{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_16769/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_16769","id":"gutenberg_16769","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16769","summary":null,"tags":["Apologetics","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Chesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith), 1874-1936","Christianity -- Essence, genius, nature"],"text":"Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clare Coney and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nORTHODOXY\n\n_by_\n\nG.K. CHESTERTON\n\n\n\nJOHN LANE\n\nTHE BODLEY HEAD LTD\n\n_First published in_.......................... 1908\n\n_printed_..................................... 1908\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1909\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1911\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1915\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1919\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1921\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1924\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1926\n\n_First published in \"The Week-End Library\" in_ 1927\n\n_Reprinted_................................... 1934\n\n\nMADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,\nLONDON AND BECCLES.\n\n\n\n\n_TO MY MOTHER_\n\n\n\n\n_CONTENTS_\n\n\n     _Chap._                                  _Page_\n\n     I. INTRODUCTION IN DEFENCE OF EVERYTHING ELSE    11\n\n     II. THE MANIAC ................................  20\n\n     III. THE SUICIDE OF THOUGHT ...................  50\n\n     IV. THE ETHICS OF ELFLAND .....................  76\n\n     V. THE FLAG OF THE WORLD ......................  117\n\n     VI. THE PARADOXES OF CHRISTIANITY .............  146\n\n     VII. THE ETERNAL REVOLUTION ...................  186\n\n     VIII. THE ROMANCE OF ORTHODOXY ................  228\n\n     IX. AUTHORITY AND THE ADVENTURER ..............  259\n\n\n\n\n_ORTHODOXY_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.--_Introduction in Defence of Everything Else_\n\n\nThe only possible excuse for this book is that it is an answer to a\nchallenge. Even a bad shot is dignified when he accepts a duel. When\nsome time ago I published a series of hasty but sincere papers, under\nthe name of \"Heretics,\" several critics for whose intellect I have a\nwarm respect (I may mention specially Mr. G.S. Street) said that it was\nall very well for me to tell everybody to affirm his cosmic theory, but\nthat I had carefully avoided supporting my precepts with example. \"I\nwill begin to worry about my philosophy,\" said Mr. Street, \"when Mr.\nChesterton has given us his.\" It was perhaps an incautious suggestion to\nmake to a person only too ready to write books upon the feeblest\nprovocation. But after all, though Mr. Street has inspired and created\nthis book, he need not read it. If he does read it, he will find that in\nits pages I have attempted in a vague and personal way, in a set of\nmental pictures rather than in a series of deductions, to state the\nphilosophy in which I have come to believe. I will not call it my\nphilosophy; for I did not make it. God and humanity made it; and it made\nme.\n\nI have often had a fancy for writing a romance about an English\nyachtsman who slightly miscalculated his course and discovered England\nunder the impression that it was a new island in the South Seas. I\nalways find, however, that I am either too busy or too lazy to write\nthis fine work, so I may as well give it away for the purposes of\nphilosophical illustration. There will probably be a general impression\nthat the man who landed (armed to the teeth and talking by signs) to\nplant the British flag on that barbaric temple which turned out to be\nthe Pavilion at Brighton, felt rather a fool. I am not here concerned to\ndeny that he looked a fool. But if you imagine that he felt a fool, or\nat any rate that the sense of folly was his sole or his dominant\nemotion, then you have not studied with sufficient delicacy the rich\nromantic nature of the hero of this tale. His mistake was really a most\nenviable mistake; and he knew it, if he was the man I take him for. What\ncould be more delightful than to have in the same few minutes all the\nfascinating terrors of going abroad combined with all the humane\nsecurity of coming home again? What could be better than to have all\nthe fun of discovering South Africa without the disgusting necessity of\nlanding there? What could be more glorious than to brace one's self up\nto discover New South Wales and then realize, with a gush of happy\ntears, that it was really old South Wales. This at least seems to me the\nmain problem for philosophers, and is in a manner the main problem of\nthis book. How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and\nyet at home in it? How can this queer cosmic town, with its many-legged\ncitizens, with its monstrous and ancient lamps, how can this world give\nus at once the fascination of a strange town and the comfort and honour\nof being our own town? To show that a faith or a philosophy is true from\nevery standpoint would be too big an undertaking even for a much bigger\nbook than this; it is necessary to follow one path of argument; and this\nis the path that I here propose to follow. I wish to set forth my faith\nas particularly answering this double spiritual need, the need for that\nmixture of the familiar and the unfamiliar which Christendom has rightly\nnamed romance. For the very word \"romance\" has in it the mystery and\nancient meaning of Rome. Any one setting out to dispute anything ought\nalways to begin by saying what he does not dispute. Beyond stating what\nhe proposes to prove he should always state what he does not propose to\nprove. The thing I do not propose to prove, the thing I propose to take\nas common ground between myself and any average reader, is this\ndesirability of an active and imaginative life, picturesque and full of\na poetical curiosity, a life such as western man at any rate always\nseems to have desired. If a man says that extinction is better than\nexistence or blank existence better than variety and adventure, then he\nis not one of the ordinary people to whom I am talking. If a man prefers\nnothing I can give him nothing. But nearly all people I have ever met in\nthis western society in which I live would agree to the general\nproposition that we need this life of practical romance; the combination\nof something that is strange with something that is secure. We need so\nto view the world as to combine an idea of wonder and an idea of\nwelcome. We need to be happy in this wonderland without once being\nmerely comfortable. It is _this_ achievement of my creed that I shall\nchiefly pursue in these pages.\n\nBut I have a peculiar reason for mentioning the man in a yacht, who\ndiscovered England. For I am that man in a yacht. I discovered England.\nI do not see how this book can avoid being egotistical; and I do not\nquite see (to tell the truth) how it can avoid being dull. Dullness\nwill, however, free me from the charge which I most lament; the charge\nof being flippant. Mere light sophistry is the thing that I happen to\ndespise most of all things, and it is perhaps a wholesome fact that this\nis the thing of which I am generally accused. I know nothing so\ncontemptible as a mere paradox; a mere ingenious defence of the\nindefensible. If it were true (as has been said) that Mr. Bernard Shaw\nlived upon paradox, then he ought to be a mere common millionaire; for a\nman of his mental activity could invent a sophistry every six minutes.\nIt is as easy as lying; because it is lying. The truth is, of course,\nthat Mr. Shaw is cruelly hampered by the fact that he cannot tell any\nlie unless he thinks it is the truth. I find myself under the same\nintolerable bondage. I never in my life said anything merely because I\nthought it funny; though, of course, I have had ordinary human\nvain-glory, and may have thought it funny because I had said it. It is\none thing to describe an interview with a gorgon or a griffin, a\ncreature who does not exist. It is another thing to discover that the\nrhinoceros does exist and then take pleasure in the fact that he looks\nas if he didn't. One searches for truth, but it may be that one pursues\ninstinctively the more extraordinary truths. And I offer this book with\nthe heartiest sentiments to all the jolly people who hate what I write,\nand regard it (very justly, for all I know), as a piece of poor clowning\nor a single tiresome joke.\n\nFor if this book is a joke it is a joke against me. I am the man who\nwith the utmost daring discovered what had been discovered before. If\nthere is an element of farce in what follows, the farce is at my own\nexpense; for this book explains how I fancied I was the first to set\nfoot in Brighton and then found I was the last. It recounts my\nelephantine adventures in pursuit of the obvious. No one can think my\ncase more ludicrous than I think it myself; no reader can accuse me here\nof trying to make a fool of him: I am the fool of this story, and no\nrebel shall hurl me from my throne. I freely confess all the idiotic\nambitions of the end of the nineteenth century. I did, like all other\nsolemn little boys, try to be in advance of the age. Like them I tried\nto be some ten minutes in advance of the truth. And I found that I was\neighteen hundred years behind it. I did strain my voice with a painfully\njuvenile exaggeration in uttering my truths. And I was punished in the\nfittest and funniest way, for I have kept my truths: but I have\ndiscovered, not that they were not truths, but simply that they were not\nmine. When I fancied that I stood alone I was really in the ridiculous\nposition of being backed up by all Christendom. It may be, Heaven\nforgive me, that I did try to be original; but I only succeeded in\ninventing all by myself an inferior copy of the existing traditions of\ncivilized religion. The man from the yacht thought he was the first to\nfind England; I thought I was the first to find Europe. I did try to\nfound a heresy of my own; and when I had put the last touches to it, I\ndiscovered that it was orthodoxy.\n\nIt may be that somebody will be entertained by the account of this happy\nfiasco. It might amuse a friend or an enemy to read how I gradually\nlearnt from the truth of some stray legend or from the falsehood of some\ndominant philosophy, things that I might have learnt from my\ncatechism--if I had ever learnt it. There may or may not be some\nentertainment in reading how I found at last in an anarchist club or a\nBabylonian temple what I might have found in the nearest parish church.\nIf any one is entertained by learning how the flowers of the field or\nthe phrases in an omnibus, the accidents of politics or the pains of\nyouth came together in a certain order to produce a certain conviction\nof Christian orthodoxy, he may possibly read this book. But there is in\neverything a reasonable division of labour. I have written the book, and\nnothing on earth would induce me to read it.\n\nI add one purely pedantic note which comes, as a note naturally should,\nat the beginning of the book. These essays are concerned only to discuss\nthe actual fact that the central Christian theology (sufficiently\nsummarized in the Apostles' Creed) is the best root of energy and sound\nethics. They are not intended to discuss the very fascinating but quite\ndifferent question of what is the present seat of authority for the\nproclamation of that creed. When the word \"orthodoxy\" is used here it\nmeans the Apostles' Creed, as understood by everybody calling himself\nChristian until a very short time ago and the general historic conduct\nof those who held such a creed. I have been forced by mere space to\nconfine myself to what I have got from this creed; I do not touch the\nmatter much disputed among modern Christians, of where we ourselves got\nit. This is not an ecclesiastical treatise but a sort of slovenly\nautobiography. But if any one wants my opinions about the actual nature\nof the authority, Mr. G.S. Street has only to throw me another\nchallenge, and I will write him another book.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.--_The Maniac_\n\n\nThoroughly worldly people never understand even the world; they rely\naltogether on a few cynical maxims which are not true. Once I remember\nwalking with a prosperous publisher, who made a remark which I had often\nheard before; it is, indeed, almost a motto of the modern world. Yet I\nhad heard it once too often, and I saw suddenly that there was nothing\nin it. The publisher said of somebody, \"That man will get on; he\nbelieves in himself.\" And I remember that as I lifted my head to listen,\nmy eye caught an omnibus on which was written \"Hanwell.\" I said to him,\n\"Shall I tell you where the men are who believe most in themselves? For\nI can tell you. I know of men who believe in themselves more colossally\nthan Napoleon or Caesar. I know where flames the fixed star of certainty\nand success. I can guide you to the thrones of the Super-men. The men\nwho really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums.\" He said\nmildly that there were a good many men after all who believed in\nthemselves and who were not in lunatic asylums. \"Yes, there are,\" I\nretorted, \"and you of all men ought to know them. That drunken poet from\nwhom you would not take a dreary tragedy, he believed in himself. That\nelderly minister with an epic from whom you were hiding in a back room,\nhe believed in himself. If you consulted your business experience\ninstead of your ugly individualistic philosophy, you would know that\nbelieving in himself is one of the commonest signs of a rotter. Actors\nwho can't act believe in themselves; and debtors who won't pay. It would\nbe much truer to say that a man will certainly fail because he believes\nin himself. Complete self-confidence is not merely a sin; complete\nself-confidence is a weakness. Believing utterly in one's self is a\nhysterical and superstitious belief like believing in Joanna Southcote:\nthe man who has it has 'Hanwell' written on his face as plain as it is\nwritten on that omnibus.\" And to all this my friend the publisher made\nthis very deep and effective reply, \"Well, if a man is not to believe in\nhimself, in what is he to believe?\" After a long pause I replied, \"I\nwill go home and write a book in answer to that question.\" This is the\nbook that I have written in answer to it.\n\nBut I think this book may well start where our argument started--in the\nneighbourhood of the mad-house. Modern masters of science are much\nimpressed with the need of beginning all inquiry with a fact. The\nancient masters of religion were quite equally impressed with that\nnecessity. They began with the fact of sin--a fact as practical as\npotatoes. Whether or no man could be washed in miraculous waters, there\nwas no doubt at any rate that he wanted washing. But certain religious\nleaders in London, not mere materialists, have begun in our day not to\ndeny the highly disputable water, but to deny the indisputable dirt.\nCertain new theologians dispute original sin, which is the only part of\nChristian theology which can really be proved. Some followers of the\nReverend R.J. Campbell, in their almost too fastidious spirituality,\nadmit divine sinlessness, which they cannot see even in their dreams.\nBut they essentially deny human sin, which they can see in the street.\nThe strongest saints and the strongest sceptics alike took positive evil\nas the starting-point of their argument. If it be true (as it certainly\nis) that a man can feel exquisite happiness in skinning a cat, then the\nreligious philosopher can only draw one of two deductions. He must\neither deny the existence of God, as all atheists do; or he must deny\nthe present union between God and man, as all Christians do. The new\ntheologians seem to think it a highly rationalistic solution to deny the\ncat.\n\nIn this remarkable situation it is plainly not now possible (with any\nhope of a universal appeal) to start, as our fathers did, with the fact\nof sin. This very fact which was to them (and is to me) as plain as a\npikestaff, is the very fact that has been specially diluted or denied.\nBut though moderns deny the existence of sin, I do not think that they\nhave yet denied the existence of a lunatic asylum. We all agree still\nthat there is a collapse of the intellect as unmistakable as a falling\nhouse. Men deny hell, but not, as yet, Hanwell. For the purpose of our\nprimary argument the one may very well stand where the other stood. I\nmean that as all thoughts and theories were once judged by whether they\ntended to make a man lose his soul, so for our present purpose all\nmodern thoughts and theories may be judged by whether they tend to make\na man lose his wits.\n\nIt is true that some speak lightly and loosely of insanity as in itself\nattractive. But a moment's thought will show that if disease is\nbeautiful, it is generally some one else's disease. A blind man may be\npicturesque; but it requires two eyes to see the picture. And similarly\neven the wildest poetry of insanity can only be enjoyed by the sane. To\nthe insane man his insanity is quite prosaic, because it is quite true.\nA man who thinks himself a chicken is to himself as ordinary as a\nchicken. A man who thinks he is a bit of glass is to himself as dull as\na bit of glass. It is the homogeneity of his mind which makes him dull,\nand which makes him mad. It is only because we see the irony of his idea\nthat we think him even amusing; it is only because he does not see the\nirony of his idea that he is put in Hanwell at all. In short, oddities\nonly strike ordinary people. Oddities do not strike odd people. This is\nwhy ordinary people have a much more exciting time; while odd people are\nalways complaining of the dulness of life. This is also why the new\nnovels die so quickly, and why the old fairy tales endure for ever. The\nold fairy tale makes the hero a normal human boy; it is his adventures\nthat are startling; they startle him because he is normal. But in the\nmodern psychological novel the hero is abnormal; the centre is not\ncentral. Hence the fiercest adventures fail to affect him adequately,\nand the book is monotonous. You can make a story out of a hero among\ndragons; but not out of a dragon among dragons. The fairy tale discusses\nwhat a sane man will do in a mad world. The sober realistic novel of\nto-day discusses what an essential lunatic will do in a dull world.\n\nLet us begin, then, with the mad-house; from this evil and fantastic inn\nlet us set forth on our intellectual journey. Now, if we are to glance\nat the philosophy of sanity, the first thing to do in the matter is to\nblot out one big and common mistake. There is a notion adrift everywhere\nthat imagination, especially mystical imagination, is dangerous to man's\nmental balance. Poets are commonly spoken of as psychologically\nunreliable; and generally there is a vague association between wreathing\nlaurels in your hair and sticking straws in it. Facts and history\nutterly contradict this view. Most of the very great poets have been not\nonly sane, but extremely business-like; and if Shakespeare ever really\nheld horses, it was because he was much the safest man to hold them.\nImagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is\nreason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go\nmad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will\nbe seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does\nlie in logic, not in imagination. Artistic paternity is as wholesome as\nphysical paternity. Moreover, it is worthy of remark that when a poet\nreally was morbid it was commonly because he had some weak spot of\nrationality on his brain. Poe, for instance, really was morbid; not\nbecause he was poetical, but because he was specially analytical. Even\nchess was too poetical for him; he disliked chess because it was full of\nknights and castles, like a poem. He avowedly preferred the black discs\nof draughts, because they were more like the mere black dots on a\ndiagram. Perhaps the strongest case of all is this: that only one great\nEnglish poet went mad, Cowper. And he was definitely driven mad by\nlogic, by the ugly and alien logic of predestination. Poetry was not the\ndisease, but the medicine; poetry partly kept him in health. He could\nsometimes forget the red and thirsty hell to which his hideous\nnecessitarianism dragged him among the wide waters and the white flat\nlilies of the Ouse. He was damned by John Calvin; he was almost saved by\nJohn Gilpin. Everywhere we see that men do not go mad by dreaming.\nCritics are much madder than poets. Homer is complete and calm enough;\nit is his critics who tear him into extravagant tatters. Shakespeare is\nquite himself; it is only some of his critics who have discovered that\nhe was somebody else. And though St. John the Evangelist saw many\nstrange monsters in his vision, he saw no creature so wild as one of his\nown commentators. The general fact is simple. Poetry is sane because it\nfloats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite\nsea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion, like the\nphysical exhaustion of Mr. Holbein. To accept everything is an exercise,\nto understand everything a strain. The poet only desires exaltation and\nexpansion, a world to stretch himself in. The poet only asks to get his\nhead into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens\ninto his head. And it is his head that splits.\n\nIt is a small matter, but not irrelevant, that this striking mistake is\ncommonly supported by a striking misquotation. We have all heard people\ncite the celebrated line of Dryden as \"Great genius is to madness near\nallied.\" But Dryden did not say that great genius was to madness near\nallied. Dryden was a great genius himself, and knew better. It would\nhave been hard to find a man more romantic than he, or more sensible.\nWhat Dryden said was this, \"Great wits are oft to madness near allied\";\nand that is true. It is the pure promptitude of the intellect that is in\nperil of a breakdown. Also people might remember of what sort of man\nDryden was talking. He was not talking of any unworldly visionary like\nVaughan or George Herbert. He was talking of a cynical man of the world,\na sceptic, a diplomatist, a great practical politician. Such men are\nindeed to madness near allied. Their incessant calculation of their own\nbrains and other people's brains is a dangerous trade. It is always\nperilous to the mind to reckon up the mind. A flippant person has asked\nwhy we say, \"As mad as a hatter.\" A more flippant person might answer\nthat a hatter is mad because he has to measure the human head.\n\nAnd if great reasoners are often maniacal, it is equally true that\nmaniacs are commonly great reasoners. When I was engaged in a\ncontroversy with the _Clarion_ on the matter of free will, that able\nwriter Mr. R.B. Suthers said that free will was lunacy, because it meant\ncauseless actions, and the actions of a lunatic would be causeless. I do\nnot dwell here upon the disastrous lapse in determinist logic. Obviously\nif any actions, even a lunatic's, can be causeless, determinism is done\nfor. If the chain of causation can be broken for a madman, it can be\nbroken for a man. But my purpose is to point out something more\npractical. It was natural, perhaps, that a modern Marxian Socialist\nshould not know anything about free will. But it was certainly\nremarkable that a modern Marxian Socialist should not know anything\nabout lunatics. Mr. Suthers evidently did not know anything about\nlunatics. The last thing that can be said of a lunatic is that his\nactions are causeless. If any human acts may loosely be called\ncauseless, they are the minor acts of a healthy man; whistling as he\nwalks; slashing the grass with a stick; kicking his heels or rubbing his\nhands. It is the happy man who does the useless things; the sick man is\nnot strong enough to be idle. It is exactly such careless and causeless\nactions that the madman could never understand; for the madman (like the\ndeterminist) generally sees too much cause in everything. The madman\nwould read a conspiratorial significance into those empty activities. He\nwould think that the lopping of the grass was an attack on private\nproperty. He would think that the kicking of the heels was a signal to\nan accomplice. If the madman could for an instant become careless, he\nwould become sane. Every one who has had the misfortune to talk with\npeople in the heart or on the edge of mental disorder, knows that their\nmost sinister quality is a horrible clarity of detail; a connecting of\none thing with another in a map more elaborate than a maze. If you argue\nwith a madman, it is extremely probable that you will get the worst of\nit; for in many ways his mind moves all the quicker for not being\ndelayed by the things that go with good judgment. He is not hampered by\na sense of humour or by charity, or by the dumb certainties of\nexperience. He is the more logical for losing certain sane affections.\nIndeed, the common phrase for insanity is in this respect a misleading\none. The madman is not the man who has lost his reason. The madman is\nthe man who has lost everything except his reason.\n\nThe madman's explanation of a thing is always complete, and often in a\npurely rational sense satisfactory. Or, to speak more strictly, the\ninsane explanation, if not conclusive, is at least unanswerable; this\nmay be observed specially in the two or three commonest kinds of\nmadness. If a man says (for instance) that men have a conspiracy against\nhim, you cannot dispute it except by saying that all the men deny that\nthey are conspirators; which is exactly what conspirators would do. His\nexplanation covers the facts as much as yours. Or if a man says that he\nis the rightful King of England, it is no complete answer to say that\nthe existing authorities call him mad; for if he were King of England\nthat might be the wisest thing for the existing authorities to do. Or if\na man says that he is Jesus Christ, it is no answer to tell him that the\nworld denies his divinity; for the world denied Christ's.\n\nNevertheless he is wrong. But if we attempt to trace his error in exact\nterms, we shall not find it quite so easy as we had supposed. Perhaps\nthe nearest we can get to expressing it is to say this: that his mind\nmoves in a perfect but narrow circle. A small circle is quite as\ninfinite as a large circle; but, though it is quite as infinite, it is\nnot so large. In the same way the insane explanation is quite as\ncomplete as the sane one, but it is not so large. A bullet is quite as\nround as the world, but it is not the world. There is such a thing as a\nnarrow universality; there is such a thing as a small and cramped\neternity; you may see it in many modern religions. Now, speaking quite\nexternally and empirically, we may say that the strongest and most\nunmistakable _mark_ of madness is this combination between a logical\ncompleteness and a spiritual contraction. The lunatic's theory explains\na large number of things, but it does not explain them in a large way. I\nmean that if you or I were dealing with a mind that was growing morbid,\nwe should be chiefly concerned not so much to give it arguments as to\ngive it air, to convince it that there was something cleaner and cooler\noutside the suffocation of a single argument. Suppose, for instance, it\nwere the first case that I took as typical; suppose it were the case of\na man who accused everybody of conspiring against him. If we could\nexpress our deepest feelings of protest and appeal against this\nobsession, I suppose we should say something like this: \"Oh, I admit\nthat you have your case and have it by heart, and that many things do\nfit into other things as you say. I admit that your explanation explains\na great deal; but what a great deal it leaves out! Are there no other\nstories in the world except yours; and are all men busy with your\nbusiness? Suppose we grant the details; perhaps when the man in the\nstreet did not seem to see you it was only his cunning; perhaps when the\npoliceman asked you your name it was only because he knew it already.\nBut how much happier you would be if you only knew that these people\ncared nothing about you! How much larger your life would be if your self\ncould become smaller in it; if you could really look at other men with\ncommon curiosity and pleasure; if you could see them walking as they are\nin their sunny selfishness and their virile indifference! You would\nbegin to be interested in them, because they were not interested in you.\nYou would break out of this tiny and tawdry theatre in which your own\nlittle plot is always being played, and you would find yourself under a\nfreer sky, in a street full of splendid strangers.\" Or suppose it were\nthe second case of madness, that of a man who claims the crown, your\nimpulse would be to answer, \"All right! Perhaps you know that you are\nthe King of England; but why do you care? Make one magnificent effort\nand you will be a human being and look down on all the kings of the\nearth.\" Or it might be the third case, of the madman who called himself\nChrist. If we said what we felt, we should say, \"So you are the Creator\nand Redeemer of the world: but what a small world it must be! What a\nlittle heaven you must inhabit, with angels no bigger than butterflies!\nHow sad it must be to be God; and an inadequate God! Is there really no\nlife fuller and no love more marvellous than yours; and is it really in\nyour small and painful pity that all flesh must put its faith? How much\nhappier you would be, how much more of you there would be, if the hammer\nof a higher God could smash your small cosmos, scattering the stars like\nspangles, and leave you in the open, free like other men to look up as\nwell as down!\"\n\nAnd it must be remembered that the most purely practical science does\ntake this view of mental evil; it does not seek to argue with it like a\nheresy, but simply to snap it like a spell. Neither modern science nor\nancient religion believes in complete free thought. Theology rebukes\ncertain thoughts by calling them blasphemous. Science rebukes certain\nthoughts by calling them morbid. For example, some religious societies\ndiscouraged men more or less from thinking about sex. The new scientific\nsociety definitely discourages men from thinking about death; it is a\nfact, but it is considered a morbid fact. And in dealing with those\nwhose morbidity has a touch of mania, modern science cares far less for\npure logic than a dancing Dervish. In these cases it is not enough that\nthe unhappy man should desire truth; he must desire health. Nothing can\nsave him but a blind hunger for normality, like that of a beast. A man\ncannot think himself out of mental evil; for it is actually the organ of\nthought that has become diseased, ungovernable, and, as it were,\nindependent. He can only be saved by will or faith. The moment his mere\nreason moves, it moves in the old circular rut; he will go round and\nround his logical circle, just as a man in a third-class carriage on the\nInner Circle will go round and round the Inner Circle unless he performs\nthe voluntary, vigorous, and mystical act of getting out at Gower\nStreet. Decision is the whole business here; a door must be shut for\never. Every remedy is a desperate remedy. Every cure is a miraculous\ncure. Curing a madman is not arguing with a philosopher; it is casting\nout a devil. And however quietly doctors and psychologists may go to\nwork in the matter, their attitude is profoundly intolerant--as\nintolerant as Bloody Mary. Their attitude is really this: that the man\nmust stop thinking, if he is to go on living. Their counsel is one of\nintellectual amputation. If thy _head_ offend thee, cut it off; for it\nis better, not merely to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as a child, but to\nenter it as an imbecile, rather than with your whole intellect to be\ncast into hell--or into Hanwell.\n\nSuch is the madman of experience; he is commonly a reasoner, frequently\na successful reasoner. Doubtless he could be vanquished in mere reason,\nand the case against him put logically. But it can be put much more\nprecisely in more general and even \u00e6sthetic terms. He is in the clean\nand well-lit prison of one idea: he is sharpened to one painful point.\nHe is without healthy hesitation and healthy complexity. Now, as I\nexplain in the introduction, I have determined in these early chapters\nto give not so much a diagram of a doctrine as some pictures of a point\nof view. And I have described at length my vision of the maniac for this\nreason: that just as I am affected by the maniac, so I am affected by\nmost modern thinkers. That unmistakable mood or note that I hear from\nHanwell, I hear also from half the chairs of science and seats of\nlearning to-day; and most of the mad doctors are mad doctors in more\nsenses than one. They all have exactly that combination we have noted:\nthe combination of an expansive and exhaustive reason with a contracted\ncommon sense. They are universal only in the sense that they take one\nthin explanation and carry it very far. But a pattern can stretch for\never and still be a small pattern. They see a chess-board white on\nblack, and if the universe is paved with it, it is still white on black.\nLike the lunatic, they cannot alter their standpoint; they cannot make a\nmental effort and suddenly see it black on white.\n\nTake first the more obvious case of materialism. As an explanation of\nthe world, materialism has a sort of insane simplicity. It has just the\nquality of the madman's argument; we have at once the sense of it\ncovering everything and the sense of it leaving everything out.\nContemplate some able and sincere materialist, as, for instance, Mr.\nMcCabe, and you will have exactly this unique sensation. He understands\neverything, and everything does not seem worth understanding. His cosmos\nmay be complete in every rivet and cog-wheel, but still his cosmos is\nsmaller than our world. Somehow his scheme, like the lucid scheme of the\nmadman, seems unconscious of the alien energies and the large\nindifference of the earth; it is not thinking of the real things of the\nearth, of fighting peoples or proud mothers, or first love or fear upon\nthe sea. The earth is so very large, and the cosmos is so very small.\nThe cosmos is about the smallest hole that a man can hide his head in.\n\nIt must be understood that I am not now discussing the relation of\nthese creeds to truth; but, for the present, solely their relation to\nhealth. Later in the argument I hope to attack the question of objective\nverity; here I speak only of a phenomenon of psychology. I do not for\nthe present attempt to prove to Haeckel that materialism is untrue, any\nmore than I attempted to prove to the man who thought he was Christ that\nhe was labouring under an error. I merely remark here on the fact that\nboth cases have the same kind of completeness and the same kind of\nincompleteness. You can explain a man's detention at Hanwell by an\nindifferent public by saying that it is the crucifixion of a god of whom\nthe world is not worthy. The explanation does explain. Similarly you may\nexplain the order in the universe by saying that all things, even the\nsouls of men, are leaves inevitably unfolding on an utterly unconscious\ntree--the blind destiny of matter. The explanation does explain, though\nnot, of course, so completely as the madman's. But the point here is\nthat the normal human mind not only objects to both, but feels to both\nthe same objection. Its approximate statement is that if the man in\nHanwell is the real God, he is not much of a god. And, similarly, if the\ncosmos of the materialist is the real cosmos, it is not much of a\ncosmos. The thing has shrunk. The deity is less divine than many men;\nand (according to Haeckel) the whole of life is something much more\ngrey, narrow, and trivial than many separate aspects of it. The parts\nseem greater than the whole.\n\nFor we must remember that the materialist philosophy (whether true or\nnot) is certainly much more limiting than any religion. In one sense, of\ncourse, all intelligent ideas are narrow. They cannot be broader than\nthemselves. A Christian is only restricted in the same sense that an\natheist is restricted. He cannot think Christianity false and continue\nto be a Christian; and the atheist cannot think atheism false and\ncontinue to be an atheist. But as it happens, there is a very special\nsense in which materialism has more restrictions than spiritualism. Mr.\nMcCabe thinks me a slave because I am not allowed to believe in\ndeterminism. I think Mr. McCabe a slave because he is not allowed to\nbelieve in fairies. But if we examine the two vetoes we shall see that\nhis is really much more of a pure veto than mine. The Christian is quite\nfree to believe that there is a considerable amount of settled order and\ninevitable development in the universe. But the materialist is not\nallowed to admit into his spotless machine the slightest speck of\nspiritualism or miracle. Poor Mr. McCabe is not allowed to retain even\nthe tiniest imp, though it might be hiding in a pimpernel. The Christian\nadmits that the universe is manifold and even miscellaneous, just as a\nsane man knows that he is complex. The sane man knows that he has a\ntouch of the beast, a touch of the devil, a touch of the saint, a touch\nof the citizen. Nay, the really sane man knows that he has a touch of\nthe madman. But the materialist's world is quite simple and solid, just\nas the madman is quite sure he is sane. The materialist is sure that\nhistory has been simply and solely a chain of causation, just as the\ninteresting person before mentioned is quite sure that he is simply and\nsolely a chicken. Materialists and madmen never have doubts.\n\nSpiritual doctrines do not actually limit the mind as do materialistic\ndenials. Even if I believe in immortality I need not think about it. But\nif I disbelieve in immortality I must not think about it. In the first\ncase the road is open and I can go as far as I like; in the second the\nroad is shut. But the case is even stronger, and the parallel with\nmadness is yet more strange. For it was our case against the exhaustive\nand logical theory of the lunatic that, right or wrong, it gradually\ndestroyed his humanity. Now it is the charge against the main deductions\nof the materialist that, right or wrong, they gradually destroy his\nhumanity; I do not mean only kindness, I mean hope, courage, poetry,\ninitiative, all that is human. For instance, when materialism leads men\nto complete fatalism (as it generally does), it is quite idle to pretend\nthat it is in any sense a liberating force. It is absurd to say that you\nare especially advancing freedom when you only use free thought to\ndestroy free will. The determinists come to bind, not to loose. They may\nwell call their law the \"chain\" of causation. It is the worst chain that\never fettered a human being. You may use the language of liberty, if you\nlike, about materialistic teaching, but it is obvious that this is just\nas inapplicable to it as a whole as the same language when applied to a\nman locked up in a mad-house. You may say, if you like, that the man is\nfree to think himself a poached egg. But it is surely a more massive and\nimportant fact that if he is a poached egg he is not free to eat, drink,\nsleep, walk, or smoke a cigarette. Similarly you may say, if you like,\nthat the bold determinist speculator is free to disbelieve in the\nreality of the will. But it is a much more massive and important fact\nthat he is not free to praise, to curse, to thank, to justify, to urge,\nto punish, to resist temptations, to incite mobs, to make New Year\nresolutions, to pardon sinners, to rebuke tyrants, or even to say \"thank\nyou\" for the mustard.\n\nIn passing from this subject I may note that there is a queer fallacy to\nthe effect that materialistic fatalism is in some way favourable to\nmercy, to the abolition of cruel punishments or punishments of any kind.\nThis is startlingly the reverse of the truth. It is quite tenable that\nthe doctrine of necessity makes no difference at all; that it leaves the\nflogger flogging and the kind friend exhorting as before. But obviously\nif it stops either of them it stops the kind exhortation. That the sins\nare inevitable does not prevent punishment; if it prevents anything it\nprevents persuasion. Determinism is quite as likely to lead to cruelty\nas it is certain to lead to cowardice. Determinism is not inconsistent\nwith the cruel treatment of criminals. What it is (perhaps) inconsistent\nwith is the generous treatment of criminals; with any appeal to their\nbetter feelings or encouragement in their moral struggle. The\ndeterminist does not believe in appealing to the will, but he does\nbelieve in changing the environment. He must not say to the sinner, \"Go\nand sin no more,\" because the sinner cannot help it. But he can put him\nin boiling oil; for boiling oil is an environment. Considered as a\nfigure, therefore, the materialist has the fantastic outline of the\nfigure of the madman. Both take up a position at once unanswerable and\nintolerable.\n\nOf course it is not only of the materialist that all this is true. The\nsame would apply to the other extreme of speculative logic. There is a\nsceptic far more terrible than he who believes that everything began in\nmatter. It is possible to meet the sceptic who believes that everything\nbegan in himself. He doubts not the existence of angels or devils, but\nthe existence of men and cows. For him his own friends are a mythology\nmade up by himself. He created his own father and his own mother. This\nhorrible fancy has in it something decidedly attractive to the somewhat\nmystical egoism of our day. That publisher who thought that men would\nget on if they believed in themselves, those seekers after the Superman\nwho are always looking for him in the looking-glass, those writers who\ntalk about impressing their personalities instead of creating life for\nthe world, all these people have really only an inch between them and\nthis awful emptiness. Then when this kindly world all round the man has\nbeen blackened out like a lie; when friends fade into ghosts, and the\nfoundations of the world fail; then when the man, believing in nothing\nand in no man, is alone in his own nightmare, then the great\nindividualistic motto shall be written over him in avenging irony. The\nstars will be only dots in the blackness of his own brain; his mother's\nface will be only a sketch from his own insane pencil on the walls of\nhis cell. But over his cell shall be written, with dreadful truth, \"He\nbelieves in himself.\"\n\nAll that concerns us here, however, is to note that this panegoistic\nextreme of thought exhibits the same paradox as the other extreme of\nmaterialism. It is equally complete in theory and equally crippling in\npractice. For the sake of simplicity, it is easier to state the notion\nby saying that a man can believe that he is always in a dream. Now,\nobviously there can be no positive proof given to him that he is not in\na dream, for the simple reason that no proof can be offered that might\nnot be offered in a dream. But if the man began to burn down London and\nsay that his housekeeper would soon call him to breakfast, we should\ntake him and put him with other logicians in a place which has often\nbeen alluded to in the course of this chapter. The man who cannot\nbelieve his senses, and the man who cannot believe anything else, are\nboth insane, but their insanity is proved not by any error in their\nargument, but by the manifest mistake of their whole lives. They have\nboth locked themselves up in two boxes, painted inside with the sun and\nstars; they are both unable to get out, the one into the health and\nhappiness of heaven, the other even into the health and happiness of the\nearth. Their position is quite reasonable; nay, in a sense it is\ninfinitely reasonable, just as a threepenny bit is infinitely circular.