical +metaphor involved in the word “youth,” what serious evidence have we +that America is a fresh force and not a stale one? It has a great many +people, like China; it has a great deal of money, like defeated +Carthage or dying Venice. It is full of bustle and excitability, like +Athens after its ruin, and all the Greek cities in their decline. It +is fond of new things; but the old are always fond of new things. +Young men read chronicles, but old men read newspapers. It admires +strength and good looks; it admires a big and barbaric beauty in its +women, for instance; but so did Rome when the Goth was at the gates. +All these are things quite compatible with fundamental tedium and +decay. There are three main shapes or symbols in which a nation can +show itself essentially glad and great—by the heroic in government, by +the heroic in arms, and by the heroic in art. Beyond government, which +is, as it were, the very shape and body of a nation, the most +significant thing about any citizen is his artistic attitude towards a +holiday and his moral attitude towards a fight—that is, his way of +accepting life and his way of accepting death. +</p> + +<p> +Subjected to these eternal tests, America does not appear by any means +as particularly fresh or untouched. She appears with all the weakness +and weariness of modern England or of any other Western power. In her +politics she has broken up exactly as England has broken up, into a +bewildering opportunism and insincerity. In the matter of war and the +national attitude towards war, her resemblance to England is even more +manifest and melancholy. It may be said with rough accuracy that there +are three stages in the life of a strong people. First, it is a small +power, and fights small powers. Then it is a great power, and fights +great powers. Then it is a great power, and fights small powers, but +pretends that they are great powers, in order to rekindle the ashes of +its ancient emotion and vanity. After that, the next step is to become +a small power itself. England exhibited this symptom of decadence very +badly in the war with the Transvaal; but America exhibited it worse in +the war with Spain. There was exhibited more sharply and absurdly than +anywhere else the ironic contrast between the very careless choice of a +strong line and the very careful choice of a weak enemy. America added +to all her other late Roman or Byzantine elements the element of the +Caracallan triumph, the triumph over nobody. +</p> + +<p> +But when we come to the last test of nationality, the test of art and +letters, the case is almost terrible. The English colonies have +produced no great artists; and that fact may prove that they are still +full of silent possibilities and reserve force. But America has +produced great artists. And that fact most certainly proves that she +is full of a fine futility and the end of all things. Whatever the +American men of genius are, they are not young gods making a young +world. Is the art of Whistler a brave, barbaric art, happy and +headlong? Does Mr. Henry James infect us with the spirit of a +schoolboy? No; the colonies have not spoken, and they are safe. Their +silence may be the silence of the unborn. But out of America has come +a sweet and startling cry, as unmistakable as the cry of a dying man. +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap19"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XIX. Slum Novelists and the Slums +</h2></div> + +<p> +Odd ideas are entertained in our time about the real nature of the +doctrine of human fraternity. The real doctrine is something which we +do not, with all our modern humanitarianism, very clearly understand, +much less very closely practise. There is nothing, for instance, +particularly undemocratic about kicking your butler downstairs. It may +be wrong, but it is not unfraternal. In a certain sense, the blow or +kick may be considered as a confession of equality: you are meeting +your butler body to body; you are almost according him the privilege of +the duel. There is nothing, undemocratic, though there may be +something unreasonable, in expecting a great deal from the butler, and +being filled with a kind of frenzy of surprise when he falls short of +the divine stature. The thing which is really undemocratic and +unfraternal is not to expect the butler to be more or less divine. The +thing which is really undemocratic and unfraternal is to say, as so +many modern humanitarians say, “Of course one must make allowances for +those on a lower plane.” All things considered indeed, it may be said, +without undue exaggeration, that the really undemocratic and +unfraternal thing is the common practice of not kicking the butler +downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +It is only because such a vast section of the modern world is out of +sympathy with the serious democratic sentiment that this statement will +seem to many to be lacking in seriousness. Democracy is not +philanthropy; it is not even altruism or social reform. Democracy is +not founded on pity for the common man; democracy is founded on +reverence for the common man, or, if you will, even on fear of him. It +does not champion man because man is so miserable, but because man is +so sublime. It does not object so much to the ordinary man being a +slave as to his not being a king, for its dream is always the dream of +the first Roman republic, a nation of kings. +</p> + +<p> +Next to a genuine republic, the most democratic thing in the world is a +hereditary despotism. I mean a despotism in which there is absolutely +no trace whatever of any nonsense about intellect or special fitness +for the post. Rational despotism—that is, selective despotism—is +always a curse to mankind, because with that you have the ordinary man +misunderstood and misgoverned by some prig who has no brotherly respect +for him at all. But irrational despotism is always democratic, because +it is the ordinary man enthroned. The worst form of slavery is that +which is called Caesarism, or the choice of some bold or brilliant man +as despot because he is suitable. For that means that men choose a +representative, not because he represents them, but because he does +not. Men trust an ordinary man like George III or William IV. because +they are themselves ordinary men and understand him. Men trust an +ordinary man because they trust themselves. But men trust a great man +because they do not trust themselves. And hence the worship of great +men always appears in times of weakness and