TheDefendant

ByG.K.Chesterton

THEDEFENDANT

INTRODUCTION

Incertainendlessuplands,uplandslikegreatflatsgonedizzy,slopesthatseemtocontradicttheideathatthereisevensuchathingasalevel,andmakeusallrealizethatweliveonaplanetwithaslopingroof,youwillcomefromtimetotimeuponwholevalleysfilledwithlooserocksandboulders,sobigastobelikemountains broken loose. The wholemight be an experimental creationshatteredandcastaway.Itisoftendifficulttobelievethatsuchcosmicrefusecan have come together except by human means. The mildest and mostcockney imagination conceives the place to be the scene of some war ofgiants. To me it is always associated with one idea, recurrent and at last

instinctive. The scene was the scene of the stoning of some prehistoricprophet,aprophetasmuchmoregiganticthanafter-prophetsasthebouldersaremoregiganticthanthepebbles.Hespokesomewords—wordsthatseemedshameful and tremendous—and the world, in terror, buried him underawildernessofstones.Theplaceisthemonumentofanancientfear.

Ifwefollowedthesamemoodoffancy,itwouldbemoredifficulttoimaginewhat awful hint or wild picture of the universe called forth that primalpersecution, what secret of sensational thought lies buried under the brutalstones. For in our time the blasphemies are threadbare. Pessimism is nowpatently,asitalwayswasessentially,morecommonplacethanpiety.Profanityisnowmorethananaffectation—itisaconvention.ThecurseagainstGodisExercise I. in the primer of minor poetry. It was not, assuredly, for suchbabyishsolemnitiesthatourimaginaryprophetwasstonedinthemorningoftheworld.Ifweweighthematterinthefaultlessscalesofimagination,ifweseewhat is thereal trendofhumanity,weshall feel itmostprobable thathewas stoned for saying that the grass was green and that the birds sang inspring;forthemissionofalltheprophetsfromthebeginninghasnotbeensomuchthepointingoutofheavensorhellsasprimarilythepointingoutoftheearth.

Religionhashadtoprovidethatlongestandstrangesttelescope—thetelescopethroughwhichwecouldseethestaruponwhichwedwelt.Forthemindandeyes of the average man this world is as lost as Eden and as sunken asAtlantis.Thererunsastrangelawthroughthelengthofhumanhistory—thatmen are continually tending to undervalue their environment, to undervaluetheirhappiness, toundervalue themselves.Thegreat sinofmankind, thesintypifiedby thefallofAdam, is the tendency,not towardspride,but towardsthisweirdandhorriblehumility.

Thisisthegreatfall,thefallbywhichthefishforgetsthesea,theoxforgetsthemeadow,theclerkforgetsthecity,everymanforgetshisenvironmentand,in the fullest andmost literal sense, forgets himself. This is the real fall ofAdam,and it isa spiritual fall. It isa strange thing thatmany trulyspiritualmen,suchasGeneralGordon,haveactuallyspentsomehoursinspeculatingupon the precise location of the Garden of Eden.Most probably we are inEdenstill.Itisonlyoureyesthathavechanged.

Thepessimistiscommonlyspokenofasthemaninrevolt.Heisnot.Firstly,because it requires some cheerfulness to continue in revolt, and secondly,becausepessimismappealstotheweakersideofeverybody,andthepessimist,therefore,drivesasroaringatradeasthepublican.Thepersonwhoisreallyinrevoltistheoptimist,whogenerallylivesanddiesinadesperateandsuicidalefforttopersuadealltheotherpeoplehowgoodtheyare.Ithasbeenproveda

hundred timesover that if you reallywish to enragepeople andmake themangry,evenuntodeath,therightwaytodoitistotellthemthattheyareallthesonsofGod.JesusChristwascrucified, itmayberemembered,notbecauseofanythinghesaidaboutGod,butonachargeofsayingthatamancouldinthree days pull down and rebuild the Temple. Every one of the greatrevolutionists, from Isaiah to Shelley, have been optimists. They have beenindignant,notaboutthebadnessofexistence,butabouttheslownessofmenin realizing its goodness. The prophet who is stoned is not a brawler or amarplot. He is simply a rejected lover. He suffers from an unrequitedattachmenttothingsingeneral.

Itbecomes increasinglyapparent, therefore, that theworld is inapermanentdangerofbeingmisjudged.That this is no fancifulormystical ideamaybetestedby simple examples.The twoabsolutelybasicwords 'good' and 'bad,'descriptiveoftwoprimalandinexplicablesensations,arenot,andneverhavebeen, used properly. Things that are bad are not called good by any peoplewhoexperiencethem;butthingsthataregoodarecalledbadbytheuniversalverdictofhumanity.

Letmeexplainalittle:Certainthingsarebadsofarastheygo,suchaspain,andnoone,not evena lunatic, calls a tooth-achegood in itself; but aknifewhichcutsclumsilyandwithdifficultyiscalledabadknife,whichitcertainlyis not. It is only not so good as other knives to which men have grownaccustomed. A knife is never bad except on such rare occasions as that inwhich it isneatlyandscientificallyplanted in themiddleofone'sback.Thecoarsest and bluntest knifewhich ever broke a pencil into pieces instead ofsharpeningitisagoodthinginsofarasitisaknife.ItwouldhaveappearedamiracleintheStoneAge.Whatwecallabadknifeisagoodknifenotgoodenoughforus;whatwecallabadhat isagoodhatnotgoodenoughforus;whatwecallbadcookeryisgoodcookerynotgoodenoughforus;whatwecallabadcivilizationisagoodcivilizationnotgoodenoughforus.Wechoosetocallthegreatmassofthehistoryofmankindbad,notbecauseitisbad,butbecausewearebetter.Thisispalpablyanunfairprinciple.Ivorymaynotbesowhiteassnow,butthewholeArcticcontinentdoesnotmakeivoryblack.

Nowithasappearedtomeunfairthathumanityshouldbeengagedperpetuallyin calling all those things badwhichhavebeengood enough tomakeotherthings better, in everlastingly kicking down the ladder by which it hasclimbed.Ithasappearedtomethatprogressshouldbesomethingelsebesidesacontinualparricide;thereforeIhaveinvestigatedthedust-heapsofhumanity,and found a treasure in all of them. I have found that humanity is notincidentally engaged, but eternally and systematically engaged, in throwinggoldintothegutteranddiamondsintothesea.Ihavefoundthateverymanisdisposedtocallthegreenleafofthetreealittlelessgreenthanitis,andthe

snowofChristmasalittlelesswhitethanitis;thereforeIhaveimaginedthatthemainbusinessofaman,howeverhumble,isdefence.Ihaveconceivedthata defendant is chiefly required when worldlings despise the world—that acounselforthedefencewouldnothavebeenoutofplaceinthatterribledaywhenthesunwasdarkenedoverCalvaryandManwasrejectedofmen.

ADEFENCEOFPENNYDREADFULSOne of the strangest examples of the degree to which ordinary life isundervalued is theexampleofpopular literature, thevastmassofwhichwecontentedly describe as vulgar. The boy's novelette may be ignorant in aliterarysense,whichisonlylikesayingthatamodernnovelisignorantinthechemicalsense,ortheeconomicsense,ortheastronomicalsense;butitisnotvulgarintrinsically—itistheactualcentreofamillionflamingimaginations.

In former centuries the educated class ignored the ruck of vulgar literature.They ignored, and therefore did not, properly speaking, despise it. Simpleignorance and indifference does not inflate the characterwith pride.Amandoesnotwalkdownthestreetgivingahaughtytwirltohismoustachesatthethoughtofhissuperioritytosomevarietyofdeep-seafishes.Theoldscholarsleftthewholeunder-worldofpopularcompositionsinasimilardarkness.

To-day, however, we have reversed this principle. We do despise vulgarcompositions,andwedonotignorethem.Weareinsomedangerofbecomingpetty in our study of pettiness; there is a terrible Circean law in thebackground that if the soul stoops too ostentatiously to examine anything itnevergetsupagain.Thereisnoclassofvulgarpublicationsaboutwhichthereis, tomymind,moreutterly ridiculousexaggerationandmisconception thanthecurrentboys'literatureoftheloweststratum.Thisclassofcompositionhaspresumablyalwaysexisted,andmustexist. Ithasnomoreclaim tobegoodliterature than thedaily conversationof its readers tobe fineoratory, or thelodging-houses and tenements they inhabit to be sublime architecture. Butpeoplemust have conversation, theymust have houses, and theymust havestories. The simple need for some kind of ideal world in which fictitiouspersonsplayanunhamperedpartisinfinitelydeeperandolderthantherulesof good art, and much more important. Every one of us in childhood hasconstructedsuchan invisibledramatispersonæ,but itneveroccurred toournurses to correct the compositionbycareful comparisonwithBalzac. In theEast the professional story-teller goes from village to village with a smallcarpet;andIwishsincerelythatanyonehadthemoralcouragetospreadthatcarpetandsitonitinLudgateCircus.Butitisnotprobablethatallthetalesof

the carpet-bearer are little gems of original artistic workmanship. Literatureandfictionaretwoentirelydifferentthings.Literatureisaluxury;fictionisanecessity.Aworkofartcanhardlybetooshort,foritsclimaxisitsmerit.Astorycanneverbe too long, for itsconclusion ismerely tobedeplored, likethe last halfpenny or the last pipelight. And so, while the increase of theartistic conscience tends in more ambitious works to brevity andimpressionism, voluminous industry still marks the producer of the trueromantictrash.TherewasnoendtotheballadsofRobinHood;thereisnoendtothevolumesaboutDickDeadshotandtheAvengingNine.Thesetwoheroesaredeliberatelyconceivedasimmortal.

But insteadof basing all discussionof theproblemupon the common-senserecognitionofthisfact—thattheyouthofthelowerordersalwayshashadandalwaysmust have formless and endless romantic reading of somekind, andthengoingontomakeprovisionforitswholesomeness—webegin,generallyspeaking,byfantasticabuseofthisreadingasawholeandindignantsurprisethattheerrand-boysunderdiscussiondonotread'TheEgoist'and'TheMasterBuilder.'Itisthecustom,particularlyamongmagistrates,toattributehalfthecrimesoftheMetropolistocheapnovelettes.Ifsomegrimyurchinrunsawaywithanapple, themagistrate shrewdlypointsout that thechild'sknowledgethat apples appease hunger is traceable to some curious literary researches.The boys themselves, when penitent, frequently accuse the novelettes withgreatbitterness,whichisonlytobeexpectedfromyoungpeoplepossessedofnolittlenativehumour.IfIhadforgedawill,andcouldobtainsympathybytracing the incident to the influenceofMr.GeorgeMoore'snovels, I shouldfindthegreatestentertainmentinthediversion.Atanyrate,itisfirmlyfixedin the minds of most people that gutter-boys, unlike everybody else in thecommunity,findtheirprincipalmotivesforconductinprintedbooks.