\nBut there is such a thing as a mean infinity, a base and slavish\neternity. It is amusing to notice that many of the moderns, whether\nsceptics or mystics, have taken as their sign a certain eastern symbol,\nwhich is the very symbol of this ultimate nullity. When they wish to\nrepresent eternity, they represent it by a serpent with his tail in his\nmouth. There is a startling sarcasm in the image of that very\nunsatisfactory meal. The eternity of the material fatalists, the\neternity of the eastern pessimists, the eternity of the supercilious\ntheosophists and higher scientists of to-day is, indeed, very well\npresented by a serpent eating his tail, a degraded animal who destroys\neven himself.\n\nThis chapter is purely practical and is concerned with what actually is\nthe chief mark and element of insanity; we may say in summary that it is\nreason used without root, reason in the void. The man who begins to\nthink without the proper first principles goes mad, the man who begins\nto think at the wrong end. And for the rest of these pages we have to\ntry and discover what is the right end. But we may ask in conclusion, if\nthis be what drives men mad, what is it that keeps them sane? By the end\nof this book I hope to give a definite, some will think a far too\ndefinite, answer. But for the moment it is possible in the same solely\npractical manner to give a general answer touching what in actual human\nhistory keeps men sane. Mysticism keeps men sane. As long as you have\nmystery you have health; when you destroy mystery you create morbidity.\nThe ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has\nalways been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight. He has always had\none foot in earth and the other in fairyland. He has always left himself\nfree to doubt his gods; but (unlike the agnostic of to-day) free also\nto believe in them. He has always cared more for truth than for\nconsistency. If he saw two truths that seemed to contradict each other,\nhe would take the two truths and the contradiction along with them. His\nspiritual sight is stereoscopic, like his physical sight: he sees two\ndifferent pictures at once and yet sees all the better for that. Thus he\nhas always believed that there was such a thing as fate, but such a\nthing as free will also. Thus he believed that children were indeed the\nkingdom of heaven, but nevertheless ought to be obedient to the kingdom\nof earth. He admired youth because it was young and age because it was\nnot. It is exactly this balance of apparent contradictions that has been\nthe whole buoyancy of the healthy man. The whole secret of mysticism is\nthis: that man can understand everything by the help of what he does not\nunderstand. The morbid logician seeks to make everything lucid, and\nsucceeds in making everything mysterious. The mystic allows one thing to\nbe mysterious, and everything else becomes lucid. The determinist makes\nthe theory of causation quite clear, and then finds that he cannot say\n\"if you please\" to the housemaid. The Christian permits free will to\nremain a sacred mystery; but because of this his relations with the\nhousemaid become of a sparkling and crystal clearness. He puts the seed\nof dogma in a central darkness; but it branches forth in all directions\nwith abounding natural health. As we have taken the circle as the symbol\nof reason and madness, we may very well take the cross as the symbol at\nonce of mystery and of health. Buddhism is centripetal, but Christianity\nis centrifugal: it breaks out. For the circle is perfect and infinite in\nits nature; but it is fixed for ever in its size; it can never be larger\nor smaller. But the cross, though it has at its heart a collision and a\ncontradiction, can extend its four arms for ever without altering its\nshape. Because it has a paradox in its centre it can grow without\nchanging. The circle returns upon itself and is bound. The cross opens\nits arms to the four winds; it is a signpost for free travellers.\n\nSymbols alone are of even a cloudy value in speaking of this deep\nmatter; and another symbol from physical nature will express\nsufficiently well the real place of mysticism before mankind. The one\ncreated thing which we cannot look at is the one thing in the light of\nwhich we look at everything. Like the sun at noonday, mysticism\nexplains everything else by the blaze of its own victorious\ninvisibility. Detached intellectualism is (in the exact sense of a\npopular phrase) all moonshine; for it is light without heat, and it is\nsecondary light, reflected from a dead world. But the Greeks were right\nwhen they made Apollo the god both of imagination and of sanity; for he\nwas both the patron of poetry and the patron of healing. Of necessary\ndogmas and a special creed I shall speak later. But that\ntranscendentalism by which all men live has primarily much the position\nof the sun in the sky. We are conscious of it as of a kind of splendid\nconfusion; it is something both shining and shapeless, at once a blaze\nand a blur. But the circle of the moon is as clear and unmistakable, as\nrecurrent and inevitable, as the circle of Euclid on a blackboard. For\nthe moon is utterly reasonable; and the moon is the mother of lunatics\nand has given to them all her name.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.--_The Suicide of Thought_\n\n\nThe phrases of the street are not only forcible but subtle: for a figure\nof speech can often get into a crack too small for a definition. Phrases\nlike \"put out\" or \"off colour\" might have been coined by Mr. Henry James\nin an agony of verbal precision. And there is no more subtle truth than\nthat of the everyday phrase about a man having \"his heart in the right\nplace.\" It involves the idea of normal proportion; not only does a\ncertain function exist, but it is rightly related to other functions.\nIndeed, the negation of this phrase would describe with peculiar\naccuracy the somewhat morbid mercy and perverse tenderness of the most\nrepresentative moderns. If, for instance, I had to describe with\nfairness the character of Mr. Bernard Shaw, I could not express myself\nmore exactly than by saying that he has a heroically large and generous\nheart; but not a heart in the right place. And this is so of the typical\nsociety of our time.\n\nThe modern world is not evil; in some ways the modern world is far too\ngood. It is full of wild and wasted virtues. When a religious scheme is\nshattered (as Christianity was shattered at the Reformation), it is not\nmerely the vices that are let loose. The vices are, indeed, let loose,\nand they wander and do damage. But the virtues are let loose also; and\nthe virtues wander more wildly, and the virtues do more terrible damage.\nThe modern world is full of the old Christian virtues gone mad. The\nvirtues have gone mad because they have been isolated from each other\nand are wandering alone. Thus some scientists care for truth; and their\ntruth is pitiless. Thus some humanitarians only care for pity; and their\npity (I am sorry to say) is often untruthful. For example, Mr.\nBlatchford attacks Christianity because he is mad on one Christian\nvirtue: the merely mystical and almost irrational virtue of charity. He\nhas a strange idea that he will make it easier to forgive sins by saying\nthat there are no sins to forgive. Mr. Blatchford is not only an early\nChristian, he is the only early Christian who ought really to have been\neaten by lions. For in his case the pagan accusation is really true: his\nmercy would mean mere anarchy. He really is the enemy of the human\nrace--because he is so human. As the other extreme, we may take the\nacrid realist, who has deliberately killed in himself all human pleasure\nin happy tales or in the healing of the heart. Torquemada tortured\npeople physically for the sake of moral truth. Zola tortured people\nmorally for the sake of physical truth. But in Torquemada's time there\nwas at least a system that could to some extent make righteousness and\npeace kiss each other. Now they do not even bow. But a much stronger\ncase than these two of truth and pity can be found in the remarkable\ncase of the dislocation of humility.\n\nIt is only with one aspect of humility that we are here concerned.\nHumility was largely meant as a restraint upon the arrogance and\ninfinity of the appetite of man. He was always out-stripping his mercies\nwith his own newly invented needs. His very power of enjoyment destroyed\nhalf his joys. By asking for pleasure, he lost the chief pleasure; for\nthe chief pleasure is surprise. Hence it became evident that if a man\nwould make his world large, he must be always making himself small. Even\nthe haughty visions, the tall cities, and the toppling pinnacles are the\ncreations of humility. Giants that tread down forests like grass are the\ncreations of humility. Towers that vanish upwards above the loneliest\nstar are the creations of humility. For towers are not tall unless we\nlook up at them; and giants are not giants unless they are larger than\nwe. All this gigantesque imagination, which is, perhaps, the mightiest\nof the pleasures of man, is at bottom entirely humble. It is impossible\nwithout humility to enjoy anything--even pride.\n\nBut what we suffer from to-day is humility in the wrong place. Modesty\nhas moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ\nof conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be\ndoubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been\nexactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is\nexactly the part he ought not to assert--himself. The part he doubts is\nexactly the part he ought not to doubt--the Divine Reason. Huxley\npreached a humility content to learn from Nature. But the new sceptic is\nso humble that he doubts if he can even learn. Thus we should be wrong\nif we had said hastily that there is no humility typical of our time.\nThe truth is that there is a real humility typical of our time; but it\nso happens that it is practically a more poisonous humility than the\nwildest prostrations of the ascetic. The old humility was a spur that\nprevented a man from stopping; not a nail in his boot that prevented him\nfrom going on. For the old humility made a man doubtful about his\nefforts, which might make him work harder. But the new humility makes a\nman doubtful about his aims, which will make him stop working\naltogether.\n\nAt any street corner we may meet a man who utters the frantic and\nblasphemous statement that he may be wrong. Every day one comes across\nsomebody who says that of course his view may not be the right one. Of\ncourse his view must be the right one, or it is not his view. We are on\nthe road to producing a race of men too mentally modest to believe in\nthe multiplication table. We are in danger of seeing philosophers who\ndoubt the law of gravity as being a mere fancy of their own. Scoffers of\nold time were too proud to be convinced; but these are too humble to be\nconvinced. The meek do inherit the earth; but the modern sceptics are\ntoo meek even to claim their inheritance. It is exactly this\nintellectual helplessness which is our second problem.\n\nThe last chapter has been concerned only with a fact of observation:\nthat what peril of morbidity there is for man comes rather from his\nreason than his imagination. It was not meant to attack the authority of\nreason; rather it is the ultimate purpose to defend it. For it needs\ndefence. The whole modern world is at war with reason; and the tower\nalready reels.\n\nThe sages, it is often said, can see no answer to the riddle of\nreligion. But the trouble with our sages is not that they cannot see the\nanswer; it is that they cannot even see the riddle. They are like\nchildren so stupid as to notice nothing paradoxical in the playful\nassertion that a door is not a door. The modern latitudinarians speak,\nfor instance, about authority in religion not only as if there were no\nreason in it, but as if there had never been any reason for it. Apart\nfrom seeing its philosophical basis, they cannot even see its historical\ncause. Religious authority has often, doubtless, been oppressive or\nunreasonable; just as every legal system (and especially our present\none) has been callous and full of a cruel apathy. It is rational to\nattack the police; nay, it is glorious. But the modern critics of\nreligious authority are like men who should attack the police without\never having heard of burglars. For there is a great and possible peril\nto the human mind: a peril as practical as burglary. Against it\nreligious authority was reared, rightly or wrongly, as a barrier. And\nagainst it something certainly must be reared as a barrier, if our race\nis to avoid ruin.\n\nThat peril is that the human intellect is free to destroy itself. Just\nas one generation could prevent the very existence of the next\ngeneration, by all entering a monastery or jumping into the sea, so one\nset of thinkers can in some degree prevent further thinking by teaching\nthe next generation that there is no validity in any human thought. It\nis idle to talk always of the alternative of reason and faith. Reason is\nitself a matter of faith. It is an act of faith to assert that our\nthoughts have any relation to reality at all. If you are merely a\nsceptic, you must sooner or later ask yourself the question, \"Why should\n_anything_ go right; even observation and deduction? Why should not good\nlogic be as misleading as bad logic? They are both movements in the\nbrain of a bewildered ape?\" The young sceptic says, \"I have a right to\nthink for myself.\" But the old sceptic, the complete sceptic, says, \"I\nhave no right to think for myself. I have no right to think at all.\"\n\nThere is a thought that stops thought. That is the only thought that\nought to be stopped. That is the ultimate evil against which all\nreligious authority was aimed. It only appears at the end of decadent\nages like our own: and already Mr. H.G. Wells has raised its ruinous\nbanner; he has written a delicate piece of scepticism called \"Doubts of\nthe Instrument.\" In this he questions the brain itself, and endeavours\nto remove all reality from all his own assertions, past, present, and to\ncome. But it was against this remote ruin that all the military systems\nin religion were originally ranked and ruled. The creeds and the\ncrusades, the hierarchies and the horrible persecutions were not\norganized, as is ignorantly said, for the suppression of reason. They\nwere organized for the difficult defence of reason. Man, by a blind\ninstinct, knew that if once things were wildly questioned, reason could\nbe questioned first. The authority of priests to absolve, the authority\nof popes to define the authority, even of inquisitors to terrify: these\nwere all only dark defences erected round one central authority, more\nundemonstrable, more supernatural than all--the authority of a man to\nthink. We know now that this is so; we have no excuse for not knowing\nit. For we can hear scepticism crashing through the old ring of\nauthorities, and at the same moment we can see reason swaying upon her\nthrone. In so far as religion is gone, reason is going. For they are\nboth of the same primary and authoritative kind. They are both methods\nof proof which cannot themselves be proved. And in the act of\ndestroying the idea of Divine authority we have largely destroyed the\nidea of that human authority by which we do a long-division sum. With a\nlong and sustained tug we have attempted to pull the mitre off\npontifical man; and his head has come off with it.\n\nLest this should be called loose assertion, it is perhaps desirable,\nthough dull, to run rapidly through the chief modern fashions of thought\nwhich have this effect of stopping thought itself. Materialism and the\nview of everything as a personal illusion have some such effect; for if\nthe mind is mechanical, thought cannot be very exciting, and if the\ncosmos is unreal, there is nothing to think about. But in these cases\nthe effect is indirect and doubtful. In some cases it is direct and\nclear; notably in the case of what is generally called evolution.\n\nEvolution is a good example of that modern intelligence which, if it\ndestroys anything, destroys itself. Evolution is either an innocent\nscientific description of how certain earthly things came about; or, if\nit is anything more than this, it is an attack upon thought itself. If\nevolution destroys anything, it does not destroy religion but\nrationalism. If evolution simply means that a positive thing called an\nape turned very slowly into a positive thing called a man, then it is\nstingless for the most orthodox; for a personal God might just as well\ndo things slowly as quickly, especially if, like the Christian God, he\nwere outside time. But if it means anything more, it means that there is\nno such thing as an ape to change, and no such thing as a man for him to\nchange into. It means that there is no such thing as a thing. At best,\nthere is only one thing, and that is a flux of everything and anything.\nThis is an attack not upon the faith, but upon the mind; you cannot\nthink if there are no things to think about. You cannot think if you are\nnot separate from the subject of thought. Descartes said, \"I think;\ntherefore I am.\" The philosophic evolutionist reverses and negatives the\nepigram. He says, \"I am not; therefore I cannot think.\"\n\nThen there is the opposite attack on thought: that urged by Mr. H.G.\nWells when he insists that every separate thing is \"unique,\" and there\nare no categories at all. This also is merely destructive. Thinking\nmeans connecting things, and stops if they cannot be connected. It need\nhardly be said that this scepticism forbidding thought necessarily\nforbids speech; a man cannot open his mouth without contradicting it.\nThus when Mr. Wells says (as he did somewhere), \"All chairs are quite\ndifferent,\" he utters not merely a misstatement, but a contradiction in\nterms. If all chairs were quite different, you could not call them \"all\nchairs.\"\n\nAkin to these is the false theory of progress, which maintains that we\nalter the test instead of trying to pass the test. We often hear it\nsaid, for instance, \"What is right in one age is wrong in another.\" This\nis quite reasonable, if it means that there is a fixed aim, and that\ncertain methods attain at certain times and not at other times. If\nwomen, say, desire to be elegant, it may be that they are improved at\none time by growing fatter and at another time by growing thinner. But\nyou cannot say that they are improved by ceasing to wish to be elegant\nand beginning to wish to be oblong. If the standard changes, how can\nthere be improvement, which implies a standard? Nietzsche started a\nnonsensical idea that men had once sought as good what we now call evil;\nif it were so, we could not talk of surpassing or even falling short of\nthem. How can you overtake Jones if you walk in the other direction? You\ncannot discuss whether one people has succeeded more in being miserable\nthan another succeeded in being happy. It would be like discussing\nwhether Milton was more puritanical than a pig is fat.\n\nIt is true that a man (a silly man) might make change itself his object\nor ideal. But as an ideal, change itself becomes unchangeable. If the\nchange-worshipper wishes to estimate his own progress, he must be\nsternly loyal to the ideal of change; he must not begin to flirt gaily\nwith the ideal of monotony. Progress itself cannot progress. It is worth\nremark, in passing, that when Tennyson, in a wild and rather weak\nmanner, welcomed the idea of infinite alteration in society, he\ninstinctively took a metaphor which suggests an imprisoned tedium. He\nwrote--\n\n    \"Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.\"\n\nHe thought of change itself as an unchangeable groove; and so it is.\nChange is about the narrowest and hardest groove that a man can get\ninto.\n\nThe main point here, however, is that this idea of a fundamental\nalteration in the standard is one of the things that make thought about\nthe past or future simply impossible. The theory of a complete change of\nstandards in human history does not merely deprive us of the pleasure\nof honouring our fathers; it deprives us even of the more modern and\naristocratic pleasure of despising them.\n\nThis bald summary of the thought-destroying forces of our time would not\nbe complete without some reference to pragmatism; for though I have here\nused and should everywhere defend the pragmatist method as a preliminary\nguide to truth, there is an extreme application of it which involves the\nabsence of all truth whatever. My meaning can be put shortly thus. I\nagree with the pragmatists that apparent objective truth is not the\nwhole matter; that there is an authoritative need to believe the things\nthat are necessary to the human mind. But I say that one of those\nnecessities precisely is a belief in objective truth. The pragmatist\ntells a man to think what he must think and never mind the Absolute. But\nprecisely one of the things that he must think is the Absolute. This\nphilosophy, indeed, is a kind of verbal paradox. Pragmatism is a matter\nof human needs; and one of the first of human needs is to be something\nmore than a pragmatist. Extreme pragmatism is just as inhuman as the\ndeterminism it so powerfully attacks. The determinist (who, to do him\njustice, does not pretend to be a human being) makes nonsense of the\nhuman sense of actual choice. The pragmatist, who professes to be\nspecially human, makes nonsense of the human sense of actual fact.\n\nTo sum up our contention so far, we may say that the most characteristic\ncurrent philosophies have not only a touch of mania, but a touch of\nsuicidal mania. The mere questioner has knocked his head against the\nlimits of human thought; and cracked it. This is what makes so futile\nthe warnings of the orthodox and the boasts of the advanced about the\ndangerous boyhood of free thought. What we are looking at is not the\nboyhood of free thought; it is the old age and ultimate dissolution of\nfree thought. It is vain for bishops and pious bigwigs to discuss what\ndreadful things will happen if wild scepticism runs its course. It has\nrun its course. It is vain for eloquent atheists to talk of the great\ntruths that will be revealed if once we see free thought begin. We have\nseen it end. It has no more questions to ask; it has questioned itself.\nYou cannot call up any wilder vision than a city in which men ask\nthemselves if they have any selves. You cannot fancy a more sceptical\nworld than that in which men doubt if there is a world. It might\ncertainly have reached its bankruptcy more quickly and cleanly if it had\nnot been feebly hampered by the application of indefensible laws of\nblasphemy or by the absurd pretence that modern England is Christian.\nBut it would have reached the bankruptcy anyhow. Militant atheists are\nstill unjustly persecuted; but rather because they are an old minority\nthan because they are a new one. Free thought has exhausted its own\nfreedom. It is weary of its own success. If any eager freethinker now\nhails philosophic freedom as the dawn, he is only like the man in Mark\nTwain who came out wrapped in blankets to see the sun rise and was just\nin time to see it set. If any frightened curate still says that it will\nbe awful if the darkness of free thought should spread, we can only\nanswer him in the high and powerful words of Mr. Belloc, \"Do not, I\nbeseech you, be troubled about the increase of forces already in\ndissolution. You have mistaken the hour of the night: it is already\nmorning.\" We have no more questions left to ask. We have looked for\nquestions in the darkest corners and on the wildest peaks. We have found\nall the questions that can be found. It is time we gave up looking for\nquestions and began looking for answers.\n\nBut one more word must be added. At the beginning of this preliminary\nnegative sketch I said that our mental ruin has been wrought by wild\nreason, not by wild imagination. A man does not go mad because he makes\na statue a mile high, but he may go mad by thinking it out in square\ninches. Now, one school of thinkers has seen this and jumped at it as a\nway of renewing the pagan health of the world. They see that reason\ndestroys; but Will, they say, creates. The ultimate authority, they say,\nis in will, not in reason. The supreme point is not why a man demands a\nthing, but the fact that he does demand it. I have no space to trace or\nexpound this philosophy of Will. It came, I suppose, through Nietzsche,\nwho preached something that is called egoism. That, indeed, was\nsimple-minded enough; for Nietzsche denied egoism simply by preaching\nit. To preach anything is to give it away. First, the egoist calls life\na war without mercy, and then he takes the greatest possible trouble to\ndrill his enemies in war. To preach egoism is to practise altruism. But\nhowever it began, the view is common enough in current literature. The\nmain defence of these thinkers is that they are not thinkers; they are\nmakers. They say that choice is itself the divine thing. Thus Mr.\nBernard Shaw has attacked the old idea that men's acts are to be judged\nby the standard of the desire of happiness. He says that a man does not\nact for his happiness, but from his will. He does not say, \"Jam will\nmake me happy,\" but \"I want jam.\" And in all this others follow him with\nyet greater enthusiasm. Mr. John Davidson, a remarkable poet, is so\npassionately excited about it that he is obliged to write prose. He\npublishes a short play with several long prefaces. This is natural\nenough in Mr. Shaw, for all his plays are prefaces: Mr. Shaw is (I\nsuspect) the only man on earth who has never written any poetry. But\nthat Mr. Davidson (who can write excellent poetry) should write instead\nlaborious metaphysics in defence of this doctrine of will, does show\nthat the doctrine of will has taken hold of men. Even Mr. H.G. Wells has\nhalf spoken in its language; saying that one should test acts not like a\nthinker, but like an artist, saying, \"I _feel_ this curve is right,\" or\n\"that line _shall_ go thus.\" They are all excited; and well they may be.\nFor by this doctrine of the divine authority of will, they think they\ncan break out of the doomed fortress of rationalism. They think they can\nescape.\n\nBut they cannot escape. This pure praise of volition ends in the same\nbreak up and blank as the mere pursuit of logic. Exactly as complete\nfree thought involves the doubting of thought itself, so the acceptation\nof mere \"willing\" really paralyzes the will. Mr. Bernard Shaw has not\nperceived the real difference between the old utilitarian test of\npleasure (clumsy, of course, and easily misstated) and that which he\npropounds. The real difference between the test of happiness and the\ntest of will is simply that the test of happiness is a test and the\nother isn't. You can discuss whether a man's act in jumping over a cliff\nwas directed towards happiness; you cannot discuss whether it was\nderived from will. Of course it was. You can praise an action by saying\nthat it is calculated to bring pleasure or pain to discover truth or to\nsave the soul. But you cannot praise an action because it shows will;\nfor to say that is merely to say that it is an action. By this praise of\nwill you cannot really choose one course as better than another. And yet\nchoosing one course as better than another is the very definition of the\nwill you are praising.\n\nThe worship of will is the negation of will. To admire mere choice is to\nrefuse to choose. If Mr. Bernard Shaw comes up to me and says, \"Will\nsomething,\" that is tantamount to saying, \"I do not mind what you\nwill,\" and that is tantamount to saying, \"I have no will in the matter.\"\nYou cannot admire will in general, because the essence of will is that\nit is particular. A brilliant anarchist like Mr. John Davidson feels an\nirritation against ordinary morality, and therefore he invokes\nwill--will to anything. He only wants humanity to want something. But\nhumanity does want something. It wants ordinary morality. He rebels\nagainst the law and tells us to will something or anything. But we have\nwilled something. We have willed the law against which he rebels.\n\nAll the will-worshippers, from Nietzsche to Mr. Davidson, are really\nquite empty of volition. They cannot will, they can hardly wish. And if\nany one wants a proof of this, it can be found quite easily. It can be\nfound in this fact: that they always talk of will as something that\nexpands and breaks out. But it is quite the opposite. Every act of will\nis an act of self-limitation. To desire action is to desire limitation.\nIn that sense every act is an act of self-sacrifice. When you choose\nanything, you reject everything else. That objection, which men of this\nschool used to make to the act of marriage, is really an objection to\nevery act. Every act is an irrevocable selection and exclusion. Just as\nwhen you marry one woman you give up all the others, so when you take\none course of action you give up all the other courses. If you become\nKing of England, you give up the post of Beadle in Brompton. If you go\nto Rome, you sacrifice a rich suggestive life in Wimbledon. It is the\nexistence of this negative or limiting side of will that makes most of\nthe talk of the anarchic will-worshippers little better than nonsense.\nFor instance, Mr. John Davidson tells us to have nothing to do with\n\"Thou shalt not\"; but it is surely obvious that \"Thou shalt not\" is only\none of the necessary corollaries of \"I will.\" \"I will go to the Lord\nMayor's Show, and thou shalt not stop me.\" Anarchism adjures us to be\nbold creative artists, and care for no laws or limits. But it is\nimpossible to be an artist and not care for laws and limits. Art is\nlimitation; the essence of every picture is the frame. If you draw a\ngiraffe, you must draw him with a long neck. If, in your bold creative\nway, you hold yourself free to draw a giraffe with a short neck, you\nwill really find that you are not free to draw a giraffe. The moment you\nstep into the world of facts, you step into a world of limits. You can\nfree things from alien or accidental laws, but not from the laws of\ntheir own nature. You may, if you like, free a tiger from his bars; but\ndo not free him from his stripes. Do not free a camel of the burden of\nhis hump: you may be freeing him from being a camel. Do not go about as\na demagogue, encouraging triangles to break out of the prison of their\nthree sides. If a triangle breaks out of its three sides, its life comes\nto a lamentable end. Somebody wrote a work called \"The Loves of the\nTriangles\"; I never read it, but I am sure that if triangles ever were\nloved, they were loved for being triangular. This is certainly the case\nwith all artistic creation, which is in some ways the most decisive\nexample of pure will. The artist loves his limitations: they constitute\nthe _thing_ he is doing. The painter is glad that the canvas is flat.\nThe sculptor is glad that the clay is colourless.\n\nIn case the point is not clear, an historic example may illustrate it.\nThe French Revolution was really an heroic and decisive thing, because\nthe Jacobins willed something definite and limited. They desired the\nfreedoms of democracy, but also all the vetoes of democracy. They wished\nto have votes and _not_ to have titles. Republicanism had an ascetic\nside in Franklin or Robespierre as well as an expansive side in Danton\nor Wilkes. Therefore they have created something with a solid substance\nand shape, the square social equality and peasant wealth of France. But\nsince then the revolutionary or speculative mind of Europe has been\nweakened by shrinking from any proposal because of the limits of that\nproposal. Liberalism has been degraded into liberality. Men have tried\nto turn \"revolutionise\" from a transitive to an intransitive verb. The\nJacobin could tell you not only the system he would rebel against, but\n(what was more important) the system he would _not_ rebel against, the\nsystem he would trust. But the new rebel is a sceptic, and will not\nentirely trust anything. He has no loyalty; therefore he can never be\nreally a revolutionist. And the fact that he doubts everything really\ngets in his way when he wants to denounce anything. For all denunciation\nimplies a moral doctrine of some kind; and the modern revolutionist\ndoubts not only the institution he denounces, but the doctrine by which\nhe denounces it. Thus he writes one book complaining that imperial\noppression insults the purity of women, and then he writes another book\n(about the sex problem) in which he insults it himself. He curses the\nSultan because Christian girls lose their virginity, and then curses\nMrs. Grundy because they keep it. As a politician, he will cry out that\nwar is a waste of life, and then, as a philosopher, that all life is\nwaste of time. A Russian pessimist will denounce a policeman for killing\na peasant, and then prove by the highest philosophical principles that\nthe peasant ought to have killed himself. A man denounces marriage as a\nlie, and then denounces aristocratic profligates for treating it as a\nlie. He calls a flag a bauble, and then blames the oppressors of Poland\nor Ireland because they take away that bauble. The man of this school\ngoes first to a political meeting, where he complains that savages are\ntreated as if they were beasts; then he takes his hat and umbrella and\ngoes on to a scientific meeting, where he proves that they practically\nare beasts. In short, the modern revolutionist, being an infinite\nsceptic, is always engaged in undermining his own mines. In his book on\npolitics he attacks men for trampling on morality; in his book on ethics\nhe attacks morality for trampling on men. Therefore the modern man in\nrevolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By\nrebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against\nanything.\n\nIt may be added that the same blank and bankruptcy can be observed in\nall fierce and terrible types of literature, especially in satire.\nSatire may be mad and anarchic, but it presupposes an admitted\nsuperiority in certain things over others; it presupposes a standard.\nWhen little boys in the street laugh at the fatness of some\ndistinguished journalist, they are unconsciously assuming a standard of\nGreek sculpture. They are appealing to the marble Apollo. And the\ncurious disappearance of satire from our literature is an instance of\nthe fierce things fading for want of any principle to be fierce about.\nNietzsche had some natural talent for sarcasm: he could sneer, though he\ncould not laugh; but there is always something bodiless and without\nweight in his satire, simply because it has not any mass of common\nmorality behind it. He is himself more preposterous than anything he\ndenounces. But, indeed, Nietzsche will stand very well as the type of\nthe whole of this failure of abstract violence. The softening of the\nbrain which ultimately overtook him was not a physical accident. If\nNietzsche had not ended in imbecility, Nietzscheism would end in\nimbecility. Thinking in isolation and with pride ends in being an idiot.\nEvery man who will not have softening of the heart must at last have\nsoftening of the brain.\n\nThis last attempt to evade intellectualism ends in intellectualism, and\ntherefore in death. The sortie has failed. The wild worship of\nlawlessness and the materialist worship of law end in the same void.\nNietzsche scales staggering mountains, but he turns up ultimately in\nTibet. He sits down beside Tolstoy in the land of nothing and Nirvana.\nThey are both helpless--one because he must not grasp anything, and the\nother because he must not let go of anything. The Tolstoyan's will is\nfrozen by a Buddhist instinct that all special actions are evil. But the\nNietzscheite's will is quite equally frozen by his view that all special\nactions are good; for if all special actions are good, none of them are\nspecial. They stand at the cross-roads, and one hates all the roads and\nthe other likes all the roads. The result is--well, some things are not\nhard to calculate. They stand at the cross-roads.\n\nHere I end (thank God) the first and dullest business of this book--the\nrough review of recent thought. After this I begin to sketch a view of\nlife which may not interest my reader, but which, at any rate, interests\nme. In front of me, as I close this page, is a pile of modern books that\nI have been turning over for the purpose--a pile of ingenuity, a pile of\nfutility. By the accident of my present detachment, I can see the\ninevitable smash of the philosophies of Schopenhauer and Tolstoy,\nNietzsche and Shaw, as clearly as an inevitable railway smash could be\nseen from a balloon. They are all on the road to the emptiness of the\nasylum. For madness may be defined as using mental activity so as to\nreach mental helplessness; and they have nearly reached it. He who\nthinks he is made of glass, thinks to the destruction of thought; for\nglass cannot think. So he who wills to reject nothing, wills the\ndestruction of will; for will is not only the choice of something, but\nthe rejection of almost everything. And as I turn and tumble over the\nclever, wonderful, tiresome, and useless modern books, the title of one\nof them rivets my eye. It is called \"Jeanne d'Arc,\" by Anatole France. I\nhave only glanced at it, but a glance was enough to remind me of Renan's\n\"Vie de J\u00e9sus.\" It has the same strange method of the reverent sceptic.\nIt discredits supernatural stories that have some foundation, simply by\ntelling natural stories that have no foundation. Because we cannot\nbelieve in what a saint did, we are to pretend that we know exactly what\nhe felt. But I do not mention either book in order to criticise it, but\nbecause the accidental combination of the names called up two startling\nimages of sanity which blasted all the books before me. Joan of Arc was\nnot stuck at the cross-roads, either by rejecting all the paths like\nTolstoy, or by accepting them all like Nietzsche. She chose a path, and\nwent down it like a thunderbolt. Yet Joan, when I came to think of her,\nhad in her all that was true either in Tolstoy or Nietzsche, all that\nwas even tolerable in either of them. I thought of all that is noble in\nTolstoy, the pleasure in plain things, especially in plain pity, the\nactualities of the earth, the reverence for the poor, the dignity of the\nbowed back. Joan of Arc had all that and with this great addition, that\nshe endured poverty as well as admiring it; whereas Tolstoy is only a\ntypical aristocrat trying to find out its secret. And then I thought of\nall that was brave and proud and pathetic in poor Nietzsche, and his\nmutiny against the emptiness and timidity of our time. I thought of his\ncry for the ecstatic equilibrium of danger, his hunger for the rush of\ngreat horses, his cry to arms. Well, Joan of Arc had all that, and again\nwith this difference, that she did not praise fighting, but fought. We\n_know_ that she was not afraid of an army, while Nietzsche, for all we\nknow, was afraid of a cow. Tolstoy only praised the peasant; she was\nthe peasant. Nietzsche only praised the warrior; she was the warrior.\nShe beat them both at their own antagonistic ideals; she was more gentle\nthan the one, more violent than the other. Yet she was a perfectly\npractical person who did something, while they are wild speculators who\ndo nothing. It was impossible that the thought should not cross my mind\nthat she and her faith had perhaps some secret of moral unity and\nutility that has been lost. And with that thought came a larger one, and\nthe colossal figure of her Master had also crossed the theatre of my\nthoughts. The same modern difficulty which darkened the subject-matter\nof Anatole France also darkened that of Ernest Renan. Renan also divided\nhis hero's pity from his hero's pugnacity. Renan even represented the\nrighteous anger at Jerusalem as a mere nervous breakdown after the\nidyllic expectations of Galilee. As if there were any inconsistency\nbetween having a love for humanity and having a hatred for inhumanity!\nAltruists, with thin, weak voices, denounce Christ as an egoist. Egoists\n(with even thinner and weaker voices) denounce Him as an altruist. In\nour present atmosphere such cavils are comprehensible enough. The love\nof a hero is more terrible than the hatred of a tyrant. The hatred of a\nhero is more generous than the love of a philanthropist. There is a huge\nand heroic sanity of which moderns can only collect the fragments. There\nis a giant of whom we see only the lopped arms and legs walking about.\nThey have torn the soul of Christ into silly strips, labelled egoism and\naltruism, and they are equally puzzled by His insane magnificence and\nHis insane meekness. They have parted His garments among them, and for\nHis vesture they have cast lots; though the coat was without seam woven\nfrom the top throughout.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV--_The Ethics of Elfland_\n\n\nWhen the business man rebukes the idealism of his office-boy, it is\ncommonly in some such speech as this: \"Ah, yes, when one is young, one\nhas these ideals in the abstract and these castles in the air; but in\nmiddle age they all break up like clouds, and one comes down to a belief\nin practical politics, to using the machinery one has and getting on\nwith the world as it is.\" Thus, at least, venerable and philanthropic\nold men now in their honoured graves used to talk to me when I was a\nboy. But since then I have grown up and have discovered that these\nphilanthropic old men were telling lies. What has really happened is\nexactly the opposite of what they said would happen. They said that I\nshould lose my ideals and begin to believe in the methods of practical\npoliticians. Now, I have not lost my ideals in the least; my faith in\nfundamentals is exactly what it always was. What I have lost is my old\nchildlike faith in practical politics. I am still as much concerned as\never about the Battle of Armageddon; but I am not so much concerned\nabout the General Election. As a babe I leapt up on my mother's knee at\nthe mere mention of it. No; the vision is always solid and reliable. The\nvision is always a fact. It is the reality that is often a fraud. As\nmuch as I ever did, more than I ever did, I believe in Liberalism. But\nthere was a rosy time of innocence when I believed in Liberals.\n\nI take this instance of one of the enduring faiths because, having now\nto trace the roots of my personal speculation, this may be counted, I\nthink, as the only positive bias. I was brought up a Liberal, and have\nalways believed in democracy, in the elementary liberal doctrine of a\nself-governing humanity. If any one finds the phrase vague or\nthreadbare, I can only pause for a moment to explain that the principle\nof democracy, as I mean it, can be stated in two propositions. The first\nis this: that the things common to all men are more important than the\nthings peculiar to any men. Ordinary things are more valuable than\nextraordinary things; nay, they are more extraordinary. Man is something\nmore awful than men; something more strange. The sense of the miracle of\nhumanity itself should be always more vivid to us than any marvels of\npower, intellect, art, or civilization. The mere man on two legs, as\nsuch, should be felt as something more heart-breaking than any music\nand more startling than any caricature. Death is more tragic even than\ndeath by starvation. Having a nose is more comic even than having a\nNorman nose.\n\nThis is the first principle of democracy: that the essential things in\nmen are the things they hold in common, not the things they hold\nseparately. And the second principle is merely this: that the political\ninstinct or desire is one of these things which they hold in common.\nFalling in love is more poetical than dropping into poetry. The\ndemocratic contention is that government (helping to rule the tribe) is\na thing like falling in love, and not a thing like dropping into poetry.\nIt is not something analogous to playing the church organ, painting on\nvellum, discovering the North Pole (that insidious habit), looping the\nloop, being Astronomer Royal, and so on. For these things we do not wish\na man to do at all unless he does them well. It is, on the contrary, a\nthing analogous to writing one's own love-letters or blowing one's own\nnose. These things we want a man to do for himself, even if he does them\nbadly. I am not here arguing the truth of any of these conceptions; I\nknow that some moderns are asking to have their wives chosen by\nscientists, and they may soon be asking, for all I know, to have their\nnoses blown by nurses. I merely say that mankind does recognize these\nuniversal human functions, and that democracy classes government among\nthem. In short, the democratic faith is this: that the most terribly\nimportant things must be left to ordinary men themselves--the mating of\nthe sexes, the rearing of the young, the laws of the state. This is\ndemocracy; and in this I have always believed.