cowardice; we never hear of +great men until the time when all other men are small. +</p> + +<p> +Hereditary despotism is, then, in essence and sentiment democratic +because it chooses from mankind at random. If it does not declare that +every man may rule, it declares the next most democratic thing; it +declares that any man may rule. Hereditary aristocracy is a far worse +and more dangerous thing, because the numbers and multiplicity of an +aristocracy make it sometimes possible for it to figure as an +aristocracy of intellect. Some of its members will presumably have +brains, and thus they, at any rate, will be an intellectual aristocracy +within the social one. They will rule the aristocracy by virtue of +their intellect, and they will rule the country by virtue of their +aristocracy. Thus a double falsity will be set up, and millions of the +images of God, who, fortunately for their wives and families, are +neither gentlemen nor clever men, will be represented by a man like Mr. +Balfour or Mr. Wyndham, because he is too gentlemanly to be called +merely clever, and just too clever to be called merely a gentleman. But +even an hereditary aristocracy may exhibit, by a sort of accident, from +time to time some of the basically democratic quality which belongs to +a hereditary despotism. It is amusing to think how much conservative +ingenuity has been wasted in the defence of the House of Lords by men +who were desperately endeavouring to prove that the House of Lords +consisted of clever men. There is one really good defence of the House +of Lords, though admirers of the peerage are strangely coy about using +it; and that is, that the House of Lords, in its full and proper +strength, consists of stupid men. It really would be a plausible +defence of that otherwise indefensible body to point out that the +clever men in the Commons, who owed their power to cleverness, ought in +the last resort to be checked by the average man in the Lords, who owed +their power to accident. Of course, there would be many answers to such +a contention, as, for instance, that the House of Lords is largely no +longer a House of Lords, but a House of tradesmen and financiers, or +that the bulk of the commonplace nobility do not vote, and so leave the +chamber to the prigs and the specialists and the mad old gentlemen with +hobbies. But on some occasions the House of Lords, even under all +these disadvantages, is in some sense representative. When all the +peers flocked together to vote against Mr. Gladstone’s second Home Rule +Bill, for instance, those who said that the peers represented the +English people, were perfectly right. All those dear old men who +happened to be born peers were at that moment, and upon that question, +the precise counterpart of all the dear old men who happened to be born +paupers or middle-class gentlemen. That mob of peers did really +represent the English people—that is to say, it was honest, ignorant, +vaguely excited, almost unanimous, and obviously wrong. Of course, +rational democracy is better as an expression of the public will than +the haphazard hereditary method. While we are about having any kind of +democracy, let it be rational democracy. But if we are to have any +kind of oligarchy, let it be irrational oligarchy. Then at least we +shall be ruled by men. +</p> + +<p> +But the thing which is really required for the proper working of +democracy is not merely the democratic system, or even the democratic +philosophy, but the democratic emotion. The democratic emotion, like +most elementary and indispensable things, is a thing difficult to +describe at any time. But it is peculiarly difficult to describe it in +our enlightened age, for the simple reason that it is peculiarly +difficult to find it. It is a certain instinctive attitude which feels +the things in which all men agree to be unspeakably important, and all +the things in which they differ (such as mere brains) to be almost +unspeakably unimportant. The nearest approach to it in our ordinary +life would be the promptitude with which we should consider mere +humanity in any circumstance of shock or death. We should say, after a +somewhat disturbing discovery, “There is a dead man under the sofa.” +We should not be likely to say, “There is a dead man of considerable +personal refinement under the sofa.” We should say, “A woman has fallen +into the water.” We should not say, “A highly educated woman has +fallen into the water.” Nobody would say, “There are the remains of a +clear thinker in your back garden.” Nobody would say, “Unless you hurry +up and stop him, a man with a very fine ear for music will have jumped +off that cliff.” But this emotion, which all of us have in connection +with such things as birth and death, is to some people native and +constant at all ordinary times and in all ordinary places. It was +native to St. Francis of Assisi. It was native to Walt Whitman. In +this strange and splendid degree it cannot be expected, perhaps, to +pervade a whole commonwealth or a whole civilization; but one +commonwealth may have it much more than another commonwealth, one +civilization much more than another civilization. No community, +perhaps, ever had it so much as the early Franciscans. No community, +perhaps, ever had it so little as ours. +</p> + +<p> +Everything in our age has, when carefully examined, this fundamentally +undemocratic quality. In religion and morals we should admit, in the +abstract, that the sins of the educated classes were as great as, or +perhaps greater than, the sins of the poor and ignorant. But in +practice the great difference between the mediaeval ethics and ours is +that ours concentrate attention on the sins which are the sins of the +ignorant, and practically deny that the sins which are the sins of the +educated are sins at all. We are always talking about the sin of +intemperate drinking, because it is quite obvious that the poor have it +more than the rich. But we are always denying that there is any such +thing as the sin of pride, because it would be quite obvious that the +rich have it more than the poor. We are always ready to make a saint or +prophet of the educated man who goes into cottages to give a little +kindly advice to the uneducated. But the medieval idea of a saint or +prophet was something quite different. The mediaeval saint or prophet +was an uneducated man who walked into grand houses to give a little +kindly advice to the educated. The old tyrants had enough insolence to +despoil the poor, but they had not enough insolence