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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fe25f11 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66145 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66145) diff --git a/old/66145-0.txt b/old/66145-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e2e9d87..0000000 --- a/old/66145-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1333 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Religio Journalistici, by Christopher -Morley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Religio Journalistici - -Author: Christopher Morley - -Release Date: August 25, 2021 [eBook #66145] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman, David E. Brown, and the Online - Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This - file was produced from images generously made available by - The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIO JOURNALISTICI *** - - - - - -_Religio Journalistici_ - - - - -OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR - - -_Fiction_ - - PARNASSUS ON WHEELS - THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP - KATHLEEN - TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK - WHERE THE BLUE BEGINS - - -_Essays_ - - SHANDYGAFF - MINCE PIE - PIPEFULS - PLUM PUDDING - TRAVELS IN PHILADELPHIA - THE POWDER OF SYMPATHY - INWARD HO! - RELIGIO JOURNALISTICI - - -_Poetry_ - - SONGS FOR A LITTLE HOUSE - THE ROCKING HORSE - HIDE AND SEEK - CHIMNEYSMOKE - TRANSLATIONS FROM THE CHINESE - PARSONS’ PLEASURE - THE BOWLING GREEN - - - - - _Religio Journalistici_ - - _By_ - - _Christopher Morley_ - - [Illustration] - - - _Garden City_ _New York_ - _Doubleday, Page & Company_ - _1924_ - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY - DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY THE CENTURY CO. - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES - AT - THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. - - _First Edition_ - - - - -_Religio Journalistici_ - - - - -RELIGIO JOURNALISTICI - - - It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall.... - I too knitted the old knot of contrariety, - Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak, - Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant.... - Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these - wanting, - Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet - never told them a word. - --Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.” - - The secret thoughts of a man run over all things without shame or - blame; which verbal discourse cannot do farther than the judgment - shall approve of the time, place, and persons.--Hobbes’s “Leviathan.” - - -I was coming home from Buffalo in a train delightfully called “The -Black Diamond.” I had any number of books in my bag, but my lower -instincts were uppermost: I was tired, and pined for the narcosis of -newspapers. I asked the porter, also a black diamond, to see if there -were any lying around. He brought me a great mass of them: Chicago -papers, Buffalo papers, Wilkes-Barre papers. With great happiness I -browsed among their cheerful simplicities. From Wilkes-Barre I learned -that - - Shakespeare’s marvellous plays could never have been written by a - dyspeptic. He ate carefully, sensibly, and had excellent digestion. - -(I had just come back from the dining car when I read that, and -wondered a little sadly if I had been sensible.) - -From Chicago (“The World’s Greatest Newspaper”) I learned, in an -article on “A Perfume to Suit Your Personality,” that - - The vampire had best be sparing in her use of any odour. An oriental - bouquet of jasmine, tube rose, cassie, and civet would enhance the - individuality of the colourful type. For a perfume combination of - this sort when used correctly can create a sensation akin to ecstasy, - bringing to the wearer a feeling of tremendous vitality. - -But in this Chicago paper I found so much to perpend that I never -reached the journals of other cities. I learned in an interview with -Lady Diana Manners (“Pressed for Precious Secrets of Pulchritude, She -Reveals a Surprising Lack of Them”) that - - The life of a newspaper person is not without its recompenses--aside - from the weekly stipend. Sometimes it is a hard life--when, say, you - scratch and pound upon the old dome, pleading, begging its tenant, - Mr. Brain, to give up an idea, and you get in response a loud and - hollow echo convincing you he has left for parts unknown! - -I learned from Chicago that - - The literary life of New York continues to rattle on. And it is a - rather grand life: though a number of writers appear to scratch - an existence from the soil of Greenwich Village and the purlieus - of mean streets, most of the men who write our books live quite - comfortably. One meets them every day--a prosperous crew--who lunch - cosily at the ---- or at the ---- and not infrequently the ----, then - are whisked homeward in shining limousines to put in another hour or - so on the manuscript of a new novel. - -A few days later, filled with pensive, affectionate, and somewhat -irreverent thoughts about the newspaper business, I went uptown to the -offices of a very great New York paper--a paper which, as a gatherer -of news, though it does not claim the “Greatest” phrase, comes a lot -nearer to it than that one in Chicago. A beautiful bronze elevator -lifted me gently to the tenth floor, a beautiful bronze attendant -took my name politely and asked me to wait until my host emerged from -conference. I gazed amazedly into the editorial penetralia, churchly -in aspect, with groined ceiling, panelled alcoves, like pews, and -lead-veined glass. Very handsome young women came strolling from those -shadowy cloisters of opinion. A scholarly-looking young man, with -tortoise spectacles, sat under a reredos of books. If not a curate, -at least a curator. It all came down upon me with crushing force. How -could one chaff this magnificent thing? How could one speak jocularly -of The Press? This was all so terribly real, so unmistakably there. -I remembered my amazement when I first entered the Curtis Building -in Philadelphia. Beside the humble little state house where a nation -was founded rises that gigantic cube of Americanization; in more -senses than one it is the exact spiritual centre of America. Does it -not contain a mosaic glass picture with “over a million pieces”? It -has been told, with the jolliest humour, how several of the world’s -greatest artists were commissioned, one after another, to create a -painting of Plato’s Grove of Academe for that lobby; but they kept on -“passing away” before it was done. There is something most quaintly -American, I believe, in adoring Plato with a vast painting rather than -by listening to what he had to say. At a window on the seventh floor -(I think it was the seventh) might have been seen the strong masculine -face of the fashion editor of the _Ladies’ Home Journal_ gazing out -with a sudden unaccountable nostalgia. The trademarked patroness of the -“L. H. J.,” I remembered, was Pallas Athene. Pallas is right, I said to -myself, studying that building. This _must_ be a home of literature, -the walnut panelling is so fine. This huge bulk, edified from the ribs -of a simple, shrewd, courageous, and strangely wistful little man from -Maine--surely if the Muse were looking for a comfortable lodging, this -is where she would habit? - -Sometimes it is with an effort that one must remind oneself, a thing is -not necessarily wrong because it is so large. - -Well, all that came back to me as I sat waiting in the New York -newspaper office. Painful doubts, too, as to whether what I am anxious -to say is worth attempt. For it is sure to be misconceived. I am not -satirizing anything. These matters are far too serious for mere satire, -which is so agreeably easy. No, I am merely attempting to think. - -I remembered also how, not long before, it strangely befell me to speak -in a large church on a Sunday afternoon. I had not rightly apprehended -the situation beforehand: I found that I should have to mount into -what the cheerful minister called “the high pulpit.” Sitting behind a -thin frondage of palms, and scanning the scene in some frightfulness, -I waited my exposure. It was a beautiful church, and there was a large -and friendly congregation. In one of the front pews there was even a -gentleman with a silk hat. There was music, the thrilling tumult of -the organ, a choir, a soprano soloist with a clear and lovely voice. -There were prayers, and great words were said. And in the same way that -the editorial magnificence of that newspaper office came down upon me -from above, so I felt the whole weight and beauty and tradition of Holy -Church moulding me and subduing my poor little premeditated ardours. -I felt the awful hopelessness of attempting to convey, in those -circumstances, my feeble and futile sense of the love and liberty -of life. I knew then why Christ preached in the open air. And I knew -that the people in those pews, dear friendly people the latchets of -whose minds I was not worthy to unloose, desired me to say what was -in my heart just as keenly as I desired to say it. Yet it could not, -fully, be done. Holy Church was too strong for them as it was for me. -I knew then, even in the small, imperfect way I know things, something -of the whole history of religions. I knew how the majesty and glamour -and noble gravity of institutions and authorities must have lain heavy -on the hearts of schismatics and reformers. It is not that those poor -brave souls did not love the rote they questioned. But the rote must be -kept in its place. I knew then, for the first time, the real dangers of -the pulpit. And yet even that polished wood was once alive, growing -from earth toward sky. - - - - -§2 - - -The world of newspapers and the life of newspaper men are for the -most part vulgar, and therefore delightful. I mean vulgar in its -exact sense: it is a word neither of praise nor blame, both of which -are foreign to philosophy. O thrilling, delicious, childish world! -The other day, from a green glade in the country, I telephoned to a -newspaper office. “City room, please,” I said. The connection was -made, and as the receiver was taken down, I could hear that old -adorable hum, the quick patter of typewriters, voices on the copy desk -tersely discussing the ingenious minutiæ of the job. No man who has -dabbled, ever so amateurishly, in that spirited child’s-play outgrows -its irrational and cursèd charm. Over miles of telephone wire that -drugging hum came back to my ear, that furious and bewildering pulse -of excitement which seems so frantically important and really means -so little. O world so happy, so amusing, so generously emotional, so -exempt from the penalty of thought! World that deals with quaintly -codified and abstracted notions of life! How idle to ask whether -newspapers tell the truth! With truth they have little concern. Their -trade is in facts; like all prosperous tradesmen they are reasonably -conscientious. To belittle newspapers for not telling the truth is as -silly as to regard them as training-ground for literature. Literature -and journalism rarely overlap. - -For the newspaper world, that vast, brightly coloured, contentious, -and phantasmagoric picture of life that it evolves for its readers, is -mostly a spurious world evolved for hurried and ignorant people. It -is a world so happily out of touch with the world of philosophy that -when, on rare occasions, the newspapers get wind of the things that -philosophers habitually and calmly discuss, it causes a terrible to-do -in the headlines. The world of newspaper thinking is almost the last -resort of the truly childish in heart. With princely accuracy is it -called “the newspaper game.” Children are not friendly to philosophy, -nor hostile. They are simply not aware it exists. - -And the game of newspapers, which I greatly love, being at heart no -philosopher, is enormously important. The prevailing temperament of its -players is worth careful study. The mere existence of newspapers is a -proof of the religious instinct among men, that passionate interest in -one another which implies that we are all gossips together. Gossips -are people who have only one relative in common, but that relative the -highest possible; namely, God. There is truly some strange analogy -between church and press. Whether it is the successful newspaper’s -taste for making itself clerical in architecture, or the successful -church’s appetite for front-page controversy; whether it is that they -both make the cruellest and deadliest of enemies if annoyed; whether -it is that the newspaper carries on the medieval church’s lust of -persecution; or that they both mobilize for war sooner than any one -else; or that both are vehicles of great realities, but vehicles so -gorgeously mechanized and ritualed that the passenger has almost been -forgotten--whatever the basis of the analogy may be, I am not sure; but -I feel it to be there. - -Journalism, like every skilled _métier_, tends to become a sort of -priesthood. All such professional groups admit with cynical or humorous -readiness, inside the circle, truths that it is unmannerly to gossip -abroad. But now and then some happy member feels he has absorbed -enough hokum to last him for a reasonable lifetime. He has enjoyed, -perhaps even profited by, the sharp childishness of that way of life. -He escapes for a time, with aspiration to think it over. He wearies of -the tragic ingenuity of men at concealing their real thoughts. There -are no longer any codes of manners to be considered, any possibly -tender readers to be sheltered, any powerful patrons to be placated. Of -course genuinely detached thinking, even if it were possible, is likely -to be discouraged; for detachment is always assumed to be malignant. -But, anyhow, let’s be at least like so many houses in the suburbs, -semi-detached. - -Yes, there is a sort of spring fever of the soul, a seizure when, in -moments of golden tranquil intuition, we see Lucretius’s “coasts of -light.” We would hope to savour, as he bids us, not merely the honey -that is greased round the rim of the cup--the honey of our daily -amusement and distraction--but