\n\nBut there is one thing that I have never from my youth up been able to\nunderstand. I have never been able to understand where people got the\nidea that democracy was in some way opposed to tradition. It is obvious\nthat tradition is only democracy extended through time. It is trusting\nto a consensus of common human voices rather than to some isolated or\narbitrary record. The man who quotes some German historian against the\ntradition of the Catholic Church, for instance, is strictly appealing to\naristocracy. He is appealing to the superiority of one expert against\nthe awful authority of a mob. It is quite easy to see why a legend is\ntreated, and ought to be treated, more respectfully than a book of\nhistory. The legend is generally made by the majority of people in the\nvillage, who are sane. The book is generally written by the one man in\nthe village who is mad. Those who urge against tradition that men in the\npast were ignorant may go and urge it at the Carlton Club, along with\nthe statement that voters in the slums are ignorant. It will not do for\nus. If we attach great importance to the opinion of ordinary men in\ngreat unanimity when we are dealing with daily matters, there is no\nreason why we should disregard it when we are dealing with history or\nfable. Tradition may be defined as an extension of the franchise.\nTradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our\nancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit\nto the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be\nwalking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the\naccident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the\naccident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man's\nopinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a\ngood man's opinion, even if he is our father. I, at any rate, cannot\nseparate the two ideas of democracy and tradition; it seems evident to\nme that they are the same idea. We will have the dead at our councils.\nThe ancient Greeks voted by stones; these shall vote by tombstones. It\nis all quite regular and official, for most tombstones, like most ballot\npapers, are marked with a cross.\n\nI have first to say, therefore, that if I have had a bias, it was always\na bias in favour of democracy, and therefore of tradition. Before we\ncome to any theoretic or logical beginnings I am content to allow for\nthat personal equation; I have always been more inclined to believe the\nruck of hard-working people than to believe that special and troublesome\nliterary class to which I belong. I prefer even the fancies and\nprejudices of the people who see life from the inside to the clearest\ndemonstrations of the people who see life from the outside. I would\nalways trust the old wives' fables against the old maids' facts. As long\nas wit is mother wit it can be as wild as it pleases.\n\nNow, I have to put together a general position, and I pretend to no\ntraining in such things. I propose to do it, therefore, by writing down\none after another the three or four fundamental ideas which I have found\nfor myself, pretty much in the way that I found them. Then I shall\nroughly synthesise them, summing up my personal philosophy or natural\nreligion; then I shall describe my startling discovery that the whole\nthing had been discovered before. It had been discovered by\nChristianity. But of these profound persuasions which I have to recount\nin order, the earliest was concerned with this element of popular\ntradition. And without the foregoing explanation touching tradition and\ndemocracy I could hardly make my mental experience clear. As it is, I do\nnot know whether I can make it clear, but I now propose to try.\n\nMy first and last philosophy, that which I believe in with unbroken\ncertainty, I learnt in the nursery. I generally learnt it from a nurse;\nthat is, from the solemn and star-appointed priestess at once of\ndemocracy and tradition. The things I believed most then, the things I\nbelieve most now, are the things called fairy tales. They seem to me to\nbe the entirely reasonable things. They are not fantasies: compared with\nthem other things are fantastic. Compared with them religion and\nrationalism are both abnormal, though religion is abnormally right and\nrationalism abnormally wrong. Fairyland is nothing but the sunny country\nof common sense. It is not earth that judges heaven, but heaven that\njudges earth; so for me at least it was not earth that criticised\nelfland, but elfland that criticised the earth. I knew the magic\nbeanstalk before I had tasted beans; I was sure of the Man in the Moon\nbefore I was certain of the moon. This was at one with all popular\ntradition. Modern minor poets are naturalists, and talk about the bush\nor the brook; but the singers of the old epics and fables were\nsupernaturalists, and talked about the gods of brook and bush. That is\nwhat the moderns mean when they say that the ancients did not\n\"appreciate Nature,\" because they said that Nature was divine. Old\nnurses do not tell children about the grass, but about the fairies that\ndance on the grass; and the old Greeks could not see the trees for the\ndryads.\n\nBut I deal here with what ethic and philosophy come from being fed on\nfairy tales. If I were describing them in detail I could note many noble\nand healthy principles that arise from them. There is the chivalrous\nlesson of \"Jack the Giant Killer\"; that giants should be killed because\nthey are gigantic. It is a manly mutiny against pride as such. For the\nrebel is older than all the kingdoms, and the Jacobin has more tradition\nthan the Jacobite. There is the lesson of \"Cinderella,\" which is the\nsame as that of the Magnificat--_exaltavit humiles._ There is the great\nlesson of \"Beauty and the Beast\"; that a thing must be loved _before_\nit is loveable. There is the terrible allegory of the \"Sleeping Beauty,\"\nwhich tells how the human creature was blessed with all birthday gifts,\nyet cursed with death; and how death also may perhaps be softened to a\nsleep. But I am not concerned with any of the separate statutes of\nelfland, but with the whole spirit of its law, which I learnt before I\ncould speak, and shall retain when I cannot write. I am concerned with a\ncertain way of looking at life, which was created in me by the fairy\ntales, but has since been meekly ratified by the mere facts.\n\nIt might be stated this way. There are certain sequences or developments\n(cases of one thing following another), which are, in the true sense of\nthe word, reasonable. They are, in the true sense of the word,\nnecessary. Such are mathematical and merely logical sequences. We in\nfairyland (who are the most reasonable of all creatures) admit that\nreason and that necessity. For instance, if the Ugly Sisters are older\nthan Cinderella, it is (in an iron and awful sense) _necessary_ that\nCinderella is younger than the Ugly Sisters. There is no getting out of\nit. Haeckel may talk as much fatalism about that fact as he pleases: it\nreally must be. If Jack is the son of a miller, a miller is the father\nof Jack. Cold reason decrees it from her awful throne: and we in\nfairyland submit. If the three brothers all ride horses, there are six\nanimals and eighteen legs involved: that is true rationalism, and\nfairyland is full of it. But as I put my head over the hedge of the\nelves and began to take notice of the natural world, I observed an\nextraordinary thing. I observed that learned men in spectacles were\ntalking of the actual things that happened--dawn and death and so on--as\nif _they_ were rational and inevitable. They talked as if the fact that\ntrees bear fruit were just as _necessary_ as the fact that two and one\ntrees make three. But it is not. There is an enormous difference by the\ntest of fairyland; which is the test of the imagination. You cannot\n_imagine_ two and one not making three. But you can easily imagine trees\nnot growing fruit; you can imagine them growing golden candlesticks or\ntigers hanging on by the tail. These men in spectacles spoke much of a\nman named Newton, who was hit by an apple, and who discovered a law. But\nthey could not be got to see the distinction between a true law, a law\nof reason, and the mere fact of apples falling. If the apple hit\nNewton's nose, Newton's nose hit the apple. That is a true necessity:\nbecause we cannot conceive the one occurring without the other. But we\ncan quite well conceive the apple not falling on his nose; we can fancy\nit flying ardently through the air to hit some other nose, of which it\nhad a more definite dislike. We have always in our fairy tales kept this\nsharp distinction between the science of mental relations, in which\nthere really are laws, and the science of physical facts, in which there\nare no laws, but only weird repetitions. We believe in bodily miracles,\nbut not in mental impossibilities. We believe that a Bean-stalk climbed\nup to Heaven; but that does not at all confuse our convictions on the\nphilosophical question of how many beans make five.\n\nHere is the peculiar perfection of tone and truth in the nursery tales.\nThe man of science says, \"Cut the stalk, and the apple will fall\"; but\nhe says it calmly, as if the one idea really led up to the other. The\nwitch in the fairy tale says, \"Blow the horn, and the ogre's castle will\nfall\"; but she does not say it as if it were something in which the\neffect obviously arose out of the cause. Doubtless she has given the\nadvice to many champions, and has seen many castles fall, but she does\nnot lose either her wonder or her reason. She does not muddle her head\nuntil it imagines a necessary mental connection between a horn and a\nfalling tower. But the scientific men do muddle their heads, until they\nimagine a necessary mental connection between an apple leaving the tree\nand an apple reaching the ground. They do really talk as if they had\nfound not only a set of marvellous facts, but a truth connecting those\nfacts. They do talk as if the connection of two strange things\nphysically connected them philosophically. They feel that because one\nincomprehensible thing constantly follows another incomprehensible thing\nthe two together somehow make up a comprehensible thing. Two black\nriddles make a white answer.\n\nIn fairyland we avoid the word \"law\"; but in the land of science they\nare singularly fond of it. Thus they will call some interesting\nconjecture about how forgotten folks pronounced the alphabet, Grimm's\nLaw. But Grimm's Law is far less intellectual than Grimm's Fairy Tales.\nThe tales are, at any rate, certainly tales; while the law is not a law.\nA law implies that we know the nature of the generalisation and\nenactment; not merely that we have noticed some of the effects. If there\nis a law that pick-pockets shall go to prison, it implies that there is\nan imaginable mental connection between the idea of prison and the idea\nof picking pockets. And we know what the idea is. We can say why we take\nliberty from a man who takes liberties. But we cannot say why an egg can\nturn into a chicken any more than we can say why a bear could turn into\na fairy prince. As _ideas_, the egg and the chicken are further off each\nother than the bear and the prince; for no egg in itself suggests a\nchicken, whereas some princes do suggest bears. Granted, then, that\ncertain transformations do happen, it is essential that we should regard\nthem in the philosophic manner of fairy tales, not in the unphilosophic\nmanner of science and the \"Laws of Nature.\" When we are asked why eggs\nturn to birds or fruits fall in autumn, we must answer exactly as the\nfairy godmother would answer if Cinderella asked her why mice turned to\nhorses or her clothes fell from her at twelve o'clock. We must answer\nthat it is _magic_. It is not a \"law,\" for we do not understand its\ngeneral formula. It is not a necessity, for though we can count on it\nhappening practically, we have no right to say that it must always\nhappen. It is no argument for unalterable law (as Huxley fancied) that\nwe count on the ordinary course of things. We do not count on it; we bet\non it. We risk the remote possibility of a miracle as we do that of a\npoisoned pancake or a world-destroying comet. We leave it out of\naccount, not because it is a miracle, and therefore an impossibility,\nbut because it is a miracle, and therefore an exception. All the terms\nused in the science books, \"law,\" \"necessity,\" \"order,\" \"tendency,\" and\nso on, are really unintellectual, because they assume an inner synthesis\nwhich we do not possess. The only words that ever satisfied me as\ndescribing Nature are the terms used in the fairy books, \"charm,\"\n\"spell,\" \"enchantment.\" They express the arbitrariness of the fact and\nits mystery. A tree grows fruit because it is a _magic_ tree. Water runs\ndownhill because it is bewitched. The sun shines because it is\nbewitched.\n\nI deny altogether that this is fantastic or even mystical. We may have\nsome mysticism later on; but this fairy-tale language about things is\nsimply rational and agnostic. It is the only way I can express in words\nmy clear and definite perception that one thing is quite distinct from\nanother; that there is no logical connection between flying and laying\neggs. It is the man who talks about \"a law\" that he has never seen who\nis the mystic. Nay, the ordinary scientific man is strictly a\nsentimentalist. He is a sentimentalist in this essential sense, that he\nis soaked and swept away by mere associations. He has so often seen\nbirds fly and lay eggs that he feels as if there must be some dreamy,\ntender connection between the two ideas, whereas there is none. A\nforlorn lover might be unable to dissociate the moon from lost love; so\nthe materialist is unable to dissociate the moon from the tide. In both\ncases there is no connection, except that one has seen them together. A\nsentimentalist might shed tears at the smell of apple-blossom, because,\nby a dark association of his own, it reminded him of his boyhood. So the\nmaterialist professor (though he conceals his tears) is yet a\nsentimentalist, because, by a dark association of his own,\napple-blossoms remind him of apples. But the cool rationalist from\nfairyland does not see why, in the abstract, the apple tree should not\ngrow crimson tulips; it sometimes does in his country.\n\nThis elementary wonder, however, is not a mere fancy derived from the\nfairy tales; on the contrary, all the fire of the fairy tales is derived\nfrom this. Just as we all like love tales because there is an instinct\nof sex, we all like astonishing tales because they touch the nerve of\nthe ancient instinct of astonishment. This is proved by the fact that\nwhen we are very young children we do not need fairy tales: we only need\ntales. Mere life is interesting enough. A child of seven is excited by\nbeing told that Tommy opened a door and saw a dragon. But a child of\nthree is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door. Boys like\nromantic tales; but babies like realistic tales--because they find them\nromantic. In fact, a baby is about the only person, I should think, to\nwhom a modern realistic novel could be read without boring him. This\nproves that even nursery tales only echo an almost pre-natal leap of\ninterest and amazement. These tales say that apples were golden only to\nrefresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green. They\nmake rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment,\nthat they run with water. I have said that this is wholly reasonable and\neven agnostic. And, indeed, on this point I am all for the higher\nagnosticism; its better name is Ignorance. We have all read in\nscientific books, and, indeed, in all romances, the story of the man who\nhas forgotten his name. This man walks about the streets and can see and\nappreciate everything; only he cannot remember who he is. Well, every\nman is that man in the story. Every man has forgotten who he is. One may\nunderstand the cosmos, but never the ego; the self is more distant than\nany star. Thou shalt love the Lord thy God; but thou shalt not know\nthyself. We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all\nforgotten our names. We have all forgotten what we really are. All that\nwe call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism\nonly means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we\nhave forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstacy only means\nthat for one awful instant we remember that we forget.\n\nBut though (like the man without memory in the novel) we walk the\nstreets with a sort of half-witted admiration, still it is admiration.\nIt is admiration in English and not only admiration in Latin. The wonder\nhas a positive element of praise. This is the next milestone to be\ndefinitely marked on our road through fairyland. I shall speak in the\nnext chapter about optimists and pessimists in their intellectual\naspect, so far as they have one. Here I am only trying to describe the\nenormous emotions which cannot be described. And the strongest emotion\nwas that life was as precious as it was puzzling. It was an ecstacy\nbecause it was an adventure; it was an adventure because it was an\nopportunity. The goodness of the fairy tale was not affected by the fact\nthat there might be more dragons than princesses; it was good to be in a\nfairy tale. The test of all happiness is gratitude; and I felt grateful,\nthough I hardly knew to whom. Children are grateful when Santa Claus\nputs in their stockings gifts of toys or sweets. Could I not be grateful\nto Santa Claus when he put in my stockings the gift of two miraculous\nlegs? We thank people for birthday presents of cigars and slippers. Can\nI thank no one for the birthday present of birth?\n\nThere were, then, these two first feelings, indefensible and\nindisputable. The world was a shock, but it was not merely shocking;\nexistence was a surprise, but it was a pleasant surprise. In fact, all\nmy first views were exactly uttered in a riddle that stuck in my brain\nfrom boyhood. The question was, \"What did the first frog say?\" And the\nanswer was, \"Lord, how you made me jump!\" That says succinctly all that\nI am saying. God made the frog jump; but the frog prefers jumping. But\nwhen these things are settled there enters the second great principle\nof the fairy philosophy.\n\nAny one can see it who will simply read \"Grimm's Fairy Tales\" or the\nfine collections of Mr. Andrew Lang. For the pleasure of pedantry I will\ncall it the Doctrine of Conditional Joy. Touchstone talked of much\nvirtue in an \"if\"; according to elfin ethics all virtue is in an \"if.\"\nThe note of the fairy utterance always is, \"You may live in a palace of\ngold and sapphire, _if_ you do not say the word 'cow'\"; or \"You may live\nhappily with the King's daughter, _if_ you do not show her an onion.\"\nThe vision always hangs upon a veto. All the dizzy and colossal things\nconceded depend upon one small thing withheld. All the wild and whirling\nthings that are let loose depend upon one thing that is forbidden. Mr.\nW.B. Yeats, in his exquisite and piercing elfin poetry, describes the\nelves as lawless; they plunge in innocent anarchy on the unbridled\nhorses of the air--\n\n    \"Ride on the crest of the dishevelled tide,\n    And dance upon the mountains like a flame.\"\n\nIt is a dreadful thing to say that Mr. W.B. Yeats does not understand\nfairyland. But I do say it. He is an ironical Irishman, full of\nintellectual reactions. He is not stupid enough to understand\nfairyland. Fairies prefer people of the yokel type like myself; people\nwho gape and grin and do as they are told. Mr. Yeats reads into elfland\nall the righteous insurrection of his own race. But the lawlessness of\nIreland is a Christian lawlessness, founded on reason and justice. The\nFenian is rebelling against something he understands only too well; but\nthe true citizen of fairyland is obeying something that he does not\nunderstand at all. In the fairy tale an incomprehensible happiness rests\nupon an incomprehensible condition. A box is opened, and all evils fly\nout. A word is forgotten, and cities perish. A lamp is lit, and love\nflies away. A flower is plucked, and human lives are forfeited. An apple\nis eaten, and the hope of God is gone.\n\nThis is the tone of fairy tales, and it is certainly not lawlessness or\neven liberty, though men under a mean modern tyranny may think it\nliberty by comparison. People out of Portland Gaol might think Fleet\nStreet free; but closer study will prove that both fairies and\njournalists are the slaves of duty. Fairy godmothers seem at least as\nstrict as other godmothers. Cinderella received a coach out of\nWonderland and a coachman out of nowhere, but she received a\ncommand--which might have come out of Brixton--that she should be back\nby twelve. Also, she had a glass slipper; and it cannot be a coincidence\nthat glass is so common a substance in folk-lore. This princess lives in\na glass castle, that princess on a glass hill; this one sees all things\nin a mirror; they may all live in glass houses if they will not throw\nstones. For this thin glitter of glass everywhere is the expression of\nthe fact that the happiness is bright but brittle, like the substance\nmost easily smashed by a housemaid or a cat. And this fairy-tale\nsentiment also sank into me and became my sentiment towards the whole\nworld. I felt and feel that life itself is as bright as the diamond, but\nas brittle as the window-pane; and when the heavens were compared to the\nterrible crystal I can remember a shudder. I was afraid that God would\ndrop the cosmos with a crash.\n\nRemember, however, that to be breakable is not the same as to be\nperishable. Strike a glass, and it will not endure an instant; simply do\nnot strike it, and it will endure a thousand years. Such, it seemed, was\nthe joy of man, either in elfland or on earth; the happiness depended on\n_not doing something_ which you could at any moment do and which, very\noften, it was not obvious why you should not do. Now, the point here is\nthat to _me_ this did not seem unjust. If the miller's third son said to\nthe fairy, \"Explain why I must not stand on my head in the fairy\npalace,\" the other might fairly reply, \"Well, if it comes to that,\nexplain the fairy palace.\" If Cinderella says, \"How is it that I must\nleave the ball at twelve?\" her godmother might answer, \"How is it that\nyou are going there till twelve?\" If I leave a man in my will ten\ntalking elephants and a hundred winged horses, he cannot complain if the\nconditions partake of the slight eccentricity of the gift. He must not\nlook a winged horse in the mouth. And it seemed to me that existence was\nitself so very eccentric a legacy that I could not complain of not\nunderstanding the limitations of the vision when I did not understand\nthe vision they limited. The frame was no stranger than the picture. The\nveto might well be as wild as the vision; it might be as startling as\nthe sun, as elusive as the waters, as fantastic and terrible as the\ntowering trees.\n\nFor this reason (we may call it the fairy godmother philosophy) I never\ncould join the young men of my time in feeling what they called the\ngeneral sentiment of _revolt_. I should have resisted, let us hope, any\nrules that were evil, and with these and their definition I shall deal\nin another chapter. But I did not feel disposed to resist any rule\nmerely because it was mysterious. Estates are sometimes held by foolish\nforms, the breaking of a stick or the payment of a peppercorn: I was\nwilling to hold the huge estate of earth and heaven by any such feudal\nfantasy. It could not well be wilder than the fact that I was allowed to\nhold it at all. At this stage I give only one ethical instance to show\nmy meaning. I could never mix in the common murmur of that rising\ngeneration against monogamy, because no restriction on sex seemed so odd\nand unexpected as sex itself. To be allowed, like Endymion, to make love\nto the moon and then to complain that Jupiter kept his own moons in a\nharem seemed to me (bred on fairy tales like Endymion's) a vulgar\nanti-climax. Keeping to one woman is a small price for so much as seeing\none woman. To complain that I could only be married once was like\ncomplaining that I had only been born once. It was incommensurate with\nthe terrible excitement of which one was talking. It showed, not an\nexaggerated sensibility to sex, but a curious insensibility to it. A man\nis a fool who complains that he cannot enter Eden by five gates at\nonce. Polygamy is a lack of the realization of sex; it is like a man\nplucking five pears in mere absence of mind. The \u00e6sthetes touched the\nlast insane limits of language in their eulogy on lovely things. The\nthistledown made them weep; a burnished beetle brought them to their\nknees. Yet their emotion never impressed me for an instant, for this\nreason, that it never occurred to them to pay for their pleasure in any\nsort of symbolic sacrifice. Men (I felt) might fast forty days for the\nsake of hearing a blackbird sing. Men might go through fire to find a\ncowslip. Yet these lovers of beauty could not even keep sober for the\nblackbird. They would not go through common Christian marriage by way of\nrecompense to the cowslip. Surely one might pay for extraordinary joy in\nordinary morals. Oscar Wilde said that sunsets were not valued because\nwe could not pay for sunsets. But Oscar Wilde was wrong; we can pay for\nsunsets. We can pay for them by not being Oscar Wilde.\n\nWell, I left the fairy tales lying on the floor of the nursery, and I\nhave not found any books so sensible since. I left the nurse guardian of\ntradition and democracy, and I have not found any modern type so sanely\nradical or so sanely conservative. But the matter for important comment\nwas here, that when I first went out into the mental atmosphere of the\nmodern world, I found that the modern world was positively opposed on\ntwo points to my nurse and to the nursery tales. It has taken me a long\ntime to find out that the modern world is wrong and my nurse was right.\nThe really curious thing was this: that modern thought contradicted this\nbasic creed of my boyhood on its two most essential doctrines. I have\nexplained that the fairy tales founded in me two convictions; first,\nthat this world is a wild and startling place, which might have been\nquite different, but which is quite delightful; second, that before this\nwildness and delight one may well be modest and submit to the queerest\nlimitations of so queer a kindness. But I found the whole modern world\nrunning like a high tide against both my tendernesses; and the shock of\nthat collision created two sudden and spontaneous sentiments, which I\nhave had ever since and which, crude as they were, have since hardened\ninto convictions.\n\nFirst, I found the whole modern world talking scientific fatalism;\nsaying that everything is as it must always have been, being unfolded\nwithout fault from the beginning. The leaf on the tree is green because\nit could never have been anything else. Now, the fairy-tale philosopher\nis glad that the leaf is green precisely because it might have been\nscarlet. He feels as if it had turned green an instant before he looked\nat it. He is pleased that snow is white on the strictly reasonable\nground that it might have been black. Every colour has in it a bold\nquality as of choice; the red of garden roses is not only decisive but\ndramatic, like suddenly spilt blood. He feels that something has been\n_done_. But the great determinists of the nineteenth century were\nstrongly against this native feeling that something had happened an\ninstant before. In fact, according to them, nothing ever really had\nhappened since the beginning of the world. Nothing ever had happened\nsince existence had happened; and even about the date of that they were\nnot very sure.\n\nThe modern world as I found it was solid for modern Calvinism, for the\nnecessity of things being as they are. But when I came to ask them I\nfound they had really no proof of this unavoidable repetition in things\nexcept the fact that the things were repeated. Now, the mere repetition\nmade the things to me rather more weird than more rational. It was as\nif, having seen a curiously shaped nose in the street and dismissed it\nas an accident, I had then seen six other noses of the same astonishing\nshape. I should have fancied for a moment that it must be some local\nsecret society. So one elephant having a trunk was odd; but all\nelephants having trunks looked like a plot. I speak here only of an\nemotion, and of an emotion at once stubborn and subtle. But the\nrepetition in Nature seemed sometimes to be an excited repetition, like\nthat of an angry schoolmaster saying the same thing over and over again.\nThe grass seemed signalling to me with all its fingers at once; the\ncrowded stars seemed bent upon being understood. The sun would make me\nsee him if he rose a thousand times. The recurrences of the universe\nrose to the maddening rhythm of an incantation, and I began to see an\nidea.\n\nAll the towering materialism which dominates the modern mind rests\nultimately upon one assumption; a false assumption. It is supposed that\nif a thing goes on repeating itself it is probably dead; a piece of\nclockwork. People feel that if the universe was personal it would vary;\nif the sun were alive it would dance. This is a fallacy even in relation\nto known fact. For the variation in human affairs is generally brought\ninto them, not by life, but by death; by the dying down or breaking off\nof their strength or desire. A man varies his movements because of some\nslight element of failure or fatigue. He gets into an omnibus because he\nis tired of walking; or he walks because he is tired of sitting still.\nBut if his life and joy were so gigantic that he never tired of going to\nIslington, he might go to Islington as regularly as the Thames goes to\nSheerness. The very speed and ecstasy of his life would have the\nstillness of death. The sun rises every morning. I do not rise every\nmorning; but the variation is due not to my activity, but to my\ninaction. Now, to put the matter in a popular phrase, it might be true\nthat the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His\nroutine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The\nthing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some\ngame or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs\nrhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have\nabounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free,\ntherefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, \"Do\nit again\"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly\ndead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.\nBut perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible\nthat God says every morning, \"Do it again\" to the sun; and every\nevening, \"Do it again\" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity\nthat makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy\nseparately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He\nhas the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old,\nand our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a\nmere recurrence; it may be a theatrical _encore_. Heaven may _encore_\nthe bird who laid an egg. If the human being conceives and brings forth\na human child instead of bringing forth a fish, or a bat, or a griffin,\nthe reason may not be that we are fixed in an animal fate without life\nor purpose. It may be that our little tragedy has touched the gods, that\nthey admire it from their starry galleries, and that at the end of every\nhuman drama man is called again and again before the curtain. Repetition\nmay go on for millions of years, by mere choice, and at any instant it\nmay stop. Man may stand on the earth generation after generation, and\nyet each birth be his positively last appearance.\n\nThis was my first conviction; made by the shock of my childish emotions\nmeeting the modern creed in mid-career. I had always vaguely felt facts\nto be miracles in the sense that they are wonderful: now I began to\nthink them miracles in the stricter sense that they were _wilful_. I\nmean that they were, or might be, repeated exercises of some will. In\nshort, I had always believed that the world involved magic: now I\nthought that perhaps it involved a magician. And this pointed a profound\nemotion always present and sub-conscious; that this world of ours has\nsome purpose; and if there is a purpose, there is a person. I had always\nfelt life first as a story: and if there is a story there is a\nstory-teller.\n\nBut modern thought also hit my second human tradition. It went against\nthe fairy feeling about strict limits and conditions. The one thing it\nloved to talk about was expansion and largeness. Herbert Spencer would\nhave been greatly annoyed if any one had called him an imperialist, and\ntherefore it is highly regrettable that nobody did. But he was an\nimperialist of the lowest type. He popularized this contemptible notion\nthat the size of the solar system ought to over-awe the spiritual dogma\nof man. Why should a man surrender his dignity to the solar system any\nmore than to a whale? If mere size proves that man is not the image of\nGod, then a whale may be the image of God; a somewhat formless image;\nwhat one might call an impressionist portrait. It is quite futile to\nargue that man is small compared to the cosmos; for man was always small\ncompared to the nearest tree. But Herbert Spencer, in his headlong\nimperialism, would insist that we had in some way been conquered and\nannexed by the astronomical universe. He spoke about men and their\nideals exactly as the most insolent Unionist talks about the Irish and\ntheir ideals. He turned mankind into a small nationality. And his evil\ninfluence can be seen even in the most spirited and honourable of later\nscientific authors; notably in the early romances of Mr. H.G. Wells.\nMany moralists have in an exaggerated way represented the earth as\nwicked. But Mr. Wells and his school made the heavens wicked. We should\nlift up our eyes to the stars from whence would come our ruin.\n\nBut the expansion of which I speak was much more evil than all this. I\nhave remarked that the materialist, like the madman, is in prison; in\nthe prison of one thought. These people seemed to think it singularly\ninspiring to keep on saying that the prison was very large. The size of\nthis scientific universe gave one no novelty, no relief. The cosmos went\non for ever, but not in its wildest constellation could there be\nanything really interesting; anything, for instance, such as forgiveness\nor free will. The grandeur or infinity of the secret of its cosmos added\nnothing to it. It was like telling a prisoner in Reading gaol that he\nwould be glad to hear that the gaol now covered half the county. The\nwarder would have nothing to show the man except more and more long\ncorridors of stone lit by ghastly lights and empty of all that is human.\nSo these expanders of the universe had nothing to show us except more\nand more infinite corridors of space lit by ghastly suns and empty of\nall that is divine.\n\nIn fairyland there had been a real law; a law that could be broken, for\nthe definition of a law is something that can be broken. But the\nmachinery of this cosmic prison was something that could not be broken;\nfor we ourselves were only a part of its machinery. We were either\nunable to do things or we were destined to do them. The idea of the\nmystical condition quite disappeared; one can neither have the firmness\nof keeping laws nor the fun of breaking them. The largeness of this\nuniverse had nothing of that freshness and airy outbreak which we have\npraised in the universe of the poet. This modern universe is literally\nan empire; that is, it is vast, but it is not free. One went into larger\nand larger windowless rooms, rooms big with Babylonian perspective; but\none never found the smallest window or a whisper of outer air.\n\nTheir infernal parallels seemed to expand with distance; but for me all\ngood things come to a point, swords for instance. So finding the boast\nof the big cosmos so unsatisfactory to my emotions I began to argue\nabout it a little; and I soon found that the whole attitude was even\nshallower than could have been expected. According to these people the\ncosmos was one thing since it had one unbroken rule. Only (they would\nsay) while it is one thing it is also the only thing there is. Why,\nthen, should one worry particularly to call it large? There is nothing\nto compare it with. It would be just as sensible to call it small. A man\nmay say, \"I like this vast cosmos, with its throng of stars and its\ncrowd of varied creatures.\" But if it comes to that why should not a man\nsay, \"I like this cosy little cosmos, with its decent number of stars\nand as neat a provision of live stock as I wish to see\"? One is as good\nas the other; they are both mere sentiments. It is mere sentiment to\nrejoice that the sun is larger than the earth; it is quite as sane a\nsentiment to rejoice that the sun is no larger than it is. A man chooses\nto have an emotion about the largeness of the world; why should he not\nchoose to have an emotion about its smallness?\n\nIt happened that I had that emotion. When one is fond of anything one\naddresses it by diminutives, even if it is an elephant or a\nlifeguardsman. The reason is, that anything, however huge, that can be\nconceived of as complete, can be conceived of as small. If military\nmoustaches did not suggest a sword or tusks a tail, then the object\nwould be vast because it would be immeasurable. But the moment you can\nimagine a guardsman you can imagine a small guardsman. The moment you\nreally see an elephant you can call it \"Tiny.\" If you can make a statue\nof a thing you can make a statuette of it. These people professed that\nthe universe was one coherent thing; but they were not fond of the\nuniverse. But I was frightfully fond of the universe and wanted to\naddress it by a diminutive. I often did so; and it never seemed to mind.\nActually and in truth I did feel that these dim dogmas of vitality were\nbetter expressed by calling the world small than by calling it large.\nFor about infinity there was a sort of carelessness which was the\nreverse of the fierce and pious care which I felt touching the\npricelessness and the peril of life. They showed only a dreary waste;\nbut I felt a sort of sacred thrift. For economy is far more romantic\nthan extravagance. To them stars were an unending income of halfpence;\nbut I felt about the golden sun and the silver moon as a schoolboy feels\nif he has one sovereign and one shilling.\n\nThese subconscious convictions are best hit off by the colour and tone\nof certain tales. Thus I have said that stories of magic alone can\nexpress my sense that life is not only a pleasure but a kind of\neccentric privilege. I may express this other feeling of cosmic cosiness\nby allusion to another book always read in boyhood, \"Robinson Crusoe,\"\nwhich I read about this time, and which owes its eternal vivacity to the\nfact that it celebrates the poetry of limits, nay, even the wild romance\nof prudence. Crusoe is a man on a small rock with a few comforts just\nsnatched from the sea: the best thing in the book is simply the list of\nthings saved from the wreck. The greatest of poems is an inventory.\nEvery kitchen tool becomes ideal because Crusoe might have dropped it\nin the sea. It is a good exercise, in empty or ugly hours of the day, to\nlook at anything, the coal-scuttle or the book-case, and think how happy\none could be to have brought it out of the sinking ship on to the\nsolitary island. But it is a better exercise still to remember how all\nthings have had this hair-breadth escape: everything has been saved from\na wreck. Every man has had one horrible adventure: as a hidden untimely\nbirth he had not been, as infants that never see the light. Men spoke\nmuch in my boyhood of restricted or ruined men of genius: and it was\ncommon to say that many a man was a Great Might-Have-Been. To me it is a\nmore solid and startling fact that any man in the street is a Great\nMight-Not-Have-Been.\n\nBut I really felt (the fancy may seem foolish) as if all the order and\nnumber of things were the romantic remnant of Crusoe's ship. That there\nare two sexes and one sun, was like the fact that there were two guns\nand one axe. It was poignantly urgent that none should be lost; but\nsomehow, it was rather fun that none could be added. The trees and the\nplanets seemed like things saved from the wreck: and when I saw the\nMatterhorn I was glad that it had not been overlooked in the confusion.\nI felt economical about the stars as if they were sapphires (they are\ncalled so in Milton's Eden): I hoarded the hills. For the universe is a\nsingle jewel, and while it is a natural cant to talk of a jewel as\npeerless and priceless, of this jewel it is literally true. This cosmos\nis indeed without peer and without price: for there cannot be another\none.\n\nThus ends, in unavoidable inadequacy, the attempt to utter the\nunutterable things. These are my ultimate attitudes towards life; the\nsoils for the seeds of doctrine. These in some dark way I thought before\nI could write, and felt before I could think: that we may proceed more\neasily afterwards, I will roughly recapitulate them now. I felt in my\nbones; first, that this world does not explain itself. It may be a\nmiracle with a supernatural explanation; it may be a conjuring trick,\nwith a natural explanation. But the explanation of the conjuring trick,\nif it is to satisfy me, will have to be better than the natural\nexplanations I have heard. The thing is magic, true or false. Second, I\ncame to feel as if magic must have a meaning, and meaning must have some\none to mean it. There was something personal in the world, as in a work\nof art; whatever it meant it meant violently. Third, I thought this\npurpose beautiful in its old design, in spite of its defects, such as\ndragons. Fourth, that the proper form of thanks to it is some form of\nhumility and restraint: we should thank God for beer and Burgundy by not\ndrinking too much of them. We owed, also, an obedience to whatever made\nus. And last, and strangest, there had come into my mind a vague and\nvast impression that in some way all good was a remnant to be stored and\nheld sacred out of some primordial ruin. Man had saved his good as\nCrusoe saved his goods: he had saved them from a wreck. All this I felt\nand the age gave me no encouragement to feel it. And all this time I had\nnot even thought of Christian theology.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.--_The Flag of the World_\n\n\nWhen I was a boy there were two curious men running about who were\ncalled the optimist and the pessimist. I constantly used the words\nmyself, but I cheerfully confess that I never had any very special idea\nof what they meant. The only thing which might be considered evident was\nthat they could not mean what they said; for the ordinary verbal\nexplanation was that the optimist thought this world as good as it could\nbe, while the pessimist thought it as bad as it could be. Both these\nstatements being obviously raving nonsense, one had to cast about for\nother explanations. An optimist could not mean a man who thought\neverything right and nothing wrong. For that is meaningless; it is like\ncalling everything right and nothing left. Upon the whole, I came to the\nconclusion that the optimist thought everything good except the\npessimist, and that the pessimist thought everything bad, except\nhimself. It would be unfair to omit altogether from the list the\nmysterious but suggestive definition said to have been given by a little\ngirl, \"An optimist is a man who looks after your eyes, and a pessimist\nis a man who looks after your feet.\" I am not sure that this is not the\nbest definition of all. There is even a sort of allegorical truth in it.\nFor there might, perhaps, be a profitable distinction drawn between that\nmore dreary thinker who thinks merely of our contact with the earth from\nmoment to moment, and that happier thinker who considers rather our\nprimary power of vision and of choice of road.