to preach to them. +It was the gentleman who oppressed the slums; but it was the slums that +admonished the gentleman. And just as we are undemocratic in faith and +morals, so we are, by the very nature of our attitude in such matters, +undemocratic in the tone of our practical politics. It is a sufficient +proof that we are not an essentially democratic state that we are +always wondering what we shall do with the poor. If we were democrats, +we should be wondering what the poor will do with us. With us the +governing class is always saying to itself, “What laws shall we make?” +In a purely democratic state it would be always saying, “What laws can +we obey?” A purely democratic state perhaps there has never been. But +even the feudal ages were in practice thus far democratic, that every +feudal potentate knew that any laws which he made would in all +probability return upon himself. His feathers might be cut off for +breaking a sumptuary law. His head might be cut off for high treason. +But the modern laws are almost always laws made to affect the governed +class, but not the governing. We have public-house licensing laws, but +not sumptuary laws. That is to say, we have laws against the festivity +and hospitality of the poor, but no laws against the festivity and +hospitality of the rich. We have laws against blasphemy—that is, +against a kind of coarse and offensive speaking in which nobody but a +rough and obscure man would be likely to indulge. But we have no laws +against heresy—that is, against the intellectual poisoning of the +whole people, in which only a prosperous and prominent man would be +likely to be successful. The evil of aristocracy is not that it +necessarily leads to the infliction of bad things or the suffering of +sad ones; the evil of aristocracy is that it places everything in the +hands of a class of people who can always inflict what they can never +suffer. Whether what they inflict is, in their intention, good or bad, +they become equally frivolous. The case against the governing class of +modern England is not in the least that it is selfish; if you like, you +may call the English oligarchs too fantastically unselfish. The case +against them simply is that when they legislate for all men, they +always omit themselves. +</p> + +<p> +We are undemocratic, then, in our religion, as is proved by our efforts +to “raise” the poor. We are undemocratic in our government, as is +proved by our innocent attempt to govern them well. But above all we +are undemocratic in our literature, as is proved by the torrent of +novels about the poor and serious studies of the poor which pour from +our publishers every month. And the more “modern” the book is the more +certain it is to be devoid of democratic sentiment. +</p> + +<p> +A poor man is a man who has not got much money. This may seem a simple +and unnecessary description, but in the face of a great mass of modern +fact and fiction, it seems very necessary indeed; most of our realists +and sociologists talk about a poor man as if he were an octopus or an +alligator. There is no more need to study the psychology of poverty +than to study the psychology of bad temper, or the psychology of +vanity, or the psychology of animal spirits. A man ought to know +something of the emotions of an insulted man, not by being insulted, +but simply by being a man. And he ought to know something of the +emotions of a poor man, not by being poor, but simply by being a man. +Therefore, in any writer who is describing poverty, my first objection +to him will be that he has studied his subject. A democrat would have +imagined it. +</p> + +<p> +A great many hard things have been said about religious slumming and +political or social slumming, but surely the most despicable of all is +artistic slumming. The religious teacher is at least supposed to be +interested in the costermonger because he is a man; the politician is +in some dim and perverted sense interested in the costermonger because +he is a citizen; it is only the wretched writer who is interested in +the costermonger merely because he is a costermonger. Nevertheless, so +long as he is merely seeking impressions, or in other words copy, his +trade, though dull, is honest. But when he endeavours to represent that +he is describing the spiritual core of a costermonger, his dim vices +and his delicate virtues, then we must object that his claim is +preposterous; we must remind him that he is a journalist and nothing +else. He has far less psychological authority even than the foolish +missionary. For he is in the literal and derivative sense a journalist, +while the missionary is an eternalist. The missionary at least +pretends to have a version of the man’s lot for all time; the +journalist only pretends to have a version of it from day to day. The +missionary comes to tell the poor man that he is in the same condition +with all men. The journalist comes to tell other people how different +the poor man is from everybody else. +</p> + +<p> +If the modern novels about the slums, such as novels of Mr. Arthur +Morrison, or the exceedingly able novels of Mr. Somerset Maugham, are +intended to be sensational, I can only say that that is a noble and +reasonable object, and that they attain it. A sensation, a shock to +the imagination, like the contact with cold water, is always a good and +exhilarating thing; and, undoubtedly, men will always seek this +sensation (among other forms) in the form of the study of the strange +antics of remote or alien peoples. In the twelfth century men obtained +this sensation by reading about dog-headed men in Africa. In the +twentieth century they obtained it by reading about pig-headed Boers in +Africa. The men of the twentieth century were certainly, it must be +admitted, somewhat the more credulous of the two. For it is not +recorded of the men in the twelfth century that they organized a +sanguinary crusade solely for the purpose of altering the singular +formation of the heads of the Africans. But it may be, and it may even +legitimately be, that since all these monsters have faded from the +popular mythology, it is necessary to have in our fiction the image of +the horrible and hairy East-ender, merely to keep alive in us a fearful +and childlike wonder at external peculiarities. But the Middle Ages +(with a great deal more common sense than it would now be fashionable +to admit) regarded natural history at bottom rather as a kind of joke; +they regarded the soul as very important. Hence, while they had a +natural history