even the chill purging wormwood of -the draft. Suddenly the quotidian employ, the haggling scruples of -detail, seem strangely insignificant. Languor and lassitude and uneasy -hankering pervade the spirit--an intimation of unearthliness. There is -passion to go seeking “those things that are requisite and necessary.” -In Walt’s noble phrase, “to sign for soul and body.” Then, unashamed of -the hunger and trouble of human spirits, it seems irrelevant either -to chaff or to praise the dear farce of life. One dreams of uttering -only some small granule of broken truth, something more than the jocund -trickery of the press. - -Every philosopher is a humorist who has been squeezed. And the -newspaper man, odd as this may sound, is not the least appropriate -student to pursue the wingy mysteries in divinity. For he is kinspirit -of the parson in this, that church and press are perhaps the two -professions that have most frankly regarded themselves as separate -estates, above and apart from the common man. The priest esteems -himself the vicar of God. The pressman appoints himself vicar of News. -The priest transmits to the congregation as much of God’s doings as he -thinks will be not too embarrassing for them to hear. And the newspaper -man lays bare that portion of the event which he considers the public -will be most anxious to pay for. Both are anthologists. - -For some time I had been saving clippings of newspaper stories about -recent religious controversy. I meant to sit down some evening and read -them through, patiently, to see how much humane sense I could winnow. -But I found I could not force my eyes through them. For the sake of -record, to notify the quaintness of mankind, I copied down a few of the -headlines. “CHRIST HELD DIVINE OR ILLEGITIMATE: Dr. Pettingill Makes -Baptists Gasp by Strong Defense of Virgin Birth.” (New York _World_.) -DR. GUTHRIE FINDS YULE ALL PAGAN: St. Mark’s Rector Says Gift Custom -Was Roman, Mistletoe Celtic and Tree Teutonic. (New York _Times_.) -MODERNISM FOUND HERE MID RITUALS, DOGMA MID GLARE. (New York _Evening -Post_.) DR. GUTHRIE SCENTS CLASHES TO COME. (New York _Times_.) And so -on. I threw the mass of clippings into the fire. - -And yet throughout those naïve burblings the reader felt a strange -mixture of exhilaration and disgust. For the newspapers, with their -unerring instinct, realize that men are keenly and desperately -interested in these matters. Hidden inside that mysterious carcass, -your neighbour, is the universal cry, “I want to be happy!” And with -all their agile and cautious skill at hiding what they really think, -men wildly crave those liberating sorceries (liquor and love and -laughter, perhaps even literature, too) that roll away the stone from -the door of the heart. - -Yet perhaps no man in his senses talks about religion except for the -pleasure of the talk, which is a sufficient human excuse. For the -less we talk about religion, probably, the nearer we come to the heart -of it. By religion we mean, I suppose, our ligatures with an unseen -world--a world not realized, as Wordsworth says in those “Intimations” -that are a whole prayer-book in themselves. There are “high instincts,” -he tells us, before which we tremble “like a guilty thing surprised.” -Our guilt, surely, is that we know ourselves to have been so wearily -and perversely disloyal to that unseen world of beauty and ecstasy; -and our surprise, that when we escape into the honest solitudes of the -mind we find it waiting for us. There is a great saying to the effect -that wherever two or three are gathered together, I shall be among you. -But, alas! it is even more true perhaps (one must not forget a plenty -of perhapses) that wherever two or three are gathered together, there -I am _not_. Human meeting introduces awkwardly human difficulties and -embarrassments. It introduces, for instance, vanity and humility, -both awkward encumbrances to truth. Is there a man who does not know, -sorrowfully, that he is much “better company” when he is alone? As -old Doctor Donne found in the absence of his mistress, there is a -“close corner of the brain” where the purest and loveliest embraces -are possible. Of all mistresses, the fairest and the farthest away is -Truth. God is known, if at all, in solitude. - - - - -§3 - - -The theological bickerings of our time and their “tincture of choler,” -as Hobbes would say, are due perhaps to the uneven progress of a great -shift in the human notion of God. The primitive imagination of Deity -is often of a gigantic omnipotent and omnipresent personality. Then, -later, men come to think of God as a kind of force or law, or a harmony -among infinite laws and forces. This process of magnifying God from -a person to a “far-off Divine Event” proceeds unevenly, as do all -ideas. And there is no squabbling so violent as that between people -who accepted an idea yesterday and those who will accept the same idea -to-morrow. More important than the novelty of ideas is the differential -in the rate at which people accept them. Or it might even be put the -other way round--the rate at which ideas accept people as vehicles. An -idea often hops into a person and uses him, more or less as we hop into -taxicabs. Bernard Shaw remarked, not unwisely, that his “Irrational -Knot” was a first try (on the part of “the Life Force”) to get the -theme of “A Doll’s House” written in English. - -Robinson Crusoe’s religion was merely a calculus of personal benefit. -When he found that the seeds he threw away had sprouted and come up, -he suddenly remembered the goodness of God. But gradually men tend to -rise sufficiently above their own pangs and pleasures to relish the -conception of a vaster God--a God who does not even know that we exist. -There are still, astounding as it seems, actual and living parsons who -tell us that the Museum of Natural History is an affront to the Deity. -Their simplicity is as delightful as that of Edmund Gosse’s father (if -you remember that great book, “Father and Son”). The rock that his -reason split upon was the problem whether Adam and Eve, created _de -novo_, had navels. There are others who find in the spider webs and -redwood rings of the museum a powerful impulse to wonder and praise. At -any rate, this process of magnifying God from an invisible bishop of -friable temper to a universal phantom of legality is what Thomas Hardy -had in mind when he urged “the abandonment of the masculine pronoun in -allusions to the Fundamental Energy.” Nor, on consideration, do we find -the masculine pronoun a symbol of such benevolent majesty that it need -much longer be retained as spokesman for Deity. It is necessary for man -to know, as astronomers do, the inconceivable minuteness of himself and -his affairs. - -Yet, knowing his unimportance, it is equally urgent for man to act -as though his business were momentous. For the whole intellectual -life is based upon paradox and dainty artifice. And here we encounter -some fundamental characteristics of human behaviour which are highly -interesting. - -First of all, man is orderly. Finding himself in a grotesquely -complicated universe, he hastily tries to reduce what he sees to some -general principles. He concocts helpful formulæ, rules of thumb, -mnemonic rhymes, all sorts of proverbs, to simplify matters. There -has been a rather absurd eagerness on the part of the newspapers to -reproach the church for its adherence to formalism. But man is a -formula-bearing animal. And I doubt if the most rigid bishop who ever -lived was more at the mercy of ritual and formulated ways of expression -than the average city editor. An incident may be as interesting as you -please, but unless it fits into his carefully ratiocinated scheme -of what constitutes a “story” and how it should be “played,” it gets -little attention. I have mentioned the Museum of Natural History; -let’s take it again as an illustration. I took there a small girl -four years old. At first she was appalled and horrified by the things -she saw. Live animals, at the zoo, she was familiar with. But these -so genuine-looking and yet motionless creatures, plausible enough -in their synthetic facsimile surroundings, yet with a gruesome air -of not-quite-rightness--she was badly puzzled. They fitted into no -preconceived frame in her small mind. - -“Are they real, Daddy?” she inquired. - -“They were once real, and now are stuffed,” I said. - -Her eager mind leaped at this. Here was a happy little formula. And at -every succeeding specimen, whether a wolf or a puma or a walrus or a -whale, with monotonous insistence she asked, “Is it real and stuffed?” -To which I replied, each time, with patient repetition, “Yes, real and -stuffed.” It satisfied her perfectly until we came to the figures of -Indians and Eskimos. Here a new formula had to be devised, that they -were “Not real, but made to look like it.” These trifling statements -made the museum, for her, a rational and not too terrifying place. - -Once in a while, if you are fond of self-scrutiny, you will catch -yourself in the very act of creating or parroting some useful formula. -Formulæ swarm in the mind just as birds do in an orchard. And though -they destroy some fruit, they also help to exterminate lesser vermin -which might do much harm. For the most part we are all mercifully -unaware of our dependence on them. - -Secondly, then, once formulæ are made, another subtle trick of the mind -enters into function. Man’s sovereign faculty of pretense works upon -them. He persuades himself that these little rites and short-cuts are -not really made by himself, but that they are sacred. Man’s capacity -for pretense, I dare say, has been the only thing that has kept him -going in a rough, bruising world. He has found, throughout history, -that the percolation of certain fictions into affairs made order and -government more easy. Indeed the number of generally accepted fictions -in currency is not such a bad test of civilization: the more such -harmless pretenses, the pleasanter life is. The divine right of kings -was one great fiction that had a long serial career and gradually -tapered off. Oliver Cromwell “Garred kings ken they had a lith in -their necks”; the Prince of Wales’s horses seem to have suggested the -same thing. That adorable old shrew, Thomas Hobbes, whose wise and -racy survey of human foibles might almost have made any subsequent -palaver unnecessary, had people patience to read “Leviathan” nowadays, -is copious in instance of men’s love of standing “in awe of their own -imaginations.” We are all quick to believe anything, he remarks, from -teachers who can “with gentleness and dexterity take hold of our fear -and ignorance.” Whereas any truth, no matter how rationally arrived at, -that counters our passion and interest, we naturally reject. “I doubt -not but,” says the darling old cynic, “if it had been a thing contrary -to any man’s right of dominion that the three angles of a triangle -should be equal to two angles of a square, that doctrine should have -been, if not disputed, yet by the burning of all books of geometry, -suppressed.” - -Master Hobbes is very jolly, too, on a matter that has interested -every thoughtful observer since civilization began--that religion is -always heartily favoured by prosperous people. Obviously; for it is -a stabilizing force. I was greatly struck, approaching Pittsburgh on -the train, passing through a black, cindered region where life must -lack many of its most harmless pleasures, to notice the astounding -number of churches. These, surely, are not there without some sound -social reason. There are three prime consolations known to man in the -difficulty of his life, God, love, and money. Of any two of these you -may deprive him without hearing much grumble, provided he has plenty -of the third. But if he lacks all three, there is sure to be trouble. - -I have often noticed, in burning a pile of dead leaves, that the -mass that seems burned through will, if turned over with the rake, -burst into fresh flame. Down under the mound, smothered by weight and -closeness, were many fragments that needed only air and freedom to -burst into golden blaze. Perhaps it is so with any industrial society. -To turn it top to bottom now and then would liberate brilliant human -combustions that now lie choked. It is a dangerous doctrine, but so are -all doctrines that are any fun. It is a thoroughly Christian doctrine, -too. - -Before we leave the topic of human relish in pretense, let’s mention -one very innocent and amusing example. One of the gay hilarities of -existence is the way the current social pretenses shift and vary -and move in recurring orbits. The négligé of one period becomes the -_haut ton_ of the next. A few years ago, during a very severe winter, -it became the mode for young women to go trapesing about in galoshes -which were left floppingly unbuckled. What, then, do we see? A year or -so later galoshes are put on the market, very cunningly devised with -drooping webbed tops to _look_ as though they were carelessly left -undone. These at once became, particularly in rustic high schools, -excellently _de rigueur_. It was a daintily accurate exposition of our -human taste for illusion. - -And the third fundamental characteristic that I am thinking of is our -universal liability to habit. This is too familiar for comment. Take -merely one instance which has pleasing analogies. Suppose you go to a -small haberdasher to buy a pair of socks. In payment, you give him a -five-dollar gold piece. As he makes change, he is obscurely troubled. -He will ask if you haven’t a bill instead. He doesn’t relish that coin, -because he isn’t used to it. Yet, if I understand correctly, gold is -the only genuine money there is; all the other stuff is merely money -by convention. And how beautifully valid in regard to truth as well. -Half-truths to which men are accustomed are so much easier to pass than -the golden mintage they rarely encounter! What was it Mr. Don Marquis -has remarked: “If you make people think they think, they’ll love you. -If you really make them think, they’ll hate you.” - - - - -§4 - - -Certainly these three coercive factors, and many others, too, bear -strangely upon all our attempts to think. The beauty and the happiness -of