\n\nBut this is a deep mistake in this alternative of the optimist and the\npessimist. The assumption of it is that a man criticises this world as\nif he were house-hunting, as if he were being shown over a new suite of\napartments. If a man came to this world from some other world in full\npossession of his powers he might discuss whether the advantage of\nmidsummer woods made up for the disadvantage of mad dogs, just as a man\nlooking for lodgings might balance the presence of a telephone against\nthe absence of a sea view. But no man is in that position. A man belongs\nto this world before he begins to ask if it is nice to belong to it. He\nhas fought for the flag, and often won heroic victories for the flag\nlong before he has ever enlisted. To put shortly what seems the\nessential matter, he has a loyalty long before he has any admiration.\n\nIn the last chapter it has been said that the primary feeling that this\nworld is strange and yet attractive is best expressed in fairy tales.\nThe reader may, if he likes, put down the next stage to that bellicose\nand even jingo literature which commonly comes next in the history of a\nboy. We all owe much sound morality to the penny dreadfuls. Whatever the\nreason, it seemed and still seems to me that our attitude towards life\ncan be better expressed in terms of a kind of military loyalty than in\nterms of criticism and approval. My acceptance of the universe is not\noptimism, it is more like patriotism. It is a matter of primary loyalty.\nThe world is not a lodging-house at Brighton, which we are to leave\nbecause it is miserable. It is the fortress of our family, with the flag\nflying on the turret, and the more miserable it is the less we should\nleave it. The point is not that this world is too sad to love or too\nglad not to love; the point is that when you do love a thing, its\ngladness is a reason for loving it, and its sadness a reason for loving\nit more. All optimistic thoughts about England and all pessimistic\nthoughts about her are alike reasons for the English patriot. Similarly,\noptimism and pessimism are alike arguments for the cosmic patriot.\n\nLet us suppose we are confronted with a desperate thing--say Pimlico.\nIf we think what is really best for Pimlico we shall find the thread of\nthought leads to the throne of the mystic and the arbitary. It is not\nenough for a man to disapprove of Pimlico: in that case he will merely\ncut his throat or move to Chelsea. Nor, certainly, is it enough for a\nman to approve of Pimlico: for then it will remain Pimlico, which would\nbe awful. The only way out of it seems to be for somebody to love\nPimlico: to love it with a transcendental tie and without any earthly\nreason. If there arose a man who loved Pimlico, then Pimlico would rise\ninto ivory towers and golden pinnacles; Pimlico would attire herself as\na woman does when she is loved. For decoration is not given to hide\nhorrible things; but to decorate things already adorable. A mother does\nnot give her child a blue bow because he is so ugly without it. A lover\ndoes not give a girl a necklace to hide her neck. If men loved Pimlico\nas mothers love children, arbitarily, because it is _theirs_ Pimlico in\na year or two might be fairer than Florence. Some readers will say that\nthis is a mere fantasy. I answer that this is the actual history of\nmankind. This, as a fact, is how cities did grow great. Go back to the\ndarkest roots of civilisation and you will find them knotted round some\nsacred stone or encircling some sacred well. People first paid honour to\na spot and afterwards gained glory for it. Men did not love Rome because\nshe was great. She was great because they had loved her.\n\nThe eighteenth-century theories of the social contract have been exposed\nto much clumsy criticism in our time; in so far as they meant that there\nis at the back of all historic government an idea of content and\nco-operation, they were demonstrably right. But they really were wrong\nin so far as they suggested that men had ever aimed at order or ethics\ndirectly by a conscious exchange of interests. Morality did not begin by\none man saying to another, \"I will not hit you if you do not hit me\";\nthere is no trace of such a transaction. There _is_ a trace of both men\nhaving said, \"We must not hit each other in the holy place.\" They gained\ntheir morality by guarding their religion. They did not cultivate\ncourage. They fought for the shrine, and found they had become\ncourageous. They did not cultivate cleanliness. They purified themselves\nfor the altar, and found that they were clean. The history of the Jews\nis the only early document known to most Englishmen, and the facts can\nbe judged sufficiently from that. The Ten Commandments which have been\nfound substantially common to mankind were merely military commands; a\ncode of regimental orders, issued to protect a certain ark across a\ncertain desert. Anarchy was evil because it endangered the sanctity. And\nonly when they made a holy day for God did they find they had made a\nholiday for men.\n\nIf it be granted that this primary devotion to a place or thing is a\nsource of creative energy, we can pass on to a very peculiar fact. Let\nus reiterate for an instant that the only right optimism is a sort of\nuniversal patriotism. What is the matter with the pessimist? I think it\ncan be stated by saying that he is the cosmic anti-patriot. And what is\nthe matter with the anti-patriot? I think it can be stated, without\nundue bitterness, by saying that he is the candid friend. And what is\nthe matter with the candid friend? There we strike the rock of real life\nand immutable human nature.\n\nI venture to say that what is bad in the candid friend is simply that he\nis not candid. He is keeping something back--his own gloomy pleasure in\nsaying unpleasant things. He has a secret desire to hurt, not merely to\nhelp. This is certainly, I think, what makes a certain sort of\nanti-patriot irritating to healthy citizens. I do not speak (of course)\nof the anti-patriotism which only irritates feverish stockbrokers and\ngushing actresses; that is only patriotism speaking plainly. A man who\nsays that no patriot should attack the Boer War until it is over is not\nworth answering intelligently; he is saying that no good son should warn\nhis mother off a cliff until she has fallen over it. But there is an\nanti-patriot who honestly angers honest men, and the explanation of him\nis, I think, what I have suggested: he is the uncandid candid friend;\nthe man who says, \"I am sorry to say we are ruined,\" and is not sorry at\nall. And he may be said, without rhetoric, to be a traitor; for he is\nusing that ugly knowledge which was allowed him to strengthen the army,\nto discourage people from joining it. Because he is allowed to be\npessimistic as a military adviser he is being pessimistic as a\nrecruiting sergeant. Just in the same way the pessimist (who is the\ncosmic anti-patriot) uses the freedom that life allows to her\ncounsellors to lure away the people from her flag. Granted that he\nstates only facts, it is still essential to know what are his emotions,\nwhat is his motive. It may be that twelve hundred men in Tottenham are\ndown with smallpox; but we want to know whether this is stated by some\ngreat philosopher who wants to curse the gods, or only by some common\nclergyman who wants to help the men.\n\nThe evil of the pessimist is, then, not that he chastises gods and men,\nbut that he does not love what he chastises--he has not this primary and\nsupernatural loyalty to things. What is the evil of the man commonly\ncalled an optimist? Obviously, it is felt that the optimist, wishing to\ndefend the honour of this world, will defend the indefensible. He is the\njingo of the universe; he will say, \"My cosmos, right or wrong.\" He will\nbe less inclined to the reform of things; more inclined to a sort of\nfront-bench official answer to all attacks, soothing every one with\nassurances. He will not wash the world, but whitewash the world. All\nthis (which is true of a type of optimist) leads us to the one really\ninteresting point of psychology, which could not be explained without\nit.\n\nWe say there must be a primal loyalty to life: the only question is,\nshall it be a natural or a supernatural loyalty? If you like to put it\nso, shall it be a reasonable or an unreasonable loyalty? Now, the\nextraordinary thing is that the bad optimism (the whitewashing, the weak\ndefence of everything) comes in with the reasonable optimism. Rational\noptimism leads to stagnation: it is irrational optimism that leads to\nreform. Let me explain by using once more the parallel of patriotism.\nThe man who is most likely to ruin the place he loves is exactly the man\nwho loves it with a reason. The man who will improve the place is the\nman who loves it without a reason. If a man loves some feature of\nPimlico (which seems unlikely), he may find himself defending that\nfeature against Pimlico itself. But if he simply loves Pimlico itself,\nhe may lay it waste and turn it into the New Jerusalem. I do not deny\nthat reform may be excessive; I only say that it is the mystic patriot\nwho reforms. Mere jingo self-contentment is commonest among those who\nhave some pedantic reason for their patriotism. The worst jingoes do not\nlove England, but a theory of England. If we love England for being an\nempire, we may overrate the success with which we rule the Hindoos. But\nif we love it only for being a nation, we can face all events: for it\nwould be a nation even if the Hindoos ruled us. Thus also only those\nwill permit their patriotism to falsify history whose patriotism depends\non history. A man who loves England for being English will not mind how\nshe arose. But a man who loves England for being Anglo-Saxon may go\nagainst all facts for his fancy. He may end (like Carlyle and Freeman)\nby maintaining that the Norman Conquest was a Saxon Conquest. He may end\nin utter unreason--because he has a reason. A man who loves France for\nbeing military will palliate the army of 1870. But a man who loves\nFrance for being France will improve the army of 1870. This is exactly\nwhat the French have done, and France is a good instance of the working\nparadox. Nowhere else is patriotism more purely abstract and arbitrary;\nand nowhere else is reform more drastic and sweeping. The more\ntranscendental is your patriotism, the more practical are your politics.\n\nPerhaps the most everyday instance of this point is in the case of\nwomen; and their strange and strong loyalty. Some stupid people started\nthe idea that because women obviously back up their own people through\neverything, therefore women are blind and do not see anything. They can\nhardly have known any women. The same women who are ready to defend\ntheir men through thick and thin are (in their personal intercourse with\nthe man) almost morbidly lucid about the thinness of his excuses or the\nthickness of his head. A man's friend likes him but leaves him as he is:\nhis wife loves him and is always trying to turn him into somebody else.\nWomen who are utter mystics in their creed are utter cynics in their\ncriticism. Thackeray expressed this well when he made Pendennis' mother,\nwho worshipped her son as a god, yet assume that he would go wrong as a\nman. She underrated his virtue, though she overrated his value. The\ndevotee is entirely free to criticise; the fanatic can safely be a\nsceptic. Love is not blind; that is the last thing that it is. Love is\nbound; and the more it is bound the less it is blind.\n\nThis at least had come to be my position about all that was called\noptimism, pessimism, and improvement. Before any cosmic act of reform we\nmust have a cosmic oath of allegiance. A man must be interested in life,\nthen he could be disinterested in his views of it. \"My son give me thy\nheart\"; the heart must be fixed on the right thing: the moment we have a\nfixed heart we have a free hand. I must pause to anticipate an obvious\ncriticism. It will be said that a rational person accepts the world as\nmixed of good and evil with a decent satisfaction and a decent\nendurance. But this is exactly the attitude which I maintain to be\ndefective. It is, I know, very common in this age; it was perfectly put\nin those quiet lines of Matthew Arnold which are more piercingly\nblasphemous than the shrieks of Schopenhauer--\n\n    \"Enough we live:--and if a life,\n    With large results so little rife,\n    Though bearable, seem hardly worth\n    This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth.\"\n\nI know this feeling fills our epoch, and I think it freezes our epoch.\nFor our Titanic purposes of faith and revolution, what we need is not\nthe cold acceptance of the world as a compromise, but some way in which\nwe can heartily hate and heartily love it. We do not want joy and anger\nto neutralise each other and produce a surly contentment; we want a\nfiercer delight and a fiercer discontent. We have to feel the universe\nat once as an ogre's castle, to be stormed, and yet as our own cottage,\nto which we can return at evening.\n\nNo one doubts that an ordinary man can get on with this world: but we\ndemand not strength enough to get on with it, but strength enough to get\nit on. Can he hate it enough to change it, and yet love it enough to\nthink it worth changing? Can he look up at its colossal good without\nonce feeling acquiescence? Can he look up at its colossal evil without\nonce feeling despair? Can he, in short, be at once not only a pessimist\nand an optimist, but a fanatical pessimist and a fanatical optimist? Is\nhe enough of a pagan to die for the world, and enough of a Christian to\ndie to it? In this combination, I maintain, it is the rational optimist\nwho fails, the irrational optimist who succeeds. He is ready to smash\nthe whole universe for the sake of itself.\n\nI put these things not in their mature logical sequence, but as they\ncame: and this view was cleared and sharpened by an accident of the\ntime. Under the lengthening shadow of Ibsen, an argument arose whether\nit was not a very nice thing to murder one's self. Grave moderns told us\nthat we must not even say \"poor fellow,\" of a man who had blown his\nbrains out, since he was an enviable person, and had only blown them out\nbecause of their exceptional excellence. Mr. William Archer even\nsuggested that in the golden age there would be penny-in-the-slot\nmachines, by which a man could kill himself for a penny. In all this I\nfound myself utterly hostile to many who called themselves liberal and\nhumane. Not only is suicide a sin, it is the sin. It is the ultimate and\nabsolute evil, the refusal to take an interest in existence; the\nrefusal to take the oath of loyalty to life. The man who kills a man,\nkills a man. The man who kills himself, kills all men; as far as he is\nconcerned he wipes out the world. His act is worse (symbolically\nconsidered) than any rape or dynamite outrage. For it destroys all\nbuildings: it insults all women. The thief is satisfied with diamonds;\nbut the suicide is not: that is his crime. He cannot be bribed, even by\nthe blazing stones of the Celestial City. The thief compliments the\nthings he steals, if not the owner of them. But the suicide insults\neverything on earth by not stealing it. He defiles every flower by\nrefusing to live for its sake. There is not a tiny creature in the\ncosmos at whom his death is not a sneer. When a man hangs himself on a\ntree, the leaves might fall off in anger and the birds fly away in fury:\nfor each has received a personal affront. Of course there may be\npathetic emotional excuses for the act. There often are for rape, and\nthere almost always are for dynamite. But if it comes to clear ideas and\nthe intelligent meaning of things, then there is much more rational and\nphilosophic truth in the burial at the cross-roads and the stake driven\nthrough the body, than in Mr. Archer's suicidal automatic machines.\nThere is a meaning in burying the suicide apart. The man's crime is\ndifferent from other crimes--for it makes even crimes impossible.\n\nAbout the same time I read a solemn flippancy by some free thinker: he\nsaid that a suicide was only the same as a martyr. The open fallacy of\nthis helped to clear the question. Obviously a suicide is the opposite\nof a martyr. A martyr is a man who cares so much for something outside\nhim, that he forgets his own personal life. A suicide is a man who cares\nso little for anything outside him, that he wants to see the last of\neverything. One wants something to begin: the other wants everything to\nend. In other words, the martyr is noble, exactly because (however he\nrenounces the world or execrates all humanity) he confesses this\nultimate link with life; he sets his heart outside himself: he dies that\nsomething may live. The suicide is ignoble because he has not this link\nwith being: he is a mere destroyer; spiritually, he destroys the\nuniverse. And then I remembered the stake and the cross-roads, and the\nqueer fact that Christianity had shown this weird harshness to the\nsuicide. For Christianity had shown a wild encouragement of the martyr.\nHistoric Christianity was accused, not entirely without reason, of\ncarrying martyrdom and asceticism to a point, desolate and pessimistic.\nThe early Christian martyrs talked of death with a horrible happiness.\nThey blasphemed the beautiful duties of the body: they smelt the grave\nafar off like a field of flowers. All this has seemed to many the very\npoetry of pessimism. Yet there is the stake at the cross-roads to show\nwhat Christianity thought of the pessimist.\n\nThis was the first of the long train of enigmas with which Christianity\nentered the discussion. And there went with it a peculiarity of which I\nshall have to speak more markedly, as a note of all Christian notions,\nbut which distinctly began in this one. The Christian attitude to the\nmartyr and the suicide was not what is so often affirmed in modern\nmorals. It was not a matter of degree. It was not that a line must be\ndrawn somewhere, and that the self-slayer in exaltation fell within the\nline, the self-slayer in sadness just beyond it. The Christian feeling\nevidently was not merely that the suicide was carrying martyrdom too\nfar. The Christian feeling was furiously for one and furiously against\nthe other: these two things that looked so much alike were at opposite\nends of heaven and hell. One man flung away his life; he was so good\nthat his dry bones could heal cities in pestilence. Another man flung\naway life; he was so bad that his bones would pollute his brethren's. I\nam not saying this fierceness was right; but why was it so fierce?\n\nHere it was that I first found that my wandering feet were in some\nbeaten track. Christianity had also felt this opposition of the martyr\nto the suicide: had it perhaps felt it for the same reason? Had\nChristianity felt what I felt, but could not (and cannot) express--this\nneed for a first loyalty to things, and then for a ruinous reform of\nthings? Then I remembered that it was actually the charge against\nChristianity that it combined these two things which I was wildly trying\nto combine. Christianity was accused, at one and the same time, of being\ntoo optimistic about the universe and of being too pessimistic about the\nworld. The coincidence made me suddenly stand still.\n\nAn imbecile habit has arisen in modern controversy of saying that such\nand such a creed can be held in one age but cannot be held in another.\nSome dogma, we are told, was credible in the twelfth century, but is not\ncredible in the twentieth. You might as well say that a certain\nphilosophy can be believed on Mondays, but cannot be believed on\nTuesdays. You might as well say of a view of the cosmos that it was\nsuitable to half-past three, but not suitable to half-past four. What a\nman can believe depends upon his philosophy, not upon the clock or the\ncentury. If a man believes in unalterable natural law, he cannot believe\nin any miracle in any age. If a man believes in a will behind law, he\ncan believe in any miracle in any age. Suppose, for the sake of\nargument, we are concerned with a case of thaumaturgic healing. A\nmaterialist of the twelfth century could not believe it any more than a\nmaterialist of the twentieth century. But a Christian Scientist of the\ntwentieth century can believe it as much as a Christian of the twelfth\ncentury. It is simply a matter of a man's theory of things. Therefore in\ndealing with any historical answer, the point is not whether it was\ngiven in our time, but whether it was given in answer to our question.\nAnd the more I thought about when and how Christianity had come into the\nworld, the more I felt that it had actually come to answer this\nquestion.\n\nIt is commonly the loose and latitudinarian Christians who pay quite\nindefensible compliments to Christianity. They talk as if there had\nnever been any piety or pity until Christianity came, a point on which\nany medi\u00e6val would have been eager to correct them. They represent that\nthe remarkable thing about Christianity was that it was the first to\npreach simplicity or self-restraint, or inwardness and sincerity. They\nwill think me very narrow (whatever that means) if I say that the\nremarkable thing about Christianity was that it was the first to preach\nChristianity. Its peculiarity was that it was peculiar, and simplicity\nand sincerity are not peculiar, but obvious ideals for all mankind.\nChristianity was the answer to a riddle, not the last truism uttered\nafter a long talk. Only the other day I saw in an excellent weekly paper\nof Puritan tone this remark, that Christianity when stripped of its\narmour of dogma (as who should speak of a man stripped of his armour of\nbones), turned out to be nothing but the Quaker doctrine of the Inner\nLight. Now, if I were to say that Christianity came into the world\nspecially to destroy the doctrine of the Inner Light, that would be an\nexaggeration. But it would be very much nearer to the truth. The last\nStoics, like Marcus Aurelius, were exactly the people who did believe in\nthe Inner Light. Their dignity, their weariness, their sad external care\nfor others, their incurable internal care for themselves, were all due\nto the Inner Light, and existed only by that dismal illumination. Notice\nthat Marcus Aurelius insists, as such introspective moralists always do,\nupon small things done or undone; it is because he has not hate or love\nenough to make a moral revolution. He gets up early in the morning, just\nas our own aristocrats living the Simple Life get up early in the\nmorning; because such altruism is much easier than stopping the games of\nthe amphitheatre or giving the English people back their land. Marcus\nAurelius is the most intolerable of human types. He is an unselfish\negoist. An unselfish egoist is a man who has pride without the excuse of\npassion. Of all conceivable forms of enlightenment the worst is what\nthese people call the Inner Light. Of all horrible religions the most\nhorrible is the worship of the god within. Any one who knows any body\nknows how it would work; any one who knows any one from the Higher\nThought Centre knows how it does work. That Jones shall worship the god\nwithin him turns out ultimately to mean that Jones shall worship Jones.\nLet Jones worship the sun or moon, anything rather than the Inner Light;\nlet Jones worship cats or crocodiles, if he can find any in his street,\nbut not the god within. Christianity came into the world firstly in\norder to assert with violence that a man had not only to look inwards,\nbut to look outwards, to behold with astonishment and enthusiasm a\ndivine company and a divine captain. The only fun of being a Christian\nwas that a man was not left alone with the Inner Light, but definitely\nrecognised an outer light, fair as the sun, clear as the moon, terrible\nas an army with banners.\n\nAll the same, it will be as well if Jones does not worship the sun and\nmoon. If he does, there is a tendency for him to imitate them; to say,\nthat because the sun burns insects alive, he may burn insects alive. He\nthinks that because the sun gives people sun-stroke, he may give his\nneighbour measles. He thinks that because the moon is said to drive men\nmad, he may drive his wife mad. This ugly side of mere external optimism\nhad also shown itself in the ancient world. About the time when the\nStoic idealism had begun to show the weaknesses of pessimism, the old\nnature worship of the ancients had begun to show the enormous weaknesses\nof optimism. Nature worship is natural enough while the society is\nyoung, or, in other words, Pantheism is all right as long as it is the\nworship of Pan. But Nature has another side which experience and sin are\nnot slow in finding out, and it is no flippancy to say of the god Pan\nthat he soon showed the cloven hoof. The only objection to Natural\nReligion is that somehow it always becomes unnatural. A man loves Nature\nin the morning for her innocence and amiability, and at nightfall, if he\nis loving her still, it is for her darkness and her cruelty. He washes\nat dawn in clear water as did the Wise Man of the Stoics, yet, somehow\nat the dark end of the day, he is bathing in hot bull's blood, as did\nJulian the Apostate. The mere pursuit of health always leads to\nsomething unhealthy. Physical nature must not be made the direct object\nof obedience; it must be enjoyed, not worshipped. Stars and mountains\nmust not be taken seriously. If they are, we end where the pagan nature\nworship ended. Because the earth is kind, we can imitate all her\ncruelties. Because sexuality is sane, we can all go mad about sexuality.\nMere optimism had reached its insane and appropriate termination. The\ntheory that everything was good had become an orgy of everything that\nwas bad.\n\nOn the other side our idealist pessimists were represented by the old\nremnant of the Stoics. Marcus Aurelius and his friends had really given\nup the idea of any god in the universe and looked only to the god\nwithin. They had no hope of any virtue in nature, and hardly any hope of\nany virtue in society. They had not enough interest in the outer world\nreally to wreck or revolutionise it. They did not love the city enough\nto set fire to it. Thus the ancient world was exactly in our own\ndesolate dilemma. The only people who really enjoyed this world were\nbusy breaking it up; and the virtuous people did not care enough about\nthem to knock them down. In this dilemma (the same as ours) Christianity\nsuddenly stepped in and offered a singular answer, which the world\neventually accepted as _the_ answer. It was the answer then, and I think\nit is the answer now.\n\nThis answer was like the slash of a sword; it sundered; it did not in\nany sense sentimentally unite. Briefly, it divided God from the cosmos.\nThat transcendence and distinctness of the deity which some Christians\nnow want to remove from Christianity, was really the only reason why any\none wanted to be a Christian. It was the whole point of the Christian\nanswer to the unhappy pessimist and the still more unhappy optimist. As\nI am here only concerned with their particular problem I shall indicate\nonly briefly this great metaphysical suggestion. All descriptions of\nthe creating or sustaining principle in things must be metaphorical,\nbecause they must be verbal. Thus the pantheist is forced to speak of\nGod _in_ all things as if he were in a box. Thus the evolutionist has,\nin his very name, the idea of being unrolled like a carpet. All terms,\nreligious and irreligious, are open to this charge. The only question is\nwhether all terms are useless, or whether one can, with such a phrase,\ncover a distinct _idea_ about the origin of things. I think one can, and\nso evidently does the evolutionist, or he would not talk about\nevolution. And the root phrase for all Christian theism was this, that\nGod was a creator, as an artist is a creator. A poet is so separate from\nhis poem that he himself speaks of it as a little thing he has \"thrown\noff.\" Even in giving it forth he has flung it away. This principle that\nall creation and procreation is a breaking off is at least as consistent\nthrough the cosmos as the evolutionary principle that all growth is a\nbranching out. A woman loses a child even in having a child. All\ncreation is separation. Birth is as solemn a parting as death.\n\nIt was the prime philosophic principle of Christianity that this divorce\nin the divine act of making (such as severs the poet from the poem or\nthe mother from the new-born child) was the true description of the act\nwhereby the absolute energy made the world. According to most\nphilosophers, God in making the world enslaved it. According to\nChristianity, in making it, He set it free. God had written, not so much\na poem, but rather a play; a play he had planned as perfect, but which\nhad necessarily been left to human actors and stage-managers, who had\nsince made a great mess of it. I will discuss the truth of this theorem\nlater. Here I have only to point out with what a startling smoothness it\npassed the dilemma we have discussed in this chapter. In this way at\nleast one could be both happy and indignant without degrading one's self\nto be either a pessimist or an optimist. On this system one could fight\nall the forces of existence without deserting the flag of existence. One\ncould be at peace with the universe and yet be at war with the world.\nSt. George could still fight the dragon, however big the monster bulked\nin the cosmos, though he were bigger than the mighty cities or bigger\nthan the everlasting hills. If he were as big as the world he could yet\nbe killed in the name of the world. St. George had not to consider any\nobvious odds or proportions in the scale of things, but only the\noriginal secret of their design. He can shake his sword at the dragon,\neven if it is everything; even if the empty heavens over his head are\nonly the huge arch of its open jaws.\n\nAnd then followed an experience impossible to describe. It was as if I\nhad been blundering about since my birth with two huge and unmanageable\nmachines, of different shapes and without apparent connection--the world\nand the Christian tradition. I had found this hole in the world: the\nfact that one must somehow find a way of loving the world without\ntrusting it; somehow one must love the world without being worldly. I\nfound this projecting feature of Christian theology, like a sort of hard\nspike, the dogmatic insistence that God was personal, and had made a\nworld separate from Himself. The spike of dogma fitted exactly into the\nhole in the world--it had evidently been meant to go there--and then the\nstrange thing began to happen. When once these two parts of the two\nmachines had come together, one after another, all the other parts\nfitted and fell in with an eerie exactitude. I could hear bolt after\nbolt over all the machinery falling into its place with a kind of click\nof relief. Having got one part right, all the other parts were\nrepeating that rectitude, as clock after clock strikes noon. Instinct\nafter instinct was answered by doctrine after doctrine. Or, to vary the\nmetaphor, I was like one who had advanced into a hostile country to take\none high fortress. And when that fort had fallen the whole country\nsurrendered and turned solid behind me. The whole land was lit up, as it\nwere, back to the first fields of my childhood. All those blind fancies\nof boyhood which in the fourth chapter I have tried in vain to trace on\nthe darkness, became suddenly transparent and sane. I was right when I\nfelt that roses were red by some sort of choice: it was the divine\nchoice. I was right when I felt that I would almost rather say that\ngrass was the wrong colour than say that it must by necessity have been\nthat colour: it might verily have been any other. My sense that\nhappiness hung on the crazy thread of a condition did mean something\nwhen all was said: it meant the whole doctrine of the Fall. Even those\ndim and shapeless monsters of notions which I have not been able to\ndescribe, much less defend, stepped quietly into their places like\ncolossal caryatides of the creed. The fancy that the cosmos was not vast\nand void, but small and cosy, had a fulfilled significance now, for\nanything that is a work of art must be small in the sight of the artist;\nto God the stars might be only small and dear, like diamonds. And my\nhaunting instinct that somehow good was not merely a tool to be used,\nbut a relic to be guarded, like the goods from Crusoe's ship--even that\nhad been the wild whisper of something originally wise, for, according\nto Christianity, we were indeed the survivors of a wreck, the crew of a\ngolden ship that had gone down before the beginning of the world.\n\nBut the important matter was this, that it entirely reversed the reason\nfor optimism. And the instant the reversal was made it felt like the\nabrupt ease when a bone is put back in the socket. I had often called\nmyself an optimist, to avoid the too evident blasphemy of pessimism. But\nall the optimism of the age had been false and disheartening for this\nreason, that it had always been trying to prove that we fit in to the\nworld. The Christian optimism is based on the fact that we do _not_ fit\nin to the world. I had tried to be happy by telling myself that man is\nan animal, like any other which sought its meat from God. But now I\nreally was happy, for I had learnt that man is a monstrosity. I had\nbeen right in feeling all things as odd, for I myself was at once worse\nand better than all things. The optimist's pleasure was prosaic, for it\ndwelt on the naturalness of everything; the Christian pleasure was\npoetic, for it dwelt on the unnaturalness of everything in the light of\nthe supernatural. The modern philosopher had told me again and again\nthat I was in the right place, and I had still felt depressed even in\nacquiescence. But I had heard that I was in the _wrong_ place, and my\nsoul sang for joy, like a bird in spring. The knowledge found out and\nilluminated forgotten chambers in the dark house of infancy. I knew now\nwhy grass had always seemed to me as queer as the green beard of a\ngiant, and why I could feel homesick at home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.--_The Paradoxes of Christianity_\n\n\nThe real trouble with this world of ours is not that it is an\nunreasonable world, nor even that it is a reasonable one. The commonest\nkind of trouble is that it is nearly reasonable, but not quite. Life is\nnot an illogicality; yet it is a trap for logicians. It looks just a\nlittle more mathematical and regular than it is; its exactitude is\nobvious, but its inexactitude is hidden; its wildness lies in wait. I\ngive one coarse instance of what I mean. Suppose some mathematical\ncreature from the moon were to reckon up the human body; he would at\nonce see that the essential thing about it was that it was duplicate. A\nman is two men, he on the right exactly resembling him on the left.\nHaving noted that there was an arm on the right and one on the left, a\nleg on the right and one on the left, he might go further and still find\non each side the same number of fingers, the same number of toes, twin\neyes, twin ears, twin nostrils, and even twin lobes of the brain. At\nlast he would take it as a law; and then, where he found a heart on one\nside, would deduce that there was another heart on the other. And just\nthen, where he most felt he was right, he would be wrong.\n\nIt is this silent swerving from accuracy by an inch that is the uncanny\nelement in everything. It seems a sort of secret treason in the\nuniverse. An apple or an orange is round enough to get itself called\nround, and yet is not round after all. The earth itself is shaped like\nan orange in order to lure some simple astronomer into calling it a\nglobe. A blade of grass is called after the blade of a sword, because it\ncomes to a point; but it doesn't. Everywhere in things there is this\nelement of the quiet and incalculable. It escapes the rationalists, but\nit never escapes till the last moment. From the grand curve of our earth\nit could easily be inferred that every inch of it was thus curved. It\nwould seem rational that as a man has a brain on both sides, he should\nhave a heart on both sides. Yet scientific men are still organizing\nexpeditions to find the North Pole, because they are so fond of flat\ncountry. Scientific men are also still organising expeditions to find a\nman's heart; and when they try to find it, they generally get on the\nwrong side of him.\n\nNow, actual insight or inspiration is best tested by whether it guesses\nthese hidden malformations or surprises. If our mathematician from the\nmoon saw the two arms and the two ears, he might deduce the two\nshoulder-blades and the two halves of the brain. But if he guessed that\nthe man's heart was in the right place, then I should call him something\nmore than a mathematician. Now, this is exactly the claim which I have\nsince come to propound for Christianity. Not merely that it deduces\nlogical truths, but that when it suddenly becomes illogical, it has\nfound, so to speak, an illogical truth. It not only goes right about\nthings, but it goes wrong (if one may say so) exactly where the things\ngo wrong. Its plan suits the secret irregularities, and expects the\nunexpected. It is simple about the simple truth; but it is stubborn\nabout the subtle truth. It will admit that a man has two hands, it will\nnot admit (though all the Modernists wail to it) the obvious deduction\nthat he has two hearts. It is my only purpose in this chapter to point\nthis out; to show that whenever we feel there is something odd in\nChristian theology, we shall generally find that there is something odd\nin the truth.\n\nI have alluded to an unmeaning phrase to the effect that such and such a\ncreed cannot be believed in our age. Of course, anything can be\nbelieved in any age. But, oddly enough, there really is a sense in which\na creed, if it is believed at all, can be believed more fixedly in a\ncomplex society than in a simple one. If a man finds Christianity true\nin Birmingham, he has actually clearer reasons for faith than if he had\nfound it true in Mercia. For the more complicated seems the coincidence,\nthe less it can be a coincidence. If snowflakes fell in the shape, say,\nof the heart of Midlothian, it might be an accident. But if snowflakes\nfell in the exact shape of the maze at Hampton Court, I think one might\ncall it a miracle. It is exactly as of such a miracle that I have since\ncome to feel of the philosophy of Christianity. The complication of our\nmodern world proves the truth of the creed more perfectly than any of\nthe plain problems of the ages of faith. It was in Notting Hill and\nBattersea that I began to see that Christianity was true. This is why\nthe faith has that elaboration of doctrines and details which so much\ndistresses those who admire Christianity without believing in it. When\nonce one believes in a creed, one is proud of its complexity, as\nscientists are proud of the complexity of science. It shows how rich it\nis in discoveries. If it is right at all, it is a compliment to say\nthat it's elaborately right. A stick might fit a hole or a stone a\nhollow by accident. But a key and a lock are both complex. And if a key\nfits a lock, you know it is the right key.\n\nBut this involved accuracy of the thing makes it very difficult to do\nwhat I now have to do, to describe this accumulation of truth. It is\nvery hard for a man to defend anything of which he is entirely\nconvinced. It is comparatively easy when he is only partially convinced.\nHe is partially convinced because he has found this or that proof of the\nthing, and he can expound it. But a man is not really convinced of a\nphilosophic theory when he finds that something proves it. He is only\nreally convinced when he finds that everything proves it. And the more\nconverging reasons he finds pointing to this conviction, the more\nbewildered he is if asked suddenly to sum them up. Thus, if one asked an\nordinary intelligent man, on the spur of the moment, \"Why do you prefer\ncivilisation to savagery?\" he would look wildly round at object after\nobject, and would only be able to answer vaguely, \"Why, there is that\nbookcase ... and the coals in the coal-scuttle ... and pianos ... and\npolicemen.\" The whole case for civilisation is that the case for it is\ncomplex. It has done so many things. But that very multiplicity of proof\nwhich ought to make reply overwhelming makes reply impossible.\n\nThere is, therefore, about all complete conviction a kind of huge\nhelplessness. The belief is so big that it takes a long time to get it\ninto action. And this hesitation chiefly arises, oddly enough, from an\nindifference about where one should begin. All roads lead to Rome; which\nis one reason why many people never get there. In the case of this\ndefence of the Christian conviction I confess that I would as soon begin\nthe argument with one thing as another; I would begin it with a turnip\nor a taximeter cab. But if I am to be at all careful about making my\nmeaning clear, it will, I think, be wiser to continue the current\narguments of the last chapter, which was concerned to urge the first of\nthese mystical coincidences, or rather ratifications. All I had hitherto\nheard of Christian theology had alienated me from it. I was a pagan at\nthe age of twelve, and a complete agnostic by the age of sixteen; and I\ncannot understand any one passing the age of seventeen without having\nasked himself so simple a question. I did, indeed, retain a cloudy\nreverence for a cosmic deity and a great historical interest in the\nFounder of Christianity. But I certainly regarded Him as a man; though\nperhaps I thought that, even in that point, He had an advantage over\nsome of His modern critics. I read the scientific and sceptical\nliterature of my time--all of it, at least, that I could find written in\nEnglish and lying about; and I read nothing else; I mean I read nothing\nelse on any other note of philosophy. The penny dreadfuls which I also\nread were indeed in a healthy and heroic tradition of Christianity; but\nI did not know this at the time. I never read a line of Christian\napologetics. I read as little as I can of them now. It was Huxley and\nHerbert Spencer and Bradlaugh who brought me back to orthodox theology.\nThey sowed in my mind my first wild doubts of doubt. Our grandmothers\nwere quite right when they said that Tom Paine and the free-thinkers\nunsettled the mind. They do. They unsettled mine horribly. The\nrationalist made me question whether reason was of any use whatever; and\nwhen I had finished Herbert Spencer I had got as far as doubting (for\nthe first time) whether evolution had occurred at all. As I laid down\nthe last of Colonel Ingersoll's atheistic lectures the dreadful thought\nbroke across my mind, \"Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.\" I\nwas in a desperate way.\n\nThis odd effect of the great agnostics in arousing doubts deeper than\ntheir own might be illustrated in many ways. I take only one. As I read\nand re-read all the non-Christian or anti-Christian accounts of the\nfaith, from Huxley to Bradlaugh, a slow and awful impression grew\ngradually but graphically upon my mind--the impression that Christianity\nmust be a most extraordinary thing. For not only (as I understood) had\nChristianity the most flaming vices, but it had apparently a mystical\ntalent for combining vices which seemed inconsistent with each other. It\nwas attacked on all sides and for all contradictory reasons. No sooner\nhad one rationalist demonstrated that it was too far to the east than\nanother demonstrated with equal clearness that it was much too far to\nthe west. No sooner had my indignation died down at its angular and\naggressive squareness than I was called up again to notice and condemn\nits enervating and sensual roundness. In case any reader has not come\nacross the thing I mean, I will give such instances as I remember at\nrandom of this self-contradiction in the sceptical attack. I give four\nor five of them; there are fifty more.