Nowitisquiteclearthatthisobjection,theobjectionbroughtbymagistrates,hasnothingtodowithliterarymerit.Badstorywritingisnotacrime.Mr.HallCainewalksthestreetsopenly,andcannotbeputinprisonforananticlimax.The objection rests upon the theory that the tone of the mass of boys'novelettesiscriminalanddegraded,appealingtolowcupidityandlowcruelty.Thisisthemagisterialtheory,andthisisrubbish.

So faras Ihaveseen them, inconnectionwith thedirtiestbook-stalls in thepoorest districts, the facts are simply these:Thewhole bewilderingmass ofvulgarjuvenileliteratureisconcernedwithadventures,rambling,disconnectedandendless.Itdoesnotexpressanypassionofanysort,forthereisnohumancharacterofanysort.Itrunseternallyincertaingroovesoflocalandhistoricaltype: the medieval knight, the eighteenth-century duellist, and the moderncowboy,recurwiththesamestiffsimplicityastheconventionalhumanfiguresinanOrientalpattern. I canquite as easily imagineahumanbeingkindling

wild appetites by the contemplation of his Turkey carpet as by suchdehumanizedandnakednarrativeasthis.

Among these stories there are a certain numberwhich deal sympatheticallywith the adventures of robbers, outlaws and pirates, which present in adignified and romantic light thieves and murderers like Dick Turpin andClaude Duval. That is to say, they do precisely the same thing as Scott's'Ivanhoe,' Scott's 'Rob Roy,' Scott's 'Lady of the Lake,' Byron's 'Corsair,'Wordsworth's'RobRoy'sGrave,'Stevenson's'Macaire,'Mr.MaxPemberton's'IronPirate,' and a thousandmoreworksdistributed systematically as prizesandChristmaspresents.Nobody imagines that an admirationofLocksley in'Ivanhoe'will lead a boy to shoot Japanese arrows at the deer inRichmondPark;noonethinksthattheincautiousopeningofWordsworthatthepoemonRobRoywillsethimupforlifeasablackmailer.Inthecaseofourownclass,we recognise that thiswild life is contemplatedwithpleasureby theyoung,notbecauseitisliketheirownlife,butbecauseitisdifferentfromit.Itmightat leastcrossourminds that, forwhateverother reason theerrand-boyreads'TheRedRevenge,'itreallyisnotbecauseheisdrippingwiththegoreofhisownfriendsandrelatives.

Inthismatter,asinallsuchmatters,weloseourbearingsentirelybyspeakingof the 'lower classes'whenwemean humanityminus ourselves.This trivialromantic literature is not especially plebeian: it is simply human. Thephilanthropist can never forget classes and callings.He says,with amodestswagger, 'I have invited twenty-five factory hands to tea.' If he said 'I haveinvited twenty-five chartered accountants to tea,' everyone would see thehumourofsosimpleaclassification.Butthisiswhatwehavedonewiththislumberlandoffoolishwriting:wehaveprobed,asifitweresomemonstrousnewdisease,whatis,infact,nothingbutthefoolishandvaliantheartofman.Ordinarymenwillalwaysbesentimentalists:forasentimentalist issimplyamanwhohasfeelingsanddoesnottroubletoinventanewwayofexpressingthem. These common and current publications have nothing essentially evilabout them. They express the sanguine and heroic truisms on whichcivilizationisbuilt;foritisclearthatunlesscivilizationisbuiltontruisms,itisnotbuiltatall.Clearly,therecouldbenosafetyforasocietyinwhichtheremark by the Chief Justice that murder was wrong was regarded as anoriginalanddazzlingepigram.

Iftheauthorsandpublishersof'DickDeadshot,'andsuchremarkableworks,weresuddenlytomakearaidupontheeducatedclass,weretotakedownthenamesofeveryman,howeverdistinguished,whowascaughtataUniversityExtensionLecture,weretoconfiscateallournovelsandwarnusalltocorrectourlives,weshouldbeseriouslyannoyed.Yettheyhavefarmorerighttodosothanwe;forthey,withalltheiridiotcy,arenormalandweareabnormal.It

is the modern literature of the educated, not of the uneducated, which isavowedly and aggressively criminal. Books recommending profligacy andpessimism, atwhich thehigh-souled errand-boywould shudder, lie upon allourdrawing-roomtables.Ifthedirtiestoldownerofthedirtiestoldbookstallin Whitechapel dared to display works really recommending polygamy orsuicide,hisstockwouldbeseizedbythepolice.Thesethingsareourluxuries.Andwithahypocrisysoludicrousastobealmostunparalleledinhistory,weratethegutter-boysfortheirimmoralityattheverytimethatwearediscussing(with equivocalGerman Professors)whethermorality is valid at all. At thevery instant that we curse the Penny Dreadful for encouraging thefts uponproperty, we canvass the proposition that all property is theft. At the veryinstant we accuse it (quite unjustly) of lubricity and indecency, we arecheerfullyreadingphilosophieswhichgloryinlubricityandindecency.Attheveryinstantthatwechargeitwithencouragingtheyoungtodestroylife,weareplacidlydiscussingwhetherlifeisworthpreserving.

Butitiswewhoarethemorbidexceptions;itiswewhoarethecriminalclass.Thisshouldbeourgreatcomfort.Thevastmassofhumanity,withtheirvastmassofidlebooksandidlewords,haveneverdoubtedandneverwilldoubtthatcourageissplendid,thatfidelityisnoble,thatdistressedladiesshouldberescued, and vanquished enemies spared. There are a large number ofcultivated personswho doubt thesemaxims of daily life, just as there are alargenumberofpersonswhobelievetheyare thePrinceofWales;andIamtold that both classes of people are entertaining conversationalists. But theaveragemanorboywritesdailyinthesegreatgaudydiariesofhissoul,whichwe call Penny Dreadfuls, a plainer and better gospel than any of thoseiridescent ethical paradoxes that the fashionable change as often as theirbonnets.Itmaybeaverylimitedaiminmoralitytoshoota'many-facedandfickletraitor,'butatleastitisabetteraimthantobeamany-facedandfickletraitor,whichisasimplesummaryofagoodmanymodernsystemsfromMr.d'Annunzio's downwards. So long as the coarse and thin texture of merecurrent popular romance is not touched by a paltry culture it will never bevitally immoral. It is always on the side of life. The poor—the slaveswhoreally stoop under the burden of life—have often beenmad, scatter-brainedand cruel, but never hopeless. That is a class privilege, like cigars. Theirdrivellingliteraturewillalwaysbea'bloodandthunder'literature,assimpleasthethunderofheavenandthebloodofmen.

ADEFENCEOFRASHVOWS

If a prosperous modern man, with a high hat and a frock-coat, were tosolemnlypledgehimselfbeforeallhisclerksandfriends tocount the leavesonevery third tree inHollandWalk, tohopup to theCityonone legeveryThursday, to repeat thewholeofMill's 'Liberty' seventy-six times, tocollect300dandelionsinfieldsbelongingtoanyoneofthenameofBrown,toremainforthirty-onehoursholdinghisleftearinhisrighthand,tosingthenamesofall his aunts in order of age on the top of an omnibus, or make any suchunusualundertaking,weshouldimmediatelyconcludethatthemanwasmad,or,asitissometimesexpressed,was'anartistinlife.'Yetthesevowsarenotmore extraordinary than the vowswhich in theMiddleAges and in similarperiodsweremade,notbyfanaticsmerely,butbythegreatestfiguresincivicandnationalcivilization—bykings,judges,poets,andpriests.Onemansworetochaintwomountains together,andthegreatchainhungthere, itwassaid,foragesasamonumentof thatmystical folly.Another swore thathewouldfindhiswaytoJerusalemwithapatchoverhiseyes,anddiedlookingforit.Itis not easy to see that these two exploits, judged from a strictly rationalstandpoint, are any saner than the acts above suggested. A mountain iscommonlyastationaryandreliableobjectwhichitisnotnecessarytochainupatnightlikeadog.AnditisnoteasyatfirstsighttoseethatamanpaysaveryhighcomplimenttotheHolyCitybysettingoutforitunderconditionswhichrenderittothelastdegreeimprobablethathewillevergetthere.

Butaboutthisthereisonestrikingthingtobenoticed.Ifmenbehavedinthatwayinour time,weshould,aswehavesaid,regard themassymbolsof the'decadence.' But the men who did these things were not decadent; theybelongedgenerallytothemostrobustclassesofwhatisgenerallyregardedasa robust age.Again, itwill be urged that ifmen essentially sane performedsuch insanities, it was under the capricious direction of a superstitiousreligioussystem.This,again,willnotholdwater;forinthepurelyterrestrialand even sensual departments of life, such as love and lust, the medievalprincesshowthesamemadpromisesandperformances,thesamemisshapenimagination and the same monstrous self-sacrifice. Here we have acontradiction,toexplainwhichitisnecessarytothinkofthewholenatureofvows from the beginning. And if we consider seriously and correctly thenatureofvows,weshall,unlessIammuchmistaken,cometotheconclusionthat it is perfectly sane, and even sensible, to swear to chain mountainstogether,andthat,ifinsanityisinvolvedatall,itisalittleinsanenottodoso.

The man who makes a vow makes an appointment with himself at somedistant time or place. The danger of it is that himself should not keep theappointment.And inmodern times this terror of one's self, of theweaknessandmutabilityofone'sself,hasperilously increased,andis therealbasisoftheobjection tovowsofanykind.Amodernmanrefrains fromswearing to

counttheleavesoneverythirdtreeinHollandWalk,notbecauseitissillytodoso(hedoesmanysillierthings),butbecausehehasaprofoundconvictionthatbeforehehadgottothethreehundredandseventy-ninthleafonthefirsttreehewouldbeexcessivelytiredofthesubjectandwanttogohometotea.In other words, we fear that by that time he will be, in the common buthideouslysignificantphrase,anotherman.Now,itisthishorriblefairytaleofamanconstantlychanging intoothermen that is thesoulof theDecadence.ThatJohnPatersonshould,withapparentcalm,lookforwardtobeingacertainGeneralBarkeronMonday,Dr.MacgregoronTuesday,SirWalterCarstairsonWednesday, and SamSlugg onThursday,may seem a nightmare; but tothatnightmarewegivethenameofmodernculture.Onegreatdecadent,whois now dead, published a poem some time ago, in which he powerfullysummedupthewholespiritofthemovementbydeclaringthathecouldstandintheprisonyardandentirelycomprehendthefeelingsofamanabouttobehanged:

'ForhethatlivesmorelivesthanoneMoredeathsthanonemustdie.'Andtheendofall thisisthatmaddeninghorrorofunrealitywhichdescendsuponthedecadents,andcomparedwithwhichphysicalpainitselfwouldhavethe freshness of a youthful thing. The one hell which imagination mustconceive as most hellish is to be eternally acting a play without even thenarrowest and dirtiest greenroom in which to be human. And this is theconditionofthedecadent,oftheaesthete,ofthefree-lover.Tobeeverlastinglypassingthroughdangerswhichweknowcannotscatheus,tobetakingoathswhichweknowcannotbindus,tobedefyingenemieswhoweknowcannotconquer us—this is the grinning tyranny of decadence which is calledfreedom.