of dog-headed men, they did not profess to have a +psychology of dog-headed men. They did not profess to mirror the mind +of a dog-headed man, to share his tenderest secrets, or mount with his +most celestial musings. They did not write novels about the semi-canine +creature, attributing to him all the oldest morbidities and all the +newest fads. It is permissible to present men as monsters if we wish to +make the reader jump; and to make anybody jump is always a Christian +act. But it is not permissible to present men as regarding themselves +as monsters, or as making themselves jump. To summarize, our slum +fiction is quite defensible as aesthetic fiction; it is not defensible +as spiritual fact. +</p> + +<p> +One enormous obstacle stands in the way of its actuality. The men who +write it, and the men who read it, are men of the middle classes or the +upper classes; at least, of those who are loosely termed the educated +classes. Hence, the fact that it is the life as the refined man sees +it proves that it cannot be the life as the unrefined man lives it. +Rich men write stories about poor men, and describe them as speaking +with a coarse, or heavy, or husky enunciation. But if poor men wrote +novels about you or me they would describe us as speaking with some +absurd shrill and affected voice, such as we only hear from a duchess +in a three-act farce. The slum novelist gains his whole effect by the +fact that some detail is strange to the reader; but that detail by the +nature of the case cannot be strange in itself. It cannot be strange to +the soul which he is professing to study. The slum novelist gains his +effects by describing the same grey mist as draping the dingy factory +and the dingy tavern. But to the man he is supposed to be studying +there must be exactly the same difference between the factory and the +tavern that there is to a middle-class man between a late night at the +office and a supper at Pagani’s. The slum novelist is content with +pointing out that to the eye of his particular class a pickaxe looks +dirty and a pewter pot looks dirty. But the man he is supposed to be +studying sees the difference between them exactly as a clerk sees the +difference between a ledger and an edition de luxe. The chiaroscuro of +the life is inevitably lost; for to us the high lights and the shadows +are a light grey. But the high lights and the shadows are not a light +grey in that life any more than in any other. The kind of man who +could really express the pleasures of the poor would be also the kind +of man who could share them. In short, these books are not a record of +the psychology of poverty. They are a record of the psychology of +wealth and culture when brought in contact with poverty. They are not a +description of the state of the slums. They are only a very dark and +dreadful description of the state of the slummers. One might give +innumerable examples of the essentially unsympathetic and unpopular +quality of these realistic writers. But perhaps the simplest and most +obvious example with which we could conclude is the mere fact that +these writers are realistic. The poor have many other vices, but, at +least, they are never realistic. The poor are melodramatic and romantic +in grain; the poor all believe in high moral platitudes and copy-book +maxims; probably this is the ultimate meaning of the great saying, +“Blessed are the poor.” Blessed are the poor, for they are always +making life, or trying to make life like an Adelphi play. Some +innocent educationalists and philanthropists (for even philanthropists +can be innocent) have expressed a grave astonishment that the masses +prefer shilling shockers to scientific treatises and melodramas to +problem plays. The reason is very simple. The realistic story is +certainly more artistic than the melodramatic story. If what you +desire is deft handling, delicate proportions, a unit of artistic +atmosphere, the realistic story has a full advantage over the +melodrama. In everything that is light and bright and ornamental the +realistic story has a full advantage over the melodrama. But, at +least, the melodrama has one indisputable advantage over the realistic +story. The melodrama is much more like life. It is much more like man, +and especially the poor man. It is very banal and very inartistic when +a poor woman at the Adelphi says, “Do you think I will sell my own +child?” But poor women in the Battersea High Road do say, “Do you think +I will sell my own child?” They say it on every available occasion; +you can hear a sort of murmur or babble of it all the way down the +street. It is very stale and weak dramatic art (if that is all) when +the workman confronts his master and says, “I’m a man.” But a workman +does say “I’m a man” two or three times every day. In fact, it is +tedious, possibly, to hear poor men being melodramatic behind the +footlights; but that is because one can always hear them being +melodramatic in the street outside. In short, melodrama, if it is dull, +is dull because it is too accurate. Somewhat the same problem exists in +the case of stories about schoolboys. Mr. Kipling’s “Stalky and Co.” +is much more amusing (if you are talking about amusement) than the late +Dean Farrar’s “Eric; or, Little by Little.” But “Eric” is immeasurably +more like real school-life. For real school-life, real boyhood, is full +of the things of which Eric is full—priggishness, a crude piety, a +silly sin, a weak but continual attempt at the heroic, in a word, +melodrama. And if we wish to lay a firm basis for any efforts to help +the poor, we must not become realistic and see them from the outside. +We must become melodramatic, and see them from the inside. The novelist +must not take out his notebook and say, “I am an expert.” No; he must +imitate the workman in the Adelphi play. He must slap himself on the +chest and say, “I am a man.” +</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<a id="chap20"></A> +<div class='chapter'><h2 class="center"> +XX. Concluding Remarks on the Importance of Orthodoxy +</h2></div> + +<p> +Whether the human mind can advance or not, is a question too little +discussed, for nothing can be more dangerous than to found our social +philosophy on any theory which is debatable but has not been debated. +But if we assume, for the sake of argument, that there has been in the +past, or will be in the future, such a thing as a growth or improvement +of the human mind itself, there still remains a very sharp objection to +be raised against the modern version