\n\nThus, for instance, I was much moved by the eloquent attack on\nChristianity as a thing of inhuman gloom; for I thought (and still\nthink) sincere pessimism the unpardonable sin. Insincere pessimism is a\nsocial accomplishment, rather agreeable than otherwise; and fortunately\nnearly all pessimism is insincere. But if Christianity was, as these\npeople said, a thing purely pessimistic and opposed to life, then I was\nquite prepared to blow up St. Paul's Cathedral. But the extraordinary\nthing is this. They did prove to me in Chapter I. (to my complete\nsatisfaction) that Christianity was too pessimistic; and then, in\nChapter II., they began to prove to me that it was a great deal too\noptimistic. One accusation against Christianity was that it prevented\nmen, by morbid tears and terrors, from seeking joy and liberty in the\nbosom of Nature. But another accusation was that it comforted men with a\nfictitious providence, and put them in a pink-and-white nursery. One\ngreat agnostic asked why Nature was not beautiful enough, and why it was\nhard to be free. Another great agnostic objected that Christian\noptimism, \"the garment of make-believe woven by pious hands,\" hid from\nus the fact that Nature was ugly, and that it was impossible to be free.\nOne rationalist had hardly done calling Christianity a nightmare before\nanother began to call it a fool's paradise. This puzzled me; the charges\nseemed inconsistent. Christianity could not at once be the black mask on\na white world, and also the white mask on a black world. The state of\nthe Christian could not be at once so comfortable that he was a coward\nto cling to it, and so uncomfortable that he was a fool to stand it. If\nit falsified human vision it must falsify it one way or another; it\ncould not wear both green and rose-coloured spectacles. I rolled on my\ntongue with a terrible joy, as did all young men of that time, the\ntaunts which Swinburne hurled at the dreariness of the creed--\n\n     \"Thou hast conquered, O pale Galil\u00e6an, the world has grown gray\n     with Thy breath.\"\n\nBut when I read the same poet's accounts of paganism (as in \"Atalanta\"),\nI gathered that the world was, if possible, more gray before the\nGalil\u00e6an breathed on it than afterwards. The poet maintained, indeed, in\nthe abstract, that life itself was pitch dark. And yet, somehow,\nChristianity had darkened it. The very man who denounced Christianity\nfor pessimism was himself a pessimist. I thought there must be something\nwrong. And it did for one wild moment cross my mind that, perhaps,\nthose might not be the very best judges of the relation of religion to\nhappiness who, by their own account, had neither one nor the other.\n\nIt must be understood that I did not conclude hastily that the\naccusations were false or the accusers fools. I simply deduced that\nChristianity must be something even weirder and wickeder than they made\nout. A thing might have these two opposite vices; but it must be a\nrather queer thing if it did. A man might be too fat in one place and\ntoo thin in another; but he would be an odd shape. At this point my\nthoughts were only of the odd shape of the Christian religion; I did not\nallege any odd shape in the rationalistic mind.\n\nHere is another case of the same kind. I felt that a strong case against\nChristianity lay in the charge that there is something timid, monkish,\nand unmanly about all that is called \"Christian,\" especially in its\nattitude towards resistance and fighting. The great sceptics of the\nnineteenth century were largely virile. Bradlaugh in an expansive way,\nHuxley in a reticent way, were decidedly men. In comparison, it did seem\ntenable that there was something weak and over patient about Christian\ncounsels. The Gospel paradox about the other cheek, the fact that\npriests never fought, a hundred things made plausible the accusation\nthat Christianity was an attempt to make a man too like a sheep. I read\nit and believed it, and if I had read nothing different, I should have\ngone on believing it. But I read something very different. I turned the\nnext page in my agnostic manual, and my brain turned up-side down. Now I\nfound that I was to hate Christianity not for fighting too little, but\nfor fighting too much. Christianity, it seemed, was the mother of wars.\nChristianity had deluged the world with blood. I had got thoroughly\nangry with the Christian, because he never was angry. And now I was told\nto be angry with him because his anger had been the most huge and\nhorrible thing in human history; because his anger had soaked the earth\nand smoked to the sun. The very people who reproached Christianity with\nthe meekness and non-resistance of the monastries were the very people\nwho reproached it also with the violence and valour of the Crusades. It\nwas the fault of poor old Christianity (somehow or other) both that\nEdward the Confessor did not fight and that Richard Coeur de Lion did.\nThe Quakers (we were told) were the only characteristic Christians; and\nyet the massacres of Cromwell and Alva were characteristic Christian\ncrimes. What could it all mean? What was this Christianity which always\nforbade war and always produced wars? What could be the nature of the\nthing which one could abuse first because it would not fight, and second\nbecause it was always fighting? In what world of riddles was born this\nmonstrous murder and this monstrous meekness? The shape of Christianity\ngrew a queerer shape every instant.\n\nI take a third case; the strangest of all, because it involves the one\nreal objection to the faith. The one real objection to the Christian\nreligion is simply that it is one religion. The world is a big place,\nfull of very different kinds of people. Christianity (it may reasonably\nbe said) is one thing confined to one kind of people; it began in\nPalestine, it has practically stopped with Europe. I was duly impressed\nwith this argument in my youth, and I was much drawn towards the\ndoctrine often preached in Ethical Societies--I mean the doctrine that\nthere is one great unconscious church of all humanity founded on the\nomnipresence of the human conscience. Creeds, it was said, divided men;\nbut at least morals united them. The soul might seek the strangest and\nmost remote lands and ages and still find essential ethical common\nsense. It might find Confucius under Eastern trees, and he would be\nwriting \"Thou shalt not steal.\" It might decipher the darkest\nhieroglyphic on the most primeval desert, and the meaning when\ndeciphered would be \"Little boys should tell the truth.\" I believed this\ndoctrine of the brotherhood of all men in the possession of a moral\nsense, and I believe it still--with other things. And I was thoroughly\nannoyed with Christianity for suggesting (as I supposed) that whole ages\nand empires of men had utterly escaped this light of justice and reason.\nBut then I found an astonishing thing. I found that the very people who\nsaid that mankind was one church from Plato to Emerson were the very\npeople who said that morality had changed altogether, and that what was\nright in one age was wrong in another. If I asked, say, for an altar, I\nwas told that we needed none, for men our brothers gave us clear oracles\nand one creed in their universal customs and ideals. But if I mildly\npointed out that one of men's universal customs was to have an altar,\nthen my agnostic teachers turned clean round and told me that men had\nalways been in darkness and the superstitions of savages. I found it was\ntheir daily taunt against Christianity that it was the light of one\npeople and had left all others to die in the dark. But I also found that\nit was their special boast for themselves that science and progress were\nthe discovery of one people, and that all other peoples had died in the\ndark. Their chief insult to Christianity was actually their chief\ncompliment to themselves, and there seemed to be a strange unfairness\nabout all their relative insistence on the two things. When considering\nsome pagan or agnostic, we were to remember that all men had one\nreligion; when considering some mystic or spiritualist, we were only to\nconsider what absurd religions some men had. We could trust the ethics\nof Epictetus, because ethics had never changed. We must not trust the\nethics of Bossuet, because ethics had changed. They changed in two\nhundred years, but not in two thousand.\n\nThis began to be alarming. It looked not so much as if Christianity was\nbad enough to include any vices, but rather as if any stick was good\nenough to beat Christianity with. What again could this astonishing\nthing be like which people were so anxious to contradict, that in doing\nso they did not mind contradicting themselves? I saw the same thing on\nevery side. I can give no further space to this discussion of it in\ndetail; but lest any one supposes that I have unfairly selected three\naccidental cases I will run briefly through a few others. Thus, certain\nsceptics wrote that the great crime of Christianity had been its attack\non the family; it had dragged women to the loneliness and contemplation\nof the cloister, away from their homes and their children. But, then,\nother sceptics (slightly more advanced) said that the great crime of\nChristianity was forcing the family and marriage upon us; that it doomed\nwomen to the drudgery of their homes and children, and forbade them\nloneliness and contemplation. The charge was actually reversed. Or,\nagain, certain phrases in the Epistles or the Marriage Service, were\nsaid by the anti-Christians to show contempt for woman's intellect. But\nI found that the anti-Christians themselves had a contempt for woman's\nintellect; for it was their great sneer at the Church on the Continent\nthat \"only women\" went to it. Or again, Christianity was reproached with\nits naked and hungry habits; with its sackcloth and dried peas. But the\nnext minute Christianity was being reproached with its pomp and its\nritualism; its shrines of porphyry and its robes of gold. It was abused\nfor being too plain and for being too coloured. Again Christianity had\nalways been accused of restraining sexuality too much, when Bradlaugh\nthe Malthusian discovered that it restrained it too little. It is often\naccused in the same breath of prim respectability and of religious\nextravagance. Between the covers of the same atheistic pamphlet I have\nfound the faith rebuked for its disunion, \"One thinks one thing, and one\nanother,\" and rebuked also for its union, \"It is difference of opinion\nthat prevents the world from going to the dogs.\" In the same\nconversation a free-thinker, a friend of mine, blamed Christianity for\ndespising Jews, and then despised it himself for being Jewish.\n\nI wished to be quite fair then, and I wish to be quite fair now; and I\ndid not conclude that the attack on Christianity was all wrong. I only\nconcluded that if Christianity was wrong, it was very wrong indeed. Such\nhostile horrors might be combined in one thing, but that thing must be\nvery strange and solitary. There are men who are misers, and also\nspendthrifts; but they are rare. There are men sensual and also ascetic;\nbut they are rare. But if this mass of mad contradictions really\nexisted, quakerish and bloodthirsty, too gorgeous and too thread-bare,\naustere, yet pandering preposterously to the lust of the eye, the enemy\nof women and their foolish refuge, a solemn pessimist and a silly\noptimist, if this evil existed, then there was in this evil something\nquite supreme and unique. For I found in my rationalist teachers no\nexplanation of such exceptional corruption. Christianity (theoretically\nspeaking) was in their eyes only one of the ordinary myths and errors of\nmortals. _They_ gave me no key to this twisted and unnatural badness.\nSuch a paradox of evil rose to the stature of the supernatural. It was,\nindeed, almost as supernatural as the infallibility of the Pope. An\nhistoric institution, which never went right, is really quite as much of\na miracle as an institution that cannot go wrong. The only explanation\nwhich immediately occurred to my mind was that Christianity did not come\nfrom heaven, but from hell. Really, if Jesus of Nazareth was not Christ,\nHe must have been Antichrist.\n\nAnd then in a quiet hour a strange thought struck me like a still\nthunderbolt. There had suddenly come into my mind another explanation.\nSuppose we heard an unknown man spoken of by many men. Suppose we were\npuzzled to hear that some men said he was too tall and some too short;\nsome objected to his fatness, some lamented his leanness; some thought\nhim too dark, and some too fair. One explanation (as has been already\nadmitted) would be that he might be an odd shape. But there is another\nexplanation. He might be the right shape. Outrageously tall men might\nfeel him to be short. Very short men might feel him to be tall. Old\nbucks who are growing stout might consider him insufficiently filled\nout; old beaux who were growing thin might feel that he expanded beyond\nthe narrow lines of elegance. Perhaps Swedes (who have pale hair like\ntow) called him a dark man, while negroes considered him distinctly\nblonde. Perhaps (in short) this extraordinary thing is really the\nordinary thing; at least the normal thing, the centre. Perhaps, after\nall, it is Christianity that is sane and all its critics that are\nmad--in various ways. I tested this idea by asking myself whether there\nwas about any of the accusers anything morbid that might explain the\naccusation. I was startled to find that this key fitted a lock. For\ninstance, it was certainly odd that the modern world charged\nChristianity at once with bodily austerity and with artistic pomp. But\nthen it was also odd, very odd, that the modern world itself combined\nextreme bodily luxury with an extreme absence of artistic pomp. The\nmodern man thought Becket's robes too rich and his meals too poor. But\nthen the modern man was really exceptional in history; no man before\never ate such elaborate dinners in such ugly clothes. The modern man\nfound the church too simple exactly where modern life is too complex; he\nfound the church too gorgeous exactly where modern life is too dingy.\nThe man who disliked the plain fasts and feasts was mad on _entr\u00e9es_.\nThe man who disliked vestments wore a pair of preposterous trousers. And\nsurely if there was any insanity involved in the matter at all it was in\nthe trousers, not in the simply falling robe. If there was any insanity\nat all, it was in the extravagant _entr\u00e9es_, not in the bread and wine.\n\nI went over all the cases, and I found the key fitted so far. The fact\nthat Swinburne was irritated at the unhappiness of Christians and yet\nmore irritated at their happiness was easily explained. It was no longer\na complication of diseases in Christianity, but a complication of\ndiseases in Swinburne. The restraints of Christians saddened him simply\nbecause he was more hedonist than a healthy man should be. The faith of\nChristians angered him because he was more pessimist than a healthy man\nshould be. In the same way the Malthusians by instinct attacked\nChristianity; not because there is anything especially anti-Malthusian\nabout Christianity, but because there is something a little anti-human\nabout Malthusianism.\n\nNevertheless it could not, I felt, be quite true that Christianity was\nmerely sensible and stood in the middle. There was really an element in\nit of emphasis and even frenzy which had justified the secularists in\ntheir superficial criticism. It might be wise, I began more and more to\nthink that it was wise, but it was not merely worldly wise; it was not\nmerely temperate and respectable. Its fierce crusaders and meek saints\nmight balance each other; still, the crusaders were very fierce and the\nsaints were very meek, meek beyond all decency. Now, it was just at this\npoint of the speculation that I remembered my thoughts about the martyr\nand the suicide. In that matter there had been this combination between\ntwo almost insane positions which yet somehow amounted to sanity. This\nwas just such another contradiction; and this I had already found to be\ntrue. This was exactly one of the paradoxes in which sceptics found the\ncreed wrong; and in this I had found it right. Madly as Christians might\nlove the martyr or hate the suicide, they never felt these passions more\nmadly than I had felt them long before I dreamed of Christianity. Then\nthe most difficult and interesting part of the mental process opened,\nand I began to trace this idea darkly through all the enormous thoughts\nof our theology. The idea was that which I had outlined touching the\noptimist and the pessimist; that we want not an amalgam or compromise,\nbut both things at the top of their energy; love and wrath both burning.\nHere I shall only trace it in relation to ethics. But I need not remind\nthe reader that the idea of this combination is indeed central in\northodox theology. For orthodox theology has specially insisted that\nChrist was not a being apart from God and man, like an elf, nor yet a\nbeing half human and half not, like a centaur, but both things at once\nand both things thoroughly, very man and very God. Now let me trace this\nnotion as I found it.\n\nAll sane men can see that sanity is some kind of equilibrium; that one\nmay be mad and eat too much, or mad and eat too little. Some moderns\nhave indeed appeared with vague versions of progress and evolution which\nseeks to destroy the [Greek: meson] or balance of Aristotle. They seem to\nsuggest that we are meant to starve progressively, or to go on eating\nlarger and larger breakfasts every morning for ever. But the great truism\nof the [Greek: meson] remains for all thinking men, and these people have\nnot upset any balance except their own. But granted that we have all to\nkeep a balance, the real interest comes in with the question of how that\nbalance can be kept. That was the problem which Paganism tried to solve:\nthat was the problem which I think Christianity solved and solved in a\nvery strange way.\n\nPaganism declared that virtue was in a balance; Christianity declared it\nwas in a conflict: the collision of two passions apparently opposite. Of\ncourse they were not really inconsistent; but they were such that it was\nhard to hold simultaneously. Let us follow for a moment the clue of the\nmartyr and the suicide; and take the case of courage. No quality has\never so much addled the brains and tangled the definitions of merely\nrational sages. Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a\nstrong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die. \"He that\nwill lose his life, the same shall save it,\" is not a piece of mysticism\nfor saints and heroes. It is a piece of everyday advice for sailors or\nmountaineers. It might be printed in an Alpine guide or a drill book.\nThis paradox is the whole principle of courage; even of quite earthly\nor quite brutal courage. A man cut off by the sea may save his life if\nhe will risk it on the precipice. He can only get away from death by\ncontinually stepping within an inch of it. A soldier surrounded by\nenemies, if he is to cut his way out, needs to combine a strong desire\nfor living with a strange carelessness about dying. He must not merely\ncling to life, for then he will be a coward, and will not escape. He\nmust not merely wait for death, for then he will be a suicide, and will\nnot escape. He must seek his life in a spirit of furious indifference to\nit; he must desire life like water and yet drink death like wine. No\nphilosopher, I fancy, has ever expressed this romantic riddle with\nadequate lucidity, and I certainly have not done so. But Christianity\nhas done more: it has marked the limits of it in the awful graves of the\nsuicide and the hero, showing the distance between him who dies for the\nsake of living and him who dies for the sake of dying. And it has held\nup ever since above the European lances the banner of the mystery of\nchivalry: the Christian courage, which is a disdain of death; not the\nChinese courage, which is a disdain of life.\n\nAnd now I began to find that this duplex passion was the Christian key\nto ethics everywhere. Everywhere the creed made a moderation out of the\nstill crash of two impetuous emotions. Take, for instance, the matter of\nmodesty, of the balance between mere pride and mere prostration. The\naverage pagan, like the average agnostic, would merely say that he was\ncontent with himself, but not insolently self-satisfied, that there were\nmany better and many worse, that his deserts were limited, but he would\nsee that he got them. In short, he would walk with his head in the air;\nbut not necessarily with his nose in the air. This is a manly and\nrational position, but it is open to the objection we noted against the\ncompromise between optimism and pessimism--the \"resignation\" of Matthew\nArnold. Being a mixture of two things, it is a dilution of two things;\nneither is present in its full strength or contributes its full colour.\nThis proper pride does not lift the heart like the tongue of trumpets;\nyou cannot go clad in crimson and gold for this. On the other hand, this\nmild rationalist modesty does not cleanse the soul with fire and make it\nclear like crystal; it does not (like a strict and searching humility)\nmake a man as a little child, who can sit at the feet of the grass. It\ndoes not make him look up and see marvels; for Alice must grow small if\nshe is to be Alice in Wonderland. Thus it loses both the poetry of\nbeing proud and the poetry of being humble. Christianity sought by this\nsame strange expedient to save both of them.\n\nIt separated the two ideas and then exaggerated them both. In one way\nMan was to be haughtier than he had ever been before; in another way he\nwas to be humbler than he had ever been before. In so far as I am Man I\nam the chief of creatures. In so far as I am _a_ man I am the chief of\nsinners. All humility that had meant pessimism, that had meant man\ntaking a vague or mean view of his whole destiny--all that was to go. We\nwere to hear no more the wail of Ecclesiastes that humanity had no\npre-eminence over the brute, or the awful cry of Homer that man was only\nthe saddest of all the beasts of the field. Man was a statue of God\nwalking about the garden. Man had pre-eminence over all the brutes; man\nwas only sad because he was not a beast, but a broken god. The Greek had\nspoken of men creeping on the earth, as if clinging to it. Now Man was\nto tread on the earth as if to subdue it. Christianity thus held a\nthought of the dignity of man that could only be expressed in crowns\nrayed like the sun and fans of peacock plumage. Yet at the same time it\ncould hold a thought about the abject smallness of man that could only\nbe expressed in fasting and fantastic submission, in the grey ashes of\nSt. Dominic and the white snows of St. Bernard. When one came to think\nof _one's self_, there was vista and void enough for any amount of bleak\nabnegation and bitter truth. There the realistic gentleman could let\nhimself go--as long as he let himself go at himself. There was an open\nplayground for the happy pessimist. Let him say anything against himself\nshort of blaspheming the original aim of his being; let him call himself\na fool and even a damned fool (though that is Calvinistic); but he must\nnot say that fools are not worth saving. He must not say that a man,\n_qu\u00e2_ man, can be valueless. Here again, in short, Christianity got over\nthe difficulty of combining furious opposites, by keeping them both, and\nkeeping them both furious. The Church was positive on both points. One\ncan hardly think too little of one's self. One can hardly think too much\nof one's soul.\n\nTake another case: the complicated question of charity, which some\nhighly uncharitable idealists seem to think quite easy. Charity is a\nparadox, like modesty and courage. Stated baldly, charity certainly\nmeans one of two things--pardoning unpardonable acts, or loving\nunlovable people. But if we ask ourselves (as we did in the case of\npride) what a sensible pagan would feel about such a subject, we shall\nprobably be beginning at the bottom of it. A sensible pagan would say\nthat there were some people one could forgive, and some one couldn't: a\nslave who stole wine could be laughed at; a slave who betrayed his\nbenefactor could be killed, and cursed even after he was killed. In so\nfar as the act was pardonable, the man was pardonable. That again is\nrational, and even refreshing; but it is a dilution. It leaves no place\nfor a pure horror of injustice, such as that which is a great beauty in\nthe innocent. And it leaves no place for a mere tenderness for men as\nmen, such as is the whole fascination of the charitable. Christianity\ncame in here as before. It came in startlingly with a sword, and clove\none thing from another. It divided the crime from the criminal. The\ncriminal we must forgive unto seventy times seven. The crime we must not\nforgive at all. It was not enough that slaves who stole wine inspired\npartly anger and partly kindness. We must be much more angry with theft\nthan before, and yet much kinder to thieves than before. There was room\nfor wrath and love to run wild. And the more I considered Christianity,\nthe more I found that while it had established a rule and order, the\nchief aim of that order was to give room for good things to run wild.\n\nMental and emotional liberty are not so simple as they look. Really they\nrequire almost as careful a balance of laws and conditions as do social\nand political liberty. The ordinary \u00e6sthetic anarchist who sets out to\nfeel everything freely gets knotted at last in a paradox that prevents\nhim feeling at all. He breaks away from home limits to follow poetry.\nBut in ceasing to feel home limits he has ceased to feel the \"Odyssey.\"\nHe is free from national prejudices and outside patriotism. But being\noutside patriotism he is outside \"Henry V.\" Such a literary man is\nsimply outside all literature: he is more of a prisoner than any bigot.\nFor if there is a wall between you and the world, it makes little\ndifference whether you describe yourself as locked in or as locked out.\nWhat we want is not the universality that is outside all normal\nsentiments; we want the universality that is inside all normal\nsentiments. It is all the difference between being free from them, as a\nman is free from a prison, and being free of them as a man is free of a\ncity. I am free from Windsor Castle (that is, I am not forcibly detained\nthere), but I am by no means free of that building. How can man be\napproximately free of fine emotions, able to swing them in a clear space\nwithout breakage or wrong? _This_ was the achievement of this Christian\nparadox of the parallel passions. Granted the primary dogma of the war\nbetween divine and diabolic, the revolt and ruin of the world, their\noptimism and pessimism, as pure poetry, could be loosened like\ncataracts.\n\nSt. Francis, in praising all good, could be a more shouting optimist\nthan Walt Whitman. St. Jerome, in denouncing all evil, could paint the\nworld blacker than Schopenhauer. Both passions were free because both\nwere kept in their place. The optimist could pour out all the praise he\nliked on the gay music of the march, the golden trumpets, and the purple\nbanners going into battle. But he must not call the fight needless. The\npessimist might draw as darkly as he chose the sickening marches or the\nsanguine wounds. But he must not call the fight hopeless. So it was with\nall the other moral problems, with pride, with protest, and with\ncompassion. By defining its main doctrine, the Church not only kept\nseemingly inconsistent things side by side, but, what was more, allowed\nthem to break out in a sort of artistic violence otherwise possible only\nto anarchists. Meekness grew more dramatic than madness. Historic\nChristianity rose into a high and strange _coup de th\u00e9atre_ of\nmorality--things that are to virtue what the crimes of Nero are to vice.\nThe spirits of indignation and of charity took terrible and attractive\nforms, ranging from that monkish fierceness that scourged like a dog the\nfirst and greatest of the Plantagenets, to the sublime pity of St.\nCatherine, who, in the official shambles, kissed the bloody head of the\ncriminal. Poetry could be acted as well as composed. This heroic and\nmonumental manner in ethics has entirely vanished with supernatural\nreligion. They, being humble, could parade themselves; but we are too\nproud to be prominent. Our ethical teachers write reasonably for prison\nreform; but we are not likely to see Mr. Cadbury, or any eminent\nphilanthropist, go into Reading Gaol and embrace the strangled corpse\nbefore it is cast into the quicklime. Our ethical teachers write mildly\nagainst the power of millionaires; but we are not likely to see Mr.\nRockefeller, or any modern tyrant, publicly whipped in Westminster\nAbbey.\n\nThus, the double charges of the secularists, though throwing nothing\nbut darkness and confusion on themselves, throw a real light on the\nfaith. It _is_ true that the historic Church has at once emphasised\ncelibacy and emphasised the family; has at once (if one may put it so)\nbeen fiercely for having children and fiercely for not having children.\nIt has kept them side by side like two strong colours, red and white,\nlike the red and white upon the shield of St. George. It has always had\na healthy hatred of pink. It hates that combination of two colours which\nis the feeble expedient of the philosophers. It hates that evolution of\nblack into white which is tantamount to a dirty grey. In fact, the whole\ntheory of the Church on virginity might be symbolized in the statement\nthat white is a colour: not merely the absence of a colour. All that I\nam urging here can be expressed by saying that Christianity sought in\nmost of these cases to keep two colours co-existent but pure. It is not\na mixture like russet or purple; it is rather like a shot silk, for a\nshot silk is always at right angles, and is in the pattern of the cross.\n\nSo it is also, of course, with the contradictory charges of the\nanti-Christians about submission and slaughter. It _is_ true that the\nChurch told some men to fight and others not to fight; and it _is_ true\nthat those who fought were like thunderbolts and those who did not fight\nwere like statues. All this simply means that the Church preferred to\nuse its Supermen and to use its Tolstoyans. There must be _some_ good in\nthe life of battle, for so many good men have enjoyed being soldiers.\nThere must be _some_ good in the idea of non-resistance, for so many\ngood men seem to enjoy being Quakers. All that the Church did (so far as\nthat goes) was to prevent either of these good things from ousting the\nother. They existed side by side. The Tolstoyans, having all the\nscruples of monks, simply became monks. The Quakers became a club\ninstead of becoming a sect. Monks said all that Tolstoy says; they\npoured out lucid lamentations about the cruelty of battles and the\nvanity of revenge. But the Tolstoyans are not quite right enough to run\nthe whole world; and in the ages of faith they were not allowed to run\nit. The world did not lose the last charge of Sir James Douglas or the\nbanner of Joan the Maid. And sometimes this pure gentleness and this\npure fierceness met and justified their juncture; the paradox of all the\nprophets was fulfilled, and, in the soul of St. Louis, the lion lay down\nwith the lamb. But remember that this text is too lightly interpreted.\nIt is constantly assured, especially in our Tolstoyan tendencies, that\nwhen the lion lies down with the lamb the lion becomes lamb-like. But\nthat is brutal annexation and imperialism on the part of the lamb. That\nis simply the lamb absorbing the lion instead of the lion eating the\nlamb. The real problem is--Can the lion lie down with the lamb and still\nretain his royal ferocity? _That_ is the problem the Church attempted;\n_that_ is the miracle she achieved.\n\nThis is what I have called guessing the hidden eccentricities of life.\nThis is knowing that a man's heart is to the left and not in the middle.\nThis is knowing not only that the earth is round, but knowing exactly\nwhere it is flat. Christian doctrine detected the oddities of life. It\nnot only discovered the law, but it foresaw the exceptions. Those\nunderrate Christianity who say that it discovered mercy; any one might\ndiscover mercy. In fact every one did. But to discover a plan for being\nmerciful and also severe--_that_ was to anticipate a strange need of\nhuman nature. For no one wants to be forgiven for a big sin as if it\nwere a little one. Any one might say that we should be neither quite\nmiserable nor quite happy. But to find out how far one _may_ be quite\nmiserable without making it impossible to be quite happy--that was a\ndiscovery in psychology. Any one might say, \"Neither swagger nor\ngrovel\"; and it would have been a limit. But to say, \"Here you can\nswagger and there you can grovel\"--that was an emancipation.\n\nThis was the big fact about Christian ethics; the discovery of the new\nbalance. Paganism had been like a pillar of marble, upright because\nproportioned with symmetry. Christianity was like a huge and ragged and\nromantic rock, which, though it sways on its pedestal at a touch, yet,\nbecause its exaggerated excrescences exactly balance each other, is\nenthroned there for a thousand years. In a Gothic cathedral the columns\nwere all different, but they were all necessary. Every support seemed an\naccidental and fantastic support; every buttress was a flying buttress.\nSo in Christendom apparent accidents balanced. Becket wore a hair shirt\nunder his gold and crimson, and there is much to be said for the\ncombination; for Becket got the benefit of the hair shirt while the\npeople in the street got the benefit of the crimson and gold. It is at\nleast better than the manner of the modern millionaire, who has the\nblack and the drab outwardly for others, and the gold next his heart.\nBut the balance was not always in one man's body as in Becket's; the\nbalance was often distributed over the whole body of Christendom.\nBecause a man prayed and fasted on the Northern snows, flowers could be\nflung at his festival in the Southern cities; and because fanatics drank\nwater on the sands of Syria, men could still drink cider in the orchards\nof England. This is what makes Christendom at once so much more\nperplexing and so much more interesting than the Pagan empire; just as\nAmiens Cathedral is not better but more interesting than the Parthenon.\nIf any one wants a modern proof of all this, let him consider the\ncurious fact that, under Christianity, Europe (while remaining a unity)\nhas broken up into individual nations. Patriotism is a perfect example\nof this deliberate balancing of one emphasis against another emphasis.\nThe instinct of the Pagan empire would have said, \"You shall all be\nRoman citizens, and grow alike; let the German grow less slow and\nreverent; the Frenchmen less experimental and swift.\" But the instinct\nof Christian Europe says, \"Let the German remain slow and reverent, that\nthe Frenchman may the more safely be swift and experimental. We will\nmake an equipoise out of these excesses. The absurdity called Germany\nshall correct the insanity called France.\"\n\nLast and most important, it is exactly this which explains what is so\ninexplicable to all the modern critics of the history of Christianity. I\nmean the monstrous wars about small points of theology, the earthquakes\nof emotion about a gesture or a word. It was only a matter of an inch;\nbut an inch is everything when you are balancing. The Church could not\nafford to swerve a hair's breadth on some things if she was to continue\nher great and daring experiment of the irregular equilibrium. Once let\none idea become less powerful and some other idea would become too\npowerful. It was no flock of sheep the Christian shepherd was leading,\nbut a herd of bulls and tigers, of terrible ideals and devouring\ndoctrines, each one of them strong enough to turn to a false religion\nand lay waste the world. Remember that the Church went in specifically\nfor dangerous ideas; she was a lion tamer. The idea of birth through a\nHoly Spirit, of the death of a divine being, of the forgiveness of sins,\nor the fulfilment of prophecies, are ideas which, any one can see, need\nbut a touch to turn them into something blasphemous or ferocious. The\nsmallest link was let drop by the artificers of the Mediterranean, and\nthe lion of ancestral pessimism burst his chain in the forgotten forests\nof the north. Of these theological equalisations I have to speak\nafterwards. Here it is enough to notice that if some small mistake were\nmade in doctrine, huge blunders might be made in human happiness. A\nsentence phrased wrong about the nature of symbolism would have broken\nall the best statues in Europe. A slip in the definitions might stop all\nthe dances; might wither all the Christmas trees or break all the Easter\neggs. Doctrines had to be defined within strict limits, even in order\nthat man might enjoy general human liberties. The Church had to be\ncareful, if only that the world might be careless.\n\nThis is the thrilling romance of Orthodoxy. People have fallen into a\nfoolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum, and\nsafe. There never was anything so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy.\nIt was sanity: and to be sane is more dramatic than to be mad. It was\nthe equilibrium of a man behind madly rushing horses, seeming to stoop\nthis way and to sway that, yet in every attitude having the grace of\nstatuary and the accuracy of arithmetic. The Church in its early days\nwent fierce and fast with any warhorse; yet it is utterly unhistoric to\nsay that she merely went mad along one idea, like a vulgar fanaticism.\nShe swerved to left and right, so as exactly to avoid enormous\nobstacles. She left on one hand the huge bulk of Arianism, buttressed by\nall the worldly powers to make Christianity too worldly. The next\ninstant she was swerving to avoid an orientalism, which would have made\nit too unworldly. The orthodox Church never took the tame course or\naccepted the conventions; the orthodox Church was never respectable. It\nwould have been easier to have accepted the earthly power of the Arians.\nIt would have been easy, in the Calvinistic seventeenth century, to fall\ninto the bottomless pit of predestination. It is easy to be a madman: it\nis easy to be a heretic. It is always easy to let the age have its head;\nthe difficult thing is to keep one's own. It is always easy to be a\nmodernist; as it is easy to be a snob. To have fallen into any of those\nopen traps of error and exaggeration which fashion after fashion and\nsect after sect set along the historic path of Christendom--that would\nindeed have been simple. It is always simple to fall; there are an\ninfinity of angles at which one falls, only one at which one stands. To\nhave fallen into any one of the fads from Gnosticism to Christian\nScience would indeed have been obvious and tame. But to have avoided\nthem all has been one whirling adventure; and in my vision the heavenly\nchariot flies thundering through the ages, the dull heresies sprawling\nand prostrate, the wild truth reeling but erect.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.--_The Eternal Revolution_\n\n\nThe following propositions have been urged: First, that some faith in\nour life is required even to improve it; second, that some\ndissatisfaction with things as they are is necessary even in order to be\nsatisfied; third, that to have this necessary content and necessary\ndiscontent it is not sufficient to have the obvious equilibrium of the\nStoic. For mere resignation has neither the gigantic levity of pleasure\nnor the superb intolerance of pain. There is a vital objection to the\nadvice merely to grin and bear it. The objection is that if you merely\nbear it, you do not grin. Greek heroes do not grin; but gargoyles\ndo--because they are Christian. And when a Christian is pleased, he is\n(in the most exact sense) frightfully pleased; his pleasure is\nfrightful. Christ prophesied the whole of Gothic architecture in that\nhour when nervous and respectable people (such people as now object to\nbarrel organs) objected to the shouting of the gutter-snipes of\nJerusalem. He said, \"If these were silent, the very stones would cry\nout.\" Under the impulse of His spirit arose like a clamorous chorus the\nfacades of the medi\u00e6val cathedrals, thronged with shouting faces and\nopen mouths. The prophecy has fulfilled itself: the very stones cry out.\n\nIf these things be conceded, though only for argument, we may take up\nwhere we left it the thread of the thought of the natural man, called by\nthe Scotch (with regrettable familiarity), \"The Old Man.\" We can ask the\nnext question so obviously in front of us. Some satisfaction is needed\neven to make things better. But what do we mean by making things better?\nMost modern talk on this matter is a mere argument in a circle--that\ncircle which we have already made the symbol of madness and of mere\nrationalism. Evolution is only good if it produces good; good is only\ngood if it helps evolution. The elephant stands on the tortoise, and the\ntortoise on the elephant.\n\nObviously, it will not do to take our ideal from the principle in\nnature; for the simple reason that (except for some human or divine\ntheory), there is no principle in nature. For instance, the cheap\nanti-democrat of to-day will tell you solemnly that there is no equality\nin nature. He is right, but he does not see the logical addendum. There\nis no equality in nature; also there is no inequality in nature.\nInequality, as much as equality, implies a standard of value. To read\naristocracy into the anarchy of animals is just as sentimental as to\nread democracy into it. Both aristocracy and democracy are human ideals:\nthe one saying that all men are valuable, the other that some men are\nmore valuable. But nature does not say that cats are more valuable than\nmice; nature makes no remark on the subject. She does not even say that\nthe cat is enviable or the mouse pitiable. We think the cat superior\nbecause we have (or most of us have) a particular philosophy to the\neffect that life is better than death. But if the mouse were a German\npessimist mouse, he might not think that the cat had beaten him at all.\nHe might think he had beaten the cat by getting to the grave first. Or\nhe might feel that he had actually inflicted frightful punishment on the\ncat by keeping him alive. Just as a microbe might feel proud of\nspreading a pestilence, so the pessimistic mouse might exult to think\nthat he was renewing in the cat the torture of conscious existence. It\nall depends on the philosophy of the mouse. You cannot even say that\nthere is victory or superiority in nature unless you have some doctrine\nabout what things are superior. You cannot even say that the cat scores\nunless there is a system of scoring. You cannot even say that the cat\ngets the best of it unless there is some best to be got.\n\nWe cannot, then, get the ideal itself from nature, and as we follow here\nthe first and natural speculation, we will leave out (for the present)\nthe idea of getting it from God. We must have our own vision. But the\nattempts of most moderns to express it are highly vague.\n\nSome fall back simply on the clock: they talk as if mere passage through\ntime brought some superiority; so that even a man of the first mental\ncalibre carelessly uses the phrase that human morality is never up to\ndate. How can anything be up to date? a date has no character. How can\none say that Christmas celebrations are not suitable to the twenty-fifth\nof a month? What the writer meant, of course, was that the majority is\nbehind his favourite minority--or in front of it. Other vague modern\npeople take refuge in material metaphors; in fact, this is the chief\nmark of vague modern people. Not daring to define their doctrine of what\nis good, they use physical figures of speech without stint or shame,\nand, what is worst of all, seem to think these cheap analogies are\nexquisitely spiritual and superior to the old morality. Thus they think\nit intellectual to talk about things being \"high.\" It is at least the\nreverse of intellectual; it is a mere phrase from a steeple or a\nweathercock. \"Tommy was a good boy\" is a pure philosophical statement,\nworthy of Plato or Aquinas. \"Tommy lived the higher life\" is a gross\nmetaphor from a ten-foot rule.