Letus turn,on theotherhand, to themakerofvows.Themanwhomadeavow,howeverwild,gaveahealthyandnaturalexpressiontothegreatnessofagreat moment. He vowed, for example, to chain two mountains together,perhaps a symbol of some great relief, or love, or aspiration. Short as themomentofhisresolvemightbe,itwas,likeallgreatmoments,amomentofimmortality,andthedesiretosayofitexegimonumentumoereperenniuswasthe only sentiment that would satisfy his mind. The modern aesthetic manwould,ofcourse,easilyseetheemotionalopportunity;hewouldvowtochaintwomountainstogether.But,then,hewouldquiteascheerfullyvowtochaintheearthtothemoon.Andthewitheringconsciousnessthathedidnotmeanwhathesaid,thathewas,intruth,sayingnothingofanygreatimport,wouldtakefromhimexactlythatsenseofdaringactualitywhichistheexcitementofa vow. For what could bemoremaddening than an existence in which our

motherorauntreceivedtheinformationthatweweregoingtoassassinatetheKingorbuildatempleonBenNeviswiththegenialcomposureofcustom?

The revolt against vowshasbeen carried inourday even to the extent of arevoltagainstthetypicalvowofmarriage.Itismostamusingtolistentotheopponentsofmarriageonthissubject.Theyappeartoimaginethattheidealofconstancywasayokemysteriouslyimposedonmankindbythedevil,insteadof being, as it is, a yoke consistently imposed by all lovers on themselves.Theyhaveinventedaphrase,aphrasethatisablackandwhitecontradictionintwowords—'free-love'—asifalovereverhadbeen,orevercouldbe,free.It is the nature of love to bind itself, and the institution ofmarriagemerelypaidtheaveragemanthecomplimentoftakinghimathisword.Modernsagesoffertothelover,withanill-flavouredgrin,thelargestlibertiesandthefullestirresponsibility;buttheydonotrespecthimastheoldChurchrespectedhim;they do not write his oath upon the heavens, as the record of his highestmoment. They give him every liberty except the liberty to sell his liberty,whichistheonlyonethathewants.

InMr.BernardShaw'sbrilliantplay'ThePhilanderer,'wehaveavividpictureof this state of things. Charteris is aman perpetually endeavouring to be afree-lover, which is like endeavouring to be a married bachelor or a whitenegro.Heiswanderinginahungrysearchforacertainexhilarationwhichhecanonlyhavewhenhehasthecouragetoceasefromwandering.Menknewbetter than this in old times—in the time, for example, of Shakespeare'sheroes.WhenShakespeare'smenarereallycelibatetheypraisetheundoubtedadvantagesofcelibacy,liberty,irresponsibility,achanceofcontinualchange.Buttheywerenotsuchfoolsastocontinuetotalkoflibertywhentheywereinsuchaconditionthattheycouldbemadehappyormiserablebythemovingofsomeone else's eyebrow. Suckling classes love with debt in his praise offreedom.

'Andhethat'sfairlyoutofbothOfalltheworldisblest.Helivesasinthegoldenage,Whenallthingsmadewerecommon;Hetakeshispipe,hetakeshisglass,Hefearsnomanorwoman.'Thisisaperfectlypossible,rationalandmanlyposition.Butwhathaveloversto dowith ridiculous affectationsof fearingnomanorwoman?Theyknowthatintheturningofahandthewholecosmicenginetotheremoteststarmaybecomeaninstrumentofmusicoraninstrumentoftorture.Theyhearasongolder thanSuckling's, thathassurvivedahundredphilosophies. 'Who is thisthatlookethoutofthewindow,fairasthesun,clearasthemoon,terribleasan

armywithbanners?'

As we have said, it is exactly this backdoor, this sense of having a retreatbehind us, that is, to our minds, the sterilizing spirit in modern pleasure.Everywhere there is the persistent and insane attempt to obtain pleasurewithoutpayingforit.Thus,inpoliticsthemodernJingoespracticallysay,'Letushavethepleasuresofconquerorswithoutthepainsofsoldiers:letussitonsofasandbeahardyrace.'Thus,inreligionandmorals,thedecadentmysticssay: 'Let ushave the fragranceof sacredpuritywithout the sorrowsof self-restraint;letussinghymnsalternatelytotheVirginandPriapus.'Thusinlovethe free-lovers say: 'Let ushave the splendourof offeringourselveswithoutthe peril of committing ourselves; let us see whether one cannot commitsuicideanunlimitednumberoftimes.'

Emphaticallyitwillnotwork.Therearethrillingmoments,doubtless,forthespectator, theamateur, and theaesthete;but there isone thrill that isknownonly to the soldier who fights for his own flag, to the ascetic who starveshimself for his own illumination, to the lover who makes finally his ownchoice.And it is this transfiguringself-discipline thatmakes thevowa trulysanething.Itmusthavesatisfiedeventhegianthungerofthesoulofaloveror a poet to know that in consequence of some one instant of decision thatstrangechainwouldhangforcenturiesintheAlpsamongthesilencesofstarsandsnows.Allaroundusisthecityofsmallsins,aboundinginbackwaysandretreats, but surely, sooner or later, the towering flame will rise from theharbourannouncingthatthereignofthecowardsisoverandamanisburninghisships.

ADEFENCEOFSKELETONSSomelittletimeagoIstoodamongimmemorialEnglishtreesthatseemedtotakeholduponthestars likeabroodofYgdrasils.AsIwalkedamongtheselivingpillarsIbecamegraduallyawarethattherusticswholivedanddiedintheirshadowadoptedaverycuriousconversational tone.Theyseemed tobeconstantlyapologizing for the trees,as if theywereaverypoor show.Afterelaborate investigation, Idiscovered that theirgloomyandpenitent tonewastraceable to the fact that itwaswinter andall the treeswerebare. I assuredthemthatIdidnotresentthefactthatitwaswinter,thatIknewthethinghadhappenedbefore,andthatnoforethoughtontheirpartcouldhaveavertedthisblow of destiny.But I could not in anyway reconcile them to the fact thatitwaswinter.TherewasevidentlyageneralfeelingthatIhadcaughtthetreesin akindofdisgraceful deshabille, and that theyoughtnot tobe seenuntil,

likethefirsthumansinners,theyhadcoveredthemselveswithleaves.Soitisquiteclearthat,whileveryfewpeopleappeartoknowanythingofhowtreeslookinwinter,theactualforestersknowlessthananyone.Sofarfromthelineof the tree when it is bare appearing harsh and severe, it is luxuriantlyindefinable to an unusual degree; the fringe of the forestmelts away like avignette.Thetopsoftwoorthreehightreeswhentheyareleaflessaresosoftthat they seem like the gigantic brooms of that fabulous lady who wassweeping the cobwebs off the sky. The outline of a leafy forest is incomparisonhard,grossandblotchy;thecloudsofnightdonotmorecertainlyobscurethemoonthanthosegreenandmonstrouscloudsobscurethetree;theactualsightofthelittlewood,withitsgrayandsilverseaoflife,isentirelyawintervision.Sodimanddelicateistheheartofthewinterwoods,akindofglitteringgloaming,thatafiguresteppingtowardsusinthechequeredtwilightseemsasifhewerebreakingthroughunfathomabledepthsofspiders'webs.

Butsurelytheideathatitsleavesarethechiefgraceofatreeisavulgarone,onaparwiththeideathathishairisthechiefgraceofapianist.Whenwinter,thathealthyascetic,carrieshisgiganticrazoroverhillandvalley,andshavesallthetreeslikemonks,wefeelsurelythattheyareallthemoreliketreesiftheyareshorn,justassomanypaintersandmusicianswouldbeallthemorelike men if they were less like mops. But it does appear to be a deep andessentialdifficultythatmenhaveanabidingterroroftheirownstructure,orofthestructureofthingstheylove.Thisisfeltdimlyintheskeletonofthetree:itisfeltprofoundlyintheskeletonoftheman.

Theimportanceofthehumanskeletonisverygreat,andthehorrorwithwhichit is commonly regarded is somewhatmysterious.Without claiming for thehuman skeleton a wholly conventional beauty, we may assert that he iscertainlynotuglierthanabull-dog,whosepopularityneverwanes,andthathehas a vastly more cheerful and ingratiating expression. But just as man ismysteriously ashamed of the skeletons of the trees in winter, so he ismysteriouslyashamedoftheskeletonofhimselfindeath.Itisasingularthingaltogether,thishorrorofthearchitectureofthings.Onewouldthinkitwouldbe most unwise in a man to be afraid of a skeleton, since Nature has setcuriousandquiteinsuperableobstaclestohisrunningawayfromit.

Onegroundexistsforthisterror:astrangeideahasinfectedhumanitythattheskeletonis typicalofdeath.Amanmightaswellsaythatafactorychimneywas typical of bankruptcy. The factory may be left naked after ruin, theskeletonmaybeleftnakedafterbodilydissolution;butbothofthemhavehada lively andworkmanlike life of their own, all the pulleys creaking, all thewheelsturning,intheHouseofLivelihoodasintheHouseofLife.Thereisnoreasonwhy thiscreature (new,as I fancy, toart), the livingskeleton, shouldnotbecometheessentialsymboloflife.

Thetruthisthatman'shorroroftheskeletonisnothorrorofdeathatall.Itisman's eccentric glory that he has not, generally speaking, any objection tobeing dead, but has a very serious objection to being undignified. And thefundamentalmatterwhichtroubleshimintheskeletonisthereminderthattheground-planofhisappearanceisshamelesslygrotesque.Idonotknowwhyheshouldobjecttothis.Hecontentedlytakeshisplaceinaworldthatdoesnotpretendtobegenteel—alaughing,working,jeeringworld.Heseesmillionsofanimalscarrying,withquiteadandifiedlevity,themostmonstrousshapesandappendages, the most preposterous horns, wings, and legs, when they arenecessary to utility.He sees the good temper of the frog, the unaccountablehappinessofthehippopotamus.Heseesawholeuniversewhichisridiculous,fromtheanimalcule,withaheadtoobigforitsbody,uptothecomet,withatailtoobigforitshead.Butwhenitcomestothedelightfuloddityofhisowninside,hissenseofhumourratherabruptlydesertshim.