religion, perhaps, lie in the fact that it has little to do -with thinking. As far as any man knows, up to now, the universe is -insoluble; and the mind, ardent particle, rather resents insolubility. -It resents the solemn circling of the Dipper, seen from the front -porch every clear night. Filling itself with slow darkness, gently -tilting and draining again, it too cruelly reminds us of the orderly -immensities of space. And religion may very well be considered a form -of art and of anesthetic to soften the onset of that insolvency. It -is reason’s petition in bankruptcy, “to drown the memory of that -insolence.” If it makes us happy, we need inquire no further; for -happiness is what all pursue. Perhaps, indeed, we are but memoranda -in the note-book of the cosmic Author, jottings of some story that -flashed into His mind one day, but which He did not trouble to write. -So we are hunting, hunting endlessly for the rest of the plot. Or we -are surf-bathers in an ocean where one step carries us beyond our -depth. Accept any figure of speech that appeals to you. No work of art -or literature yet, so far as I know, has given an adequate presentment -of the glory and agony and mirth and excitement of being alive. Suppose -some visitor from another planet dropped in for an evening and could -communicate his inquisition. We wanted to give him just one book that -would offer a picture, trustworthy, frank, recognizable, of the life -we have known--man’s long campaign with nature, with other men, with -woman, with himself. Some suggest “Candide,” but I find that great -book too pitiless. Some, Browne’s “Religio Medici,” but is it not too -witty? We might, in a hasty ransack of the shelves, linger momently -upon Boswell or Walt Whitman or Shakespere’s Sonnets or “Moby Dick”; or -upon the Book of Common Prayer or a photograph of Gozzoli’s “Viaggio -dei Re Magi.” But not even these would duly serve. It would have to be -an anthology, I fear; perhaps Robert Bridges’s “Spirit of Man,” though -it should really have a stouter infusion of the seventeenth century, -when God-intoxicated and Eros-maddened poets like John Donne and Andrew -Marvell uttered their ecstatic and magnanimous despair. - -And that brings us to another cusp in this only too risible indent upon -the infinite. Religion is an attempt, a noble attempt, to suggest in -human terms more-than-human realities. The seat of Peter has always -lain beyond the Alps. The church, like the poet, is an ambassador from -abroad; from the strangest of countries, that lying within our own -bosoms. And what is the virtue of an ambassador? Surely, tact. The -one thing that makes ambassadors useless or dangerous is too great a -zest to blurt out truths that many of us know, but have agreed not -to emphasize. He thinks in the language of his homeland; he must -speak--though always, we trust, with winningly foreign accent--the -tongue to which he is accredited. The ambassador knows, better than -any other, that truth is condiment, not diet. It is rough manners to -shove truth at people when they are not expecting it. There is always -charming significance in popular phrases. “The dreadful truth” is such -a one. Truth is always dreaded, not so much because it is gruesome or -tragic, but because it is so often absurd. - -The church, then, comes before us as envoy from the world of spirit to -the world of flesh; and here is the anomaly, that only too probably -these worlds have small interest in common. So is our envoy but -demi-potentiary. In medieval time the problem was simple; flesh and -spirit were assumed to be deadly enemies one of the other. But nowadays -we lean toward a casuistry far more perplexed; that body is soul’s -noblest ally, that whatever makes flesh satiate and merry is so much -gain for soul. Blithe, ruddy doctrine! Yet, sadly enough, it is even -possible that truth is neither Trojan nor avoirdupois. Flesh and spirit -sometimes look terribly incommensurable. Saint Paul did not fully plumb -the real tragedy of the situation. The most bitter wisdom of the human -voice is the very opposite of Paul’s cry. Transpose it so: _Video -deteriora proboque, meliora sequor._ - -Body and soul, tied together back to back, see different realms of -sky. And the innermost capsule of mind, that very I of very I, though -wretchedly at the mercy of pains and lusts, is yet also oddly detached. -Sitting in the dentist’s chair, the innermost self says: “Here we are. -This is terrible. Now he is going to hurt me. Is it the essential me -he is going to hurt, or is it just the make-believe me?” But when the -pang comes, then truly for an instant all me’s whatsoever coalesce into -one indignant craven whole. Yet even in that horrid shudder I think -we are obscurely aware that it is not our essence that surrenders. -That volatile quiddity has retreated in disgust, loath to attend the -deplorable scene. He is as cheerfully regardless of body as is the -tenant of a house he has merely rented, and for rather less than value. -He is, perhaps, not unlike the fire on the hearth, the brightness and -warm centre of the home, yet caring nought for your cherished odds and -ends. What’s Hecuba to him? Given a chance, that same domestic ember -would devour the whole building; and is no different, in essence, from -the roaring streamers that once ran wild in Baltimore and San Francisco. - -I knew a lovely and thoughtful woman who, with a few other adepts, -used to do graceful figure-skating on the far side of a college -skating-pond. There, in a quiet little cove of clear ice, apart from -the crowd and the rhythmic, hollow undersong of the whole vibrating -lake, this little group swung and twirled. I can see her small slender -figure, her bright cheek, the lovely float and spread of her skirt as -she curved and poised in that steely waltzing. College students and -wild hockey berserks and miscellaneous small fry scuttled and careered -about; now and then a rubber puck would skim across the ice, and like a -pack of hounds the barbarian rout would sweep upon that tranquil shore -of the pond. For a moment the pensive skaters would be blotted out by -swirling movement--clattering sticks, ringing skates, noisy shouts. -Then the rabble would whirl away. The fancy skaters would be seen -again; and that lonely figure, swinging, leaning in airy curves, aware -of it all with thoughtful eyes a little sparked with annoyance, aloof -from the turmoil, yet not unkindly so. - -Not otherwise, perhaps, our hidden capsule of identity is a solitary -skater. The wild rush of emotions, desires, passions, timidities, -comes tearing across the pond; lonely Diana is hidden, even shouldered -off her lagoon of clear crystal. But then they go racketing away. The -pirouette begins again, and the soul is happy with her own concerns. - -What language, then, is our ambassador to utter, dealing with two -worlds appallingly incongruous? Is it strange if, like the rest of us, -he falls back upon prudential and cheery approximations? That witty -writer Stella Benson mentions in one of her novels (“The Poor Man”) -a character who “knew too well the difficulties and dangers of being -alive to despise those who sought for safety in tremulous platitudes.” - - - - -§5 - - -Speaking of ambassadors there was one in the sixteenth century who told -the following story: - - At Constantinople I saw an Old Man, who, after he had taken a Cup - of Wine in his Hand to Drink, us’d first to make a hideous Noise; I - asked his Friends, Why he did so? They answered me, that, by this - Outcry, he did, as it were, warn his Soul to retire to some secret - Corner of his Body, or else, wholly to Emigrate, and pass out of it, - that it might not be guilty of that Sin which he was about to Commit, - nor be defiled with the Wine that he was about to guzzle down. - -This humorous ancient was not unlike the modern newspaper man. The -hideous noise of the press, its conscience-annulling haste, its sense -of power and almost uncontradictable certainty,[A] are what he employs -to warn his soul, his reason, not to look over his shoulder while he is -at work. The fact is that the whole ingenious mechanism of a newspaper -is so automatically conjointed and revolves so rapidly that by sheer -fury and speed of movement it takes on a kind of synthetic life of its -own. It could well be imagined thundering round and round of its own -accord in a great jovial, shouting stupor. A leading editorial, tearing -passions to tatters, could arise by spontaneous combustion, exhaling -itself somehow from the general uproar and joy. Virgin birth would be -no miracle in a newspaper office: I have seen, and myself committed, -editorial matter whose parent had never been approached by any siring -intelligence. - -Or, in the case of the reporter, painfully trained in a generous human -skepticism, enforced student of the way people behave and the way -things happen, alert to discern the overtones of irony and pathos in -the event, you might expect him to be the least credulous of beings. -If so, the general flavour of the press little represents him. He -acquiesces, consciously or unconsciously, in the fact that in all but -a few really intelligent journals the news columns are edited down -to the level of the proprietor’s intelligence, or what the active -managers imagine to be the proprietor’s taste. Not in facts, but in -the tone adopted in setting out those facts. An Index Expurgatorius -is issued for office guidance, lists made of words and phrases not -to be mentioned in news stories. The more essentially vulgar a paper -is, the more cautious it will be not to use words the managing editor -believes dirty. “Obscene,” for example, is deleted, and the truly -disgusting word “spicy” is substituted. And the reporter himself -having acquiesced, it is not unnatural that the readers of the paper -do also. The great majority of them, tippling their customary sheet -day after day with the regularity of dram-fiends, are so indurated -to the grotesque psychology of the more popular news columns that to -find a paper habitually speaking recognizable moderate sense would -afflict them with a warmth of indecency and dismay. The daily journals -give them the same pleasure that the serial parts of Dickens’s novels -gave the early Victorians eighty and ninety years ago. So we have the -agreeable paradox that these papers we see all round us, roaring their -naïvetés and scandals, are written and compiled by those who are, as -individuals, studious, serene, and gently acetic skeptics. - -It is an entertaining thought. If it is true, I believe it is due -to what I think of as the carburetor-adjustment of the human mind, a -delicate, unconscious, and continuous process. It pleases me to imagine -that in the intellect there is a valve that regulates the mixture of -truth and convention that we utter, just as gasolene and heated air are -mixed and vaporized in the carburetor of an engine. Whenever we meet -any one, or at any rate any stranger, we are likely to be on our guard. -We have our own little private reservoir of sincerity, but we don’t -intend to draw on it too largely until we know we are safe. There are -some people, as you must have noticed, to whom it is almost impossible -to say a word of what you really believe. Accordingly, automatically -and almost unconsciously, we make a mental adjustment of our “mixture.” -We admit into it just as much truth as we believe the other is likely -to relish, or willing to receive. But we may have made a bad guess. -The conversation begins to back-fire. That means the mixture is too -“lean.” Very well; pull out the choke, enrich it with more candour, -all goes delightfully. Too “rich” a mixture, however, is, every -mechanician knows, as bad as too “lean.” The mind gets crusted with -carbon--unassimilated truth. The analogy seems to me highly applicable, -even down to the infusion of what used to be called, in a bygone slang, -“hot air.” Through this needle-valve, for the most part unconsciously, -we regulate our mental ignition. - -All this, as you shall see presently, has its just bearing on our -topic of religion. We need, but are little likely to get, a new -“Areopagitica” to liberate our press from its cheery bondage of -vulgarity and slip-slop thinking. The newspaper man who has pride in -his honourable tradition may well feel grim to see the things he has -sweat for trafficked across counters like bundles of merchandise; yes, -and to see the transaction applauded by eminent statesmen and divines -who feel the need of a front-page quote. A little pride is desirable -now and then; yes, in God’s name, a little pride, gentlemen. We who -have lived, as best we could, for the decency of letters; who have -vigiled with Chaucer and taken wine with Descartes and changed opinion -with Doctor Johnson, are we to be hired to and fro by the genial -hucksters who know the art of print chiefly as a rapid factory for -gaily tinted palaver? - -In his tight place, beset by doubts just as acute as those of the young -theologian, our newspaper man ratiocinates upon the quaint processes -of mind. He broods on the haphazard, interest-tainted, and fallible -nature of most mortal opinion. He studies the relativity of truth -and the proliferation of rumour. He notes how every event is like a -stone cast into a pond; it ejaculates concentric vibrations, widening -loops of hearsay. Varying layers or rings of truth are available for -different classes of bystanders, or bythinkers. How well he knows the -queer fact that you can say, unrebuked, in a weekly what would never -pass in a daily! You can say still more in a monthly; in a quarterly -review almost all the beans can be decanted. And in a book, quite often -you can print your surmises in full. Of course, to tell exactly what -happens, as Pepys did, it is best to be dead. (How odd is the saying, -“Dead men tell no tales.” Why, they tell the best tales of all.) It -does sometimes seem as though the more immediate readers there are for -any bit of print, the less candour can be rationed out for each.