of that improvement. The vice of +the modern notion of mental progress is that it is always something +concerned with the breaking of bonds, the effacing of boundaries, the +casting away of dogmas. But if there be such a thing as mental growth, +it must mean the growth into more and more definite convictions, into +more and more dogmas. The human brain is a machine for coming to +conclusions; if it cannot come to conclusions it is rusty. When we hear +of a man too clever to believe, we are hearing of something having +almost the character of a contradiction in terms. It is like hearing of +a nail that was too good to hold down a carpet; or a bolt that was too +strong to keep a door shut. Man can hardly be defined, after the +fashion of Carlyle, as an animal who makes tools; ants and beavers and +many other animals make tools, in the sense that they make an +apparatus. Man can be defined as an animal that makes dogmas. As he +piles doctrine on doctrine and conclusion on conclusion in the +formation of some tremendous scheme of philosophy and religion, he is, +in the only legitimate sense of which the expression is capable, +becoming more and more human. When he drops one doctrine after another +in a refined scepticism, when he declines to tie himself to a system, +when he says that he has outgrown definitions, when he says that he +disbelieves in finality, when, in his own imagination, he sits as God, +holding no form of creed but contemplating all, then he is by that very +process sinking slowly backwards into the vagueness of the vagrant +animals and the unconsciousness of the grass. Trees have no dogmas. +Turnips are singularly broadminded. +</p> + +<p> +If then, I repeat, there is to be mental advance, it must be mental +advance in the construction of a definite philosophy of life. And that +philosophy of life must be right and the other philosophies wrong. Now +of all, or nearly all, the able modern writers whom I have briefly +studied in this book, this is especially and pleasingly true, that they +do each of them have a constructive and affirmative view, and that they +do take it seriously and ask us to take it seriously. There is nothing +merely sceptically progressive about Mr. Rudyard Kipling. There is +nothing in the least broad minded about Mr. Bernard Shaw. The paganism +of Mr. Lowes Dickinson is more grave than any Christianity. Even the +opportunism of Mr. H. G. Wells is more dogmatic than the idealism of +anybody else. Somebody complained, I think, to Matthew Arnold that he +was getting as dogmatic as Carlyle. He replied, “That may be true; but +you overlook an obvious difference. I am dogmatic and right, and +Carlyle is dogmatic and wrong.” The strong humour of the remark ought +not to disguise from us its everlasting seriousness and common sense; +no man ought to write at all, or even to speak at all, unless he thinks +that he is in truth and the other man in error. In similar style, I +hold that I am dogmatic and right, while Mr. Shaw is dogmatic and +wrong. But my main point, at present, is to notice that the chief +among these writers I have discussed do most sanely and courageously +offer themselves as dogmatists, as founders of a system. It may be +true that the thing in Mr. Shaw most interesting to me, is the fact +that Mr. Shaw is wrong. But it is equally true that the thing in Mr. +Shaw most interesting to himself, is the fact that Mr. Shaw is right. +Mr. Shaw may have none with him but himself; but it is not for himself +he cares. It is for the vast and universal church, of which he is the +only member. +</p> + +<p> +The two typical men of genius whom I have mentioned here, and with +whose names I have begun this book, are very symbolic, if only because +they have shown that the fiercest dogmatists can make the best artists. +In the fin de siecle atmosphere every one was crying out that +literature should be free from all causes and all ethical creeds. Art +was to produce only exquisite workmanship, and it was especially the +note of those days to demand brilliant plays and brilliant short +stories. And when they got them, they got them from a couple of +moralists. The best short stories were written by a man trying to +preach Imperialism. The best plays were written by a man trying to +preach Socialism. All the art of all the artists looked tiny and +tedious beside the art which was a by-product of propaganda. +</p> + +<p> +The reason, indeed, is very simple. A man cannot be wise enough to be +a great artist without being wise enough to wish to be a philosopher. A +man cannot have the energy to produce good art without having the +energy to wish to pass beyond it. A small artist is content with art; +a great artist is content with nothing except everything. So we find +that when real forces, good or bad, like Kipling and G. B. S., enter +our arena, they bring with them not only startling and arresting art, +but very startling and arresting dogmas. And they care even more, and +desire us to care even more, about their startling and arresting dogmas +than about their startling and arresting art. Mr. Shaw is a good +dramatist, but what he desires more than anything else to be is a good +politician. Mr. Rudyard Kipling is by divine caprice and natural +genius an unconventional poet; but what he desires more than anything +else to be is a conventional poet. He desires to be the poet of his +people, bone of their bone, and flesh of their flesh, understanding +their origins, celebrating their destiny. He desires to be Poet +Laureate, a most sensible and honourable and public-spirited desire. +Having been given by the gods originality—that is, disagreement with +others—he desires divinely to agree with them. But the most striking +instance of all, more striking, I think, even than either of these, is +the instance of Mr. H. G. Wells. He began in a sort of insane infancy +of pure art. He began by making a new heaven and a new earth, with the +same irresponsible instinct by which men buy a new necktie or +button-hole. He began by trifling with the stars and systems in order +to make ephemeral anecdotes; he killed the universe for a joke. He has +since become more and more serious, and has become, as men inevitably +do when they become more and more serious, more and more parochial. He +was frivolous about the twilight of the gods; but he is serious about +the London omnibus. He was careless in “The Time Machine,” for that +dealt only with the destiny of all things; but he is careful, and even +cautious, in “Mankind in the Making,” for that