In theMiddleAgesand in theRenaissance(whichwas, incertain timesandrespects,amuchgloomierperiod)thisideaoftheskeletonhadavastinfluencein freezing the pride out of all earthly pomps and the fragrance out of allfleetingpleasures.Butitwasnot,surely,themeredreadofdeaththatdidthis,forthesewereagesinwhichmenwenttomeetdeathsinging;itwastheideaof the degradation of man in the grinning ugliness of his structure thatwithered the juvenile insolence of beauty and pride. And in this it almostassuredlydidmoregoodthanharm.Thereisnothingsocoldorsopitilessasyouth, and youth in aristocratic stations and ages tended to an impeccabledignity, an endless summer of success which needed to be very sharplyreminded of the scorn of the stars. It was well that such flamboyant prigsshouldbeconvinced thatonepractical joke,at least,wouldbowl themover,that theywould fall intoonegrinningman-trap,andnot riseagain.That thewholestructureoftheirexistencewasaswholesomelyridiculousasthatofapigoraparrottheycouldnotbeexpectedtorealize;thatbirthwashumorous,comingofagehumorous,drinkingandfightinghumorous, theywerefar tooyoung and solemn to know. But at least they were taught that death washumorous.

ThereisapeculiarideaabroadthatthevalueandfascinationofwhatwecallNaturelieinherbeauty.ButthefactthatNatureisbeautifulinthesensethatadadooraLibertycurtainisbeautiful,isonlyoneofhercharms,andalmostanaccidental one. The highest and most valuable quality in Nature is not herbeauty,buthergenerousanddefiantugliness.Ahundred instancesmightbetaken.Thecroakingnoiseoftherooksis,initself,ashideousasthewholehellofsoundsinaLondonrailwaytunnel.Yetitupliftsuslikeatrumpetwithitscoarsekindlinessandhonesty,andtheloverin'Maud'couldactuallypersuadehimself that this abominable noise resembled his lady-love's name.Has the

poet,forwhomNaturemeansonlyrosesandlilies,everheardapiggrunting?It is a noise that does a man good—a strong, snorting, imprisoned noise,breakingitswayoutofunfathomabledungeonsthrougheverypossibleoutletandorgan.Itmightbethevoiceoftheearthitself,snoringinitsmightysleep.Thisisthedeepest,theoldest,themostwholesomeandreligioussenseofthevalueofNature—thevaluewhichcomesfromherimmensebabyishness.Sheis as top-heavy, asgrotesque, as solemnandashappyas a child.Themooddoescomewhenweseeallhershapeslikeshapesthatababyscrawlsuponaslate—simple,rudimentary,amillionyearsolderandstrongerthanthewholedisease that is calledArt.Theobjectsof earth andheaven seem to combineintoanursery tale,andour relation to thingsseemsforamomentsosimplethatadancinglunaticwouldbeneededtodojusticetoitslucidityandlevity.The treeabovemyhead is flapping like somegiganticbird standingononeleg;themoonisliketheeyeofaCyclops.And,howevermuchmyfacecloudswithsombrevanity,orvulgarvengeance,orcontemptiblecontempt,thebonesofmyskullbeneathitarelaughingforever.

ADEFENCEOFPUBLICITYItisaverysignificantfactthattheformofartinwhichthemodernworldhascertainlynotimprovedupontheancientiswhatmayroughlybecalledtheartof theopen air. Publicmonuments have certainlynot improved, nor has thecriticismofthemimproved,asisevidentfromthefashionofcondemningsuchalargenumberofthemaspompous.Aninterestingessaymightbewrittenontheenormousnumberofwords that areusedas insultswhen theyare reallycompliments.Itisinitselfasingularstudyinthattendencywhich,asIhavesaid, is always making things out worse than they are, and necessitating asystematicattitudeofdefence.Thus, forexample,somedramaticcriticscastcontemptuponadramaticperformancebycalling it theatrical,whichsimplymeansthatitissuitabletoatheatre,andisasmuchacomplimentascallingapoempoetical. Similarlywe speakdisdainfully of a certain kindofwork assentimental, which simply means possessing the admirable and essentialqualityofsentiment.Suchphrasesareallpartsofonepeddlingandcowardlyphilosophy, and remind us of the days when 'enthusiast' was a term ofreproach.Butofall thisvocabularyofunconsciouseulogiesnothing ismorestrikingthantheword'pompous.'

Properlyspeaking,ofcourse,apublicmonumentoughttobepompous.Pompisitsveryobject;itwouldbeabsurdtohavecolumnsandpyramidsblushinginsomecoynooklikevioletsinthewoodsofspring.Andpublicmonumentshaveinthismatteragreatandmuch-neededlessontoteach.Valourandmercy

andthegreatenthusiasmsoughttobeagreatdealmorepublicthantheyareatpresent.Wearetoofondnowadaysofcommittingthesinoffearandcallingitthevirtueofreverence.Wehaveforgottentheoldandwholesomemoralityofthe Book of Proverbs, 'Wisdom crieth without; her voice is heard in thestreets.'InAthensandFlorencehervoicewasheardinthestreets.Theyhadanoutdoor life of war and argument, and they had what modern commercialcivilizationhasneverhad—anoutdoorart.Religiousservices,themostsacredofallthings,havealwaysbeenheldpublicly;itisentirelyanewanddebasednotionthatsanctityis thesameassecrecy.Agreatmanymodernpoets,withthemostabstruseanddelicatesensibilities,lovedarkness,whenallissaidanddone,much for the same reason that thieves love it.Themissionof a greatspire or statue shouldbe to strike the spiritwith a sudden sense of pride aswitha thunderbolt. Itshould liftuswith it into theemptyandennoblingair.Alongthebaseofeverynoblemonument,whateverelsemaybewrittenthere,runsininvisiblelettersthelinesofSwinburne:

'ThisthingisGod:Tobemanwiththymight,Togostraightinthestrengthofthyspirit,andliveoutthylifeinthelight.'Ifapublicmonumentdoesnotmeetthisfirstsupremeandobviousneed,thatitshouldbepublicandmonumental,itfailsfromtheoutset.

Therehasarisen latelyaschoolofrealisticsculpture,whichmayperhapsbebetterdescribedasaschoolofsketchysculpture.Suchamovementwasrightand inevitable as a reaction from themean anddingypomposity ofEnglishVictorian statuary. Perhaps the most hideous and depressing object in theuniverse—far more hideous and depressing than one of Mr. H.G. Wells'sshapelessmonstersoftheslime(andnotatallunlikethem)—isthestatueofanEnglishphilanthropist.Almostasbad,though,ofcourse,notquiteasbad,are the statues of English politicians in Parliament Fields. Each of them iscasedinacylindricalfrock-coat,andeachcarrieseitherascrolloradubious-lookinggarmentover thearmthatmightbeeitherabathing-towelora lightgreat-coat. Each of them is in an oratorical attitude, which has all thedisadvantageof being affectedwithout even anyof the advantages of beingtheatrical.Letnoonesupposethatsuchabortionsarisemerelyfromtechnicaldemerit.Ineverylineofthoseleadendollsisexpressedthefactthattheywerenotsetupwithanyheatofnaturalenthusiasmforbeautyordignity.Theyweresetupmechanically,becauseitwouldseemindecorousorstingyiftheywerenot set up. They were even set up sulkily, in a utilitarian age which washauntedby the thought that therewere a greatmanymore sensiblewaysofspendingmoney.Solongasthisisthedominantnationalsentiment,thelandis

barren,statuesandchurcheswillnotgrow—fortheyhavetogrow,asmuchastreesandflowers.Butthismoraldisadvantagewhichlaysoheavilyupontheearly Victorian sculpture lies in a modified degree upon that rough,picturesque,commonplace sculpturewhichhasbegun toarise, andofwhichthe statue of Darwin in the South Kensington Museum and the statue ofGordon in Trafalgar Square are admirable examples. It is not enough for apopular monument to be artistic, like a black charcoal sketch; it must bestriking;itmustbeinthehighestsenseofthewordsensational;itmuststandforhumanity;itmustspeakforustothestars;itmustdeclareinthefaceofalltheheavensthatwhenthelongestandblackestcataloguehasbeenmadeofallour crimes and follies there are some things of which we men are notashamed.

Thetwomodesofcommemoratingapublicmanareastatueandabiography.Theyarealike incertain respects,as, forexample, in thefact thatneitherofthemresemblestheoriginal,andthatbothofthemcommonlytonedownnotonlyall aman'svices,but all themoreamusingofhisvirtues.But theyaretreated in one respect differently. We never hear anything about biographywithouthearingsomethingaboutthesanctityofprivatelifeandthenecessityforsuppressingthewholeofthemostimportantpartofaman'sexistence.Thesculptordoesnotworkat thisdisadvantage.Thesculptordoesnot leaveoutthenoseofaneminentphilanthropistbecauseitistoobeautifultobegiventothepublic;hedoesnotdepictastatesmanwithasackoverhisheadbecausehissmilewastoosweettobeendurableinthelightofday.Butinbiographythethesisispopularlyandsolidlymaintained,sothatitrequiressomecourageeventohintadoubtofit,thatthebetteramanwas,themoretrulyhumanlifeheled,thelessshouldbesaidaboutit.

Forthisidea,thismodernideathatsanctityisidenticalwithsecrecy,thereisone thing at least to be said. It is for all practical purposes an entirely newidea; it was unknown to all the ages in which the idea of sanctity reallyflourished. The record of the great spiritualmovements ofmankind is deadagainst the ideathatspirituality isaprivatematter.Themostawfulsecretofevery man's soul, its most lonely and individual need, its most primal andpsychological relationship, the thing called worship, the communicationbetween the soul and the last reality—this most private matter is the mostpublicspectacleintheworld.AnyonewhochoosestowalkintoalargechurchonSundaymorningmay see a hundredmen each alonewithhisMaker.Hestands,intruth,inthepresenceofoneofthestrangestspectaclesintheworld—a mob of hermits. And in thus definitely espousing publicity by makingpublic the most internal mystery, Christianity acts in accordance with itsearliestoriginsanditsterriblebeginning.Itwassurelybynoaccidentthatthespectacle which darkened the sun at noonday was set upon a hill. The

martyrdomsoftheearlyChristianswerepublicnotonlybythecapriceoftheoppressor,butbythewholedesireandconceptionofthevictims.

Themere grammaticalmeaning of theword 'martyr' breaks into pieces at ablowthewholenotionof theprivacyofgoodness.TheChristianmartyrdomsweremorethandemonstrations:theywereadvertisements.Inourdaythenewtheoryofspiritualdelicacywoulddesiretoalterallthis.ItwouldpermitChristtobecrucifiedifitwasnecessarytoHisDivinenature,butitwouldaskinthenameofgoodtastewhyHecouldnotbecrucifiedinaprivateroom.Itwoulddeclarethattheactofamartyrinbeingtorninpiecesbylionswasvulgarandsensational, though, of course, it would have no objection to being torn inpiecesbyalioninone'sownparlourbeforeacircleofreallyintimatefriends.

It is, I am inclined to think, a decadent and diseased purity which hasinauguratedthisnotionthatthesacredobjectmustbehidden.Thestarshaveneverlosttheirsanctity,andtheyaremoreshamelessandnakedandnumerousthan advertisements of Pears' soap. It would be a strange world indeed ifNaturewassuddenlystrickenwiththisetherealshame,ifthetreesgrewwiththeirrootsintheairandtheirloadofleavesandblossomsunderground,iftheflowersclosedatdawnandopenedatsunset,ifthesunflowerturnedtowardsthedarkness,andthebirdsflew,likebats,bynight.