\n\nThis, incidentally, is almost the whole weakness of Nietzsche, whom some\nare representing as a bold and strong thinker. No one will deny that he\nwas a poetical and suggestive thinker; but he was quite the reverse of\nstrong. He was not at all bold. He never put his own meaning before\nhimself in bald abstract words: as did Aristotle and Calvin, and even\nKarl Marx, the hard, fearless men of thought. Nietzsche always escaped a\nquestion by a physical metaphor, like a cheery minor poet. He said,\n\"beyond good and evil,\" because he had not the courage to say, \"more\ngood than good and evil,\" or, \"more evil than good and evil.\" Had he\nfaced his thought without metaphors, he would have seen that it was\nnonsense. So, when he describes his hero, he does not dare to say, \"the\npurer man,\" or \"the happier man,\" or \"the sadder man,\" for all these are\nideas; and ideas are alarming. He says \"the upper man,\" or \"over man,\" a\nphysical metaphor from acrobats or alpine climbers. Nietzsche is truly\na very timid thinker. He does not really know in the least what sort of\nman he wants evolution to produce. And if he does not know, certainly\nthe ordinary evolutionists, who talk about things being \"higher,\" do not\nknow either.\n\nThen again, some people fall back on sheer submission and sitting still.\nNature is going to do something some day; nobody knows what, and nobody\nknows when. We have no reason for acting, and no reason for not acting.\nIf anything happens it is right: if anything is prevented it was wrong.\nAgain, some people try to anticipate nature by doing something, by doing\nanything. Because we may possibly grow wings they cut off their legs.\nYet nature may be trying to make them centipedes for all they know.\n\nLastly, there is a fourth class of people who take whatever it is that\nthey happen to want, and say that that is the ultimate aim of evolution.\nAnd these are the only sensible people. This is the only really healthy\nway with the word evolution, to work for what you want, and to call\n_that_ evolution. The only intelligible sense that progress or advance\ncan have among men, is that we have a definite vision, and that we wish\nto make the whole world like that vision. If you like to put it so, the\nessence of the doctrine is that what we have around us is the mere\nmethod and preparation for something that we have to create. This is not\na world, but rather the materials for a world. God has given us not so\nmuch the colours of a picture as the colours of a palette. But He has\nalso given us a subject, a model, a fixed vision. We must be clear about\nwhat we want to paint. This adds a further principle to our previous\nlist of principles. We have said we must be fond of this world, even in\norder to change it. We now add that we must be fond of another world\n(real or imaginary) in order to have something to change it to.\n\nWe need not debate about the mere words evolution or progress:\npersonally I prefer to call it reform. For reform implies form. It\nimplies that we are trying to shape the world in a particular image; to\nmake it something that we see already in our minds. Evolution is a\nmetaphor from mere automatic unrolling. Progress is a metaphor from\nmerely walking along a road--very likely the wrong road. But reform is a\nmetaphor for reasonable and determined men: it means that we see a\ncertain thing out of shape and we mean to put it into shape. And we\nknow what shape.\n\nNow here comes in the whole collapse and huge blunder of our age. We\nhave mixed up two different things, two opposite things. Progress should\nmean that we are always changing the world to suit the vision. Progress\ndoes mean (just now) that we are always changing the vision. It should\nmean that we are slow but sure in bringing justice and mercy among men:\nit does mean that we are very swift in doubting the desirability of\njustice and mercy: a wild page from any Prussian sophist makes men doubt\nit. Progress should mean that we are always walking towards the New\nJerusalem. It does mean that the New Jerusalem is always walking away\nfrom us. We are not altering the real to suit the ideal. We are altering\nthe ideal: it is easier.\n\nSilly examples are always simpler; let us suppose a man wanted a\nparticular kind of world; say, a blue world. He would have no cause to\ncomplain of the slightness or swiftness of his task; he might toil for a\nlong time at the transformation; he could work away (in every sense)\nuntil all was blue. He could have heroic adventures; the putting of the\nlast touches to a blue tiger. He could have fairy dreams; the dawn of a\nblue moon. But if he worked hard, that high-minded reformer would\ncertainly (from his own point of view) leave the world better and bluer\nthan he found it. If he altered a blade of grass to his favourite colour\nevery day, he would get on slowly. But if he altered his favourite\ncolour every day, he would not get on at all. If, after reading a fresh\nphilosopher, he started to paint everything red or yellow, his work\nwould be thrown away: there would be nothing to show except a few blue\ntigers walking about, specimens of his early bad manner. This is exactly\nthe position of the average modern thinker. It will be said that this is\navowedly a preposterous example. But it is literally the fact of recent\nhistory. The great and grave changes in our political civilization all\nbelonged to the early nineteenth century, not to the later. They\nbelonged to the black and white epoch when men believed fixedly in\nToryism, in Protestantism, in Calvinism, in Reform, and not unfrequently\nin Revolution. And whatever each man believed in he hammered at\nsteadily, without scepticism: and there was a time when the Established\nChurch might have fallen, and the House of Lords nearly fell. It was\nbecause Radicals were wise enough to be constant and consistent; it was\nbecause Radicals were wise enough to be Conservative. But in the\nexisting atmosphere there is not enough time and tradition in Radicalism\nto pull anything down. There is a great deal of truth in Lord Hugh\nCecil's suggestion (made in a fine speech) that the era of change is\nover, and that ours is an era of conservation and repose. But probably\nit would pain Lord Hugh Cecil if he realised (what is certainly the\ncase) that ours is only an age of conservation because it is an age of\ncomplete unbelief. Let beliefs fade fast and frequently, if you wish\ninstitutions to remain the same. The more the life of the mind is\nunhinged, the more the machinery of matter will be left to itself. The\nnet result of all our political suggestions, Collectivism, Tolstoyanism,\nNeo-Feudalism, Communism, Anarchy, Scientific Bureaucracy--the plain\nfruit of all of them is that the Monarchy and the House of Lords will\nremain. The net result of all the new religions will be that the Church\nof England will not (for heaven knows how long) be disestablished. It\nwas Karl Marx, Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Cunninghame Grahame, Bernard Shaw and\nAuberon Herbert, who between them, with bowed gigantic backs, bore up\nthe throne of the Archbishop of Canterbury.\n\nWe may say broadly that free thought is the best of all the safeguards\nagainst freedom. Managed in a modern style the emancipation of the\nslave's mind is the best way of preventing the emancipation of the\nslave. Teach him to worry about whether he wants to be free, and he will\nnot free himself. Again, it may be said that this instance is remote or\nextreme. But, again, it is exactly true of the men in the streets around\nus. It is true that the negro slave, being a debased barbarian, will\nprobably have either a human affection of loyalty, or a human affection\nfor liberty. But the man we see every day--the worker in Mr. Gradgrind's\nfactory, the little clerk in Mr. Gradgrind's office--he is too mentally\nworried to believe in freedom. He is kept quiet with revolutionary\nliterature. He is calmed and kept in his place by a constant succession\nof wild philosophies. He is a Marxian one day, a Nietzscheite the next\nday, a Superman (probably) the next day; and a slave every day. The only\nthing that remains after all the philosophies is the factory. The only\nman who gains by all the philosophies is Gradgrind. It would be worth\nhis while to keep his commercial helotry supplied with sceptical\nliterature. And now I come to think of it, of course, Gradgrind is\nfamous for giving libraries. He shows his sense. All modern books are on\nhis side. As long as the vision of heaven is always changing, the vision\nof earth will be exactly the same. No ideal will remain long enough to\nbe realised, or even partly realised. The modern young man will never\nchange his environment; for he will always change his mind.\n\nThis, therefore, is our first requirement about the ideal towards which\nprogress is directed; it must be fixed. Whistler used to make many rapid\nstudies of a sitter; it did not matter if he tore up twenty portraits.\nBut it would matter if he looked up twenty times, and each time saw a\nnew person sitting placidly for his portrait. So it does not matter\n(comparatively speaking) how often humanity fails to imitate its ideal;\nfor then all its old failures are fruitful. But it does frightfully\nmatter how often humanity changes its ideal; for then all its old\nfailures are fruitless. The question therefore becomes this: How can we\nkeep the artist discontented with his pictures while preventing him from\nbeing vitally discontented with his art? How can we make a man always\ndissatisfied with his work, yet always satisfied with working? How can\nwe make sure that the portrait painter will throw the portrait out of\nwindow instead of taking the natural and more human course of throwing\nthe sitter out of window?\n\nA strict rule is not only necessary for ruling; it is also necessary for\nrebelling. This fixed and familiar ideal is necessary to any sort of\nrevolution. Man will sometimes act slowly upon new ideas; but he will\nonly act swiftly upon old ideas. If I am merely to float or fade or\nevolve, it may be towards something anarchic; but if I am to riot, it\nmust be for something respectable. This is the whole weakness of certain\nschools of progress and moral evolution. They suggest that there has\nbeen a slow movement towards morality, with an imperceptible ethical\nchange in every year or at every instant. There is only one great\ndisadvantage in this theory. It talks of a slow movement towards\njustice; but it does not permit a swift movement. A man is not allowed\nto leap up and declare a certain state of things to be intrinsically\nintolerable. To make the matter clear, it is better to take a specific\nexample. Certain of the idealistic vegetarians, such as Mr. Salt, say\nthat the time has now come for eating no meat; by implication they\nassume that at one time it was right to eat meat, and they suggest (in\nwords that could be quoted) that some day it may be wrong to eat milk\nand eggs. I do not discuss here the question of what is justice to\nanimals. I only say that whatever is justice ought, under given\nconditions, to be prompt justice. If an animal is wronged, we ought to\nbe able to rush to his rescue. But how can we rush if we are, perhaps,\nin advance of our time? How can we rush to catch a train which may not\narrive for a few centuries? How can I denounce a man for skinning cats,\nif he is only now what I may possibly become in drinking a glass of\nmilk? A splendid and insane Russian sect ran about taking all the cattle\nout of all the carts. How can I pluck up courage to take the horse out\nof my hansom-cab, when I do not know whether my evolutionary watch is\nonly a little fast or the cabman's a little slow? Suppose I say to a\nsweater, \"Slavery suited one stage of evolution.\" And suppose he\nanswers, \"And sweating suits this stage of evolution.\" How can I answer\nif there is no eternal test? If sweaters can be behind the current\nmorality, why should not philanthropists be in front of it? What on\nearth is the current morality, except in its literal sense--the morality\nthat is always running away?\n\nThus we may say that a permanent ideal is as necessary to the innovator\nas to the conservative; it is necessary whether we wish the king's\norders to be promptly executed or whether we only wish the king to be\npromptly executed. The guillotine has many sins, but to do it justice\nthere is nothing evolutionary about it. The favourite evolutionary\nargument finds its best answer in the axe. The Evolutionist says, \"Where\ndo you draw the line?\" the Revolutionist answers, \"I draw it _here_:\nexactly between your head and body.\" There must at any given moment be\nan abstract right and wrong if any blow is to be struck; there must be\nsomething eternal if there is to be anything sudden. Therefore for all\nintelligible human purposes, for altering things or for keeping things\nas they are, for founding a system for ever, as in China, or for\naltering it every month as in the early French Revolution, it is equally\nnecessary that the vision should be a fixed vision. This is our first\nrequirement.\n\nWhen I had written this down, I felt once again the presence of\nsomething else in the discussion: as a man hears a church bell above the\nsound of the street. Something seemed to be saying, \"My ideal at least\nis fixed; for it was fixed before the foundations of the world. My\nvision of perfection assuredly cannot be altered; for it is called\nEden. You may alter the place to which you are going; but you cannot\nalter the place from which you have come. To the orthodox there must\nalways be a case for revolution; for in the hearts of men God has been\nput under the feet of Satan. In the upper world hell once rebelled\nagainst heaven. But in this world heaven is rebelling against hell. For\nthe orthodox there can always be a revolution; for a revolution is a\nrestoration. At any instant you may strike a blow for the perfection\nwhich no man has seen since Adam. No unchanging custom, no changing\nevolution can make the original good anything but good. Man may have had\nconcubines as long as cows have had horns: still they are not a part of\nhim if they are sinful. Men may have been under oppression ever since\nfish were under water; still they ought not to be, if oppression is\nsinful. The chain may seem as natural to the slave, or the paint to the\nharlot, as does the plume to the bird or the burrow to the fox; still\nthey are not, if they are sinful. I lift my prehistoric legend to defy\nall your history. Your vision is not merely a fixture: it is a fact.\" I\npaused to note the new coincidence of Christianity: but I passed on.\n\nI passed on to the next necessity of any ideal of progress. Some people\n(as we have said) seem to believe in an automatic and impersonal\nprogress in the nature of things. But it is clear that no political\nactivity can be encouraged by saying that progress is natural and\ninevitable; that is not a reason for being active, but rather a reason\nfor being lazy. If we are bound to improve, we need not trouble to\nimprove. The pure doctrine of progress is the best of all reasons for\nnot being a progressive. But it is to none of these obvious comments\nthat I wish primarily to call attention.\n\nThe only arresting point is this: that if we suppose improvement to be\nnatural, it must be fairly simple. The world might conceivably be\nworking towards one consummation, but hardly towards any particular\narrangement of many qualities. To take our original simile: Nature by\nherself may be growing more blue; that is, a process so simple that it\nmight be impersonal. But Nature cannot be making a careful picture made\nof many picked colours, unless Nature is personal. If the end of the\nworld were mere darkness or mere light it might come as slowly and\ninevitably as dusk or dawn. But if the end of the world is to be a piece\nof elaborate and artistic chiaroscuro, then there must be design in it,\neither human or divine. The world, through mere time, might grow black\nlike an old picture, or white like an old coat; but if it is turned\ninto a particular piece of black and white art--then there is an artist.\n\nIf the distinction be not evident, I give an ordinary instance. We\nconstantly hear a particularly cosmic creed from the modern\nhumanitarians; I use the word humanitarian in the ordinary sense, as\nmeaning one who upholds the claims of all creatures against those of\nhumanity. They suggest that through the ages we have been growing more\nand more humane, that is to say, that one after another, groups or\nsections of beings, slaves, children, women, cows, or what not, have\nbeen gradually admitted to mercy or to justice. They say that we once\nthought it right to eat men (we didn't); but I am not here concerned\nwith their history, which is highly unhistorical. As a fact,\nanthropophagy is certainly a decadent thing, not a primitive one. It is\nmuch more likely that modern men will eat human flesh out of affectation\nthan that primitive man ever ate it out of ignorance. I am here only\nfollowing the outlines of their argument, which consists in maintaining\nthat man has been progressively more lenient, first to citizens, then\nto slaves, then to animals, and then (presumably) to plants. I think it\nwrong to sit on a man. Soon, I shall think it wrong to sit on a horse.\nEventually (I suppose) I shall think it wrong to sit on a chair. That is\nthe drive of the argument. And for this argument it can be said that it\nis possible to talk of it in terms of evolution or inevitable progress.\nA perpetual tendency to touch fewer and fewer things might, one feels,\nbe a mere brute unconscious tendency, like that of a species to produce\nfewer and fewer children. This drift may be really evolutionary, because\nit is stupid.\n\nDarwinism can be used to back up two mad moralities, but it cannot be\nused to back up a single sane one. The kinship and competition of all\nliving creatures can be used as a reason for being insanely cruel or\ninsanely sentimental; but not for a healthy love of animals. On the\nevolutionary basis you may be inhumane, or you may be absurdly humane;\nbut you cannot be human. That you and a tiger are one may be a reason\nfor being tender to a tiger. Or it may be a reason for being as cruel as\nthe tiger. It is one way to train the tiger to imitate you, it is a\nshorter way to imitate the tiger. But in neither case does evolution\ntell you how to treat a tiger reasonably, that is, to admire his\nstripes while avoiding his claws.\n\nIf you want to treat a tiger reasonably, you must go back to the garden\nof Eden. For the obstinate reminder continued to recur: only the\nsupernatural has taken a sane view of Nature. The essence of all\npantheism, evolutionism, and modern cosmic religion is really in this\nproposition: that Nature is our mother. Unfortunately, if you regard\nNature as a mother, you discover that she is a step-mother. The main\npoint of Christianity was this: that Nature is not our mother: Nature is\nour sister. We can be proud of her beauty, since we have the same\nfather; but she has no authority over us; we have to admire, but not to\nimitate. This gives to the typically Christian pleasure in this earth a\nstrange touch of lightness that is almost frivolity. Nature was a solemn\nmother to the worshippers of Isis and Cybele. Nature was a solemn mother\nto Wordsworth or to Emerson. But Nature is not solemn to Francis of\nAssisi or to George Herbert. To St. Francis, Nature is a sister, and\neven a younger sister: a little, dancing sister, to be laughed at as\nwell as loved.\n\nThis, however, is hardly our main point at present; I have admitted it\nonly in order to show how constantly, and as it were accidentally, the\nkey would fit the smallest doors. Our main point is here, that if there\nbe a mere trend of impersonal improvement in Nature, it must presumably\nbe a simple trend towards some simple triumph. One can imagine that some\nautomatic tendency in biology might work for giving us longer and longer\nnoses. But the question is, do we want to have longer and longer noses?\nI fancy not; I believe that we most of us want to say to our noses,\n\"Thus far, and no farther; and here shall thy proud point be stayed\": we\nrequire a nose of such length as may ensure an interesting face. But we\ncannot imagine a mere biological trend towards producing interesting\nfaces; because an interesting face is one particular arrangement of\neyes, nose, and mouth, in a most complex relation to each other.\nProportion cannot be a drift: it is either an accident or a design. So\nwith the ideal of human morality and its relation to the humanitarians\nand the anti-humanitarians. It is conceivable that we are going more and\nmore to keep our hands off things: not to drive horses; not to pick\nflowers. We may eventually be bound not to disturb a man's mind even by\nargument; not to disturb the sleep of birds even by coughing. The\nultimate apotheosis would appear to be that of a man sitting quite\nstill, not daring to stir for fear of disturbing a fly, nor to eat for\nfear of incommoding a microbe. To so crude a consummation as that we\nmight perhaps unconsciously drift. But do we want so crude a\nconsummation? Similarly, we might unconsciously evolve along the\nopposite or Nietzscheian line of development--superman crushing superman\nin one tower of tyrants until the universe is smashed up for fun. But do\nwe want the universe smashed up for fun? Is it not quite clear that what\nwe really hope for is one particular management and proposition of these\ntwo things; a certain amount of restraint and respect, a certain amount\nof energy and mastery. If our life is ever really as beautiful as a\nfairy-tale, we shall have to remember that all the beauty of a\nfairy-tale lies in this: that the prince has a wonder which just stops\nshort of being fear. If he is afraid of the giant, there is an end of\nhim; but also if he is not astonished at the giant, there is an end of\nthe fairy-tale. The whole point depends upon his being at once humble\nenough to wonder, and haughty enough to defy. So our attitude to the\ngiant of the world must not merely be increasing delicacy or increasing\ncontempt: it must be one particular proportion of the two--which is\nexactly right. We must have in us enough reverence for all things\noutside us to make us tread fearfully on the grass. We must also have\nenough disdain for all things outside us, to make us, on due occasion,\nspit at the stars. Yet these two things (if we are to be good or happy)\nmust be combined, not in any combination, but in one particular\ncombination. The perfect happiness of men on the earth (if it ever\ncomes) will not be a flat and solid thing, like the satisfaction of\nanimals. It will be an exact and perilous balance; like that of a\ndesperate romance. Man must have just enough faith in himself to have\nadventures, and just enough doubt of himself to enjoy them.\n\nThis, then, is our second requirement for the ideal of progress. First,\nit must be fixed; second, it must be composite. It must not (if it is to\nsatisfy our souls) be the mere victory of some one thing swallowing up\neverything else, love or pride or peace or adventure; it must be a\ndefinite picture composed of these elements in their best proportion and\nrelation. I am not concerned at this moment to deny that some such good\nculmination may be, by the constitution of things, reserved for the\nhuman race. I only point out that if this composite happiness is fixed\nfor us it must be fixed by some mind; for only a mind can place the\nexact proportions of a composite happiness. If the beatification of the\nworld is a mere work of nature, then it must be as simple as the\nfreezing of the world, or the burning up of the world. But if the\nbeatification of the world is not a work of nature but a work of art,\nthen it involves an artist. And here again my contemplation was cloven\nby the ancient voice which said, \"I could have told you all this a long\ntime ago. If there is any certain progress it can only be my kind of\nprogress, the progress towards a complete city of virtues and\ndominations where righteousness and peace contrive to kiss each other.\nAn impersonal force might be leading you to a wilderness of perfect\nflatness or a peak of perfect height. But only a personal God can\npossibly be leading you (if, indeed, you are being led) to a city with\njust streets and architectural proportions, a city in which each of you\ncan contribute exactly the right amount of your own colour to the\nmany-coloured coat of Joseph.\"\n\nTwice again, therefore, Christianity had come in with the exact answer\nthat I required. I had said, \"The ideal must be fixed,\" and the Church\nhad answered, \"Mine is literally fixed, for it existed before anything\nelse.\" I said secondly, \"It must be artistically combined, like a\npicture\"; and the Church answered, \"Mine is quite literally a picture,\nfor I know who painted it.\" Then I went on to the third thing, which, as\nit seemed to me, was needed for an Utopia or goal of progress. And of\nall the three it is infinitely the hardest to express. Perhaps it might\nbe put thus: that we need watchfulness even in Utopia, lest we fall from\nUtopia as we fell from Eden.\n\nWe have remarked that one reason offered for being a progressive is that\nthings naturally tend to grow better. But the only real reason for being\na progressive is that things naturally tend to grow worse. The\ncorruption in things is not only the best argument for being\nprogressive; it is also the only argument against being conservative.\nThe conservative theory would really be quite sweeping and unanswerable\nif it were not for this one fact. But all conservatism is based upon the\nidea that if you leave things alone you leave them as they are. But you\ndo not. If you leave a thing alone you leave it to a torrent of change.\nIf you leave a white post alone it will soon be a black post. If you\nparticularly want it to be white you must be always painting it again;\nthat is, you must be always having a revolution. Briefly, if you want\nthe old white post you must have a new white post. But this which is\ntrue even of inanimate things is in a quite special and terrible sense\ntrue of all human things. An almost unnatural vigilance is really\nrequired of the citizen because of the horrible rapidity with which\nhuman institutions grow old. It is the custom in passing romance and\njournalism to talk of men suffering under old tyrannies. But, as a fact,\nmen have almost always suffered under new tyrannies; under tyrannies\nthat had been public liberties hardly twenty years before. Thus England\nwent mad with joy over the patriotic monarchy of Elizabeth; and then\n(almost immediately afterwards) went mad with rage in the trap of the\ntyranny of Charles the First. So, again, in France the monarchy became\nintolerable, not just after it had been tolerated, but just after it had\nbeen adored. The son of Louis the well-beloved was Louis the\nguillotined. So in the same way in England in the nineteenth century the\nRadical manufacturer was entirely trusted as a mere tribune of the\npeople, until suddenly we heard the cry of the Socialist that he was a\ntyrant eating the people like bread. So again, we have almost up to the\nlast instant trusted the newspapers as organs of public opinion. Just\nrecently some of us have seen (not slowly, but with a start) that they\nare obviously nothing of the kind. They are, by the nature of the case,\nthe hobbies of a few rich men. We have not any need to rebel against\nantiquity; we have to rebel against novelty. It is the new rulers, the\ncapitalist or the editor, who really hold up the modern world. There is\nno fear that a modern king will attempt to override the constitution; it\nis more likely that he will ignore the constitution and work behind its\nback; he will take no advantage of his kingly power; it is more likely\nthat he will take advantage of his kingly powerlessness, of the fact\nthat he is free from criticism and publicity. For the king is the most\nprivate person of our time. It will not be necessary for any one to\nfight again against the proposal of a censorship of the press. We do not\nneed a censorship of the press. We have a censorship by the press.\n\nThis startling swiftness with which popular systems turn oppressive is\nthe third fact for which we shall ask our perfect theory of progress to\nallow. It must always be on the look out for every privilege being\nabused, for every working right becoming a wrong. In this matter I am\nentirely on the side of the revolutionists. They are really right to be\nalways suspecting human institutions; they are right not to put their\ntrust in princes nor in any child of man. The chieftain chosen to be the\nfriend of the people becomes the enemy of the people; the newspaper\nstarted to tell the truth now exists to prevent the truth being told.\nHere, I say, I felt that I was really at last on the side of the\nrevolutionary. And then I caught my breath again: for I remembered that\nI was once again on the side of the orthodox.\n\nChristianity spoke again and said, \"I have always maintained that men\nwere naturally backsliders; that human virtue tended of its own nature\nto rust or to rot; I have always said that human beings as such go\nwrong, especially happy human beings, especially proud and prosperous\nhuman beings. This eternal revolution, this suspicion sustained through\ncenturies, you (being a vague modern) call the doctrine of progress. If\nyou were a philosopher you would call it, as I do, the doctrine of\noriginal sin. You may call it the cosmic advance as much as you like; I\ncall it what it is--the Fall.\n\nI have spoken of orthodoxy coming in like a sword; here I confess it\ncame in like a battle-axe. For really (when I came to think of it)\nChristianity is the only thing left that has any real right to question\nthe power of the well-nurtured or the well-bred. I have listened often\nenough to Socialists, or even to democrats, saying that the physical\nconditions of the poor must of necessity make them mentally and morally\ndegraded. I have listened to scientific men (and there are still\nscientific men not opposed to democracy) saying that if we give the poor\nhealthier conditions vice and wrong will disappear. I have listened to\nthem with a horrible attention, with a hideous fascination. For it was\nlike watching a man energetically sawing from the tree the branch he is\nsitting on. If these happy democrats could prove their case, they would\nstrike democracy dead. If the poor are thus utterly demoralized, it may\nor may not be practical to raise them. But it is certainly quite\npractical to disfranchise them. If the man with a bad bedroom cannot\ngive a good vote, then the first and swiftest deduction is that he shall\ngive no vote. The governing class may not unreasonably say, \"It may take\nus some time to reform his bedroom. But if he is the brute you say, it\nwill take him very little time to ruin our country. Therefore we will\ntake your hint and not give him the chance.\" It fills me with horrible\namusement to observe the way in which the earnest Socialist\nindustriously lays the foundation of all aristocracy, expatiating\nblandly upon the evident unfitness of the poor to rule. It is like\nlistening to somebody at an evening party apologising for entering\nwithout evening dress, and explaining that he had recently been\nintoxicated, had a personal habit of taking off his clothes in the\nstreet, and had, moreover, only just changed from prison uniform. At any\nmoment, one feels, the host might say that really, if it was as bad as\nthat, he need not come in at all. So it is when the ordinary Socialist,\nwith a beaming face, proves that the poor, after their smashing\nexperiences, cannot be really trustworthy. At any moment the rich may\nsay, \"Very well, then, we won't trust them,\" and bang the door in his\nface. On the basis of Mr. Blatchford's view of heredity and environment,\nthe case for the aristocracy is quite overwhelming. If clean homes and\nclean air make clean souls, why not give the power (for the present at\nany rate) to those who undoubtedly have the clean air? If better\nconditions will make the poor more fit to govern themselves, why should\nnot better conditions already make the rich more fit to govern them? On\nthe ordinary environment argument the matter is fairly manifest. The\ncomfortable class must be merely our vanguard in Utopia.\n\nIs there any answer to the proposition that those who have had the best\nopportunities will probably be our best guides? Is there any answer to\nthe argument that those who have breathed clean air had better decide\nfor those who have breathed foul? As far as I know, there is only one\nanswer, and that answer is Christianity. Only the Christian Church can\noffer any rational objection to a complete confidence in the rich. For\nshe has maintained from the beginning that the danger was not in man's\nenvironment, but in man. Further, she has maintained that if we come to\ntalk of a dangerous environment, the most dangerous environment of all\nis the commodious environment. I know that the most modern manufacture\nhas been really occupied in trying to produce an abnormally large\nneedle. I know that the most recent biologists have been chiefly anxious\nto discover a very small camel. But if we diminish the camel to his\nsmallest, or open the eye of the needle to its largest--if, in short,\nwe assume the words of Christ to have meant the very least that they\ncould mean, His words must at the very least mean this--that rich men\nare not very likely to be morally trustworthy. Christianity even when\nwatered down is hot enough to boil all modern society to rags. The mere\nminimum of the Church would be a deadly ultimatum to the world. For the\nwhole modern world is absolutely based on the assumption, not that the\nrich are necessary (which is tenable), but that the rich are\ntrustworthy, which (for a Christian) is not tenable. You will hear\neverlastingly, in all discussions about newspapers, companies,\naristocracies, or party politics, this argument that the rich man cannot\nbe bribed. The fact is, of course, that the rich man is bribed; he has\nbeen bribed already. That is why he is a rich man. The whole case for\nChristianity is that a man who is dependent upon the luxuries of this\nlife is a corrupt man, spiritually corrupt, politically corrupt,\nfinancially corrupt. There is one thing that Christ and all the\nChristian saints have said with a sort of savage monotony. They have\nsaid simply that to be rich is to be in peculiar danger of moral wreck.\nIt is not demonstrably un-Christian to kill the rich as violators of\ndefinable justice. It is not demonstrably un-Christian to crown the\nrich as convenient rulers of society. It is not certainly un-Christian\nto rebel against the rich or to submit to the rich. But it is quite\ncertainly un-Christian to trust the rich, to regard the rich as more\nmorally safe than the poor. A Christian may consistently say, \"I respect\nthat man's rank, although he takes bribes.\" But a Christian cannot say,\nas all modern men are saying at lunch and breakfast, \"a man of that rank\nwould not take bribes.\" For it is a part of Christian dogma that any man\nin any rank may take bribes. It is a part of Christian dogma; it also\nhappens by a curious coincidence that it is a part of obvious human\nhistory. When people say that a man \"in that position\" would be\nincorruptible, there is no need to bring Christianity into the\ndiscussion. Was Lord Bacon a bootblack? Was the Duke of Marlborough a\ncrossing sweeper? In the best Utopia, I must be prepared for the moral\nfall of _any_ man in _any_ position at _any_ moment; especially for my\nfall from my position at this moment.\n\nMuch vague and sentimental journalism has been poured out to the effect\nthat Christianity is akin to democracy, and most of it is scarcely\nstrong or clear enough to refute the fact that the two things have often\nquarrelled. The real ground upon which Christianity and democracy are\none is very much deeper. The one specially and peculiarly un-Christian\nidea is the idea of Carlyle--the idea that the man should rule who feels\nthat he can rule. Whatever else is Christian, this is heathen. If our\nfaith comments on government at all, its comment must be this--that the\nman should rule who does _not_ think that he can rule. Carlyle's hero\nmay say, \"I will be king\"; but the Christian saint must say, \"Nolo\nepiscopari.\" If the great paradox of Christianity means anything, it\nmeans this--that we must take the crown in our hands, and go hunting in\ndry places and dark corners of the earth until we find the one man who\nfeels himself unfit to wear it. Carlyle was quite wrong; we have not got\nto crown the exceptional man who knows he can rule. Rather we must crown\nthe much more exceptional man who knows he can't.\n\nNow, this is one of the two or three vital defences of working\ndemocracy. The mere machinery of voting is not democracy, though at\npresent it is not easy to effect any simpler democratic method. But even\nthe machinery of voting is profoundly Christian in this practical\nsense--that it is an attempt to get at the opinion of those who would be\ntoo modest to offer it. It is a mystical adventure; it is specially\ntrusting those who do not trust themselves. That enigma is strictly\npeculiar to Christendom. There is nothing really humble about the\nabnegation of the Buddhist; the mild Hindoo is mild, but he is not meek.\nBut there is something psychologically Christian about the idea of\nseeking for the opinion of the obscure rather than taking the obvious\ncourse of accepting the opinion of the prominent. To say that voting is\nparticularly Christian may seem somewhat curious. To say that canvassing\nis Christian may seem quite crazy. But canvassing is very Christian in\nits primary idea. It is encouraging the humble; it is saying to the\nmodest man, \"Friend, go up higher.\" Or if there is some slight defect in\ncanvassing, that is in its perfect and rounded piety, it is only because\nit may possibly neglect to encourage the modesty of the canvasser.\n\nAristocracy is not an institution: aristocracy is a sin; generally a\nvery venial one. It is merely the drift or slide of men into a sort of\nnatural pomposity and praise of the powerful, which is the most easy and\nobvious affair in the world.\n\nIt is one of the hundred answers to the fugitive perversion of modern\n\"force\" that the promptest and boldest agencies are also the most\nfragile or full of sensibility. The swiftest things are the softest\nthings. A bird is active, because a bird is soft. A stone is helpless,\nbecause a stone is hard. The stone must by its own nature go downwards,\nbecause hardness is weakness. The bird can of its nature go upwards,\nbecause fragility is force. In perfect force there is a kind of\nfrivolity, an airiness that can maintain itself in the air. Modern\ninvestigators of miraculous history have solemnly admitted that a\ncharacteristic of the great saints is their power of \"levitation.\" They\nmight go further; a characteristic of the great saints is their power of\nlevity. Angels can fly because they can take themselves lightly. This\nhas been always the instinct of Christendom, and especially the instinct\nof Christian art. Remember how Fra Angelico represented all his angels,\nnot only as birds, but almost as butterflies. Remember how the most\nearnest medi\u00e6val art was full of light and fluttering draperies, of\nquick and capering feet. It was the one thing that the modern\nPre-raphaelites could not imitate in the real Pre-raphaelites.\nBurne-Jones could never recover the deep levity of the Middle Ages. In\nthe old Christian pictures the sky over every figure is like a blue or\ngold parachute. Every figure seems ready to fly up and float about in\nthe heavens. The tattered cloak of the beggar will bear him up like the\nrayed plumes of the angels. But the kings in their heavy gold and the\nproud in their robes of purple will all of their nature sink downwards,\nfor pride cannot rise to levity or levitation. Pride is the downward\ndrag of all things into an easy solemnity. One \"settles down\" into a\nsort of selfish seriousness; but one has to rise to a gay\nself-forgetfulness. A man \"falls\" into a brown study; he reaches up at a\nblue sky. Seriousness is not a virtue. It would be a heresy, but a much\nmore sensible heresy, to say that seriousness is a vice. It is really a\nnatural trend or lapse into taking one's self gravely, because it is the\neasiest thing to do. It is much easier to write a good _Times_ leading\narticle than a good joke in _Punch_. For solemnity flows out of men\nnaturally; but laughter is a leap. It is easy to be heavy: hard to be\nlight. Satan fell by the force of gravity.\n\nNow, it is the peculiar honour of Europe since it has been Christian\nthat while it has had aristocracy it has always at the back of its heart\ntreated aristocracy as a weakness--generally as a weakness that must be\nallowed for. If any one wishes to appreciate this point, let him go\noutside Christianity into some other philosophical atmosphere. Let him,\nfor instance, compare the classes of Europe with the castes of India.\nThere aristocracy is far more awful, because it is far more\nintellectual. It is seriously felt that the scale of classes is a scale\nof spiritual values; that the baker is better than the butcher in an\ninvisible and sacred sense. But no Christianity, not even the most\nignorant or perverse, ever suggested that a baronet was better than a\nbutcher in that sacred sense. No Christianity, however ignorant or\nextravagant, ever suggested that a duke would not be damned. In pagan\nsociety there may have been (I do not know) some such serious division\nbetween the free man and the slave. But in Christian society we have\nalways thought the gentleman a sort of joke, though I admit that in some\ngreat crusades and councils he earned the right to be called a practical\njoke. But we in Europe never really and at the root of our souls took\naristocracy seriously. It is only an occasional non-European alien (such\nas Dr. Oscar Levy, the only intelligent Nietzscheite) who can even\nmanage for a moment to take aristocracy seriously. It may be a mere\npatriotic bias, though I do not think so, but it seems to me that the\nEnglish aristocracy is not only the type, but is the crown and flower of\nall actual aristocracies; it has all the oligarchical virtues as well as\nall the defects. It is casual, it is kind, it is courageous in obvious\nmatters; but it has one great merit that overlaps even these. The great\nand very obvious merit of the English aristocracy is that nobody could\npossibly take it seriously.\n\nIn short, I had spelled out slowly, as usual, the need for an equal law\nin Utopia; and, as usual, I found that Christianity had been there\nbefore me. The whole history of my Utopia has the same amusing sadness.\nI was always rushing out of my architectural study with plans for a new\nturret only to find it sitting up there in the sunlight, shining, and a\nthousand years old. For me, in the ancient and partly in the modern\nsense, God answered the prayer, \"Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings.\"\nWithout vanity, I really think there was a moment when I could have\ninvented the marriage vow (as an institution) out of my own head; but I\ndiscovered, with a sigh, that it had been invented already. But, since\nit would be too long a business to show how, fact by fact and inch by\ninch, my own conception of Utopia was only answered in the New\nJerusalem, I will take this one case of the matter of marriage as\nindicating the converging drift, I may say the converging crash of all\nthe rest.\n\nWhen the ordinary opponents of Socialism talk about impossibilities and\nalterations in human nature they always miss an important distinction.\nIn modern ideal conceptions of society there are some desires that are\npossibly not attainable: but there are some desires that are not\ndesirable. That all men should live in equally beautiful houses is a\ndream that may or may not be attained. But that all men should live in\nthe same beautiful house is not a dream at all; it is a nightmare. That\na man should love all old women is an ideal that may not be attainable.\nBut that a man should regard all old women exactly as he regards his\nmother is not only an unattainable ideal, but an ideal which ought not\nto be attained. I do not know if the reader agrees with me in these\nexamples; but I will add the example which has always affected me most.