[B] - -So every human being stands at the centre of a little eddy or whirl -of testimony. If one could make a map or editor’s projection of him -considered as a news item--it would be as complicated as an ocean chart -with festoons of barographs and isotherms, curves and twists and arrows -indicating set of currents, prevailing winds, soundings. On such a -chart, we would denote here a cyclone of scandal, there a hot monsoon -of misappreciation, yonder a steady trade-wind of generous sympathy. -In an ocean so various we should find our victim leading a thousand -different phantom lives in the opinion of others. If you begin to think -about this sort of thing, the asylum waits; for truly, confronted by -the alternating delights and possibilities of life, the mind is not -unlike that chameleon that went mad when tethered on a Paisley shawl. - -The newspaper man, then, begins to feel perhaps that it is necessary -for him to undertake the burden of fidelity to human realities--that -burden that is often so lightly shrugged off by bishops. Looking at -things in the large, or trying to, he strongly suspects that formal -religion, as we have known it, is dying; lovelier and greater poetries -are pushing in. (There are thousands of years still to come, you -know.) The highest honour that he can pay to sacred matters is to -regard them as so thrillingly actual that they can be accepted into -the great general body of human life. To regard them, indeed, as news, -as the word Gospel itself suggests. It would seem fairly obvious that -the miracles and parables of the New Testament, like the various -creeds themselves, were intended as vivid and stunning apologues. -To batter them down to the level of facts seems to degrade them, as -it would be degrading to reject Keats’s sonnet because there are no -peaks in the isthmus of Darien, and because it wasn’t Cortes. The -newspaper man prefers to take his stand with Tolstoy, who said, in -that thrilling book “A Confession”: “I wish to understand in such -a way that everything that is inexplicable shall present itself to -me as _necessarily_ inexplicable.” He prefers that when there is -an available and mortally recognizable way of understanding things, -they should so be understood. Take, for example, the story of the -miracle at Cana. To a man trained to observe the delightful ways -in which testimony arises and is transmitted, how does that story -explain itself? Here is a wedding party, at which appears the amazing -stranger. He seems a man more fascinating, more charming, more utterly -delightful, than any that those country folk have ever encountered. -They are all very merry, the toasts go round, the wine runs short. But -the ruler of the feast, turning to the stranger, says, prettily enough, -I think, “With _you_ here, water is as good as wine.” Some one else -takes it up, echoing the sentiment, seeking to add to it. “Right!” he -cries. “Our friend here makes the water into wine. Here’s to you!” And -with friendly applause the gathering ratifies the compliment. One of -the servants overhears, and carries the incident into the kitchen. How -quickly it grows and passes down the village street! “They’ve got some -one in there who’s turning water into wine!” Can it be denied that this -is the way that human events are reported? - -Let us take an example of a miracle-germ in our own time. When Horace -Traubel, faithful and simple-minded disciple of Walt Whitman, died in -September, 1919, his body was taken to the Community Church, at Park -Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street, New York, for the funeral service. -But when the body reached the church, the little company of mourners -could not enter; the building had suddenly caught fire. Imagine this -episode handed down through generations of simple people by word of -mouth. The intimate disciple of a great poet, both of them impatient -of the genteel religions, is borne dead to a sacred edifice. It bursts -into flame. Would that not be taken as some authentic Pentecost, and -at the very least as a proof of Walt’s divinity? Yet we know well -enough that the event was no miracle, but rather what Hobbes called “an -extraordinary felicity.” - -There is one more Biblical passage I should like to refer to, one that -has often been considered a knotty saying. It is the parable of the -talents and the unprofitable servant. I like to conceive Deity in the -guise of that hard master who wanted his own with usury. “Well,” I can -imagine God saying to the newly dead, “what did you think of that world -I gave you?” “Not so bad, on the whole,” replies the embarrassed soul. -“What!” cries God. “Simpleton, do you mean to say you took it as you -found it, accepted it, swallowed it down without question? Depart from -me, unprofitable servant! You were supposed to remould it nearer to -your heart’s desire, to create out of my materials a new world of your -own.” - -Old Doctor Jewett said to Margot Asquith, “You must believe in God -in spite of what the clergy say.” And truly I don’t think that any -man who has worked in downtown New York can be much of an atheist. In -that great jungle of violent life, under the glittering spires of such -steep cathedrals, he must inevitably be a trifle mad. Even Manhattan, -supposed to be most material of cities, is best known for the fantastic -figure she cuts against the sky. The loveliest picture I ever saw of -her profile was a photograph given me by an amateur lensman who caught -it by accident. It shows that uneven scarp of buildings in soft masses -of dark and shadow, looming on a queerly pebbled and fuscous twilight, -like an eclipse. And this, as my astonished friend learned from his -film-dealer, was an accident, due to mildew on the gelatin. So some -of the most lovely visions of reality are printed on minds that are -mildewed. The madman and the nincompoop often see more beauty than -the sane and solid cit. The only possible suggestion that one might -humbly venture to offer to the authoritative officers of Holy Church -is that they are too sane and too businesslike. They ask us to believe -not things that are too hard, but too easy. They are too eager to lock -the stable door after the Messiah has been stolen. They have learned -the tricks of our world of flesh so glibly that they seem sometimes to -forget the manners of that world of spirit they are commissioned to -represent. - -For the world is fascinating and painful beyond human power of -testimony. The best of every life is unprintable. If one were given -five minutes’ warning before sudden death, five minutes to say what -it had all meant to us, every telephone-booth would be occupied by -people trying to call up other people to stammer that they loved them. -You would want to tell a whole lot of people that you love them, but -had been too clumsy and too shy to admit it. And the newspaper man -himself, who both loves and hates his queer trade, would be the first -to remember that one always is severest with what one adores. Every -movement is set in some strange turning of wonder. As a man will -suddenly discover in himself some miserable petty trick of behaviour -which, he painfully realizes, is a true microcosm and characteristic -of his life as a whole, so now and then with the world at large. We -are aware of lights and shadows and moments of millennium that seem -a part of some vast consistency. You know the thrill of a letter or -parcel that comes from some one you are fond of, far away. As you -undo the string, you say, foolishly, but with a genuine quaver of -sentiment, “When that was tied up, So-and-so handled it!” Well, there -are instants of preposterous happiness, clear insight, that are just -like that--little packages of reality, tied up in the twine of our time -sense, that come to us direct, intact, from the eternity and infinity -we call God. It matters little how you explain that great word to -yourself. Perhaps you mean by it the sum total of all human awarenesses -of beauty. In that sense of prevailing loveliness we are all obscurely -united. In those moments, moments of heavenly farce and unredeemable -tragedy, we can forgive ourselves for being only human. - -But in these matters silence is the final eloquence. One does not -argue with moonlight. Men talk of “finding God,” but no wonder it is -difficult; He is hidden in that darkest of hiding-places, your own -heart. You yourself are a part of Him. The chief danger is to be too -prosaic. Any one who has ever done proof-reading knows the delicious -fidelity and strict zeal and maddening literalness with which the -professional corrector marks a galley-proof. How he construes the text -according to his own rote and rigid scheme; how he resents any unusual -use of words; how he is so busy querying things that look odd to him -that he misses many of the downright errors. That is precisely the -attitude of man toward the universe, which he is so daringly anxious to -interpret in some comforting sense. The journalist, whatever his sins -and stupidities, would hope to enjoy the text of life in the spirit of -a collaborating author rather than presume to correct it. And he will -not do any great poet, such as Christ, the dishonour of taking him too -literally. - -We cannot hope until we have learned to despair. Let me remind you of -some great lines by Andrew Marvell: - - My love is of a birth as rare - As ’tis for object strange and high: - It was begotten by Despair - Upon Impossibility. - - As lines, so loves oblique, may well - Themselves in every angle greet: - But ours, so truly parallel, - Though infinite, can never meet. - - -THE END - - - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[A] Mr. C. E. Montague writes as follows of the origin of his novel -_A Hind Let Loose_, a witty satire of newspaper life: “It arose from -much study--in the course of my daily work--of the editorial articles -of the best-reputed English papers. I found that they consisted, -to a wonderfully large percentage, of certain stock expressions of -positiveness, dislike and contempt. These, I noticed, were so general -that they constantly recurred in all sorts of discussions on various -subjects, and the fancy took me that their use could be carried further -and further until all reference to any particular topic vanished and -nothing but quite general positiveness remained, the Olympian mentality -and temper just going on asserting themselves for assertion’s sake.” - -[B] There is a very able book called _The Gospel According to Judas_, -written by a professor at a Western college, which has circulated -in MS. among publishers for ten years, without yet finding one who -is willing to take a chance on its very remarkable wit and uniquely -original conception of the New Testament story. I have often wondered -whether it will ever get printed. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been standardized. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIO JOURNALISTICI *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Religio Journalistici</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Christopher Morley</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 25, 2021 [eBook #66145]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIO JOURNALISTICI ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" width="50%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - - -<h1><i>Religio Journalistici</i></h1> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">OTHER BOOKS<br /> -BY THE SAME AUTHOR</h2> -</div> - - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse"><i>Fiction</i></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> - -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Parnassus on Wheels</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">The Haunted Bookshop</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Kathleen</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Tales from a Rolltop Desk</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Where the Blue Begins</span></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> - - -<div class="verse"><i>Essays</i></div> - -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Shandygaff</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Mince Pie</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Pipefuls</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Plum Pudding</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Travels in Philadelphia</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">The Powder of Sympathy</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Inward Ho!</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Religio Journalistici</span></div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> - - -<div class="verse"><i>Poetry</i></div> - -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Songs for a Little House</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">The Rocking Horse</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Hide and Seek</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Chimneysmoke</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Translations from the Chinese</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">Parsons’ Pleasure</span></div> -<div class="indent"><span class="smcap">The Bowling Green</span></div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<p><span class="xxlarge"><span class="orange"><i>Religio Journalistici</i></span></span></p> - -<p><span class="xlarge"><i>By</i><br /> - -<i>Christopher Morley</i></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title_page_illustration.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p><i>Garden City</i><span class="gap"> <i>New York</i></span><br /> -<span class="orange"><span class="large"><i>Doubleday, Page & Company</i></span></span><br /> -<i>1924</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p class="center"><span class="large"> -COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY<br /> -DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br /> -<br /> -ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</span><br /> -<br /> -COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY THE CENTURY CO.<br /> -<br /> -PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES<br /> -AT<br /> -THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.<br /> -<br /> -<i>First Edition</i></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="ph1"><i>Religio Journalistici</i></p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> -<h2 class="nobreak">RELIGIO JOURNALISTICI</h2> -</div> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall....</div> -<div class="verse">I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,</div> -<div class="verse">Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,</div> -<div class="verse">Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant....</div> -<div class="verse">Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,</div> -<div class="verse">Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet -never told them a word.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verseright">—Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>The secret thoughts of a man run over all things -without shame or blame; which verbal discourse -cannot do farther than the judgment shall approve -of the time, place, and persons.—Hobbes’s -“Leviathan.”</p> -</div> - -<p> </p> - -<p class="drop-cap">I WAS coming home from Buffalo in a -train delightfully called “The Black -Diamond.” I had any number of books -in my bag, but my lower instincts were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -uppermost: I was tired, and pined for the -narcosis of newspapers. I asked the -porter, also a black diamond, to see if -there were any lying around. He brought -me a great mass of them: Chicago papers, -Buffalo papers, Wilkes-Barre papers. -With great happiness I browsed among -their cheerful simplicities. From Wilkes-Barre -I learned that</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>Shakespeare’s marvellous plays could never -have been written by a dyspeptic. He ate carefully, -sensibly, and had excellent digestion.</p> -</div> - -<p>(I had just come back from the dining -car when I read that, and wondered a -little sadly if I had been sensible.)</p> - -<p>From Chicago (“The World’s Greatest -Newspaper”) I learned, in an article on -“A Perfume to Suit Your Personality,” -that</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>The vampire had best be sparing in her use of -any odour. An oriental bouquet of jasmine,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> -tube rose, cassie, and civet would enhance the -individuality of the colourful type. For a perfume -combination of this sort when used correctly -can create a sensation akin to ecstasy, bringing to -the wearer a feeling of tremendous vitality.</p> -</div> - -<p>But in this Chicago paper I found so -much to perpend that I never reached -the journals of other cities. I learned -in an interview with Lady Diana Manners -(“Pressed for Precious Secrets of -Pulchritude, She Reveals a Surprising -Lack of Them”) that</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>The life of a newspaper person is not without -its recompenses—aside from the weekly stipend. -Sometimes it is a hard life—when, say, you scratch -and pound upon the old dome, pleading, begging -its tenant, Mr. Brain, to give up an idea, and you -get in response a loud and hollow echo convincing -you he has left for parts unknown!</p> -</div> - -<p>I learned from Chicago that</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>The literary life of New York continues to rattle -on. And it is a rather grand life: though a number -of writers appear to scratch an existence from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -soil of Greenwich Village and the purlieus of mean -streets, most of the men who write our books live -quite comfortably. One meets them every day—a -prosperous crew—who lunch cosily at the —— -or at the —— and not infrequently the -——, then are whisked homeward in shining -limousines to put in another hour or so on the -manuscript of a new novel.</p> -</div> - -<p>A few days later, filled with pensive, -affectionate, and somewhat irreverent -thoughts about the newspaper business, -I went uptown to the offices of a very -great New York paper—a paper which, -as a gatherer of news, though it does not -claim the “Greatest” phrase, comes a lot -nearer to it than that one in Chicago. A -beautiful bronze elevator lifted me gently -to the tenth floor, a beautiful bronze -attendant took my name politely and -asked me to wait until my host emerged -from conference. I gazed amazedly into -the editorial penetralia, churchly in aspect,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> -with groined ceiling, panelled alcoves, -like pews, and lead-veined glass. -Very handsome young women came strolling -from those shadowy cloisters of opinion. -A scholarly-looking young man, -with tortoise spectacles, sat under a reredos -of books. If not a curate, at least -a curator. It all came down upon me -with crushing force. How could one -chaff this magnificent thing? How could -one speak jocularly of The Press? This -was all so terribly real, so unmistakably -there. I remembered my amazement -when I first entered the Curtis Building in -Philadelphia. Beside the humble little -state house where a nation was founded -rises that gigantic cube of Americanization; -in more senses than one it is the -exact spiritual centre of America. Does -it not contain a mosaic glass picture with -“over a million pieces”? It has been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -told, with the jolliest humour, how several -of the world’s greatest artists were -commissioned, one after another, to create -a painting of Plato’s Grove of Academe -for that lobby; but they kept on “passing -away” before it was done. There is -something most quaintly American, I believe, -in adoring Plato with a vast painting -rather than by listening to what he -had to say. At a window on the seventh -floor (I think it was the seventh) might -have been seen the strong masculine face -of the fashion editor of the <i>Ladies’ Home -Journal</i> gazing out with a sudden unaccountable -nostalgia. The trademarked -patroness of the “L. H. J.,” I -remembered, was Pallas Athene. Pallas -is right, I said to myself, studying that -building. This <i>must</i> be a home of literature, -the walnut panelling is so fine. -This huge bulk, edified from the ribs of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -simple, shrewd, courageous, and strangely -wistful little man from Maine—surely if -the Muse were looking for a comfortable -lodging, this is where she would habit?</p> - -<p>Sometimes it is with an effort that one -must remind oneself, a thing is not necessarily -wrong because it is so large.</p> - -<p>Well, all that came back to me as I sat -waiting in the New York newspaper office. -Painful doubts, too, as to whether what -I am anxious to say is worth attempt. -For it is sure to be misconceived. I am -not satirizing anything. These matters -are far too serious for mere satire, which -is so agreeably easy. No, I am merely -attempting to think.</p> - -<p>I remembered also how, not long before, -it strangely befell me to speak in a large -church on a Sunday afternoon. I had -not rightly apprehended the situation beforehand: -I found that I should have to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -mount into what the cheerful minister -called “the high pulpit.” Sitting behind -a thin frondage of palms, and scanning -the scene in some frightfulness, I waited -my exposure. It was a beautiful church, -and there was a large and friendly congregation. -In one of the front pews there -was even a gentleman with a silk hat. -There was music, the thrilling tumult of -the organ, a choir, a soprano soloist with -a clear and lovely voice. There were -prayers, and great words were said. And -in the same way that the editorial magnificence -of that newspaper office came -down upon me from above, so I felt the -whole weight and beauty and tradition -of Holy Church moulding me and subduing -my poor little premeditated ardours. -I felt the awful hopelessness of attempting -to convey, in those circumstances, my -feeble and futile sense of the love and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -liberty of life. I knew then why Christ -preached in the open air. And I knew -that the people in those pews, dear -friendly people the latchets of whose -minds I was not worthy to unloose, desired -me to say what was in my heart just as -keenly as I desired to say it. Yet it -could not, fully, be done. Holy Church -was too strong for them as it was for me. -I knew then, even in the small, imperfect -way I know things, something of the -whole history of religions. I knew how -the majesty and glamour and noble gravity -of institutions and authorities must -have lain heavy on the hearts of schismatics -and reformers. It is not that those -poor brave souls did not love the rote -they questioned. But the rote must be -kept in its place. I knew then, for the -first time, the real dangers of the pulpit. -And yet even that polished wood was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -once alive, growing from earth toward -sky.</p> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">§2</h2> -</div> - - -<p>The world of newspapers and the life of -newspaper men are for the most part vulgar, -and therefore delightful. I mean -vulgar in its exact sense: it is a word -neither of praise nor blame, both of which -are foreign to philosophy. O thrilling, -delicious, childish world! The other day, -from a green glade in the country, I telephoned -to a newspaper office. “City -room, please,” I said. The connection -was made, and as the receiver was taken -down, I could hear that old adorable hum, -the quick patter of typewriters, voices on -the copy desk tersely discussing the ingenious -minutiæ of the job. No man -who has dabbled, ever so amateurishly, in -that spirited child’s-play outgrows its irrational -and cursèd charm. Over miles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -of telephone wire that drugging hum -came back to my ear, that furious and bewildering -pulse of excitement which seems -so frantically important and really means -so little. O world so happy, so amusing, -so generously emotional, so exempt from -the penalty of thought! World that deals -with quaintly codified and abstracted notions -of life! How idle to ask whether -newspapers tell the truth! With truth -they have little concern. Their trade is -in facts; like all prosperous tradesmen -they are reasonably conscientious. To -belittle newspapers for not telling the -truth is as silly as to regard them as -training-ground for literature. Literature -and journalism rarely overlap.</p> - -<p>For the newspaper world, that vast, -brightly coloured, contentious, and phantasmagoric -picture of life that it evolves -for its readers, is mostly a spurious world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span> -evolved for hurried and ignorant people. -It is a world so happily out of touch with -the world of philosophy that when, on -rare occasions, the newspapers get wind -of the things that philosophers habitually -and calmly discuss, it causes a terrible to-do -in the headlines. The world of newspaper -thinking is almost the last resort -of the truly childish in heart. With -princely accuracy is it called “the newspaper -game.” Children are not friendly -to philosophy, nor hostile. They are -simply not aware it exists.</p> - -<p>And the game of newspapers, which -I greatly love, being at heart no philosopher, -is enormously important. The prevailing -temperament of its players is -worth careful study. The mere existence -of newspapers is a proof of the religious -instinct among men, that passionate interest -in one another which implies that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -we are all gossips together. Gossips are -people who have only one relative in -common, but that relative the highest -possible; namely, God. There is truly -some strange analogy between church and -press. Whether it is the successful newspaper’s -taste for making itself clerical in -architecture, or the successful church’s -appetite for front-page controversy; -whether it is that they both make the -cruellest and deadliest of enemies if annoyed; -whether it is that the newspaper -carries on the medieval church’s lust of -persecution; or that they both mobilize -for war sooner than any one else; or that -both are vehicles of great realities, but -vehicles so gorgeously mechanized and -ritualed that the passenger has almost -been forgotten—whatever the basis of the -analogy may be, I am not sure; but I feel -it to be there.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>Journalism, like every skilled <i>métier</i>, -tends to become a sort of priesthood. -All such professional groups admit with -cynical or humorous readiness, inside the -circle, truths that it is unmannerly to -gossip abroad. But now and then some -happy member feels he has absorbed -enough hokum to last him for a reasonable -lifetime. He has enjoyed, perhaps even -profited by, the sharp childishness of that -way of life. He escapes for a time, with -aspiration to think it over. He wearies -of the tragic ingenuity of men at concealing -their real thoughts. There are no -longer any codes of manners to be considered, -any possibly tender readers to be -sheltered, any powerful patrons to be -placated. Of course genuinely detached -thinking, even if it were possible, is likely -to be discouraged; for detachment is -always assumed to be malignant. But,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -anyhow, let’s be at least like so many -houses in the suburbs, semi-detached.</p> - -<p>Yes, there is a sort of spring fever of the -soul, a seizure when, in moments of golden -tranquil intuition, we see Lucretius’s -“coasts of light.” We would hope to -savour, as he bids us, not merely the -honey that is greased round the rim of -the cup—the honey of our daily amusement -and distraction—but even the chill -purging wormwood of the draft. Suddenly -the quotidian employ, the haggling -scruples of detail, seem strangely insignificant. -Languor and lassitude and uneasy -hankering pervade the spirit—an -intimation of unearthliness. There is -passion to go seeking “those things that -are requisite and necessary.” In Walt’s -noble phrase, “to sign for soul and body.” -Then, unashamed of the hunger and -trouble of human spirits, it seems irrelevant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -either to chaff or to praise the dear -farce of life. One dreams of uttering only -some small granule of broken truth, something -more than the jocund trickery of the -press.