ADEFENCEOFNONSENSETherearetwoequalandeternalwaysoflookingatthistwilightworldofours:wemaysee itas the twilightofeveningor the twilightofmorning;wemaythinkofanything,downtoa fallenacorn,asadescendantorasanancestor.Therearetimeswhenwearealmostcrushed,notsomuchwiththeloadoftheevilaswith the loadof thegoodnessofhumanity,whenwefeel thatwearenothingbuttheinheritorsofahumiliatingsplendour.Butthereareothertimeswhen everything seems primitive, when the ancient stars are only sparksblown from a boy's bonfire, when the whole earth seems so young andexperimentalthateventhewhitehairoftheaged,inthefinebiblicalphrase,islikealmond-treesthatblossom,likethewhitehawthorngrowninMay.Thatitis good for a man to realize that he is 'the heir of all the ages' is prettycommonlyadmitted; it is a lesspopularbut equallyimportant point that it isgood for him sometimes to realize that he is not only an ancestor, but anancestorofprimalantiquity;itisgoodforhimtowonderwhetherheisnotahero,andtoexperienceennoblingdoubtsastowhetherheisnotasolarmyth.

Thematterswhichmostthoroughlyevokethissenseoftheabidingchildhood

oftheworldarethosewhicharereallyfresh,abruptandinventiveinanyage;andifwewereaskedwhatwasthebestproofofthisadventurousyouthinthenineteenth centurywe should say,with all respect to its portentous sciencesandphilosophies, that itwas tobe found in the rhymesofMr.EdwardLearandintheliteratureofnonsense.'TheDongwiththeLuminousNose,'atleast,isoriginal,asthefirstshipandthefirstploughwereoriginal.

Itistrueinacertainsensethatsomeofthegreatestwriterstheworldhasseen—Aristophanes,Rabelais andSterne—havewrittennonsense; but unlesswearemistaken,itisinawidelydifferentsense.Thenonsenseofthesemenwassatiric—thatistosay,symbolic;itwasakindofexuberantcaperingroundadiscoveredtruth.Thereisall thedifferenceintheworldbetweentheinstinctofsatire,which,seeingintheKaiser'smoustachessomethingtypicalofhim,drawsthemcontinuallylargerandlarger;andtheinstinctofnonsensewhich,fornoreasonwhatever, imagineswhat thosemoustacheswould look likeonthepresentArchbishopofCanterbury ifhegrew them ina fitofabsenceofmind.Weinclinetothinkthatnoageexceptourowncouldhaveunderstoodthat the Quangle-Wangle meant absolutely nothing, and the Lands of theJumblieswereabsolutelynowhere.Wefancythatiftheaccountoftheknave'strialin'AliceinWonderland'hadbeenpublishedintheseventeenthcenturyitwouldhavebeenbracketedwithBunyan's'TrialofFaithful'asaparodyontheStateprosecutionsofthetime.Wefancythatif'TheDongwiththeLuminousNose'hadappeared in the sameperiodeveryonewouldhavecalled it adullsatireonOliverCromwell.

It is altogether advisedly that we quote chiefly from Mr. Lear's 'NonsenseRhymes.'Toourmindheisbothchronologicallyandessentiallythefatherofnonsense;wethinkhimsuperiortoLewisCarroll.Inonesense,indeed,LewisCarrollhasagreatadvantage.WeknowwhatLewisCarrollwasindailylife:hewas a singularly serious andconventionaldon,universally respected, butverymuchofapedantandsomethingofaPhilistine.Thushisstrangedoublelife in earth and in dreamland emphasizes the idea that lies at the back ofnonsense—the idea of escape, of escape into a world where things are notfixedhorriblyinaneternalappropriateness,whereapplesgrowonpear-trees,andanyoddmanyoumeetmayhavethreelegs.LewisCarroll,livingonelifeinwhichhewouldhavethunderedmorallyagainstanyonewhowalkedonthewrongplotofgrass,andanotherlifeinwhichhewouldcheerfullycallthesungreenandthemoonblue,was,byhisverydividednature,hisonefootonbothworlds,aperfecttypeofthepositionofmodernnonsense.HisWonderlandisacountrypopulatedbyinsanemathematicians.Wefeel thewholeisanescapeintoaworldofmasquerade;wefeelthatifwecouldpiercetheirdisguises,wemightdiscoverthatHumptyDumptyandtheMarchHarewereProfessorsandDoctors of Divinity enjoying a mental holiday. This sense of escape is

certainly less emphatic in Edward Lear, because of the completeness of hiscitizenshipintheworldofunreason.WedonotknowhisprosaicbiographyasweknowLewisCarroll's.Weaccepthimasapurely fabulous figure,onhisowndescriptionofhimself:

'Hisbodyisperfectlyspherical,Hewearetharunciblehat.'WhileLewisCarroll'sWonderlandispurelyintellectual,Learintroducesquiteanother element—the element of the poetical and even emotional. Carrollworks by the pure reason, but this is not so strong a contrast; for, after all,mankind in the main has always regarded reason as a bit of a joke. Learintroduces his unmeaning words and his amorphous creatures not with thepomp of reason, but with the romantic prelude of rich hues and hauntingrhythms.

'Farandfew,farandfew,ArethelandswheretheJumblieslive,'is an entirely different type of poetry to that exhibited in 'Jabberwocky.'Carroll, with a sense of mathematical neatness, makes his whole poem amosaicofnewandmysteriouswords.ButEdwardLear,withmoresubtleandplacid effrontery, is always introducing scrapsof his ownelvishdialect intothemiddleofsimpleandrationalstatements,untilwearealmoststunnedintoadmitting that we know what they mean. There is a genial ring ofcommonsenseaboutsuchlinesas,

'ForhisauntJobiskasaid"EveryoneknowsThataPobbleisbetterwithouthistoes,"'which isbeyond the reachofCarroll.Thepoet seemssoeasyon thematterthatwearealmostdriventopretendthatweseehismeaning,thatweknowthepeculiar difficulties of a Pobble, that we are as old travellers in the'GromboolianPlain'asheis.

Ourclaimthatnonsenseisanewliterature(wemightalmostsayanewsense)would be quite indefensible if nonsense were nothing more than a mereaestheticfancy.Nothingsublimelyartistichaseverarisenoutofmereart,anymore than anything essentially reasonable has ever arisen out of the purereason.Theremustalwaysbearichmoralsoilforanygreataestheticgrowth.Theprincipleofartforart'ssakeisaverygoodprincipleifitmeansthatthereis a vital distinction between the earth and the tree that has its roots in theearth;butitisaverybadprincipleifitmeansthatthetreecouldgrowjustaswellwithitsrootsintheair.Everygreatliteraturehasalwaysbeenallegorical

—allegorical of some view of the whole universe. The 'Iliad' is only greatbecausealllifeisabattle,the'Odyssey'becausealllifeisajourney,theBookofJobbecausealllifeisariddle.Thereisoneattitudeinwhichwethinkthatallexistenceissummedupintheword'ghosts';another,andsomewhatbetterone, inwhichwethinkit issummedupin thewords 'AMidsummerNight'sDream.' Even the vulgarest melodrama or detective story can be good if itexpressessomethingofthedelightinsinisterpossibilities—thehealthylustfordarknessandterrorwhichmaycomeonusanynightinwalkingdownadarklane.If,therefore,nonsenseisreallytobetheliteratureofthefuture,itmusthaveitsownversionof theCosmostooffer; theworldmustnotonlybethetragic,romantic,andreligious,itmustbenonsensicalalso.Andherewefancythatnonsensewill,inaveryunexpectedway,cometotheaidofthespiritualviewofthings.Religionhasforcenturiesbeentryingtomakemenexultinthe'wonders' of creation, but it has forgotten that a thing cannot be completelywonderful so long as it remains sensible. So long aswe regard a tree as anobviousthing,naturallyandreasonablycreatedforagiraffetoeat,wecannotproperlywonderat it. It iswhenweconsider it asaprodigiouswaveof thelivingsoilsprawlinguptotheskiesfornoreasoninparticularthatwetakeoffourhats,totheastonishmentofthepark-keeper.Everythinghasinfactanotherside to it, like themoon, thepatronessof nonsense.Viewed from that otherside, a bird is a blossom broken loose from its chain of stalk, a man aquadrupedbeggingonitshindlegs,ahouseagigantesquehattocoveramanfromthesun,achairanapparatusoffourwoodenlegsforacripplewithonlytwo.

This is the side of things which tends most truly to spiritual wonder. It issignificant that in the greatest religious poem existent, theBook of Job, theargumentwhichconvinces the infidel isnot (ashasbeen representedby themerelyrationalreligionismoftheeighteenthcentury)apictureoftheorderedbeneficence of theCreation; but, on the contrary, a picture of the huge andundecipherableunreasonofit.'HastThousenttherainuponthedesertwherenomanis?'Thissimplesenseofwonderattheshapesofthings,andattheirexuberant independence of our intellectual standards and our trivialdefinitions,isthebasisofspiritualityasitisthebasisofnonsense.Nonsenseandfaith(strangeastheconjunctionmayseem)arethetwosupremesymbolicassertionsofthetruththattodrawoutthesoulofthingswithasyllogismisasimpossible as to drawoutLeviathanwith a hook.Thewell-meaning personwho,bymerely studying the logical sideof things,hasdecided that 'faith isnonsense,'doesnotknowhowtrulyhespeaks;lateritmaycomebacktohimintheformthatnonsenseisfaith.

ADEFENCEOFPLANETSAbookhasatonetimecomeundermynoticecalled 'TerraFirma:theEarthnot a Planet.' The authorwas aMr.D.Wardlaw Scott, and he quoted veryseriouslytheopinionsofa largenumberofotherpersons,ofwhomwehaveneverheard,butwhoareevidentlyveryimportant.Mr.BeachofSouthsea,forexample, thinks that theworld is flat; and inSouthseaperhaps it is. It isnopart of my present intention, however, to follow Mr. Scott's arguments indetail.Onthe linesofsucharguments itmaybeshownthat theearth isflat,and,forthematterofthat,thatitistriangular.Afewexampleswillsuffice:

OneofMr.Scott'sobjectionswas that if aprojectile is fired fromamovingbodythere isadifferencein thedistancetowhichitcarriesaccordingto thedirection in which it is sent. But as in practice there is not the slightestdifferencewhicheverwaythethingisdone,inthecaseoftheearth'wehaveaforcible overthrow of all fancies relative to the motion of the earth, and astrikingproofthattheearthisnotaglobe.'

Thisisaltogetheroneofthequaintestargumentswehaveeverseen.Itneverseems to occur to the author, among other things, that when the firing andfalling of the shot all take place upon the moving body, there is nothingwhatevertocomparethemwith.Asamatteroffact,ofcourse,ashotfiredatanelephantdoesactuallyoftentraveltowardsthemarksman,butmuchslowerthanthemarksmantravels.Mr.Scottprobablywouldnotliketocontemplatethefactthattheelephant,properlyspeaking,swingsroundandhitsthebullet.Tousitappearsfullofarichcosmichumour.