\nI could never conceive or tolerate any Utopia which did not leave to me\nthe liberty for which I chiefly care, the liberty to bind myself.\nComplete anarchy would not merely make it impossible to have any\ndiscipline or fidelity; it would also make it impossible to have any\nfun. To take an obvious instance, it would not be worth while to bet if\na bet were not binding. The dissolution of all contracts would not only\nruin morality but spoil sport. Now betting and such sports are only the\nstunted and twisted shapes of the original instinct of man for adventure\nand romance, of which much has been said in these pages. And the perils,\nrewards, punishments, and fulfilments of an adventure must be _real_, or\nthe adventure is only a shifting and heartless nightmare. If I bet I\nmust be made to pay, or there is no poetry in betting. If I challenge I\nmust be made to fight, or there is no poetry in challenging. If I vow to\nbe faithful I must be cursed when I am unfaithful, or there is no fun in\nvowing. You could not even make a fairy tale from the experiences of a\nman who, when he was swallowed by a whale, might find himself at the top\nof the Eiffel Tower, or when he was turned into a frog might begin to\nbehave like a flamingo. For the purpose even of the wildest romance,\nresults must be real; results must be irrevocable. Christian marriage is\nthe great example of a real and irrevocable result; and that is why it\nis the chief subject and centre of all our romantic writing. And this\nis my last instance of the things that I should ask, and ask\nimperatively, of any social paradise; I should ask to be kept to my\nbargain, to have my oaths and engagements taken seriously; I should ask\nUtopia to avenge my honour on myself.\n\nAll my modern Utopian friends look at each other rather doubtfully, for\ntheir ultimate hope is the dissolution of all special ties. But again I\nseem to hear, like a kind of echo, an answer from beyond the world. \"You\nwill have real obligations, and therefore real adventures when you get\nto my Utopia. But the hardest obligation and the steepest adventure is\nto get there.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.--_The Romance of Orthodoxy_\n\n\nIt is customary to complain of the bustle and strenuousness of our\nepoch. But in truth the chief mark of our epoch is a profound laziness\nand fatigue; and the fact is that the real laziness is the cause of the\napparent bustle. Take one quite external case; the streets are noisy\nwith taxicabs and motor-cars; but this is not due to human activity but\nto human repose. There would be less bustle if there were more activity,\nif people were simply walking about. Our world would be more silent if\nit were more strenuous. And this which is true of the apparent physical\nbustle is true also of the apparent bustle of the intellect. Most of the\nmachinery of modern language is labour-saving machinery; and it saves\nmental labour very much more than it ought. Scientific phrases are used\nlike scientific wheels and piston-rods to make swifter and smoother yet\nthe path of the comfortable. Long words go rattling by us like long\nrailway trains. We know they are carrying thousands who are too tired or\ntoo indolent to walk and think for themselves. It is a good exercise to\ntry for once in a way to express any opinion one holds in words of one\nsyllable. If you say \"The social utility of the indeterminate sentence\nis recognised by all criminologists as a part of our sociological\nevolution towards a more humane and scientific view of punishment,\" you\ncan go on talking like that for hours with hardly a movement of the grey\nmatter inside your skull. But if you begin \"I wish Jones to go to gaol\nand Brown to say when Jones shall come out,\" you will discover, with a\nthrill of horror, that you are obliged to think. The long words are not\nthe hard words, it is the short words that are hard. There is much more\nmetaphysical subtlety in the word \"damn\" than in the word\n\"degeneration.\"\n\nBut these long comfortable words that save modern people the toil of\nreasoning have one particular aspect in which they are especially\nruinous and confusing. This difficulty occurs when the same long word is\nused in different connections to mean quite different things. Thus, to\ntake a well-known instance, the word \"idealist\" has one meaning as a\npiece of philosophy and quite another as a piece of moral rhetoric. In\nthe same way the scientific materialists have had just reason to\ncomplain of people mixing up \"materialist\" as a term of cosmology with\n\"materialist\" as a moral taunt. So, to take a cheaper instance, the man\nwho hates \"progressives\" in London always calls himself a \"progressive\"\nin South Africa.\n\nA confusion quite as unmeaning as this has arisen in connection with the\nword \"liberal\" as applied to religion and as applied to politics and\nsociety. It is often suggested that all Liberals ought to be\nfreethinkers, because they ought to love everything that is free. You\nmight just as well say that all idealists ought to be High Churchmen,\nbecause they ought to love everything that is high. You might as well\nsay that Low Churchmen ought to like Low Mass, or that Broad Churchmen\nought to like broad jokes. The thing is a mere accident of words. In\nactual modern Europe a free-thinker does not mean a man who thinks for\nhimself. It means a man who, having thought for himself, has come to one\nparticular class of conclusions, the material origin of phenomena, the\nimpossibility of miracles, the improbability of personal immortality and\nso on. And none of these ideas are particularly liberal. Nay, indeed\nalmost all these ideas are definitely illiberal, as it is the purpose of\nthis chapter to show.\n\nIn the few following pages I propose to point out as rapidly as\npossible that on every single one of the matters most strongly insisted\non by liberalisers of theology their effect upon social practice would\nbe definitely illiberal. Almost every contemporary proposal to bring\nfreedom into the church is simply a proposal to bring tyranny into the\nworld. For freeing the church now does not even mean freeing it in all\ndirections. It means freeing that peculiar set of dogmas loosely called\nscientific, dogmas of monism, of pantheism, or of Arianism, or of\nnecessity. And every one of these (and we will take them one by one) can\nbe shown to be the natural ally of oppression. In fact, it is a\nremarkable circumstance (indeed not so very remarkable when one comes to\nthink of it) that most things are the allies of oppression. There is\nonly one thing that can never go past a certain point in its alliance\nwith oppression--and that is orthodoxy. I may, it is true, twist\northodoxy so as partly to justify a tyrant. But I can easily make up a\nGerman philosophy to justify him entirely.\n\nNow let us take in order the innovations that are the notes of the new\ntheology or the modernist church. We concluded the last chapter with the\ndiscovery of one of them. The very doctrine which is called the most\nold-fashioned was found to be the only safeguard of the new democracies\nof the earth. The doctrine seemingly most unpopular was found to be the\nonly strength of the people. In short, we found that the only logical\nnegation of oligarchy was in the affirmation of original sin. So it is,\nI maintain, in all the other cases.\n\nI take the most obvious instance first, the case of miracles. For some\nextraordinary reason, there is a fixed notion that it is more liberal to\ndisbelieve in miracles than to believe in them. Why, I cannot imagine,\nnor can anybody tell me. For some inconceivable cause a \"broad\" or\n\"liberal\" clergyman always means a man who wishes at least to diminish\nthe number of miracles; it never means a man who wishes to increase that\nnumber. It always means a man who is free to disbelieve that Christ came\nout of His grave; it never means a man who is free to believe that his\nown aunt came out of her grave. It is common to find trouble in a parish\nbecause the parish priest cannot admit that St. Peter walked on water;\nyet how rarely do we find trouble in a parish because the clergyman says\nthat his father walked on the Serpentine? And this is not because (as\nthe swift secularist debater would immediately retort) miracles cannot\nbe believed in our experience. It is not because \"miracles do not\nhappen,\" as in the dogma which Matthew Arnold recited with simple faith.\nMore supernatural things are _alleged_ to have happened in our time than\nwould have been possible eighty years ago. Men of science believe in\nsuch marvels much more than they did: the most perplexing, and even\nhorrible, prodigies of mind and spirit are always being unveiled in\nmodern psychology. Things that the old science at least would frankly\nhave rejected as miracles are hourly being asserted by the new science.\nThe only thing which is still old-fashioned enough to reject miracles is\nthe New Theology. But in truth this notion that it is \"free\" to deny\nmiracles has nothing to do with the evidence for or against them. It is\na lifeless verbal prejudice of which the original life and beginning was\nnot in the freedom of thought, but simply in the dogma of materialism.\nThe man of the nineteenth century did not disbelieve in the Resurrection\nbecause his liberal Christianity allowed him to doubt it. He disbelieved\nin it because his very strict materialism did not allow him to believe\nit. Tennyson, a very typical nineteenth-century man, uttered one of the\ninstinctive truisms of his contemporaries when he said that there was\nfaith in their honest doubt. There was indeed. Those words have a\nprofound and even a horrible truth. In their doubt of miracles there was\na faith in a fixed and godless fate; a deep and sincere faith in the\nincurable routine of the cosmos. The doubts of the agnostic were only\nthe dogmas of the monist.\n\nOf the fact and evidence of the supernatural I will speak afterwards.\nHere we are only concerned with this clear point; that in so far as the\nliberal idea of freedom can be said to be on either side in the\ndiscussion about miracles, it is obviously on the side of miracles.\nReform or (in the only tolerable sense) progress means simply the\ngradual control of matter by mind. A miracle simply means the swift\ncontrol of matter by mind. If you wish to feed the people, you may think\nthat feeding them miraculously in the wilderness is impossible--but you\ncannot think it illiberal. If you really want poor children to go to the\nseaside, you cannot think it illiberal that they should go there on\nflying dragons; you can only think it unlikely. A holiday, like\nLiberalism, only means the liberty of man. A miracle only means the\nliberty of God. You may conscientiously deny either of them, but you\ncannot call your denial a triumph of the liberal idea. The Catholic\nChurch believed that man and God both had a sort of spiritual freedom.\nCalvinism took away the freedom from man, but left it to God. Scientific\nmaterialism binds the Creator Himself; it chains up God as the\nApocalypse chained the devil. It leaves nothing free in the universe.\nAnd those who assist this process are called the \"liberal theologians.\"\n\nThis, as I say, is the lightest and most evident case. The assumption\nthat there is something in the doubt of miracles akin to liberality or\nreform is literally the opposite of the truth. If a man cannot believe\nin miracles there is an end of the matter; he is not particularly\nliberal, but he is perfectly honourable and logical, which are much\nbetter things. But if he can believe in miracles, he is certainly the\nmore liberal for doing so; because they mean first, the freedom of the\nsoul, and secondly, its control over the tyranny of circumstance.\nSometimes this truth is ignored in a singularly naive way, even by the\nablest men. For instance, Mr. Bernard Shaw speaks with a hearty\nold-fashioned contempt for the idea of miracles, as if they were a sort\nof breach of faith on the part of nature: he seems strangely\nunconscious that miracles are only the final flowers of his own\nfavourite tree, the doctrine of the omnipotence of will. Just in the\nsame way he calls the desire for immortality a paltry selfishness,\nforgetting that he has just called the desire for life a healthy and\nheroic selfishness. How can it be noble to wish to make one's life\ninfinite and yet mean to wish to make it immortal? No, if it is\ndesirable that man should triumph over the cruelty of nature or custom,\nthen miracles are certainly desirable; we will discuss afterwards\nwhether they are possible.\n\nBut I must pass on to the larger cases of this curious error; the notion\nthat the \"liberalising\" of religion in some way helps the liberation of\nthe world. The second example of it can be found in the question of\npantheism--or rather of a certain modern attitude which is often called\nimmanentism, and which often is Buddhism. But this is so much more\ndifficult a matter that I must approach it with rather more preparation.\n\nThe things said most confidently by advanced persons to crowded\naudiences are generally those quite opposite to the fact; it is actually\nour truisms that are untrue. Here is a case. There is a phrase of facile\nliberality uttered again and again at ethical societies and parliaments\nof religion: \"the religions of the earth differ in rites and forms, but\nthey are the same in what they teach.\" It is false; it is the opposite\nof the fact. The religions of the earth do _not_ greatly differ in rites\nand forms; they do greatly differ in what they teach. It is as if a man\nwere to say, \"Do not be misled by the fact that the _Church Times_ and\nthe _Freethinker_ look utterly different, that one is painted on vellum\nand the other carved on marble, that one is triangular and the other\nhectagonal; read them and you will see that they say the same thing.\"\nThe truth is, of course, that they are alike in everything except in the\nfact that they don't say the same thing. An atheist stockbroker in\nSurbiton looks exactly like a Swedenborgian stockbroker in Wimbledon.\nYou may walk round and round them and subject them to the most personal\nand offensive study without seeing anything Swedenborgian in the hat or\nanything particularly godless in the umbrella. It is exactly in their\nsouls that they are divided. So the truth is that the difficulty of all\nthe creeds of the earth is not as alleged in this cheap maxim: that they\nagree in meaning, but differ in machinery. It is exactly the opposite.\nThey agree in machinery; almost every great religion on earth works\nwith the same external methods, with priests, scriptures, altars, sworn\nbrotherhoods, special feasts. They agree in the mode of teaching; what\nthey differ about is the thing to be taught. Pagan optimists and Eastern\npessimists would both have temples, just as Liberals and Tories would\nboth have newspapers. Creeds that exist to destroy each other both have\nscriptures, just as armies that exist to destroy each other both have\nguns.\n\nThe great example of this alleged identity of all human religions is the\nalleged spiritual identity of Buddhism and Christianity. Those who adopt\nthis theory generally avoid the ethics of most other creeds, except,\nindeed, Confucianism, which they like because it is not a creed. But\nthey are cautious in their praises of Mahommedanism, generally confining\nthemselves to imposing its morality only upon the refreshment of the\nlower classes. They seldom suggest the Mahommedan view of marriage (for\nwhich there is a great deal to be said), and towards Thugs and fetish\nworshippers their attitude may even be called cold. But in the case of\nthe great religion of Gautama they feel sincerely a similarity.\n\nStudents of popular science, like Mr. Blatchford, are always insisting\nthat Christianity and Buddhism are very much alike, especially\nBuddhism. This is generally believed, and I believed it myself until I\nread a book giving the reasons for it. The reasons were of two kinds:\nresemblances that meant nothing because they were common to all\nhumanity, and resemblances which were not resemblances at all. The\nauthor solemnly explained that the two creeds were alike in things in\nwhich all creeds are alike, or else he described them as alike in some\npoint in which they are quite obviously different. Thus, as a case of\nthe first class, he said that both Christ and Buddha were called by the\ndivine voice coming out of the sky, as if you would expect the divine\nvoice to come out of the coal-cellar. Or, again, it was gravely urged\nthat these two Eastern teachers, by a singular coincidence, both had to\ndo with the washing of feet. You might as well say that it was a\nremarkable coincidence that they both had feet to wash. And the other\nclass of similarities were those which simply were not similar. Thus\nthis reconciler of the two religions draws earnest attention to the fact\nthat at certain religious feasts the robe of the Lama is rent in pieces\nout of respect, and the remnants highly valued. But this is the reverse\nof a resemblance, for the garments of Christ were not rent in pieces\nout of respect, but out of derision; and the remnants were not highly\nvalued except for what they would fetch in the rag shops. It is rather\nlike alluding to the obvious connection between the two ceremonies of\nthe sword: when it taps a man's shoulder, and when it cuts off his head.\nIt is not at all similar for the man. These scraps of puerile pedantry\nwould indeed matter little if it were not also true that the alleged\nphilosophical resemblances are also of these two kinds, either proving\ntoo much or not proving anything. That Buddhism approves of mercy or of\nself-restraint is not to say that it is specially like Christianity; it\nis only to say that it is not utterly unlike all human existence.\nBuddhists disapprove in theory of cruelty or excess because all sane\nhuman beings disapprove in theory of cruelty or excess. But to say that\nBuddhism and Christianity give the same philosophy of these things is\nsimply false. All humanity does agree that we are in a net of sin. Most\nof humanity agrees that there is some way out. But as to what is the way\nout, I do not think that there are two institutions in the universe\nwhich contradict each other so flatly as Buddhism and Christianity.\n\nEven when I thought, with most other well-informed, though unscholarly,\npeople, that Buddhism and Christianity were alike, there was one thing\nabout them that always perplexed me; I mean the startling difference in\ntheir type of religious art. I do not mean in its technical style of\nrepresentation, but in the things that it was manifestly meant to\nrepresent. No two ideals could be more opposite than a Christian saint\nin a Gothic cathedral and a Buddhist saint in a Chinese temple. The\nopposition exists at every point; but perhaps the shortest statement of\nit is that the Buddhist saint always has his eyes shut, while the\nChristian saint always has them very wide open. The Buddhist saint has a\nsleek and harmonious body, but his eyes are heavy and sealed with sleep.\nThe medi\u00e6val saint's body is wasted to its crazy bones, but his eyes are\nfrightfully alive. There cannot be any real community of spirit between\nforces that produced symbols so different as that. Granted that both\nimages are extravagances, are perversions of the pure creed, it must be\na real divergence which could produce such opposite extravagances. The\nBuddhist is looking with a peculiar intentness inwards. The Christian is\nstaring with a frantic intentness outwards. If we follow that clue\nsteadily we shall find some interesting things.\n\nA short time ago Mrs. Besant, in an interesting essay, announced that\nthere was only one religion in the world, that all faiths were only\nversions or perversions of it, and that she was quite prepared to say\nwhat it was. According to Mrs. Besant this universal Church is simply\nthe universal self. It is the doctrine that we are really all one\nperson; that there are no real walls of individuality between man and\nman. If I may put it so, she does not tell us to love our neighbours;\nshe tells us to be our neighbours. That is Mrs. Besant's thoughtful and\nsuggestive description of the religion in which all men must find\nthemselves in agreement. And I never heard of any suggestion in my life\nwith which I more violently disagree. I want to love my neighbour not\nbecause he is I, but precisely because he is not I. I want to adore the\nworld, not as one likes a looking-glass, because it is one's self, but\nas one loves a woman, because she is entirely different. If souls are\nseparate love is possible. If souls are united love is obviously\nimpossible. A man may be said loosely to love himself, but he can hardly\nfall in love with himself, or, if he does, it must be a monotonous\ncourtship. If the world is full of real selves, they can be really\nunselfish selves. But upon Mrs. Besant's principle the whole cosmos is\nonly one enormously selfish person.\n\nIt is just here that Buddhism is on the side of modern pantheism and\nimmanence. And it is just here that Christianity is on the side of\nhumanity and liberty and love. Love desires personality; therefore love\ndesires division. It is the instinct of Christianity to be glad that God\nhas broken the universe into little pieces, because they are living\npieces. It is her instinct to say \"little children love one another\"\nrather than to tell one large person to love himself. This is the\nintellectual abyss between Buddhism and Christianity; that for the\nBuddhist or Theosophist personality is the fall of man, for the\nChristian it is the purpose of God, the whole point of his cosmic idea.\nThe world-soul of the Theosophists asks man to love it only in order\nthat man may throw himself into it. But the divine centre of\nChristianity actually threw man out of it in order that he might love\nit. The oriental deity is like a giant who should have lost his leg or\nhand and be always seeking to find it; but the Christian power is like\nsome giant who in a strange generosity should cut off his right hand, so\nthat it might of its own accord shake hands with him. We come back to\nthe same tireless note touching the nature of Christianity; all modern\nphilosophies are chains which connect and fetter; Christianity is a\nsword which separates and sets free. No other philosophy makes God\nactually rejoice in the separation of the universe into living souls.\nBut according to orthodox Christianity this separation between God and\nman is sacred, because this is eternal. That a man may love God it is\nnecessary that there should be not only a God to be loved, but a man to\nlove him. All those vague theosophical minds for whom the universe is an\nimmense melting-pot are exactly the minds which shrink instinctively\nfrom that earthquake saying of our Gospels, which declare that the Son\nof God came not with peace but with a sundering sword. The saying rings\nentirely true even considered as what it obviously is; the statement\nthat any man who preaches real love is bound to beget hate. It is as\ntrue of democratic fraternity as of divine love; sham love ends in\ncompromise and common philosophy; but real love has always ended in\nbloodshed. Yet there is another and yet more awful truth behind the\nobvious meaning of this utterance of our Lord. According to Himself the\nSon was a sword separating brother and brother that they should for an\n\u00e6on hate each other. But the Father also was a sword, which in the\nblack beginning separated brother and brother, so that they should love\neach other at last.\n\nThis is the meaning of that almost insane happiness in the eyes of the\nmedi\u00e6val saint in the picture. This is the meaning of the sealed eyes of\nthe superb Buddhist image. The Christian saint is happy because he has\nverily been cut off from the world; he is separate from things and is\nstaring at them in astonishment. But why should the Buddhist saint be\nastonished at things? since there is really only one thing, and that\nbeing impersonal can hardly be astonished at itself. There have been\nmany pantheist poems suggesting wonder, but no really successful ones.\nThe pantheist cannot wonder, for he cannot praise God or praise anything\nas really distinct from himself. Our immediate business here however is\nwith the effect of this Christian admiration (which strikes outwards,\ntowards a deity distinct from the worshipper) upon the general need for\nethical activity and social reform. And surely its effect is\nsufficiently obvious. There is no real possibility of getting out of\npantheism any special impulse to moral action. For pantheism implies in\nits nature that one thing is as good as another; whereas action implies\nin its nature that one thing is greatly preferable to another.\nSwinburne in the high summer of his scepticism tried in vain to wrestle\nwith this difficulty. In \"Songs before Sunrise,\" written under the\ninspiration of Garibaldi and the revolt of Italy, he proclaimed the\nnewer religion and the purer God which should wither up all the priests\nof the world.\n\n    \"What doest thou now\n    Looking Godward to cry\n    I am I, thou art thou,\n    I am low, thou art high,\n    I am thou that thou seekest to find him, find thou\n        but thyself, thou art I.\"\n\nOf which the immediate and evident deduction is that tyrants are as much\nthe sons of God as Garibaldis; and that King Bomba of Naples having,\nwith the utmost success, \"found himself\" is identical with the ultimate\ngood in all things. The truth is that the western energy that dethrones\ntyrants has been directly due to the western theology that says \"I am I,\nthou art thou.\" The same spiritual separation which looked up and saw a\ngood king in the universe looked up and saw a bad king in Naples. The\nworshippers of Bomba's god dethroned Bomba. The worshippers of\nSwinburne's god have covered Asia for centuries and have never\ndethroned a tyrant. The Indian saint may reasonably shut his eyes\nbecause he is looking at that which is I and Thou and We and They and\nIt. It is a rational occupation: but it is not true in theory and not\ntrue in fact that it helps the Indian to keep an eye on Lord Curzon.\nThat external vigilance which has always been the mark of Christianity\n(the command that we should _watch_ and pray) has expressed itself both\nin typical western orthodoxy and in typical western politics: but both\ndepend on the idea of a divinity transcendent, different from ourselves,\na deity that disappears. Certainly the most sagacious creeds may suggest\nthat we should pursue God into deeper and deeper rings of the labyrinth\nof our own ego. But only we of Christendom have said that we should hunt\nGod like an eagle upon the mountains: and we have killed all monsters in\nthe chase.\n\nHere again, therefore, we find that in so far as we value democracy and\nthe self-renewing energies of the west, we are much more likely to find\nthem in the old theology than the new. If we want reform, we must adhere\nto orthodoxy: especially in this matter (so much disputed in the\ncounsels of Mr. R.J. Campbell), the matter of insisting on the immanent\nor the transcendent deity. By insisting specially on the immanence of\nGod we get introspection, self-isolation, quietism, social\nindifference--Tibet. By insisting specially on the transcendence of God\nwe get wonder, curiosity, moral and political adventure, righteous\nindignation--Christendom. Insisting that God is inside man, man is\nalways inside himself. By insisting that God transcends man, man has\ntranscended himself.\n\nIf we take any other doctrine that has been called old-fashioned we\nshall find the case the same. It is the same, for instance, in the deep\nmatter of the Trinity. Unitarians (a sect never to be mentioned without\na special respect for their distinguished intellectual dignity and high\nintellectual honour) are often reformers by the accident that throws so\nmany small sects into such an attitude. But there is nothing in the\nleast liberal or akin to reform in the substitution of pure monotheism\nfor the Trinity. The complex God of the Athanasian Creed may be an\nenigma for the intellect; but He is far less likely to gather the\nmystery and cruelty of a Sultan than the lonely god of Omar or Mahomet.\nThe god who is a mere awful unity is not only a king but an Eastern\nking. The _heart_ of humanity, especially of European humanity, is\ncertainly much more satisfied by the strange hints and symbols that\ngather round the Trinitarian idea, the image of a council at which mercy\npleads as well as justice, the conception of a sort of liberty and\nvariety existing even in the inmost chamber of the world. For Western\nreligion has always felt keenly the idea \"it is not well for man to be\nalone.\" The social instinct asserted itself everywhere as when the\nEastern idea of hermits was practically expelled by the Western idea of\nmonks. So even asceticism became brotherly; and the Trappists were\nsociable even when they were silent. If this love of a living complexity\nbe our test, it is certainly healthier to have the Trinitarian religion\nthan the Unitarian. For to us Trinitarians (if I may say it with\nreverence)--to us God Himself is a society. It is indeed a fathomless\nmystery of theology, and even if I were theologian enough to deal with\nit directly, it would not be relevant to do so here. Suffice it to say\nhere that this triple enigma is as comforting as wine and open as an\nEnglish fireside; that this thing that bewilders the intellect utterly\nquiets the heart: but out of the desert, from the dry places and the\ndreadful suns, come the cruel children of the lonely God; the real\nUnitarians who with scimitar in hand have laid waste the world. For it\nis not well for God to be alone.\n\nAgain, the same is true of that difficult matter of the danger of the\nsoul, which has unsettled so many just minds. To hope for all souls is\nimperative; and it is quite tenable that their salvation is inevitable.\nIt is tenable, but it is not specially favourable to activity or\nprogress. Our fighting and creative society ought rather to insist on\nthe danger of everybody, on the fact that every man is hanging by a\nthread or clinging to a precipice. To say that all will be well anyhow\nis a comprehensible remark: but it cannot be called the blast of a\ntrumpet. Europe ought rather to emphasise possible perdition; and Europe\nalways has emphasised it. Here its highest religion is at one with all\nits cheapest romances. To the Buddhist or the eastern fatalist existence\nis a science or a plan, which must end up in a certain way. But to a\nChristian existence is a _story_, which may end up in any way. In a\nthrilling novel (that purely Christian product) the hero is not eaten by\ncannibals; but it is essential to the existence of the thrill that he\n_might_ be eaten by cannibals. The hero must (so to speak) be an eatable\nhero. So Christian morals have always said to the man, not that he\nwould lose his soul, but that he must take care that he didn't. In\nChristian morals, in short, it is wicked to call a man \"damned\": but it\nis strictly religious and philosophic to call him damnable.\n\nAll Christianity concentrates on the man at the cross-roads. The vast\nand shallow philosophies, the huge syntheses of humbug, all talk about\nages and evolution and ultimate developments. The true philosophy is\nconcerned with the instant. Will a man take this road or that? that is\nthe only thing to think about, if you enjoy thinking. The \u00e6ons are easy\nenough to think about, any one can think about them. The instant is\nreally awful: and it is because our religion has intensely felt the\ninstant, that it has in literature dealt much with battle and in\ntheology dealt much with hell. It is full of _danger_ like a boy's book:\nit is at an immortal crisis. There is a great deal of real similarity\nbetween popular fiction and the religion of the western people. If you\nsay that popular fiction is vulgar and tawdry, you only say what the\ndreary and well-informed say also about the images in the Catholic\nchurches. Life (according to the faith) is very like a serial story in a\nmagazine: life ends with the promise (or menace) \"to be continued in our\nnext.\" Also, with a noble vulgarity, life imitates the serial and\nleaves off at the exciting moment. For death is distinctly an exciting\nmoment.\n\nBut the point is that a story is exciting because it has in it so strong\nan element of will, of what theology calls free-will. You cannot finish\na sum how you like. But you can finish a story how you like. When\nsomebody discovered the Differential Calculus there was only one\nDifferential Calculus he could discover. But when Shakespeare killed\nRomeo he might have married him to Juliet's old nurse if he had felt\ninclined. And Christendom has excelled in the narrative romance exactly\nbecause it has insisted on the theological free-will. It is a large\nmatter and too much to one side of the road to be discussed adequately\nhere; but this is the real objection to that torrent of modern talk\nabout treating crime as disease, about making a prison merely a hygienic\nenvironment like a hospital, of healing sin by slow scientific methods.\nThe fallacy of the whole thing is that evil is a matter of active\nchoice, whereas disease is not. If you say that you are going to cure a\nprofligate as you cure an asthmatic, my cheap and obvious answer is,\n\"Produce the people who want to be asthmatics as many people want to be\nProfligates.\" A man may lie still and be cured of a malady. But he must\nnot lie still if he wants to be cured of a sin; on the contrary, he must\nget up and jump about violently. The whole point indeed is perfectly\nexpressed in the very word which we use for a man in hospital; \"patient\"\nis in the passive mood; \"sinner\" is in the active. If a man is to be\nsaved from influenza, he may be a patient. But if he is to be saved from\nforging, he must be not a patient but an _impatient_. He must be\npersonally impatient with forgery. All moral reform must start in the\nactive not the passive will.\n\nHere again we reach the same substantial conclusion. In so far as we\ndesire the definite reconstructions and the dangerous revolutions which\nhave distinguished European civilisation, we shall not discourage the\nthought of possible ruin; we shall rather encourage it. If we want, like\nthe Eastern saints, merely to contemplate how right things are, of\ncourse we shall only say that they must go right. But if we particularly\nwant to _make_ them go right, we must insist that they may go wrong.\n\nLastly, this truth is yet again true in the case of the common modern\nattempts to diminish or to explain away the divinity of Christ. The\nthing may be true or not; that I shall deal with before I end. But if\nthe divinity is true it is certainly terribly revolutionary. That a good\nman may have his back to the wall is no more than we knew already; but\nthat God could have his back to the wall is a boast for all insurgents\nfor ever. Christianity is the only religion on earth that has felt that\nomnipotence made God incomplete. Christianity alone has felt that God,\nto be wholly God, must have been a rebel as well as a king. Alone of all\ncreeds, Christianity has added courage to the virtues of the Creator.\nFor the only courage worth calling courage must necessarily mean that\nthe soul passes a breaking point--and does not break. In this indeed I\napproach a matter more dark and awful than it is easy to discuss; and I\napologise in advance if any of my phrases fall wrong or seem irreverent\ntouching a matter which the greatest saints and thinkers have justly\nfeared to approach. But in that terrific tale of the Passion there is a\ndistinct emotional suggestion that the author of all things (in some\nunthinkable way) went not only through agony, but through doubt. It is\nwritten, \"Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.\" No; but the Lord thy\nGod may tempt Himself; and it seems as if this was what happened in\nGethsemane. In a garden Satan tempted man: and in a garden God tempted\nGod. He passed in some superhuman manner through our human horror of\npessimism. When the world shook and the sun was wiped out of heaven, it\nwas not at the crucifixion, but at the cry from the cross: the cry which\nconfessed that God was forsaken of God. And now let the revolutionists\nchoose a creed from all the creeds and a god from all the gods of the\nworld, carefully weighing all the gods of inevitable recurrence and of\nunalterable power. They will not find another god who has himself been\nin revolt. Nay, (the matter grows too difficult for human speech) but\nlet the atheists themselves choose a god. They will find only one\ndivinity who ever uttered their isolation; only one religion in which\nGod seemed for an instant to be an atheist.\n\nThese can be called the essentials of the old orthodoxy, of which the\nchief merit is that it is the natural fountain of revolution and reform;\nand of which the chief defect is that it is obviously only an abstract\nassertion. Its main advantage is that it is the most adventurous and\nmanly of all theologies. Its chief disadvantage is simply that it is a\ntheology. It can always be urged against it that it is in its nature\narbitrary and in the air. But it is not so high in the air but that\ngreat archers spend their whole lives in shooting arrows at it--yes, and\ntheir last arrows; there are men who will ruin themselves and ruin their\ncivilisation if they may ruin also this old fantastic tale. This is the\nlast and most astounding fact about this faith; that its enemies will\nuse any weapon against it, the swords that cut their own fingers, and\nthe firebrands that burn their own homes. Men who begin to fight the\nChurch for the sake of freedom and humanity end by flinging away freedom\nand humanity if only they may fight the Church. This is no exaggeration;\nI could fill a book with the instances of it. Mr. Blatchford set out, as\nan ordinary Bible-smasher, to prove that Adam was guiltless of sin\nagainst God; in manoeuvring so as to maintain this he admitted, as a\nmere side issue, that all the tyrants, from Nero to King Leopold, were\nguiltless of any sin against humanity. I know a man who has such a\npassion for proving that he will have no personal existence after death\nthat he falls back on the position that he has no personal existence\nnow. He invokes Buddhism and says that all souls fade into each other;\nin order to prove that he cannot go to heaven he proves that he cannot\ngo to Hartlepool. I have known people who protested against religious\neducation with arguments against any education, saying that the child's\nmind must grow freely or that the old must not teach the young. I have\nknown people who showed that there could be no divine judgment by\nshowing that there can be no human judgment, even for practical\npurposes. They burned their own corn to set fire to the church; they\nsmashed their own tools to smash it; any stick was good enough to beat\nit with, though it were the last stick of their own dismembered\nfurniture. We do not admire, we hardly excuse, the fanatic who wrecks\nthis world for love of the other. But what are we to say of the fanatic\nwho wrecks this world out of hatred of the other? He sacrifices the very\nexistence of humanity to the non-existence of God. He offers his victims\nnot to the altar, but merely to assert the idleness of the altar and the\nemptiness of the throne. He is ready to ruin even that primary ethic by\nwhich all things live, for his strange and eternal vengeance upon some\none who never lived at all.\n\nAnd yet the thing hangs in the heavens unhurt. Its opponents only\nsucceed in destroying all that they themselves justly hold dear. They do\nnot destroy orthodoxy; they only destroy political courage and common\nsense. They do not prove that Adam was not responsible to God; how could\nthey prove it? They only prove (from their premises) that the Czar is\nnot responsible to Russia. They do not prove that Adam should not have\nbeen punished by God; they only prove that the nearest sweater should\nnot be punished by men. With their oriental doubts about personality\nthey do not make certain that we shall have no personal life hereafter;\nthey only make certain that we shall not have a very jolly or complete\none here. With their paralysing hints of all conclusions coming out\nwrong they do not tear the book of the Recording Angel; they only make\nit a little harder to keep the books of Marshall and Snelgrove. Not only\nis the faith the mother of all worldly energies, but its foes are the\nfathers of all worldly confusion. The secularists have not wrecked\ndivine things; but the secularists have wrecked secular things, if that\nis any comfort to them. The Titans did not scale heaven; but they laid\nwaste the world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.--_Authority and the Adventurer_\n\n\nThe last chapter has been concerned with the contention that orthodoxy\nis not only (as is often urged) the only safe guardian of morality or\norder, but is also the only logical guardian of liberty, innovation and\nadvance. If we wish to pull down the prosperous oppressor we cannot do\nit with the new doctrine of human perfectibility; we can do it with the\nold doctrine of Original Sin. If we want to uproot inherent cruelties or\nlift up lost populations we cannot do it with the scientific theory that\nmatter precedes mind; we can do it with the supernatural theory that\nmind precedes matter. If we wish specially to awaken people to social\nvigilance and tireless pursuit of practise, we cannot help it much by\ninsisting on the Immanent God and the Inner Light: for these are at best\nreasons for contentment; we can help it much by insisting on the\ntranscendant God and the flying and escaping gleam; for that means\ndivine discontent. If we wish particularly to assert the idea of a\ngenerous balance against that of a dreadful autocracy we shall\ninstinctively be Trinitarian rather than Unitarian. If we desire\nEuropean civilisation to be a raid and a rescue, we shall insist rather\nthat souls are in real peril than that their peril is ultimately unreal.\nAnd if we wish to exalt the outcast and the crucified, we shall rather\nwish to think that a veritable God was crucified, rather than a mere\nsage or hero. Above all, if we wish to protect the poor we shall be in\nfavour of fixed rules and clear dogmas. The _rules_ of a club are\noccasionally in favour of the poor member. The drift of a club is always\nin favour of the rich one.\n\nAnd now we come to the crucial question which truly concludes the whole\nmatter. A reasonable agnostic, if he has happened to agree with me so\nfar, may justly turn round and say, \"You have found a practical\nphilosophy in the doctrine of the Fall; very well. You have found a side\nof democracy now dangerously neglected wisely asserted in Original Sin;\nall right. You have found a truth in the doctrine of hell; I\ncongratulate you. You are convinced that worshippers of a personal God\nlook outwards and are progressive; I congratulate them. But even\nsupposing that those doctrines do include those truths, why cannot you\ntake the truths and leave the doctrines? Granted that all modern\nsociety is trusting the rich too much because it does not allow for\nhuman weakness; granted that orthodox ages have had a great advantage\nbecause (believing in the Fall) they did allow for human weakness, why\ncannot you simply allow for human weakness without believing in the\nFall? If you have discovered that the idea of damnation represents a\nhealthy idea of danger, why can you not simply take the idea of danger\nand leave the idea of damnation? If you see clearly the kernel of\ncommon-sense in the nut of Christian orthodoxy, why cannot you simply\ntake the kernel and leave the nut? Why cannot you (to use that cant\nphrase of the newspapers which I, as a highly scholarly agnostic, am a\nlittle ashamed of using) why cannot you simply take what is good in\nChristianity, what you can define as valuable, what you can comprehend,\nand leave all the rest, all the absolute dogmas that are in their nature\nincomprehensible?\" This is the real question; this is the last question;\nand it is a pleasure to try to answer it.