</p> - -<p>Every philosopher is a humorist who -has been squeezed. And the newspaper -man, odd as this may sound, is not the -least appropriate student to pursue the -wingy mysteries in divinity. For he is -kinspirit of the parson in this, that church -and press are perhaps the two professions -that have most frankly regarded themselves -as separate estates, above and -apart from the common man. The priest -esteems himself the vicar of God. The -pressman appoints himself vicar of News. -The priest transmits to the congregation -as much of God’s doings as he thinks will -be not too embarrassing for them to hear. -And the newspaper man lays bare that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span> -portion of the event which he considers -the public will be most anxious to pay for. -Both are anthologists.</p> - -<p>For some time I had been saving clippings -of newspaper stories about recent -religious controversy. I meant to sit -down some evening and read them -through, patiently, to see how much humane -sense I could winnow. But I found -I could not force my eyes through them. -For the sake of record, to notify the -quaintness of mankind, I copied down a -few of the headlines. “<span class="smcap">Christ Held -Divine or Illegitimate</span>: Dr. Pettingill -Makes Baptists Gasp by Strong Defense -of Virgin Birth.” (New York <i>World</i>.) -<span class="smcap">Dr. Guthrie Finds Yule All Pagan</span>: -St. Mark’s Rector Says Gift Custom Was -Roman, Mistletoe Celtic and Tree Teutonic. -(New York <i>Times</i>.) <span class="smcap">Modernism -Found Here Mid Rituals, Dogma Mid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -Glare</span>. (New York <i>Evening Post</i>.) <span class="smcap">Dr. -Guthrie Scents Clashes to Come.</span> -(New York <i>Times</i>.) And so on. I threw -the mass of clippings into the fire.</p> - -<p>And yet throughout those naïve burblings -the reader felt a strange mixture of -exhilaration and disgust. For the newspapers, -with their unerring instinct, realize -that men are keenly and desperately -interested in these matters. Hidden inside -that mysterious carcass, your neighbour, -is the universal cry, “I want to be -happy!” And with all their agile and -cautious skill at hiding what they really -think, men wildly crave those liberating -sorceries (liquor and love and laughter, -perhaps even literature, too) that roll -away the stone from the door of the -heart.</p> - -<p>Yet perhaps no man in his senses talks -about religion except for the pleasure of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -the talk, which is a sufficient human excuse. -For the less we talk about religion, -probably, the nearer we come to the -heart of it. By religion we mean, I suppose, -our ligatures with an unseen world—a -world not realized, as Wordsworth -says in those “Intimations” that are a -whole prayer-book in themselves. There -are “high instincts,” he tells us, before -which we tremble “like a guilty thing -surprised.” Our guilt, surely, is that we -know ourselves to have been so wearily -and perversely disloyal to that unseen -world of beauty and ecstasy; and our -surprise, that when we escape into the -honest solitudes of the mind we find it -waiting for us. There is a great saying -to the effect that wherever two or three -are gathered together, I shall be among -you. But, alas! it is even more true -perhaps (one must not forget a plenty of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -perhapses) that wherever two or three -are gathered together, there I am <i>not</i>. -Human meeting introduces awkwardly -human difficulties and embarrassments. -It introduces, for instance, vanity and -humility, both awkward encumbrances -to truth. Is there a man who does not -know, sorrowfully, that he is much “better -company” when he is alone? As old -Doctor Donne found in the absence of his -mistress, there is a “close corner of the -brain” where the purest and loveliest -embraces are possible. Of all mistresses, -the fairest and the farthest away is Truth. -God is known, if at all, in solitude.</p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">§3</h2> -</div> - - -<p>The theological bickerings of our time -and their “tincture of choler,” as Hobbes -would say, are due perhaps to the uneven -progress of a great shift in the human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -notion of God. The primitive imagination -of Deity is often of a gigantic omnipotent -and omnipresent personality. -Then, later, men come to think of God as -a kind of force or law, or a harmony -among infinite laws and forces. This -process of magnifying God from a person -to a “far-off Divine Event” proceeds unevenly, -as do all ideas. And there is no -squabbling so violent as that between -people who accepted an idea yesterday -and those who will accept the same idea -to-morrow. More important than the -novelty of ideas is the differential in the -rate at which people accept them. Or it -might even be put the other way round—the -rate at which ideas accept people as -vehicles. An idea often hops into a -person and uses him, more or less as we -hop into taxicabs. Bernard Shaw remarked, -not unwisely, that his “Irrational<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -Knot” was a first try (on the -part of “the Life Force”) to get the -theme of “A Doll’s House” written in -English.</p> - -<p>Robinson Crusoe’s religion was merely -a calculus of personal benefit. When he -found that the seeds he threw away had -sprouted and come up, he suddenly remembered -the goodness of God. But -gradually men tend to rise sufficiently -above their own pangs and pleasures to -relish the conception of a vaster God—a -God who does not even know that we -exist. There are still, astounding as it -seems, actual and living parsons who tell -us that the Museum of Natural History -is an affront to the Deity. Their simplicity -is as delightful as that of Edmund -Gosse’s father (if you remember that -great book, “Father and Son”). The -rock that his reason split upon was the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -problem whether Adam and Eve, created -<i>de novo</i>, had navels. There are others -who find in the spider webs and redwood -rings of the museum a powerful impulse -to wonder and praise. At any rate, this -process of magnifying God from an invisible -bishop of friable temper to a universal -phantom of legality is what Thomas -Hardy had in mind when he urged “the -abandonment of the masculine pronoun -in allusions to the Fundamental Energy.” -Nor, on consideration, do we find the -masculine pronoun a symbol of such -benevolent majesty that it need much -longer be retained as spokesman for Deity. -It is necessary for man to know, as astronomers -do, the inconceivable minuteness -of himself and his affairs.</p> - -<p>Yet, knowing his unimportance, it is -equally urgent for man to act as though -his business were momentous. For the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -whole intellectual life is based upon paradox -and dainty artifice. And here we -encounter some fundamental characteristics -of human behaviour which are -highly interesting.</p> - -<p>First of all, man is orderly. Finding -himself in a grotesquely complicated universe, -he hastily tries to reduce what he -sees to some general principles. He concocts -helpful formulæ, rules of thumb, -mnemonic rhymes, all sorts of proverbs, -to simplify matters. There has been a -rather absurd eagerness on the part of -the newspapers to reproach the church -for its adherence to formalism. But man -is a formula-bearing animal. And I -doubt if the most rigid bishop who ever -lived was more at the mercy of ritual and -formulated ways of expression than the -average city editor. An incident may -be as interesting as you please, but unless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span> -it fits into his carefully ratiocinated -scheme of what constitutes a “story” -and how it should be “played,” it gets -little attention. I have mentioned the -Museum of Natural History; let’s take -it again as an illustration. I took there -a small girl four years old. At first she -was appalled and horrified by the things -she saw. Live animals, at the zoo, she -was familiar with. But these so genuine-looking -and yet motionless creatures, -plausible enough in their synthetic facsimile -surroundings, yet with a gruesome -air of not-quite-rightness—she was badly -puzzled. They fitted into no preconceived -frame in her small mind.</p> - -<p>“Are they real, Daddy?” she inquired.</p> - -<p>“They were once real, and now are -stuffed,” I said.</p> - -<p>Her eager mind leaped at this. Here -was a happy little formula. And at every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -succeeding specimen, whether a wolf or -a puma or a walrus or a whale, with -monotonous insistence she asked, “Is it -real and stuffed?” To which I replied, -each time, with patient repetition, “Yes, -real and stuffed.” It satisfied her perfectly -until we came to the figures of -Indians and Eskimos. Here a new formula -had to be devised, that they were -“Not real, but made to look like it.” -These trifling statements made the museum, -for her, a rational and not too -terrifying place.</p> - -<p>Once in a while, if you are fond of -self-scrutiny, you will catch yourself in -the very act of creating or parroting some -useful formula. Formulæ swarm in the -mind just as birds do in an orchard. And -though they destroy some fruit, they also -help to exterminate lesser vermin which -might do much harm. For the most part<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -we are all mercifully unaware of our dependence -on them.</p> - -<p>Secondly, then, once formulæ are made, -another subtle trick of the mind enters -into function. Man’s sovereign faculty -of pretense works upon them. He persuades -himself that these little rites -and short-cuts are not really made by -himself, but that they are sacred. Man’s -capacity for pretense, I dare say, has been -the only thing that has kept him going -in a rough, bruising world. He has -found, throughout history, that the percolation -of certain fictions into affairs -made order and government more easy. -Indeed the number of generally accepted -fictions in currency is not such a bad test -of civilization: the more such harmless -pretenses, the pleasanter life is. The -divine right of kings was one great fiction -that had a long serial career and gradually<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -tapered off. Oliver Cromwell -“Garred kings ken they had a lith in their -necks”; the Prince of Wales’s horses seem -to have suggested the same thing. That -adorable old shrew, Thomas Hobbes, -whose wise and racy survey of human -foibles might almost have made any subsequent -palaver unnecessary, had people -patience to read “Leviathan” nowadays, -is copious in instance of men’s love of -standing “in awe of their own imaginations.” -We are all quick to believe anything, -he remarks, from teachers who can -“with gentleness and dexterity take hold -of our fear and ignorance.” Whereas any -truth, no matter how rationally arrived -at, that counters our passion and interest, -we naturally reject. “I doubt not but,” -says the darling old cynic, “if it had been -a thing contrary to any man’s right of -dominion that the three angles of a triangle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -should be equal to two angles of a -square, that doctrine should have been, -if not disputed, yet by the burning of all -books of geometry, suppressed.”</p> - -<p>Master Hobbes is very jolly, too, on a -matter that has interested every thoughtful -observer since civilization began—that -religion is always heartily favoured by -prosperous people. Obviously; for it is -a stabilizing force. I was greatly struck, -approaching Pittsburgh on the train, -passing through a black, cindered region -where life must lack many of its most -harmless pleasures, to notice the astounding -number of churches. These, surely, -are not there without some sound social -reason. There are three prime consolations -known to man in the difficulty of -his life, God, love, and money. Of any -two of these you may deprive him without -hearing much grumble, provided he has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -plenty of the third. But if he lacks all -three, there is sure to be trouble.</p> - -<p>I have often noticed, in burning a pile -of dead leaves, that the mass that seems -burned through will, if turned over with -the rake, burst into fresh flame. Down -under the mound, smothered by weight -and closeness, were many fragments that -needed only air and freedom to burst into -golden blaze. Perhaps it is so with any -industrial society. To turn it top to -bottom now and then would liberate -brilliant human combustions that now -lie choked. It is a dangerous doctrine, -but so are all doctrines that are any fun. -It is a thoroughly Christian doctrine, too.</p> - -<p>Before we leave the topic of human -relish in pretense, let’s mention one very -innocent and amusing example. One of -the gay hilarities of existence is the way -the current social pretenses shift and vary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -and move in recurring orbits. The négligé -of one period becomes the <i>haut ton</i> -of the next. A few years ago, during a -very severe winter, it became the mode -for young women to go trapesing about -in galoshes which were left floppingly unbuckled. -What, then, do we see? A -year or so later galoshes are put on the -market, very cunningly devised with -drooping webbed tops to <i>look</i> as though -they were carelessly left undone. These -at once became, particularly in rustic high -schools, excellently <i>de rigueur</i>. It was a -daintily accurate exposition of our human -taste for illusion.