Iwillonlygiveoneotherexampleoftheastronomicalproofs:

'If the earthwere aglobe, thedistance round the surface, say, at 45degreessouthlatitude,couldnotpossiblybeanygreaterthanthesamelatitudenorth;butsinceitisfoundbynavigatorstobetwicethedistance—tosaytheleastofit—ordoublethedistanceitoughttobeaccordingtotheglobulartheory,itisaproofthattheearthisnotaglobe.'

Thissortofthingreducesmymindtoapulp.Icanfaintlyresistwhenamansaysthatiftheearthwereaglobecatswouldnothavefourlegs;butwhenhesaysthatiftheearthwereaglobecatswouldnothavefivelegsIamcrushed.

But, as I have indicated, it is not in the scientific aspect of this remarkabletheory that I am for the moment interested. It is rather with the differencebetween the flatand the roundworldsasconceptions inartand imaginationthat I amconcerned. It is avery remarkable thing thatnoneofusare reallyCopernicansinouractualoutlookuponthings.Weareconvincedintellectuallythat we inhabit a small provincial planet, but we do not feel in the least

suburban. Men of science have quarrelled with the Bible because it is notbased upon the true astronomical system, but it is certainly open to theorthodoxtosaythatifithadbeenitwouldneverhaveconvincedanybody.

IfasinglepoemorasinglestorywerereallytransfusedwiththeCopernicanidea, the thing would be a nightmare. Can we think of a solemn scene ofmountain stillness in which some prophet is standing in a trance, and thenrealize that thewhole scene iswhizzing round like a zoetrope at the rateofnineteen miles a second? Could we tolerate the notion of a mighty Kingdeliveringasublimefiatandthenrememberthatforallpracticalpurposesheishangingheaddownwards in space?A strange fablemightbewrittenof amanwhowasblessedorcursedwiththeCopernicaneye,andsawallmenonthe earth like tintacks clustering round a magnet. It would be singular toimaginehowverydifferentthespeechofanaggressiveegoist,announcingtheindependenceanddivinityofman,wouldsoundifhewereseenhangingontotheplanetbyhisbootsoles.

For, despiteMr.WardlawScott's horror at theNewtonian astronomyand itscontradiction of the Bible, the whole distinction is a good instance of thedifferencebetweenletterandspirit;theletteroftheOldTestamentisopposedtotheconceptionofthesolarsystem,butthespirithasmuchkinshipwithit.ThewritersoftheBookofGenesishadnotheoryofgravitation,whichtothenormalpersonwill appeara factofasmuch importanceas that theyhadnoumbrellas.ButthetheoryofgravitationhasacuriouslyHebrewsentimentinit—a sentiment of combined dependence and certainty, a sense of grapplingunity,bywhichallthingshangupononethread.'Thouhasthangedtheworlduponnothing,'saidtheauthoroftheBookofJob,andinthatsentencewrotethe whole appalling poetry of modern astronomy. The sense of thepreciousnessandfragilityoftheuniverse,thesenseofbeinginthehollowofahand,isonewhichtheroundandrollingearthgivesinitsmostthrillingform.Mr.WardlawScott's flat earthwould be the true territory for a comfortableatheist.Norwould theoldJewshaveanyobjection tobeingasmuchupsidedownasrightwayup.Theyhadnofoolishideasaboutthedignityofman.

Itwouldbeaninterestingspeculationtoimaginewhethertheworldwilleverdevelop a Copernican poetry and a Copernican habit of fancy; whether weshall ever speak of 'early earth-turn' instead of 'early sunrise,' and speakindifferentlyoflookingupatthedaisies,orlookingdownonthestars.Butifweeverdo,therearereallyalargenumberofbigandfantasticfactsawaitingus,worthy tomakeanewmythology.Mr.WardlawScott, forexample,withgenuine,ifunconscious,imagination,saysthataccordingtoastronomers,'theseaisavastmountainofwatermileshigh.'Tohavediscoveredthatmountainof moving crystal, in which the fishes build like birds, is like discoveringAtlantis: it isenough tomake theoldworldyoungagain. In thenewpoetry

whichwecontemplate,athleticyoungmenwillsetoutsturdilytoclimbuptheface of the sea. If we once realize all this earth as it is, we should findourselvesinalandofmiracles:weshalldiscoveranewplanetatthemomentthat we discover our own. Among all the strange things that men haveforgotten, the most universal and catastrophic lapse of memory is that bywhichtheyhaveforgottenthattheyarelivingonastar.

In theearlydaysof theworld, thediscoveryofa factofnaturalhistorywasimmediately followedby the realizationof it as a factofpoetry.Whenmanawoke from the long fit of absent-mindednesswhich is called the automaticanimalstate,andbegantonoticethequeerfactsthattheskywasblueandthegrassgreen,he immediatelybegan touse those factssymbolically.Blue, thecolourofthesky,becameasymbolofcelestialholiness;greenpassedintothelanguageasindicatingafreshnessverginguponunintelligence.Ifwehadthegoodfortunetoliveinaworldinwhichtheskywasgreenandthegrassblue,thesymbolismwouldhavebeendifferent.Butforsomemysteriousreasonthishabit of realizing poetically the facts of science has ceased abruptly withscientificprogress,andall theconfoundingportentspreachedbyGalileoandNewton have fallen on deaf ears. They painted a picture of the universecomparedwithwhich theApocalypsewith its fallingstarswasamere idyll.Theydeclared thatweareallcareering throughspace,clinging toacannon-ball,andthepoetsignorethematterasifitwerearemarkabouttheweather.Theysaythataninvisibleforceholdsusinourownarmchairswhiletheearthhurtleslikeaboomerang;andmenstillgobacktodustyrecordstoprovethemercyofGod.TheytellusthatMr.Scott'smonstrousvisionofamountainofsea-water rising ina soliddome, like theglassmountain in the fairy-tale, isactually a fact, and men still go back to the fairy-tale. To what toweringheights of poetic imagerymight we not have risen if only the poetizing ofnaturalhistoryhadcontinuedandman'sfancyhadplayedwiththeplanetsasnaturallyas itonceplayedwith the flowers!Wemighthavehadaplanetarypatriotism, inwhich thegreen leaf shouldbe like a cockade, and the sea aneverlastingdanceofdrums.Wemighthavebeenproudofwhatour starhaswrought, and worn its heraldry haughtily in the blind tournament of thespheres.Allthis,indeed,wemaysurelydoyet;forwithallthemultiplicityofknowledgethereisonethinghappilythatnomanknows:whethertheworldisoldoryoung.

ADEFENCEOFCHINASHEPHERDESSESThereare some thingsofwhich theworlddoesnot like tobe reminded, for

theyarethedeadlovesoftheworld.OneoftheseisthatgreatenthusiasmfortheArcadianlifewhich,howevermuchitmaynowlieopentothesneersofrealism, did, beyond all question, hold sway for an enormous period of theworld'shistory,fromthetimesthatwedescribeasancientdowntotimesthatmayfairlybecalledrecent.Theconceptionoftheinnocentandhilariouslifeof shepherds and shepherdesses certainly covered and absorbed the time ofTheocritus, of Virgil, of Catullus, of Dante, of Cervantes, of Ariosto, ofShakespeare,andofPope.Wearetoldthatthegodsoftheheathenwerestoneandbrass,butstoneandbrasshaveneverenduredwiththelongenduranceofthe China Shepherdess. The Catholic Church and the Ideal Shepherd areindeedalmosttheonlythingsthathavebridgedtheabyssbetweentheancientworldandthemodern.Yet,aswesay,theworlddoesnotliketoberemindedofthisboyishenthusiasm.

But imagination, thefunctionof thehistorian,cannot letsogreatanelementalone.Bythecheaprevolutionaryitiscommonlysupposedthatimaginationisamerely rebellious thing, that it has its chief function in devising new andfantastic republics. But imagination has its highest use in a retrospectiverealization.Thetrumpetofimagination,likethetrumpetoftheResurrection,callsthedeadoutoftheirgraves.ImaginationseesDelphiwiththeeyesofaGreek,JerusalemwiththeeyesofaCrusader,PariswiththeeyesofaJacobin,andArcadiawiththeeyesofaEuphuist.Theprimefunctionofimaginationisto seeourwholeorderly systemof life as apileof stratified revolutions. Inspiteofall revolutionaries itmustbesaid that thefunctionof imagination isnottomakestrangethingssettled,somuchastomakesettledthingsstrange;not so much to make wonders facts as to make facts wonders. To theimaginative the truisms are all paradoxes, since theywere paradoxes in theStoneAge;tothemtheordinarycopy-bookblazeswithblasphemy.

Letus,then,considerinthislighttheoldpastoralorArcadianideal.Butfirstcertainly one thing must be definitely recognised. This Arcadian art andliteratureisalostenthusiasm.Tostudyitislikefumblinginthelove-lettersofa deadman. To us its flowers seem as tawdry as cockades; the lambs thatdancetotheshepherd'spipeseemtodancewithalltheartificialityofaballet.Evenourownprosaictoilseemstousmorejoyousthanthatholiday.Whereits ancient exuberance passed the bounds ofwisdom and even of virtue, itscaperingsseemfrozenintothestillnessofanantiquefrieze.Inthosegrayoldpictures a bacchanal seems as dull as an archdeacon. Their very sins seemcolderthanourrestraints.

All this may be frankly recognised: all the barren sentimentality of theArcadian ideal and all its insolent optimism.Butwhen all is said anddone,somethingelseremains.

Throughages inwhich themost arrogant and elaborate idealsofpower andcivilization held otherwise undisputed sway, the ideal of the perfect andhealthy peasant did undoubtedly represent in some shape or form theconceptionthattherewasadignityinsimplicityandadignityinlabour.Itwasgoodfortheancientaristocrat,evenifhecouldnotattaintoinnocenceandthewisdom of the earth, to believe that these things were the secrets of thepriesthoodofthepoor.Itwasgoodforhimtobelievethatevenifheavenwasnotabovehim,heavenwasbelowhim.Itwaswellthatheshouldhaveamidall his flamboyant triumphs the never-extinguished sentiment that therewassomethingbetterthanhistriumphs,theconceptionthat'thereremainetharest.'

TheconceptionoftheIdealShepherdseemsabsurdtoourmodernideas.But,afterall,itwasperhapstheonlytradeofthedemocracywhichwasequalizedwiththetradesofthearistocracyevenbythearistocracyitself.Theshepherdof pastoral poetry was, without doubt, very different from the shepherd ofactual fact. Where one innocently piped to his lambs, the other innocentlysworeat them;andtheirdivergence in intellectandpersonalcleanlinesswasimmense. But the difference between the ideal shepherd who danced withAmaryllisandtherealshepherdwhothrashedher isnotascrapgreater thanthedifferencebetweentheidealsoldierwhodiestocapturethecoloursandtherealsoldierwholivestocleanhisaccoutrements,betweentheidealpriestwhoiseverlastinglybysomeone'sbedandtherealpriestwhoisasgladasanyoneelse to get to his own. There are ideal conceptions and real men in everycalling;yet therearefewwhoobject totheidealconceptions,andnotmany,afterall,whoobjecttotherealmen.