\n\nThe first answer is simply to say that I am a rationalist. I like to\nhave some intellectual justification for my intuitions. If I am treating\nman as a fallen being it is an intellectual convenience to me to\nbelieve that he fell; and I find, for some odd psychological reason,\nthat I can deal better with a man's exercise of freewill if I believe\nthat he has got it. But I am in this matter yet more definitely a\nrationalist. I do not propose to turn this book into one of ordinary\nChristian apologetics; I should be glad to meet at any other time the\nenemies of Christianity in that more obvious arena. Here I am only\ngiving an account of my own growth in spiritual certainty. But I may\npause to remark that the more I saw of the merely abstract arguments\nagainst the Christian cosmology the less I thought of them. I mean that\nhaving found the moral atmosphere of the Incarnation to be common sense,\nI then looked at the established intellectual arguments against the\nIncarnation and found them to be common nonsense. In case the argument\nshould be thought to suffer from the absence of the ordinary apologetic\nI will here very briefly summarise my own arguments and conclusions on\nthe purely objective or scientific truth of the matter.\n\nIf I am asked, as a purely intellectual question, why I believe in\nChristianity, I can only answer, \"For the same reason that an\nintelligent agnostic disbelieves in Christianity.\" I believe in it\nquite rationally upon the evidence. But the evidence in my case, as in\nthat of the intelligent agnostic, is not really in this or that alleged\ndemonstration; it is in an enormous accumulation of small but unanimous\nfacts. The secularist is not to be blamed because his objections to\nChristianity are miscellaneous and even scrappy; it is precisely such\nscrappy evidence that does convince the mind. I mean that a man may well\nbe less convinced of a philosophy from four books, than from one book,\none battle, one landscape, and one old friend. The very fact that the\nthings are of different kinds increases the importance of the fact that\nthey all point to one conclusion. Now, the non-Christianity of the\naverage educated man to-day is almost always, to do him justice, made up\nof these loose but living experiences. I can only say that my evidences\nfor Christianity are of the same vivid but varied kind as his evidences\nagainst it. For when I look at these various anti-Christian truths, I\nsimply discover that none of them are true. I discover that the true\ntide and force of all the facts flows the other way. Let us take cases.\nMany a sensible modern man must have abandoned Christianity under the\npressure of three such converging convictions as these: first, that\nmen, with their shape, structure, and sexuality, are, after all, very\nmuch like beasts, a mere variety of the animal kingdom; second, that\nprimeval religion arose in ignorance and fear; third, that priests have\nblighted societies with bitterness and gloom. Those three anti-Christian\narguments are very different; but they are all quite logical and\nlegitimate; and they all converge. The only objection to them (I\ndiscover) is that they are all untrue. If you leave off looking at books\nabout beasts and men, if you begin to look at beasts and men then (if\nyou have any humour or imagination, any sense of the frantic or the\nfarcical) you will observe that the startling thing is not how like man\nis to the brutes, but how unlike he is. It is the monstrous scale of his\ndivergence that requires an explanation. That man and brute are like is,\nin a sense, a truism; but that being so like they should then be so\ninsanely unlike, that is the shock and the enigma. That an ape has hands\nis far less interesting to the philosopher than the fact that having\nhands he does next to nothing with them; does not play knuckle-bones or\nthe violin; does not carve marble or carve mutton. People talk of\nbarbaric architecture and debased art. But elephants do not build\ncolossal temples of ivory even in a roccoco style; camels do not paint\neven bad pictures, though equipped with the material of many\ncamel's-hair brushes. Certain modern dreamers say that ants and bees\nhave a society superior to ours. They have, indeed, a civilisation; but\nthat very truth only reminds us that it is an inferior civilisation. Who\never found an ant-hill decorated with the statues of celebrated ants?\nWho has seen a bee-hive carved with the images of gorgeous queens of\nold? No; the chasm between man and other creatures may have a natural\nexplanation, but it is a chasm. We talk of wild animals; but man is the\nonly wild animal. It is man that has broken out. All other animals are\ntame animals; following the rugged respectability of the tribe or type.\nAll other animals are domestic animals; man alone is ever undomestic,\neither as a profligate or a monk. So that this first superficial reason\nfor materialism is, if anything, a reason for its opposite; it is\nexactly where biology leaves off that all religion begins.\n\nIt would be the same if I examined the second of the three chance\nrationalist arguments; the argument that all that we call divine began\nin some darkness and terror. When I did attempt to examine the\nfoundations of this modern idea I simply found that there were none.\nScience knows nothing whatever about pre-historic man; for the excellent\nreason that he is pre-historic. A few professors choose to conjecture\nthat such things as human sacrifice were once innocent and general and\nthat they gradually dwindled; but there is no direct evidence of it, and\nthe small amount of indirect evidence is very much the other way. In the\nearliest legends we have, such as the tales of Isaac and of Iphigenia,\nhuman sacrifice is not introduced as something old, but rather as\nsomething new; as a strange and frightful exception darkly demanded by\nthe gods. History says nothing; and legends all say that the earth was\nkinder in its earliest time. There is no tradition of progress; but the\nwhole human race has a tradition of the Fall. Amusingly enough, indeed,\nthe very dissemination of this idea is used against its authenticity.\nLearned men literally say that this pre-historic calamity cannot be true\nbecause every race of mankind remembers it. I cannot keep pace with\nthese paradoxes.\n\nAnd if we took the third chance instance, it would be the same; the view\nthat priests darken and embitter the world. I look at the world and\nsimply discover that they don't. Those countries in Europe which are\nstill influenced by priests, are exactly the countries where there is\nstill singing and dancing and coloured dresses and art in the open-air.\nCatholic doctrine and discipline may be walls; but they are the walls of\na playground. Christianity is the only frame which has preserved the\npleasure of Paganism. We might fancy some children playing on the flat\ngrassy top of some tall island in the sea. So long as there was a wall\nround the cliff's edge they could fling themselves into every frantic\ngame and make the place the noisiest of nurseries. But the walls were\nknocked down, leaving the naked peril of the precipice. They did not\nfall over; but when their friends returned to them they were all huddled\nin terror in the centre of the island; and their song had ceased.\n\nThus these three facts of experience, such facts as go to make an\nagnostic, are, in this view, turned totally round. I am left saying,\n\"Give me an explanation, first, of the towering eccentricity of man\namong the brutes; second, of the vast human tradition of some ancient\nhappiness; third, of the partial perpetuation of such pagan joy in the\ncountries of the Catholic Church.\" One explanation, at any rate, covers\nall three: the theory that twice was the natural order interrupted by\nsome explosion or revelation such as people now call \"psychic.\" Once\nHeaven came upon the earth with a power or seal called the image of God,\nwhereby man took command of Nature; and once again (when in empire after\nempire men had been found wanting) Heaven came to save mankind in the\nawful shape of a man. This would explain why the mass of men always look\nbackwards; and why the only corner where they in any sense look forwards\nis the little continent where Christ has His Church. I know it will be\nsaid that Japan has become progressive. But how can this be an answer\nwhen even in saying \"Japan has become progressive,\" we really only mean,\n\"Japan has become European\"? But I wish here not so much to insist on my\nown explanation as to insist on my original remark. I agree with the\nordinary unbelieving man in the street in being guided by three or four\nodd facts all pointing to something; only when I came to look at the\nfacts I always found they pointed to something else.\n\nI have given an imaginary triad of such ordinary anti-Christian\narguments; if that be too narrow a basis I will give on the spur of the\nmoment another. These are the kind of thoughts which in combination\ncreate the impression that Christianity is something weak and diseased.\nFirst, for instance, that Jesus was a gentle creature, sheepish and\nunworldly, a mere ineffectual appeal to the world; second, that\nChristianity arose and flourished in the dark ages of ignorance, and\nthat to these the Church would drag us back; third, that the people\nstill strongly religious or (if you will) superstitious--such people as\nthe Irish--are weak, unpractical, and behind the times. I only mention\nthese ideas to affirm the same thing: that when I looked into them\nindependently I found, not that the conclusions were unphilosophical,\nbut simply that the facts were not facts. Instead of looking at books\nand pictures about the New Testament I looked at the New Testament.\nThere I found an account, not in the least of a person with his hair\nparted in the middle or his hands clasped in appeal, but of an\nextraordinary being with lips of thunder and acts of lurid decision,\nflinging down tables, casting out devils, passing with the wild secrecy\nof the wind from mountain isolation to a sort of dreadful demagogy; a\nbeing who often acted like an angry god--and always like a god. Christ\nhad even a literary style of his own, not to be found, I think,\nelsewhere; it consists of an almost furious use of the _a fortiori_.\nHis \"how much more\" is piled one upon another like castle upon castle in\nthe clouds. The diction used _about_ Christ has been, and perhaps\nwisely, sweet and submissive. But the diction used by Christ is quite\ncuriously gigantesque; it is full of camels leaping through needles and\nmountains hurled into the sea. Morally it is equally terrific; he called\nhimself a sword of slaughter, and told men to buy swords if they sold\ntheir coats for them. That he used other even wilder words on the side\nof non-resistance greatly increases the mystery; but it also, if\nanything, rather increases the violence. We cannot even explain it by\ncalling such a being insane; for insanity is usually along one\nconsistent channel. The maniac is generally a monomaniac. Here we must\nremember the difficult definition of Christianity already given;\nChristianity is a superhuman paradox whereby two opposite passions may\nblaze beside each other. The one explanation of the Gospel language that\ndoes explain it, is that it is the survey of one who from some\nsupernatural height beholds some more startling synthesis.\n\nI take in order the next instance offered: the idea that Christianity\nbelongs to the dark ages. Here I did not satisfy myself with reading\nmodern generalisations; I read a little history. And in history I found\nthat Christianity, so far from belonging to the dark ages, was the one\npath across the dark ages that was not dark. It was a shining bridge\nconnecting two shining civilisations. If any one says that the faith\narose in ignorance and savagery the answer is simple: it didn't. It\narose in the Mediterranean civilisation in the full summer of the Roman\nEmpire. The world was swarming with sceptics, and pantheism was as plain\nas the sun, when Constantine nailed the cross to the mast. It is\nperfectly true that afterwards the ship sank; but it is far more\nextraordinary that the ship came up again: repainted and glittering,\nwith the cross still at the top. This is the amazing thing the religion\ndid: it turned a sunken ship into a submarine. The ark lived under the\nload of waters; after being buried under the d\u00e9bris of dynasties and\nclans, we arose and remembered Rome. If our faith had been a mere fad of\nthe fading empire, fad would have followed fad in the twilight, and if\nthe civilisation ever re-emerged (and many such have never re-emerged)\nit would have been under some new barbaric flag. But the Christian\nChurch was the last life of the old society and was also the first life\nof the new. She took the people who were forgetting how to make an arch\nand she taught them to invent the Gothic arch. In a word, the most\nabsurd thing that could be said of the Church is the thing we have all\nheard said of it. How can we say that the Church wishes to bring us back\ninto the Dark Ages? The Church was the only thing that ever brought us\nout of them.\n\nI added in this second trinity of objections an idle instance taken from\nthose who feel such people as the Irish to be weakened or made stagnant\nby superstition. I only added it because this is a peculiar case of a\nstatement of fact that turns out to be a statement of falsehood. It is\nconstantly said of the Irish that they are impractical. But if we\nrefrain for a moment from looking at what is said about them and look at\nwhat is _done_ about them, we shall see that the Irish are not only\npractical, but quite painfully successful. The poverty of their country,\nthe minority of their members are simply the conditions under which they\nwere asked to work; but no other group in the British Empire has done so\nmuch with such conditions. The Nationalists were the only minority that\never succeeded in twisting the whole British Parliament sharply out of\nits path. The Irish peasants are the only poor men in these islands who\nhave forced their masters to disgorge. These people, whom we call\npriest-ridden, are the only Britons who will not be squire-ridden. And\nwhen I came to look at the actual Irish character, the case was the\nsame. Irishmen are best at the specially _hard_ professions--the trades\nof iron, the lawyer, and the soldier. In all these cases, therefore, I\ncame back to the same conclusion: the sceptic was quite right to go by\nthe facts, only he had not looked at the facts. The sceptic is too\ncredulous; he believes in newspapers or even in encyclop\u00e6dias. Again the\nthree questions left me with three very antagonistic questions. The\naverage sceptic wanted to know how I explained the namby-pamby note in\nthe Gospel, the connection of the creed with medi\u00e6val darkness and the\npolitical impracticability of the Celtic Christians. But I wanted to\nask, and to ask with an earnestness amounting to urgency, \"What is this\nincomparable energy which appears first in one walking the earth like a\nliving judgment and this energy which can die with a dying civilisation\nand yet force it to a resurrection from the dead; this energy which last\nof all can inflame a bankrupt peasantry with so fixed a faith in justice\nthat they get what they ask, while others go empty away; so that the\nmost helpless island of the Empire can actually help itself?\"\n\nThere is an answer: it is an answer to say that the energy is truly from\noutside the world; that it is psychic, or at least one of the results of\na real psychical disturbance. The highest gratitude and respect are due\nto the great human civilisations such as the old Egyptian or the\nexisting Chinese. Nevertheless it is no injustice for them to say that\nonly modern Europe has exhibited incessantly a power of self-renewal\nrecurring often at the shortest intervals and descending to the smallest\nfacts of building or costume. All other societies die finally and with\ndignity. We die daily. We are always being born again with almost\nindecent obstetrics. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that there is\nin historic Christendom a sort of unnatural life: it could be explained\nas a supernatural life. It could be explained as an awful galvanic life\nworking in what would have been a corpse. For our civilisation _ought_\nto have died, by all parallels, by all sociological probability, in the\nRagnorak of the end of Rome. That is the weird inspiration of our\nestate: you and I have no business to be here at all. We are all\n_revenants_; all living Christians are dead pagans walking about. Just\nas Europe was about to be gathered in silence to Assyria and Babylon,\nsomething entered into its body. And Europe has had a strange life--it\nis not too much to say that it has had the _jumps_--ever since.\n\nI have dealt at length with such typical triads of doubt in order to\nconvey the main contention--that my own case for Christianity is\nrational; but it is not simple. It is an accumulation of varied facts,\nlike the attitude of the ordinary agnostic. But the ordinary agnostic\nhas got his facts all wrong. He is a non-believer for a multitude of\nreasons; but they are untrue reasons. He doubts because the Middle Ages\nwere barbaric, but they weren't; because Darwinism is demonstrated, but\nit isn't; because miracles do not happen, but they do; because monks\nwere lazy, but they were very industrious; because nuns are unhappy, but\nthey are particularly cheerful; because Christian art was sad and pale,\nbut it was picked out in peculiarly bright colours and gay with gold;\nbecause modern science is moving away from the supernatural, but it\nisn't, it is moving towards the supernatural with the rapidity of a\nrailway train.\n\nBut among these million facts all flowing one way there is, of course,\none question sufficiently solid and separate to be treated briefly, but\nby itself; I mean the objective occurrence of the supernatural. In\nanother chapter I have indicated the fallacy of the ordinary supposition\nthat the world must be impersonal because it is orderly. A person is\njust as likely to desire an orderly thing as a disorderly thing. But my\nown positive conviction that personal creation is more conceivable than\nmaterial fate, is, I admit, in a sense, undiscussable. I will not call\nit a faith or an intuition, for those words are mixed up with mere\nemotion, it is strictly an intellectual conviction; but it is a\n_primary_ intellectual conviction like the certainty of self or the good\nof living. Any one who likes, therefore, may call my belief in God\nmerely mystical; the phrase is not worth fighting about. But my belief\nthat miracles have happened in human history is not a mystical belief at\nall; I believe in them upon human evidence as I do in the discovery of\nAmerica. Upon this point there is a simple logical fact that only\nrequires to be stated and cleared up. Somehow or other an extraordinary\nidea has arisen that the disbelievers in miracles consider them coldly\nand fairly, while believers in miracles accept them only in connection\nwith some dogma. The fact is quite the other way. The believers in\nmiracles accept them (rightly or wrongly) because they have evidence\nfor them. The disbelievers in miracles deny them (rightly or wrongly)\nbecause they have a doctrine against them. The open, obvious, democratic\nthing is to believe an old apple-woman when she bears testimony to a\nmiracle, just as you believe an old apple-woman when she bears testimony\nto a murder. The plain, popular course is to trust the peasant's word\nabout the ghost exactly as far as you trust the peasant's word about the\nlandlord. Being a peasant he will probably have a great deal of healthy\nagnosticism about both. Still you could fill the British Museum with\nevidence uttered by the peasant, and given in favour of the ghost. If it\ncomes to human testimony there is a choking cataract of human testimony\nin favour of the supernatural. If you reject it, you can only mean one\nof two things. You reject the peasant's story about the ghost either\nbecause the man is a peasant or because the story is a ghost story. That\nis, you either deny the main principle of democracy, or you affirm the\nmain principle of materialism--the abstract impossibility of miracle.\nYou have a perfect right to do so; but in that case you are the\ndogmatist. It is we Christians who accept all actual evidence--it is you\nrationalists who refuse actual evidence, being constrained to do so by\nyour creed. But I am not constrained by any creed in the matter, and\nlooking impartially into certain miracles of medi\u00e6val and modern times,\nI have come to the conclusion that they occurred. All argument against\nthese plain facts is always argument in a circle. If I say, \"Medi\u00e6val\ndocuments attest certain miracles as much as they attest certain\nbattles,\" they answer, \"But medi\u00e6vals were superstitious\"; if I want to\nknow in what they were superstitious, the only ultimate answer is that\nthey believed in the miracles. If I say \"a peasant saw a ghost,\" I am\ntold, \"But peasants are so credulous.\" If I ask, \"Why credulous?\" the\nonly answer is--that they see ghosts. Iceland is impossible because only\nstupid sailors have seen it; and the sailors are only stupid because\nthey say they have seen Iceland. It is only fair to add that there is\nanother argument that the unbeliever may rationally use against\nmiracles, though he himself generally forgets to use it.\n\nHe may say that there has been in many miraculous stories a notion of\nspiritual preparation and acceptance: in short, that the miracle could\nonly come to him who believed in it. It may be so, and if it is so how\nare we to test it? If we are inquiring whether certain results follow\nfaith, it is useless to repeat wearily that (if they happen) they do\nfollow faith. If faith is one of the conditions, those without faith\nhave a most healthy right to laugh. But they have no right to judge.\nBeing a believer may be, if you like, as bad as being drunk; still if we\nwere extracting psychological facts from drunkards, it would be absurd\nto be always taunting them with having been drunk. Suppose we were\ninvestigating whether angry men really saw a red mist before their eyes.\nSuppose sixty excellent householders swore that when angry they had seen\nthis crimson cloud: surely it would be absurd to answer \"Oh, but you\nadmit you were angry at the time.\" They might reasonably rejoin (in a\nstentorian chorus), \"How the blazes could we discover, without being\nangry, whether angry people see red?\" So the saints and ascetics might\nrationally reply, \"Suppose that the question is whether believers can\nsee visions--even then, if you are interested in visions it is no point\nto object to believers.\" You are still arguing in a circle--in that old\nmad circle with which this book began.\n\nThe question of whether miracles ever occur is a question of common\nsense and of ordinary historical imagination: not of any final physical\nexperiment. One may here surely dismiss that quite brainless piece of\npedantry which talks about the need for \"scientific conditions\" in\nconnection with alleged spiritual phenomena. If we are asking whether a\ndead soul can communicate with a living it is ludicrous to insist that\nit shall be under conditions in which no two living souls in their\nsenses would seriously communicate with each other. The fact that ghosts\nprefer darkness no more disproves the existence of ghosts than the fact\nthat lovers prefer darkness disproves the existence of love. If you\nchoose to say, \"I will believe that Miss Brown called her _fianc\u00e9_ a\nperiwinkle or any other endearing term, if she will repeat the word\nbefore seventeen psychologists,\" then I shall reply, \"Very well, if\nthose are your conditions, you will never get the truth, for she\ncertainly will not say it.\" It is just as unscientific as it is\nunphilosophical to be surprised that in an unsympathetic atmosphere\ncertain extraordinary sympathies do not arise. It is as if I said that I\ncould not tell if there was a fog because the air was not clear enough;\nor as if I insisted on perfect sunlight in order to see a solar eclipse.\n\nAs a common-sense conclusion, such as those to which we come about sex\nor about midnight (well knowing that many details must in their own\nnature be concealed) I conclude that miracles do happen. I am forced to\nit by a conspiracy of facts: the fact that the men who encounter elves\nor angels are not the mystics and the morbid dreamers, but fishermen,\nfarmers, and all men at once coarse and cautious; the fact that we all\nknow men who testify to spiritualist incidents but are not\nspiritualists; the fact that science itself admits such things more and\nmore every day. Science will even admit the Ascension if you call it\nLevitation, and will very likely admit the Resurrection when it has\nthought of another word for it. I suggest the Regalvanisation. But the\nstrongest of all is the dilemma above mentioned, that these supernatural\nthings are never denied except on the basis either of anti-democracy or\nof materialist dogmatism--I may say materialist mysticism. The sceptic\nalways takes one of the two positions; either an ordinary man need not\nbe believed, or an extraordinary event must not be believed. For I hope\nwe may dismiss the argument against wonders attempted in the mere\nrecapitulation of frauds, of swindling mediums or trick miracles. That\nis not an argument at all, good or bad. A false ghost disproves the\nreality of ghosts exactly as much as a forged banknote disproves the\nexistence of the Bank of England--if anything, it proves its existence.\n\nGiven this conviction that the spiritual phenomena do occur (my evidence\nfor which is complex but rational), we then collide with one of the\nworst mental evils of the age. The greatest disaster of the nineteenth\ncentury was this: that men began to use the word \"spiritual\" as the same\nas the word \"good.\" They thought that to grow in refinement and\nuncorporeality was to grow in virtue. When scientific evolution was\nannounced, some feared that it would encourage mere animality. It did\nworse: it encouraged mere spirituality. It taught men to think that so\nlong as they were passing from the ape they were going to the angel. But\nyou can pass from the ape and go to the devil. A man of genius, very\ntypical of that time of bewilderment, expressed it perfectly. Benjamin\nDisraeli was right when he said he was on the side of the angels. He was\nindeed; he was on the side of the fallen angels. He was not on the side\nof any mere appetite or animal brutality; but he was on the side of all\nthe imperialism of the princes of the abyss; he was on the side of\narrogance and mystery, and contempt of all obvious good. Between this\nsunken pride and the towering humilities of heaven there are, one must\nsuppose, spirits of shapes and sizes. Man, in encountering them, must\nmake much the same mistakes that he makes in encountering any other\nvaried types in any other distant continent. It must be hard at first to\nknow who is supreme and who is subordinate. If a shade arose from the\nunder world, and stared at Piccadilly, that shade would not quite\nunderstand the idea of an ordinary closed carriage. He would suppose\nthat the coachman on the box was a triumphant conqueror, dragging behind\nhim a kicking and imprisoned captive. So, if we see spiritual facts for\nthe first time, we may mistake who is uppermost. It is not enough to\nfind the gods; they are obvious; we must find God, the real chief of the\ngods. We must have a long historic experience in supernatural\nphenomena--in order to discover which are really natural. In this light\nI find the history of Christianity, and even of its Hebrew origins,\nquite practical and clear. It does not trouble me to be told that the\nHebrew god was one among many. I know he was, without any research to\ntell me so. Jehovah and Baal looked equally important, just as the sun\nand the moon looked the same size. It is only slowly that we learn that\nthe sun is immeasurably our master, and the small moon only our\nsatellite. Believing that there is a world of spirits, I shall walk in\nit as I do in the world of men, looking for the thing that I like and\nthink good. Just as I should seek in a desert for clean water, or toil\nat the North Pole to make a comfortable fire, so I shall search the land\nof void and vision until I find something fresh like water, and\ncomforting like fire; until I find some place in eternity, where I am\nliterally at home. And there is only one such place to be found.\n\nI have now said enough to show (to any one to whom such an explanation\nis essential) that I have in the ordinary arena of apologetics, a ground\nof belief. In pure records of experiment (if these be taken\ndemocratically without contempt or favour) there is evidence first, that\nmiracles happen, and second that the nobler miracles belong to our\ntradition. But I will not pretend that this curt discussion is my real\nreason for accepting Christianity instead of taking the moral good of\nChristianity as I should take it out of Confucianism.\n\nI have another far more solid and central ground for submitting to it as\na faith, instead of merely picking up hints from it as a scheme. And\nthat is this: that the Christian Church in its practical relation to my\nsoul is a living teacher, not a dead one. It not only certainly taught\nme yesterday, but will almost certainly teach me to-morrow. Once I saw\nsuddenly the meaning of the shape of the cross; some day I may see\nsuddenly the meaning of the shape of the mitre. One fine morning I saw\nwhy windows were pointed; some fine morning I may see why priests were\nshaven. Plato has told you a truth; but Plato is dead. Shakespeare has\nstartled you with an image; but Shakespeare will not startle you with\nany more. But imagine what it would be to live with such men still\nliving, to know that Plato might break out with an original lecture\nto-morrow, or that at any moment Shakespeare might shatter everything\nwith a single song. The man who lives in contact with what he believes\nto be a living Church is a man always expecting to meet Plato and\nShakespeare to-morrow at breakfast. He is always expecting to see some\ntruth that he has never seen before. There is one only other parallel to\nthis position; and that is the parallel of the life in which we all\nbegan. When your father told you, walking about the garden, that bees\nstung or that roses smelt sweet, you did not talk of taking the best\nout of his philosophy. When the bees stung you, you did not call it an\nentertaining coincidence. When the rose smelt sweet you did not say \"My\nfather is a rude, barbaric symbol, enshrining (perhaps unconsciously)\nthe deep delicate truths that flowers smell.\" No: you believed your\nfather, because you had found him to be a living fountain of facts, a\nthing that really knew more than you; a thing that would tell you truth\nto-morrow, as well as to-day. And if this was true of your father, it\nwas even truer of your mother; at least it was true of mine, to whom\nthis book is dedicated. Now, when society is in a rather futile fuss\nabout the subjection of women, will no one say how much every man owes\nto the tyranny and privilege of women, to the fact that they alone rule\neducation until education becomes futile: for a boy is only sent to be\ntaught at school when it is too late to teach him anything. The real\nthing has been done already, and thank God it is nearly always done by\nwomen. Every man is womanised, merely by being born. They talk of the\nmasculine woman; but every man is a feminised man. And if ever men walk\nto Westminster to protest against this female privilege, I shall not\njoin their procession.\n\nFor I remember with certainty this fixed psychological fact; that the\nvery time when I was most under a woman's authority, I was most full of\nflame and adventure. Exactly because when my mother said that ants bit\nthey did bite, and because snow did come in winter (as she said);\ntherefore the whole world was to me a fairyland of wonderful\nfulfilments, and it was like living in some Hebraic age, when prophecy\nafter prophecy came true. I went out as a child into the garden, and it\nwas a terrible place to me, precisely because I had a clue to it: if I\nhad held no clue it would not have been terrible, but tame. A mere\nunmeaning wilderness is not even impressive. But the garden of childhood\nwas fascinating, exactly because everything had a fixed meaning which\ncould be found out in its turn. Inch by inch I might discover what was\nthe object of the ugly shape called a rake; or form some shadowy\nconjecture as to why my parents kept a cat.\n\nSo, since I have accepted Christendom as a mother and not merely as a\nchance example, I have found Europe and the world once more like the\nlittle garden where I stared at the symbolic shapes of cat and rake; I\nlook at everything with the old elvish ignorance and expectancy. This or\nthat rite or doctrine may look as ugly and extraordinary as a rake; but\nI have found by experience that such things end somehow in grass and\nflowers. A clergyman may be apparently as useless as a cat, but he is\nalso as fascinating, for there must be some strange reason for his\nexistence. I give one instance out of a hundred; I have not myself any\ninstinctive kinship with that enthusiasm for physical virginity, which\nhas certainly been a note of historic Christianity. But when I look not\nat myself but at the world, I perceive that this enthusiasm is not only\na note of Christianity, but a note of Paganism, a note of high human\nnature in many spheres. The Greeks felt virginity when they carved\nArtemis, the Romans when they robed the vestals, the worst and wildest\nof the great Elizabethan playwrights clung to the literal purity of a\nwoman as to the central pillar of the world. Above all, the modern world\n(even while mocking sexual innocence) has flung itself into a generous\nidolatry of sexual innocence--the great modern worship of children. For\nany man who loves children will agree that their peculiar beauty is hurt\nby a hint of physical sex. With all this human experience, allied with\nthe Christian authority, I simply conclude that I am wrong, and the\nchurch right; or rather that I am defective, while the church is\nuniversal. It takes all sorts to make a church; she does not ask me to\nbe celibate. But the fact that I have no appreciation of the celibates,\nI accept like the fact that I have no ear for music. The best human\nexperience is against me, as it is on the subject of Bach. Celibacy is\none flower in my father's garden, of which I have not been told the\nsweet or terrible name. But I may be told it any day.\n\nThis, therefore, is, in conclusion, my reason for accepting the religion\nand not merely the scattered and secular truths out of the religion. I\ndo it because the thing has not merely told this truth or that truth,\nbut has revealed itself as a truth-telling thing. All other philosophies\nsay the things that plainly seem to be true; only this philosophy has\nagain and again said the thing that does not seem to be true, but is\ntrue. Alone of all creeds it is convincing where it is not attractive;\nit turns out to be right, like my father in the garden. Theosophists,\nfor instance, will preach an obviously attractive idea like\nre-incarnation; but if we wait for its logical results, they are\nspiritual superciliousness and the cruelty of caste. For if a man is a\nbeggar by his own pre-natal sins, people will tend to despise the\nbeggar. But Christianity preaches an obviously unattractive idea, such\nas original sin; but when we wait for its results, they are pathos and\nbrotherhood, and a thunder of laughter and pity; for only with original\nsin we can at once pity the beggar and distrust the king. Men of science\noffer us health, an obvious benefit; it is only afterwards that we\ndiscover that by health, they mean bodily slavery and spiritual tedium.\nOrthodoxy makes us jump by the sudden brink of hell; it is only\nafterwards that we realise that jumping was an athletic exercise highly\nbeneficial to our health. It is only afterwards that we realise that\nthis danger is the root of all drama and romance. The strongest argument\nfor the divine grace is simply its ungraciousness. The unpopular parts\nof Christianity turn out when examined to be the very props of the\npeople. The outer ring of Christianity is a rigid guard of ethical\nabnegations and professional priests; but inside that inhuman guard you\nwill find the old human life dancing like children, and drinking wine\nlike men; for Christianity is the only frame for pagan freedom. But in\nthe modern philosophy the case is opposite; it is its outer ring that\nis obviously artistic and emancipated; its despair is within.\n\nAnd its despair is this, that it does not really believe that there is\nany meaning in the universe; therefore it cannot hope to find any\nromance; its romances will have no plots. A man cannot expect any\nadventures in the land of anarchy. But a man can expect any number of\nadventures if he goes travelling in the land of authority. One can find\nno meanings in a jungle of scepticism; but the man will find more and\nmore meanings who walks through a forest of doctrine and design. Here\neverything has a story tied to its tail, like the tools or pictures in\nmy father's house; for it is my father's house. I end where I began--at\nthe right end. I have entered at least the gate of all good philosophy.\nI have come into my second childhood.\n\nBut this larger and more adventurous Christian universe has one final\nmark difficult to express; yet as a conclusion of the whole matter I\nwill attempt to express it. All the real argument about religion turns\non the question of whether a man who was born upside down can tell when\nhe comes right way up. The primary paradox of Christianity is that the\nordinary condition of man is not his sane or sensible condition; that\nthe normal itself is an abnormality. That is the inmost philosophy of\nthe Fall. In Sir Oliver Lodge's interesting new Catechism, the first two\nquestions were: \"What are you?\" and \"What, then, is the meaning of the\nFall of Man?\" I remember amusing myself by writing my own answers to the\nquestions; but I soon found that they were very broken and agnostic\nanswers. To the question, \"What are you?\" I could only answer, \"God\nknows.\" And to the question, \"What is meant by the Fall?\" I could answer\nwith complete sincerity, \"That whatever I am, I am not myself.\" This is\nthe prime paradox of our religion; something that we have never in any\nfull sense known, is not only better than ourselves, but even more\nnatural to us than ourselves. And there is really no test of this except\nthe merely experimental one with which these pages began, the test of\nthe padded cell and the open door. It is only since I have known\northodoxy that I have known mental emancipation. But, in conclusion, it\nhas one special application to the ultimate idea of joy.\n\nIt is said that Paganism is a religion of joy and Christianity of\nsorrow; it would be just as easy to prove that Paganism is pure sorrow\nand Christianity pure joy. Such conflicts mean nothing and lead\nnowhere. Everything human must have in it both joy and sorrow; the only\nmatter of interest is the manner in which the two things are balanced or\ndivided. And the really interesting thing is this, that the pagan was\n(in the main) happier and happier as he approached the earth, but sadder\nand sadder as he approached the heavens. The gaiety of the best\nPaganism, as in the playfulness of Catullus or Theocritus, is, indeed,\nan eternal gaiety never to be forgotten by a grateful humanity. But it\nis all a gaiety about the facts of life, not about its origin. To the\npagan the small things are as sweet as the small brooks breaking out of\nthe mountain; but the broad things are as bitter as the sea. When the\npagan looks at the very core of the cosmos he is struck cold. Behind the\ngods, who are merely despotic, sit the fates, who are deadly. Nay, the\nfates are worse than deadly; they are dead. And when rationalists say\nthat the ancient world was more enlightened than the Christian, from\ntheir point of view they are right. For when they say \"enlightened\" they\nmean darkened with incurable despair. It is profoundly true that the\nancient world was more modern than the Christian. The common bond is in\nthe fact that ancients and moderns have both been miserable about\nexistence, about everything, while medi\u00e6vals were happy about that at\nleast. I freely grant that the pagans, like the moderns, were only\nmiserable about everything--they were quite jolly about everything else.\nI concede that the Christians of the Middle Ages were only at peace\nabout everything--they were at war about everything else. But if the\nquestion turn on the primary pivot of the cosmos, then there was more\ncosmic contentment in the narrow and bloody streets of Florence than in\nthe theatre of Athens or the open garden of Epicurus. Giotto lived in a\ngloomier town than Euripides, but he lived in a gayer universe.\n\nThe mass of men have been forced to be gay about the little things, but\nsad about the big ones. Nevertheless (I offer my last dogma defiantly)\nit is not native to man to be so. Man is more himself, man is more\nmanlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the\nsuperficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and\nfugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the\nsoul. Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday; joy is the\nuproarious labour by which all things live. Yet, according to the\napparent estate of man as seen by the pagan or the agnostic, this\nprimary need of human nature can never be fulfilled. Joy ought to be\nexpansive; but for the agnostic it must be contracted, it must cling to\none corner of the world. Grief ought to be a concentration; but for the\nagnostic its desolation is spread through an unthinkable eternity. This\nis what I call being born upside down. The sceptic may truly be said to\nbe topsy-turvy; for his feet are dancing upwards in idle ecstacies,\nwhile his brain is in the abyss. To the modern man the heavens are\nactually below the earth. The explanation is simple; he is standing on\nhis head; which is a very weak pedestal to stand on. But when he has\nfound his feet again he knows it. Christianity satisfies suddenly and\nperfectly man's ancestral instinct for being the right way up; satisfies\nit supremely in this; that by its creed joy becomes something gigantic\nand sadness something special and small. The vault above us is not deaf\nbecause the universe is an idiot; the silence is not the heartless\nsilence of an endless and aimless world. Rather the silence around us is\na small and pitiful stillness like the prompt stillness in a sick room.\nWe are perhaps permitted tragedy as a sort of merciful comedy: because\nthe frantic energy of divine things would knock us down like a drunken\nfarce. We can take our own tears more lightly than we could take the\ntremendous levities of the angels. So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber\nof silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to\nhear.\n\nJoy, which was the small publicity of the pagan, is the gigantic secret\nof the Christian. And as I close this chaotic volume I open again the\nstrange small book from which all Christianity came; and I am again\nhaunted by a kind of confirmation. The tremendous figure which fills the\nGospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the\nthinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural,\nalmost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing\ntheir tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His\nopen face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city.\nYet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists\nare proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He\nflung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how\nthey expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained\nsomething. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering\npersonality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something\nthat He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was\nsomething that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous\nisolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show\nus when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it\nwas His mirth.","title":"Orthodoxy","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":63667}