deals with the day after +to-morrow. He began with the end of the world, and that was easy. Now +he has gone on to the beginning of the world, and that is difficult. +But the main result of all this is the same as in the other cases. The +men who have really been the bold artists, the realistic artists, the +uncompromising artists, are the men who have turned out, after all, to +be writing “with a purpose.” Suppose that any cool and cynical +art-critic, any art-critic fully impressed with the conviction that +artists were greatest when they were most purely artistic, suppose that +a man who professed ably a humane aestheticism, as did Mr. Max +Beerbohm, or a cruel aestheticism, as did Mr. W. E. Henley, had cast +his eye over the whole fictional literature which was recent in the +year 1895, and had been asked to select the three most vigorous and +promising and original artists and artistic works, he would, I think, +most certainly have said that for a fine artistic audacity, for a real +artistic delicacy, or for a whiff of true novelty in art, the things +that stood first were “Soldiers Three,” by a Mr. Rudyard Kipling; “Arms +and the Man,” by a Mr. Bernard Shaw; and “The Time Machine,” by a man +called Wells. And all these men have shown themselves ingrainedly +didactic. You may express the matter if you will by saying that if we +want doctrines we go to the great artists. But it is clear from the +psychology of the matter that this is not the true statement; the true +statement is that when we want any art tolerably brisk and bold we have +to go to the doctrinaires. +</p> + +<p> +In concluding this book, therefore, I would ask, first and foremost, +that men such as these of whom I have spoken should not be insulted by +being taken for artists. No man has any right whatever merely to enjoy +the work of Mr. Bernard Shaw; he might as well enjoy the invasion of +his country by the French. Mr. Shaw writes either to convince or to +enrage us. No man has any business to be a Kiplingite without being a +politician, and an Imperialist politician. If a man is first with us, +it should be because of what is first with him. If a man convinces us +at all, it should be by his convictions. If we hate a poem of Kipling’s +from political passion, we are hating it for the same reason that the +poet loved it; if we dislike him because of his opinions, we are +disliking him for the best of all possible reasons. If a man comes into +Hyde Park to preach it is permissible to hoot him; but it is +discourteous to applaud him as a performing bear. And an artist is only +a performing bear compared with the meanest man who fancies he has +anything to say. +</p> + +<p> +There is, indeed, one class of modern writers and thinkers who cannot +altogether be overlooked in this question, though there is no space +here for a lengthy account of them, which, indeed, to confess the +truth, would consist chiefly of abuse. I mean those who get over all +these abysses and reconcile all these wars by talking about “aspects of +truth,” by saying that the art of Kipling represents one aspect of the +truth, and the art of William Watson another; the art of Mr. Bernard +Shaw one aspect of the truth, and the art of Mr. Cunningham Grahame +another; the art of Mr. H. G. Wells one aspect, and the art of Mr. +Coventry Patmore (say) another. I will only say here that this seems to +me an evasion which has not even had the sense to disguise itself +ingeniously in words. If we talk of a certain thing being an aspect of +truth, it is evident that we claim to know what is truth; just as, if +we talk of the hind leg of a dog, we claim to know what is a dog. +Unfortunately, the philosopher who talks about aspects of truth +generally also asks, “What is truth?” Frequently even he denies the +existence of truth, or says it is inconceivable by the human +intelligence. How, then, can he recognize its aspects? I should not +like to be an artist who brought an architectural sketch to a builder, +saying, “This is the south aspect of Sea-View Cottage. Sea-View +Cottage, of course, does not exist.” I should not even like very much +to have to explain, under such circumstances, that Sea-View Cottage +might exist, but was unthinkable by the human mind. Nor should I like +any better to be the bungling and absurd metaphysician who professed to +be able to see everywhere the aspects of a truth that is not there. Of +course, it is perfectly obvious that there are truths in Kipling, that +there are truths in Shaw or Wells. But the degree to which we can +perceive them depends strictly upon how far we have a definite +conception inside us of what is truth. It is ludicrous to suppose that +the more sceptical we are the more we see good in everything. It is +clear that the more we are certain what good is, the more we shall see +good in everything. +</p> + +<p> +I plead, then, that we should agree or disagree with these men. I +plead that we should agree with them at least in having an abstract +belief. But I know that there are current in the modern world many +vague objections to having an abstract belief, and I feel that we shall +not get any further until we have dealt with some of them. The first +objection is easily stated. +</p> + +<p> +A common hesitation in our day touching the use of extreme convictions +is a sort of notion that extreme convictions specially upon cosmic +matters, have been responsible in the past for the thing which is +called bigotry. But a very small amount of direct experience will +dissipate this view. In real life the people who are most bigoted are +the people who have no convictions at all. The economists of the +Manchester school who disagree with Socialism take Socialism seriously. +It is the young man in Bond Street, who does not know what socialism +means much less whether he agrees with it, who is quite certain that +these socialist fellows are making a fuss about nothing. The man who +understands the Calvinist philosophy enough to agree with it must +understand the Catholic philosophy in order to disagree with it. It is +the vague modern who is not at all certain what is right who is most +certain that Dante was wrong. The serious opponent of the Latin Church +in history, even in the act of showing that it produced great infamies, +must know that it produced great saints. It is the hard-headed +stockbroker, who knows no history and believes no religion, who is, +nevertheless, perfectly convinced that all these priests are knaves. +The Salvationist at the Marble Arch may be bigoted, but he is