Thefact,then,isthis:Sofarfromresentingtheexistenceinartandliteratureof an ideal shepherd, I genuinely regret that the shepherd is the onlydemocraticcallingthathaseverbeenraisedtotheleveloftheheroiccallingsconceivedbyanaristocraticage.SofarfromobjectingtotheIdealShepherd,IwishtherewereanIdealPostman,anIdealGrocer,andanIdealPlumber.Itisundoubtedly true thatwe should laughat the ideaof an IdealPostman; it istrue,anditprovesthatwearenotgenuinedemocrats.

Undoubtedlythemoderngrocer,ifcalledupontoactinanArcadianmanner,if desired to oblige with a symbolic dance expressive of the delights ofgrocery,ortoperformonsomesimpleinstrumentwhilehisassistantsskippedaroundhim,wouldbeembarrassed,andperhapsevenreluctant.Butitmaybequestionedwhetherthistemporaryreluctanceofthegrocerisagoodthing,orevidence of a good condition of poetic feeling in the grocery business as awhole.Therecertainlyshouldbeanidealimageofhealthandhappinessinanytrade,and its remoteness fromthe reality isnot theonly importantquestion.Noonesupposesthatthemassoftraditionalconceptionsofdutyandgloryarealwaysoperative, for example, in themindof a soldieror adoctor; that the

BattleofWaterlooactuallymakesaprivateenjoypipeclayinghistrousers,orthatthe'healthofhumanity'softensthemomentaryphraseologyofaphysiciancalled out of bed at two o'clock in the morning. But although no idealobliteratestheuglydrudgeryanddetailofanycalling,thatidealdoes,inthecaseofthesoldierorthedoctor,existdefinitelyinthebackgroundandmakesthat drudgeryworthwhile as awhole. It is a serious calamity that no suchidealexistsinthecaseofthevastnumberofhonourabletradesandcraftsonwhichtheexistenceofamoderncitydepends.Itisapitythatcurrentthoughtand sentiment offer nothing corresponding to the old conception of patronsaints.IftheydidtherewouldbeaPatronSaintofPlumbers,andthiswouldalonebe a revolution, for itwould force the individual craftsman to believethattherewasonceaperfectbeingwhodidactuallyplumb.

Whenallissaidanddone,then,wethinkitmuchopentoquestionwhethertheworldhasnotlostsomethinginthecompletedisappearanceoftheidealofthehappypeasant. It is foolish enough to suppose that the rusticwent about alloverribbons,butitisbetterthanknowingthathegoesaboutalloverragsandbeing indifferent to the fact.Themodern realistic study of the poor does inrealityleadthestudentfurtherastraythantheoldidyllicnotion.Forwecannotgetthechiaroscuroofhumblelifesolongasitsvirtuesseemtousasgrossasitsvicesanditsjoysassullenasitssorrows.Probablyattheverymomentthatwecanseenothingbutadull-facedmansmokinganddrinkingheavilywithhis friend in a pot-house, themanhimself is on his soul's holiday, crownedwiththeflowersofapassionateidleness,andfarmoreliketheHappyPeasantthantheworldwilleverknow.

ADEFENCEOFUSEFULINFORMATIONItisnaturalandproperenoughthatthemassesofexplosiveammunitionstoredup indetective stories and the replete and solid sweet-stuff shopswhich arecalledsentimentalnovelettesshouldbepopularwiththeordinarycustomer.Itis not difficult to realize that all of us, ignorant or cultivated, are primarilyinterested inmurder and love-making.The really extraordinary thing is thatthemostappallingfictionsarenotactuallysopopularasthatliteraturewhichdealswith themostundisputedanddepressingfacts.Menarenotapparentlysointerestedinmurderandlove-makingastheyareinthenumberofdifferentforms of latchkey which exist in London or the time that it would take agrasshopper to jumpfromCairo to theCape.Theenormousmassoffatuousand useless truthwhich fills themostwidely-circulated papers, such asTit-Bits,ScienceSiftings,andmanyoftheillustratedmagazines, iscertainlyone

of themost extraordinarykindsof emotional andmental pabulumonwhichmanever fed. It isalmost incredible that thesepreposterousstatisticsshouldactuallybemorepopularthanthemostblood-curdlingmysteriesandthemostluxurious debauches of sentiment. To imagine it is like imagining thehumorous passages in Bradshaw's Railway Guide read aloud on winterevenings.ItislikeconceivingamanunabletoputdownanadvertisementofMotherSeigel'sSyrupbecausehewishedtoknowwhateventuallyhappenedto theyoungmanwhowasextremely ill atEdinburgh. In the caseof cheapdetectivestoriesandcheapnovelettes,wecanmostofus feel,whateverourdegree of education, that it might be possible to read them if we gave fullindulgencetoalowerandmorefacilepartofournatures;attheworstwefeelthatwemightenjoythemaswemightenjoybull-baitingorgettingdrunk.Butthe literatureof information is absolutelymysterious tous.WecannomorethinkofamusingourselveswithitthanofreadingwholepagesofaSurbitonlocaldirectory.Toreadsuchthingswouldnotbeapieceofvulgarindulgence;itwouldbeahighlyarduousandmeritoriousenterprise. It is this factwhichconstitutes a profound and almost unfathomable interest in this particularbranchofpopularliterature.

Primarily,at least, thereisoneratherpeculiar thingwhichmust injusticebesaidaboutit.Thereadersofthisstrangesciencemustbeallowedtobe,uponthewhole,asdisinterestedasaprophetseeingvisionsorachildreadingfairy-tales.Here,again,wefind,aswesooftendo,thatwhateverviewofthismatterofpopular literaturewecan trust,wecan trust leastof all the comment andcensure current among the vulgar educated. The ordinary version of thegroundofthispopularityforinformation,whichwouldbegivenbyapersonof greater cultivation, would be that commonmen are chiefly interested inthose sordid facts that surround themon every side.Avery small degreeofexaminationwillshowusthatwhatevergroundthere isfor thepopularityoftheseinsaneencyclopaedias,itcannotbethegroundofutility.Theversionoflifegivenbyapennynovelettemaybeverymoonstruckandunreliable,butitisatleastmorelikelytocontainfactsrelevanttodailylifethancompilationson thesubjectof thenumberofcows' tails thatwould reach theNorthPole.Therearemanymorepeoplewhoareinlovethantherearepeoplewhohaveanyintentionofcountingorcollectingcows'tails.Itisevidenttomethatthegrounds of this widespread madness of information for information's sakemust be sought in other and deeper parts of human nature than those dailyneeds which lie so near the surface that even social philosophers havediscovered them somewhere in that profound and eternal instinct forenthusiasm and minding other people's business which made great popularmovementsliketheCrusadesortheGordonRiots.

Ioncehadthepleasureofknowingamanwhoactuallytalkedinprivatelife

after themanner of these papers.His conversation consisted of fragmentarystatementsaboutheightandweightanddepthandtimeandpopulation,andhisconversationwasanightmareofdulness.DuringtheshortestpausehewouldaskwhetherhisinterlocutorswereawarehowmanytonsofrustwerescrapedeveryyearofftheMenaiBridge,andhowmanyrivalshopsMr.Whiteleyhadbought up since he opened his business. The attitude of his acquaintancestowards this inexhaustible entertainer varied according to his presence orabsencebetween indifference and terror. Itwas frightful to thinkof aman'sbrain being stockedwith such inexpressibly profitless treasures. It was likevisiting some imposing British Museum and finding its galleries and glasscases filled with specimens of Londonmud, of commonmortar, of brokenwalking-sticks and cheap tobacco. Years afterwards I discovered that thisintolerableprosaicborehadbeen,infact,apoet.Ilearntthateveryitemofthismultitudinous informationwas totally andunblushinglyuntrue, that for all Iknewhehadmadeitupashewentalong;thatnotonsofrustarescrapedoffthe Menai Bridge, and that the rival tradesmen and Mr. Whiteley werecreaturesof thepoet'sbrain. Instantly Iconceivedconsumingrespect for themanwhowassocircumstantial,somonotonous,soentirelypurposelessaliar.Withhimitmusthavebeenacaseofartforart'ssake.Thejokesustainedsogravelythrougharespectedlifetimewasofthatorderofjokewhichissharedwithomniscience.Butwhatstruckmemorecogentlyuponreflectionwasthefactthattheseimmeasurabletrivialities,whichhadstruckmeasutterlyvulgarandaridwhenIthoughttheyweretrue,immediatelybecamepicturesqueandalmostbrilliantwhenIthoughttheywereinventionsofthehumanfancy.Andhere, as it seems tome, I laidmy finger upon a fundamental quality of thecultivated classwhich prevents it, andwill, perhaps, always prevent it fromseeingwiththeeyesofpopularimagination.Themerelyeducatedcanscarcelyeverbebroughttobelievethatthisworldisitselfaninterestingplace.Whentheylookataworkofart,goodorbad,theyexpecttobeinterested,butwhentheylookatanewspaperadvertisementoragroupinthestreet, theydonot,properly and literally speaking, expect to be interested.But to common andsimplepeoplethisworldisaworkofart,thoughitis,likemanygreatworksofart,anonymous.Theylooktolifeforinterestwiththesamekindofcheerfulanduneradicableassurancewithwhichwe look for interest at acomedy forwhichwehavepaidmoneyatthedoor.Totheeyesoftheultimateschoolofcontemporary fastidiousness, the universe is indeed an ill-drawn and over-colouredpicture,thescrawlingsincirclesofababyupontheslateofnight;itsstarryskiesareavulgarpatternwhichtheywouldnothaveforawallpaper,itsflowersandfruitshaveacockneybrilliancy,liketheholidayhatofaflower-girl. Hence, degraded by art to its own level, they have lost altogether thatprimitiveandtypicaltasteofman—thetastefornews.Bythisessentialtastefornews,Imeanthepleasureinhearingthemerefactthatamanhasdiedat

theageof110inSouthWales,orthatthehorsesranawayatafuneralinSanFrancisco.Largemassesoftheearlyfaithsandpoliticsoftheworld,numbersof themiracles and heroic anecdotes, are based primarily upon this love ofsomething that has just happened, this divine institution of gossip. WhenChristianitywasnamedthegoodnews, itspreadrapidly,notonlybecause itwasgood,butalsobecause itwasnews.So it is that if anyofushaveeverspokentoanavvyinatrainaboutthedailypaper,wehavegenerallyfoundthenavvyinterested,notinthosestrugglesofParliamentsandtradesunionswhichsometimesare,andarealwayssupposedtobe,forhisbenefit;butinthefactthatanunusuallylargewhalehasbeenwasheduponthecoastofOrkney,orthat some leading millionaire like Mr. Harmsworth is reported to break ahundredpipesayear.Theeducatedclasses,cloyedanddemoralizedwiththemere indulgence of art and mood, can no longer understand the idle andsplendid disinterestedness of the reader ofPearson'sWeekly. He still keepssomethingofthatfeelingwhichshouldbethebirthrightofmen—thefeelingthat this planet is like a new house into which we have just moved ourbaggage.Anydetailofithasavalue,and,withatrulysportsmanlikeinstinct,the average man takes most pleasure in the details which are mostcomplicated, irrelevant, and at once difficult and useless to discover. Thosepartsof thenewspaperwhichannounce thegiantgooseberryand therainingfrogs are really the modern representatives of the popular tendency whichproduced the hydra and thewerewolf and the dog-headedmen. Folk in theMiddleAgeswerenotinterestedinadragonoraglimpseofthedevilbecausetheythoughtthatitwasabeautifulproseidyll,butbecausetheythoughtthatithadreally justbeenseen. Itwasnot likesomuchartistic literature,a refugeindicatingthedulnessoftheworld:itwasanincidentpointedlyillustratingthefecundpoetryoftheworld.