</p> - -<p>And the third fundamental characteristic -that I am thinking of is our universal -liability to habit. This is too familiar for -comment. Take merely one instance -which has pleasing analogies. Suppose -you go to a small haberdasher to buy a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -pair of socks. In payment, you give -him a five-dollar gold piece. As he -makes change, he is obscurely troubled. -He will ask if you haven’t a bill instead. -He doesn’t relish that coin, because he -isn’t used to it. Yet, if I understand -correctly, gold is the only genuine money -there is; all the other stuff is merely -money by convention. And how beautifully -valid in regard to truth as well. -Half-truths to which men are accustomed -are so much easier to pass than the golden -mintage they rarely encounter! What -was it Mr. Don Marquis has remarked: -“If you make people think they think, -they’ll love you. If you really make -them think, they’ll hate you.”</p> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">§4</h2> -</div> - - -<p>Certainly these three coercive factors, -and many others, too, bear strangely upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -all our attempts to think. The beauty -and the happiness of religion, perhaps, lie -in the fact that it has little to do with -thinking. As far as any man knows, up -to now, the universe is insoluble; and the -mind, ardent particle, rather resents insolubility. -It resents the solemn circling -of the Dipper, seen from the front porch -every clear night. Filling itself with slow -darkness, gently tilting and draining -again, it too cruelly reminds us of the -orderly immensities of space. And religion -may very well be considered a form -of art and of anesthetic to soften the -onset of that insolvency. It is reason’s -petition in bankruptcy, “to drown the -memory of that insolence.” If it makes -us happy, we need inquire no further; for -happiness is what all pursue. Perhaps, -indeed, we are but memoranda in the -note-book of the cosmic Author, jottings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -of some story that flashed into His mind -one day, but which He did not trouble -to write. So we are hunting, hunting -endlessly for the rest of the plot. Or -we are surf-bathers in an ocean where -one step carries us beyond our depth. -Accept any figure of speech that appeals -to you. No work of art or literature yet, -so far as I know, has given an adequate -presentment of the glory and agony and -mirth and excitement of being alive. -Suppose some visitor from another planet -dropped in for an evening and could -communicate his inquisition. We wanted -to give him just one book that would offer -a picture, trustworthy, frank, recognizable, -of the life we have known—man’s -long campaign with nature, with other -men, with woman, with himself. Some -suggest “Candide,” but I find that great -book too pitiless. Some, Browne’s “Religio<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -Medici,” but is it not too witty? -We might, in a hasty ransack of the -shelves, linger momently upon Boswell or -Walt Whitman or Shakespere’s Sonnets -or “Moby Dick”; or upon the Book of -Common Prayer or a photograph of -Gozzoli’s “Viaggio dei Re Magi.” But -not even these would duly serve. It would -have to be an anthology, I fear; perhaps -Robert Bridges’s “Spirit of Man,” though -it should really have a stouter infusion -of the seventeenth century, when God-intoxicated -and Eros-maddened poets -like John Donne and Andrew Marvell -uttered their ecstatic and magnanimous -despair.</p> - -<p>And that brings us to another cusp in -this only too risible indent upon the infinite. -Religion is an attempt, a noble -attempt, to suggest in human terms -more-than-human realities. The seat of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -Peter has always lain beyond the Alps. -The church, like the poet, is an ambassador -from abroad; from the strangest of -countries, that lying within our own -bosoms. And what is the virtue of an -ambassador? Surely, tact. The one -thing that makes ambassadors useless or -dangerous is too great a zest to blurt out -truths that many of us know, but have -agreed not to emphasize. He thinks in -the language of his homeland; he must -speak—though always, we trust, with -winningly foreign accent—the tongue to -which he is accredited. The ambassador -knows, better than any other, that truth -is condiment, not diet. It is rough manners -to shove truth at people when they -are not expecting it. There is always -charming significance in popular phrases. -“The dreadful truth” is such a one. -Truth is always dreaded, not so much because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -it is gruesome or tragic, but because -it is so often absurd.</p> - -<p>The church, then, comes before us as -envoy from the world of spirit to the -world of flesh; and here is the anomaly, -that only too probably these worlds have -small interest in common. So is our envoy -but demi-potentiary. In medieval -time the problem was simple; flesh and -spirit were assumed to be deadly enemies -one of the other. But nowadays we lean -toward a casuistry far more perplexed; -that body is soul’s noblest ally, that whatever -makes flesh satiate and merry is so -much gain for soul. Blithe, ruddy doctrine! -Yet, sadly enough, it is even -possible that truth is neither Trojan nor -avoirdupois. Flesh and spirit sometimes -look terribly incommensurable. Saint -Paul did not fully plumb the real tragedy -of the situation. The most bitter wisdom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -of the human voice is the very opposite of -Paul’s cry. Transpose it so: <i>Video deteriora -proboque, meliora sequor.</i></p> - -<p>Body and soul, tied together back to -back, see different realms of sky. And -the innermost capsule of mind, that very -I of very I, though wretchedly at the -mercy of pains and lusts, is yet also oddly -detached. Sitting in the dentist’s chair, -the innermost self says: “Here we are. -This is terrible. Now he is going to hurt -me. Is it the essential me he is going to -hurt, or is it just the make-believe me?” -But when the pang comes, then truly for -an instant all me’s whatsoever coalesce -into one indignant craven whole. Yet -even in that horrid shudder I think we -are obscurely aware that it is not our -essence that surrenders. That volatile -quiddity has retreated in disgust, loath to -attend the deplorable scene. He is as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> -cheerfully regardless of body as is the -tenant of a house he has merely rented, -and for rather less than value. He is, -perhaps, not unlike the fire on the hearth, -the brightness and warm centre of the -home, yet caring nought for your cherished -odds and ends. What’s Hecuba to -him? Given a chance, that same domestic -ember would devour the whole building; -and is no different, in essence, from -the roaring streamers that once ran wild -in Baltimore and San Francisco.</p> - -<p>I knew a lovely and thoughtful woman -who, with a few other adepts, used to do -graceful figure-skating on the far side of a -college skating-pond. There, in a quiet -little cove of clear ice, apart from the -crowd and the rhythmic, hollow undersong -of the whole vibrating lake, this little -group swung and twirled. I can see her -small slender figure, her bright cheek, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -lovely float and spread of her skirt as she -curved and poised in that steely waltzing. -College students and wild hockey berserks -and miscellaneous small fry scuttled and -careered about; now and then a rubber -puck would skim across the ice, and like -a pack of hounds the barbarian rout would -sweep upon that tranquil shore of the -pond. For a moment the pensive skaters -would be blotted out by swirling movement—clattering -sticks, ringing skates, -noisy shouts. Then the rabble would -whirl away. The fancy skaters would be -seen again; and that lonely figure, swinging, -leaning in airy curves, aware of it all -with thoughtful eyes a little sparked with -annoyance, aloof from the turmoil, yet -not unkindly so.</p> - -<p>Not otherwise, perhaps, our hidden capsule -of identity is a solitary skater. The -wild rush of emotions, desires, passions,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -timidities, comes tearing across the pond; -lonely Diana is hidden, even shouldered -off her lagoon of clear crystal. But then -they go racketing away. The pirouette -begins again, and the soul is happy with -her own concerns.</p> - -<p>What language, then, is our ambassador -to utter, dealing with two worlds appallingly -incongruous? Is it strange if, like -the rest of us, he falls back upon prudential -and cheery approximations? That -witty writer Stella Benson mentions in -one of her novels (“The Poor Man”) a -character who “knew too well the difficulties -and dangers of being alive to despise -those who sought for safety in tremulous -platitudes.”</p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak">§5</h2> -</div> - - -<p>Speaking of ambassadors there was one -in the sixteenth century who told the -following story:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>At Constantinople I saw an Old Man, who, -after he had taken a Cup of Wine in his Hand to -Drink, us’d first to make a hideous Noise; I asked -his Friends, Why he did so? They answered me, -that, by this Outcry, he did, as it were, warn his -Soul to retire to some secret Corner of his Body, -or else, wholly to Emigrate, and pass out of it, -that it might not be guilty of that Sin which he -was about to Commit, nor be defiled with the -Wine that he was about to guzzle down.</p> -</div> - -<p>This humorous ancient was not unlike -the modern newspaper man. The hideous -noise of the press, its conscience-annulling -haste, its sense of power and -almost uncontradictable certainty,<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span> -what he employs to warn his soul, his -reason, not to look over his shoulder while -he is at work. The fact is that the whole -ingenious mechanism of a newspaper is so -automatically conjointed and revolves so -rapidly that by sheer fury and speed of -movement it takes on a kind of synthetic -life of its own. It could well be imagined -thundering round and round of its own -accord in a great jovial, shouting stupor. -A leading editorial, tearing passions to -tatters, could arise by spontaneous combustion, -exhaling itself somehow from the -general uproar and joy. Virgin birth -would be no miracle in a newspaper office: -I have seen, and myself committed, editorial -matter whose parent had never been -approached by any siring intelligence.</p> - -<p>Or, in the case of the reporter, painfully -trained in a generous human skepticism, -enforced student of the way people behave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -and the way things happen, alert to discern -the overtones of irony and pathos in -the event, you might expect him to be -the least credulous of beings. If so, the -general flavour of the press little represents -him. He acquiesces, consciously or -unconsciously, in the fact that in all -but a few really intelligent journals the -news columns are edited down to the level -of the proprietor’s intelligence, or what -the active managers imagine to be the -proprietor’s taste. Not in facts, but in -the tone adopted in setting out those facts. -An Index Expurgatorius is issued for office -guidance, lists made of words and phrases -not to be mentioned in news stories. The -more essentially vulgar a paper is, the -more cautious it will be not to use words -the managing editor believes dirty. “Obscene,” -for example, is deleted, and the -truly disgusting word “spicy” is substituted.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -And the reporter himself having -acquiesced, it is not unnatural that the -readers of the paper do also. The great -majority of them, tippling their customary -sheet day after day with the regularity -of dram-fiends, are so indurated to the -grotesque psychology of the more popular -news columns that to find a paper -habitually speaking recognizable moderate -sense would afflict them with a warmth -of indecency and dismay. The daily -journals give them the same pleasure that -the serial parts of Dickens’s novels gave -the early Victorians eighty and ninety -years ago. So we have the agreeable -paradox that these papers we see all -round us, roaring their naïvetés and scandals, -are written and compiled by those -who are, as individuals, studious, serene, -and gently acetic skeptics.</p> - -<p>It is an entertaining thought. If it is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span> -true, I believe it is due to what I think of -as the carburetor-adjustment of the human -mind, a delicate, unconscious, and -continuous process. It pleases me to -imagine that in the intellect there is a -valve that regulates the mixture of truth -and convention that we utter, just as -gasolene and heated air are mixed and -vaporized in the carburetor of an engine. -Whenever we meet any one, or at any rate -any stranger, we are likely to be on our -guard. We have our own little private -reservoir of sincerity, but we don’t intend -to draw on it too largely until we know -we are safe. There are some people, as -you must have noticed, to whom it is -almost impossible to say a word of what -you really believe. Accordingly, automatically -and almost unconsciously, we -make a mental adjustment of our “mixture.” -We admit into it just as much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -truth as we believe the other is likely to -relish, or willing to receive. But we may -have made a bad guess. The conversation -begins to back-fire. That means the -mixture is too “lean.” Very well; pull -out the choke, enrich it with more candour, -all goes delightfully. Too “rich” a mixture, -however, is, every mechanician -knows, as bad as too “lean.” The mind -gets crusted with carbon—unassimilated -truth. The analogy seems to me highly -applicable, even down to the infusion of -what used to be called, in a bygone slang, -“hot air.” Through this needle-valve, -for the most part unconsciously, we regulate -our mental ignition.