not too +bigoted to yearn from a common human kinship after the dandy on church +parade. But the dandy on church parade is so bigoted that he does not +in the least yearn after the Salvationist at the Marble Arch. Bigotry +may be roughly defined as the anger of men who have no opinions. It is +the resistance offered to definite ideas by that vague bulk of people +whose ideas are indefinite to excess. Bigotry may be called the +appalling frenzy of the indifferent. This frenzy of the indifferent is +in truth a terrible thing; it has made all monstrous and widely +pervading persecutions. In this degree it was not the people who cared +who ever persecuted; the people who cared were not sufficiently +numerous. It was the people who did not care who filled the world with +fire and oppression. It was the hands of the indifferent that lit the +faggots; it was the hands of the indifferent that turned the rack. +There have come some persecutions out of the pain of a passionate +certainty; but these produced, not bigotry, but fanaticism—a very +different and a somewhat admirable thing. Bigotry in the main has +always been the pervading omnipotence of those who do not care crushing +out those who care in darkness and blood. +</p> + +<p> +There are people, however, who dig somewhat deeper than this into the +possible evils of dogma. It is felt by many that strong philosophical +conviction, while it does not (as they perceive) produce that sluggish +and fundamentally frivolous condition which we call bigotry, does +produce a certain concentration, exaggeration, and moral impatience, +which we may agree to call fanaticism. They say, in brief, that ideas +are dangerous things. In politics, for example, it is commonly urged +against a man like Mr. Balfour, or against a man like Mr. John Morley, +that a wealth of ideas is dangerous. The true doctrine on this point, +again, is surely not very difficult to state. Ideas are dangerous, but +the man to whom they are least dangerous is the man of ideas. He is +acquainted with ideas, and moves among them like a lion-tamer. Ideas +are dangerous, but the man to whom they are most dangerous is the man +of no ideas. The man of no ideas will find the first idea fly to his +head like wine to the head of a teetotaller. It is a common error, I +think, among the Radical idealists of my own party and period to +suggest that financiers and business men are a danger to the empire +because they are so sordid or so materialistic. The truth is that +financiers and business men are a danger to the empire because they can +be sentimental about any sentiment, and idealistic about any ideal, any +ideal that they find lying about. just as a boy who has not known much +of women is apt too easily to take a woman for the woman, so these +practical men, unaccustomed to causes, are always inclined to think +that if a thing is proved to be an ideal it is proved to be the ideal. +Many, for example, avowedly followed Cecil Rhodes because he had a +vision. They might as well have followed him because he had a nose; a +man without some kind of dream of perfection is quite as much of a +monstrosity as a noseless man. People say of such a figure, in almost +feverish whispers, “He knows his own mind,” which is exactly like +saying in equally feverish whispers, “He blows his own nose.” Human +nature simply cannot subsist without a hope and aim of some kind; as +the sanity of the Old Testament truly said, where there is no vision +the people perisheth. But it is precisely because an ideal is +necessary to man that the man without ideals is in permanent danger of +fanaticism. There is nothing which is so likely to leave a man open to +the sudden and irresistible inroad of an unbalanced vision as the +cultivation of business habits. All of us know angular business men who +think that the earth is flat, or that Mr. Kruger was at the head of a +great military despotism, or that men are graminivorous, or that Bacon +wrote Shakespeare. Religious and philosophical beliefs are, indeed, as +dangerous as fire, and nothing can take from them that beauty of +danger. But there is only one way of really guarding ourselves against +the excessive danger of them, and that is to be steeped in philosophy +and soaked in religion. +</p> + +<p> +Briefly, then, we dismiss the two opposite dangers of bigotry and +fanaticism, bigotry which is a too great vagueness and fanaticism which +is a too great concentration. We say that the cure for the bigot is +belief; we say that the cure for the idealist is ideas. To know the +best theories of existence and to choose the best from them (that is, +to the best of our own strong conviction) appears to us the proper way +to be neither bigot nor fanatic, but something more firm than a bigot +and more terrible than a fanatic, a man with a definite opinion. But +that definite opinion must in this view begin with the basic matters of +human thought, and these must not be dismissed as irrelevant, as +religion, for instance, is too often in our days dismissed as +irrelevant. Even if we think religion insoluble, we cannot think it +irrelevant. Even if we ourselves have no view of the ultimate verities, +we must feel that wherever such a view exists in a man it must be more +important than anything else in him. The instant that the thing ceases +to be the unknowable, it becomes the indispensable. There can be no +doubt, I think, that the idea does exist in our time that there is +something narrow or irrelevant or even mean about attacking a man’s +religion, or arguing from it in matters of politics or ethics. There +can be quite as little doubt that such an accusation of narrowness is +itself almost grotesquely narrow. To take an example from comparatively +current events: we all know that it was not uncommon for a man to be +considered a scarecrow of bigotry and obscurantism because he +distrusted the Japanese, or lamented the rise of the Japanese, on the +ground that the Japanese were Pagans. Nobody would think that there +was anything antiquated or fanatical about distrusting a people because +of some difference between them and us in practice or political +machinery. Nobody would think it bigoted to say of a people, “I +distrust their influence because they are Protectionists.” No one +would think it narrow to say, “I lament their rise because they are +Socialists, or Manchester Individualists, or strong believers in +militarism and conscription.” A difference of opinion about the nature +of Parliaments matters very much; but a difference of opinion about the +nature of sin does not matter at all. A difference of opinion about +the object of taxation matters very much; but a difference of opinion +about the object of human existence does not matter at all. We have a +right to distrust a man who is in a different kind of municipality; but +we have no right to mistrust a man who is in a different kind of +cosmos. This sort of enlightenment is surely about the most +unenlightened that it is possible to imagine. To recur to the phrase +which I employed earlier, this is tantamount to saying that everything +is important with the exception of everything. Religion is exactly the +thing which cannot be left out—because it includes everything. The +most absent-minded person cannot well pack his Gladstone-bag and leave +out the bag. We have a general view of existence, whether we like it or +not; it alters or, to speak more accurately, it creates and involves +everything we say or do, whether we like it or not. If we regard the +Cosmos as a dream, we regard the Fiscal Question as a dream. If we +regard the Cosmos as a joke, we regard St. Paul’s Cathedral as a joke. +If everything is bad, then we must believe (if it be possible) that +beer is bad; if everything be good, we are forced to the rather +fantastic conclusion that scientific philanthropy is good. Every man +in the street must hold a metaphysical system, and hold it firmly. The +possibility is that he may have held it so firmly and so long as to +have forgotten all about its existence. +</p> + +<p> +This latter situation is certainly possible; in fact, it is the +situation of the whole modern world. The modern world is filled with +men who hold dogmas so strongly that they do not even know that they +are dogmas. It may be said even that the modern world, as a corporate +body, holds certain dogmas so strongly that it does not know that they +are dogmas. It may be thought “dogmatic,” for instance, in some +circles accounted progressive, to assume the perfection or improvement +of man in another world. But it is not thought “dogmatic” to assume +the perfection or improvement of man in this world; though that idea of +progress is quite as unproved as the idea of immortality, and from a +rationalistic point of view quite as improbable. Progress happens to be +one of our dogmas, and a dogma means a thing which is not thought +dogmatic. Or, again, we see nothing “dogmatic” in the inspiring, but +certainly most startling, theory of physical science, that we should +collect facts for the sake of facts, even though they seem as useless +as sticks and straws. This is a great and suggestive idea, and its +utility may, if you will, be proving itself, but its utility is, in the +abstract, quite as disputable as the utility of that calling on oracles +or consulting shrines which is also said to prove itself. Thus, because +we are not in a civilization which believes strongly in oracles or +sacred places, we see the full frenzy of those who killed themselves to +find the sepulchre of Christ. But being in a civilization which does +believe in this dogma of fact for facts’ sake, we do not see the full +frenzy of those who kill themselves to find the North Pole. I am not +speaking of a tenable ultimate utility which is true both of the +Crusades and the polar explorations. I mean merely that we do see the +superficial and aesthetic singularity, the startling quality, about the +idea of men crossing a continent with armies to conquer the place where +a man died. But we do not see the aesthetic singularity and startling +quality of men dying in agonies to find a place where no man can +live—a place only interesting because it is supposed to be the +meeting-place of some lines that do not exist. +</p> + +<p> +Let us, then, go upon a long journey and enter on a dreadful search. +Let us, at least, dig and seek till we have discovered our own +opinions. The dogmas we really hold are far more fantastic, and, +perhaps, far more beautiful than we think. In the course of these +essays I fear that I have spoken from time to time of rationalists and +rationalism, and that in a disparaging sense. Being full of that +kindliness which should come at the end of everything, even of a book, +I apologize to the rationalists even for calling them rationalists. +There are no rationalists. We all believe fairy-tales, and live in +them. Some, with a sumptuous literary turn, believe in the existence of +the lady clothed with the sun. Some, with a more rustic, elvish +instinct, like Mr. McCabe, believe merely in the impossible sun itself. +Some hold the undemonstrable dogma of the existence of God; some the +equally undemonstrable dogma of the existence of the man next door. +</p> + +<p> +Truths turn into dogmas the instant that they are disputed. Thus every +man who utters a doubt defines a religion. And the scepticism of our +time does not really destroy the beliefs, rather it creates them; gives +them their limits and their plain and defiant shape. We who are +Liberals once held Liberalism lightly as a truism. Now it has been +disputed, and we hold it fiercely as a faith. We who believe in +patriotism once thought patriotism to be reasonable, and thought little +more about it. Now we know it to be unreasonable, and know it to be +right. We who are Christians never knew the great philosophic common +sense which inheres in that mystery until the anti-Christian writers +pointed it out to us. The great march of mental destruction will go +on. Everything will be denied. Everything will become a creed. It is +a reasonable position to deny the stones in the street; it will be a +religious dogma to assert them. It is a rational thesis that we are +all in a dream; it will be a mystical sanity to say that we are all +awake. Fires will be kindled to testify that two and two make four. +Swords will be drawn to prove that leaves are green in summer. We shall +be left defending, not only the incredible virtues and sanities of +human life, but something more incredible still, this huge impossible +universe which stares us in the face. We shall fight for visible +prodigies as if they were invisible. We shall look on the impossible +grass and the skies with a strange courage. We shall be of those who +have seen and yet have believed. +</p> + +<br><br> + +<p class="finis"> +THE END +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERETICS ***</div> + </body> +</html> diff --git a/470-h/images/cover.jpg b/470-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b32d0eb --- /dev/null +++ b/470-h/images/cover.jpg |