</p> - -<p>All this, as you shall see presently, has -its just bearing on our topic of religion. -We need, but are little likely to get, a new -“Areopagitica” to liberate our press from -its cheery bondage of vulgarity and slip-slop<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -thinking. The newspaper man who -has pride in his honourable tradition may -well feel grim to see the things he has -sweat for trafficked across counters like -bundles of merchandise; yes, and to see -the transaction applauded by eminent -statesmen and divines who feel the need -of a front-page quote. A little pride is -desirable now and then; yes, in God’s -name, a little pride, gentlemen. We who -have lived, as best we could, for the decency -of letters; who have vigiled with -Chaucer and taken wine with Descartes -and changed opinion with Doctor Johnson, -are we to be hired to and fro by the -genial hucksters who know the art of -print chiefly as a rapid factory for gaily -tinted palaver?</p> - -<p>In his tight place, beset by doubts just -as acute as those of the young theologian, -our newspaper man ratiocinates upon the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -quaint processes of mind. He broods on -the haphazard, interest-tainted, and fallible -nature of most mortal opinion. He -studies the relativity of truth and the -proliferation of rumour. He notes how -every event is like a stone cast into a -pond; it ejaculates concentric vibrations, -widening loops of hearsay. Varying layers -or rings of truth are available for -different classes of bystanders, or bythinkers. -How well he knows the queer -fact that you can say, unrebuked, in a -weekly what would never pass in a daily! -You can say still more in a monthly; in -a quarterly review almost all the beans -can be decanted. And in a book, quite -often you can print your surmises in full. -Of course, to tell exactly what happens, -as Pepys did, it is best to be dead. (How -odd is the saying, “Dead men tell no -tales.” Why, they tell the best tales of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -all.) It does sometimes seem as though -the more immediate readers there are for -any bit of print, the less candour can be -rationed out for each.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a></p> - -<p>So every human being stands at the -centre of a little eddy or whirl of testimony. -If one could make a map or editor’s -projection of him considered as a -news item—it would be as complicated -as an ocean chart with festoons of barographs -and isotherms, curves and twists -and arrows indicating set of currents, prevailing -winds, soundings. On such a -chart, we would denote here a cyclone of -scandal, there a hot monsoon of misappreciation, -yonder a steady trade-wind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -of generous sympathy. In an ocean so -various we should find our victim leading -a thousand different phantom lives in the -opinion of others. If you begin to think -about this sort of thing, the asylum -waits; for truly, confronted by the alternating -delights and possibilities of life, -the mind is not unlike that chameleon -that went mad when tethered on a Paisley -shawl.</p> - -<p>The newspaper man, then, begins to -feel perhaps that it is necessary for him -to undertake the burden of fidelity to -human realities—that burden that is -often so lightly shrugged off by bishops. -Looking at things in the large, or trying -to, he strongly suspects that formal religion, -as we have known it, is dying; -lovelier and greater poetries are pushing -in. (There are thousands of years still to -come, you know.) The highest honour that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -he can pay to sacred matters is to regard -them as so thrillingly actual that they -can be accepted into the great general -body of human life. To regard them, -indeed, as news, as the word Gospel itself -suggests. It would seem fairly obvious -that the miracles and parables of the -New Testament, like the various creeds -themselves, were intended as vivid and -stunning apologues. To batter them -down to the level of facts seems to degrade -them, as it would be degrading to -reject Keats’s sonnet because there are -no peaks in the isthmus of Darien, and -because it wasn’t Cortes. The newspaper -man prefers to take his stand with Tolstoy, -who said, in that thrilling book “A -Confession”: “I wish to understand in -such a way that everything that is inexplicable -shall present itself to me as -<i>necessarily</i> inexplicable.” He prefers that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -when there is an available and mortally -recognizable way of understanding things, -they should so be understood. Take, for -example, the story of the miracle at -Cana. To a man trained to observe the -delightful ways in which testimony arises -and is transmitted, how does that story -explain itself? Here is a wedding party, -at which appears the amazing stranger. -He seems a man more fascinating, more -charming, more utterly delightful, than -any that those country folk have ever -encountered. They are all very merry, -the toasts go round, the wine runs short. -But the ruler of the feast, turning to the -stranger, says, prettily enough, I think, -“With <i>you</i> here, water is as good as -wine.” Some one else takes it up, echoing -the sentiment, seeking to add to it. -“Right!” he cries. “Our friend here -makes the water into wine. Here’s to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span> -you!” And with friendly applause the -gathering ratifies the compliment. One -of the servants overhears, and carries the -incident into the kitchen. How quickly -it grows and passes down the village -street! “They’ve got some one in there -who’s turning water into wine!” Can it -be denied that this is the way that human -events are reported?</p> - -<p>Let us take an example of a miracle-germ -in our own time. When Horace -Traubel, faithful and simple-minded disciple -of Walt Whitman, died in September, -1919, his body was taken to the -Community Church, at Park Avenue and -Thirty-fourth Street, New York, for the -funeral service. But when the body -reached the church, the little company of -mourners could not enter; the building -had suddenly caught fire. Imagine this -episode handed down through generations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -of simple people by word of mouth. The -intimate disciple of a great poet, both -of them impatient of the genteel religions, -is borne dead to a sacred edifice. It -bursts into flame. Would that not be -taken as some authentic Pentecost, and -at the very least as a proof of Walt’s divinity? -Yet we know well enough that -the event was no miracle, but rather -what Hobbes called “an extraordinary -felicity.”</p> - -<p>There is one more Biblical passage I -should like to refer to, one that has often -been considered a knotty saying. It is -the parable of the talents and the unprofitable -servant. I like to conceive -Deity in the guise of that hard master -who wanted his own with usury. “Well,” -I can imagine God saying to the newly -dead, “what did you think of that world -I gave you?” “Not so bad, on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -whole,” replies the embarrassed soul. -“What!” cries God. “Simpleton, do -you mean to say you took it as you found -it, accepted it, swallowed it down without -question? Depart from me, unprofitable -servant! You were supposed to remould -it nearer to your heart’s desire, to create -out of my materials a new world of your -own.”</p> - -<p>Old Doctor Jewett said to Margot -Asquith, “You must believe in God in -spite of what the clergy say.” And truly -I don’t think that any man who has -worked in downtown New York can be -much of an atheist. In that great jungle -of violent life, under the glittering spires -of such steep cathedrals, he must inevitably -be a trifle mad. Even Manhattan, -supposed to be most material of cities, is -best known for the fantastic figure she cuts -against the sky. The loveliest picture I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span> -ever saw of her profile was a photograph -given me by an amateur lensman who -caught it by accident. It shows that -uneven scarp of buildings in soft masses -of dark and shadow, looming on a queerly -pebbled and fuscous twilight, like an -eclipse. And this, as my astonished -friend learned from his film-dealer, was -an accident, due to mildew on the gelatin. -So some of the most lovely visions of -reality are printed on minds that are mildewed. -The madman and the nincompoop -often see more beauty than the -sane and solid cit. The only possible -suggestion that one might humbly venture -to offer to the authoritative officers of -Holy Church is that they are too sane -and too businesslike. They ask us to -believe not things that are too hard, but -too easy. They are too eager to lock the -stable door after the Messiah has been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -stolen. They have learned the tricks of -our world of flesh so glibly that they seem -sometimes to forget the manners of that -world of spirit they are commissioned to -represent.</p> - -<p>For the world is fascinating and painful -beyond human power of testimony. The -best of every life is unprintable. If one -were given five minutes’ warning before -sudden death, five minutes to say what -it had all meant to us, every telephone-booth -would be occupied by people trying -to call up other people to stammer that -they loved them. You would want to -tell a whole lot of people that you love -them, but had been too clumsy and too -shy to admit it. And the newspaper man -himself, who both loves and hates his -queer trade, would be the first to remember -that one always is severest with what -one adores. Every movement is set in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -some strange turning of wonder. As a -man will suddenly discover in himself -some miserable petty trick of behaviour -which, he painfully realizes, is a true -microcosm and characteristic of his life -as a whole, so now and then with the -world at large. We are aware of lights -and shadows and moments of millennium -that seem a part of some vast consistency. -You know the thrill of a letter or parcel -that comes from some one you are fond -of, far away. As you undo the string, -you say, foolishly, but with a genuine -quaver of sentiment, “When that was -tied up, So-and-so handled it!” Well, -there are instants of preposterous happiness, -clear insight, that are just like that—little -packages of reality, tied up in the -twine of our time sense, that come to us -direct, intact, from the eternity and infinity -we call God. It matters little how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -you explain that great word to yourself. -Perhaps you mean by it the sum total of -all human awarenesses of beauty. In -that sense of prevailing loveliness we are -all obscurely united. In those moments, -moments of heavenly farce and unredeemable -tragedy, we can forgive ourselves -for being only human.</p> - -<p>But in these matters silence is the final -eloquence. One does not argue with -moonlight. Men talk of “finding God,” -but no wonder it is difficult; He is hidden -in that darkest of hiding-places, your own -heart. You yourself are a part of Him. -The chief danger is to be too prosaic. -Any one who has ever done proof-reading -knows the delicious fidelity and strict zeal -and maddening literalness with which the -professional corrector marks a galley-proof. -How he construes the text according -to his own rote and rigid scheme; how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -he resents any unusual use of words; how -he is so busy querying things that look -odd to him that he misses many of the -downright errors. That is precisely the -attitude of man toward the universe, -which he is so daringly anxious to interpret -in some comforting sense. The -journalist, whatever his sins and stupidities, -would hope to enjoy the text of life -in the spirit of a collaborating author -rather than presume to correct it. And -he will not do any great poet, such as -Christ, the dishonour of taking him too -literally.</p> - -<p>We cannot hope until we have learned -to despair. Let me remind you of some -great lines by Andrew Marvell:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="stanza"> -<div class="verse">My love is of a birth as rare</div> -<div class="indent">As ’tis for object strange and high:</div> -<div class="verse">It was begotten by Despair</div> -<div class="indent">Upon Impossibility.</div> -</div> -<div class="stanza"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -<div class="verse">As lines, so loves oblique, may well</div> -<div class="indent">Themselves in every angle greet:</div> -<div class="verse">But ours, so truly parallel,</div> -<div class="indent">Though infinite, can never meet.</div> -</div></div></div> - - -<p class="center">THE END</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2">FOOTNOTES:</p> - - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[A]</a> Mr. C. E. Montague writes as follows of the origin of his -novel <i>A Hind Let Loose</i>, a witty satire of newspaper life: “It -arose from much study—in the course of my daily work—of -the editorial articles of the best-reputed English papers. I -found that they consisted, to a wonderfully large percentage, -of certain stock expressions of positiveness, dislike and contempt. -These, I noticed, were so general that they constantly -recurred in all sorts of discussions on various subjects, and the -fancy took me that their use could be carried further and -further until all reference to any particular topic vanished -and nothing but quite general positiveness remained, the -Olympian mentality and temper just going on asserting themselves -for assertion’s sake.”</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[B]</a> There is a very able book called <i>The Gospel According to -Judas</i>, written by a professor at a Western college, which has -circulated in MS. among publishers for ten years, without -yet finding one who is willing to take a chance on its very remarkable -wit and uniquely original conception of the New -Testament story. I have often wondered whether it will ever -get printed.</p> - -</div></div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph2">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> -</div></div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RELIGIO JOURNALISTICI ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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