Thatmuchcanbesaid,andissaid,againsttheliteratureofinformation,Idonotforamomentdeny.Itisshapeless,itistrivial,itmaygiveanunrealairofknowledge, it unquestionably lies along with the rest of popular literatureunder the general indictment that it may spoil the chance of better work,certainly by wasting time, possibly by ruining taste. But these obviousobjectionsaretheobjectionswhichwehearsopersistentlyfromeveryonethatonecannothelpwonderingwherethepapersinquestionprocuretheirmyriadsof readers. The natural necessity and natural good underlying such crudeinstitutions is far lessoftena subjectof speculation;yet thehealthyhungerswhichlieatthebackofthehabitsofmoderndemocracyaresurelyworthyofthe same sympathetic study thatwegive to thedogmasof the fanatics longdethronedandtheintriguesofcommonwealthslongobliteratedfromtheearth.AndthisisthebaseandconsiderationwhichIhavetooffer:thatperhapsthetaste for shreds and patches of journalistic science and history is not, as iscontinuallyasserted,thevulgarandsenilecuriosityofapeoplethathasgrown

old,butsimplythebabyishandindiscriminatecuriosityofapeoplestillyoungandenteringhistoryforthefirsttime.Inotherwords,Isuggestthattheyonlytelleachotherinmagazinesthesamekindofstoriesofcommonplaceportentsandconventionaleccentricitieswhich,inanycase,theywouldtelleachotherin taverns. Science itself is only the exaggeration and specialization of thisthirstforuselessfact,whichisthemarkoftheyouthofman.Butsciencehasbecome strangely separated from themerenews and scandal of flowers andbirds;menhaveceasedtoseethatapterodactylwasasfreshandnaturalasaflower, thata flower isasmonstrousasapterodactyl.The rebuildingof thisbridge between science and human nature is one of the greatest needs ofmankind.Wehavealltoshowthatbeforewegoontoanyvisionsorcreationswecanbecontentedwithaplanetofmiracles.

ADEFENCEOFHERALDRYThemodernviewofheraldryisprettyaccuratelyrepresentedbythewordsofthe famous barrister who, after cross-examining for some time a venerabledignitary ofHeralds'College, summedup his results in the remark that 'thesillyoldmandidn'tevenunderstandhisownsillyoldtrade.'

Heraldryproperly socalledwas,ofcourse,awholly limitedandaristocraticthing,buttheremarkneedsakindofqualificationnotcommonlyrealized.Inasense therewasaplebeianheraldry, sinceeveryshopwas, likeeverycastle,distinguishednotbyaname,butasign.Thewholesystemdatesfromatimewhenpicture-writingstillreallyruledtheworld.Inthosedaysfewcouldreadorwrite;theysignedtheirnameswithapictorialsymbol,across—andacrossisagreatimprovementonmostmen'snames.

Now, there is something to be said for the peculiar influence of pictorialsymbols onmen'sminds.All letters,we learn,were originally pictorial andheraldic: thus the letter A is the portrait of an ox, but the portrait is nowreproducedinsoimpressionistamannerthatbutlittleoftheruralatmospherecanbeabsorbedbycontemplatingit.Butaslongassomepictorialandpoeticqualityremainsinthesymbol,theconstantuseofitmustdosomethingfortheaesthetic educationof those employing it. Public-houses are nowalmost theonlyshopsthatusetheancientsigns,andthemysteriousattractionwhichtheyexercisemaybe(bytheoptimistic)explainedinthismanner.Therearetavernswith names so dreamlike and exquisite that even SirWilfrid Lawsonmightwaveron the thresholdforamoment,suffering thepoet tostrugglewith themoralist.Soitwaswiththeheraldicimages.Itisimpossibletobelievethatthered lion of Scotland acted upon those employing it merely as a naked

conveniencelikeanumberoraletter;itisimpossibletobelievethattheKingsofScotlandwouldhavecheerfullyaccepted thesubstituteofapigorafrog.Thereare,aswesay,certainrealadvantagesinpictorialsymbols,andoneofthemisthateverythingthatispictorialsuggests,withoutnamingordefining.Thereisaroadfromtheeyetotheheartthatdoesnotgothroughtheintellect.Mendonotquarrelaboutthemeaningofsunsets;theyneverdisputethatthehawthornsaysthebestandwittiestthingaboutthespring.

Thusintheoldaristocraticdaysthereexistedthisvastpictorialsymbolismofallthecoloursanddegreesofaristocracy.Whenthegreattrumpetofequalitywas blown, almost immediately afterwards was made one of the greatestblunders in the history ofmankind. For all this pride and vivacity, all thesetowering symbols and flamboyant colours, should have been extended tomankind. The tobacconist should have had a crest, and the cheesemonger awar-cry.Thegrocerwhosoldmargarineasbuttershouldhave felt that therewas a stain on the escutcheon of the Higginses. Instead of doing this, thedemocrats made the appalling mistake—amistake at the root of the wholemodernmalady—ofdecreasingthehumanmagnificenceofthepastinsteadofincreasing it. They did not say, as they should have done, to the commoncitizen, 'You are as good as the Duke of Norfolk,' but used that meanerdemocraticformula,'TheDukeofNorfolkisnobetterthanyouare.'

For it cannot be denied that the world lost something finally and mostunfortunatelyabout thebeginningof thenineteenthcentury. In former timesthemassofthepeoplewasconceivedasmeanandcommonplace,butonlyascomparativelymean and commonplace; they were dwarfed and eclipsed bycertainhighstationsandsplendidcallings.ButwiththeVictorianeracameaprinciplewhichconceivedmennotascomparatively,butaspositively,meanandcommonplace.Amanofanystationwasrepresentedasbeingbynatureadingyandtrivialperson—apersonborn,asitwere,inablackhat.Itbegantobethoughtthatitwasridiculousforamantowearbeautifulgarments,insteadofitbeing—as,ofcourse, it is—ridiculousforhimtodeliberatelywearuglyones. Itwas considered affected for aman to speak bold and heroicwords,whereas,ofcourse,itisemotionalspeechwhichisnatural,andordinarycivilspeech which is affected. The whole relations of beauty and ugliness, ofdignity and ignominy were turned upside down. Beauty became anextravagance,asif top-hatsandumbrellaswerenottherealextravagance—alandscapefromthelandofthegoblins.Dignitybecameaformoffooleryandshamelessness,asiftheveryessenceofafoolwerenotalackofdignity.Andthe consequence is that it is practically most difficult to propose anydecoration or public dignity for modern men without making them laugh.Theylaughattheideaofcarryingcrestsandcoats-of-armsinsteadoflaughingattheirownbootsandneckties.Weareforbiddentosaythattradesmenshould

haveapoetryof theirown,although there isnothingsopoeticalas trade.Agrocershouldhaveacoat-of-armsworthyofhisstrangemerchandisegatheredfromdistantandfantasticlands;apostmanshouldhaveacoat-of-armscapableof expressing the strange honour and responsibility of themanwho carriesmen's souls in a bag; the chemist should have a coat-of-arms symbolizingsomethingof themysteriesof thehouseofhealing, thecavernofamercifulwitchcraft.

Therewere in the FrenchRevolution a class of people atwhom everybodylaughed,andatwhomitwasprobablydifficult,asapracticalmatter,torefrainfromlaughing.Theyattemptedtoerect,bymeansofhugewoodenstatuesandbrand-new festivals, themost extraordinary new religions. They adored theGoddessofReason,whowouldappear,evenwhen thefullestallowancehasbeenmadefor theirmanyvirtues, tobethedeitywhohadleastsmileduponthem.But these caperingmaniacs, disowned alike by the oldworld and thenew,weremenwhohad seenagreat truthunknownalike to thenewworldand the old. They had seen the thing that was hidden from the wise andunderstanding, from the whole modern democratic civilization down to thepresenttime.Theyrealizedthatdemocracymusthaveaheraldry,thatitmusthave a proud and high-coloured pageantry, if it is to keep always before itsownminditsownsublimemission.Unfortunatelyforthisideal,theworldhasinthismatterfollowedEnglishdemocracyratherthanFrench;andthosewholookbacktothenineteenthcenturywillassuredlylookbacktoitaswelookbacktothereignofthePuritans,asthetimeofblackcoatsandblacktempers.Fromthestrangelifethemenofthat timeled, theymightbeassistingat thefuneraloflibertyinsteadofatitschristening.Themomentwereallybelieveindemocracy,itwillbegintoblossom,asaristocracyblossomed,intosymboliccolours and shapes. We shall never make anything of democracy until wemakefoolsofourselves.Forifamanreallycannotmakeafoolofhimself,wemaybequitecertainthattheeffortissuperfluous.

ADEFENCEOFUGLYTHINGSTherearesomepeoplewhostatethattheexterior,sex,orphysiqueofanotherpersonisindifferenttothem,thattheycareonlyforthecommunionofmindwithmind;butthesepeopleneednotdetainus.Therearesomestatementsthatnooneeverthinksofbelieving,howeveroftentheyaremade.

Butwhilenothingin thisworldwouldpersuadeus thatagreatfriendofMr.ForbesRobertson, let us say,would experience no surprise or discomfort atseeing him enter the room in the bodily form of Mr. Chaplin, there is a

confusion constantly made between being attracted by exterior, which isnatural anduniversal, andbeing attracted bywhat is called physical beauty,whichisnotentirelynaturalandnotintheleastuniversal.Orrather,tospeakmorestrictly,theconceptionofphysicalbeautyhasbeennarrowedtomeanacertain kind of physical beautywhich nomore exhausts the possibilities ofexternal attractiveness than the respectability of a Clapham builderexhauststhepossibilitiesofmoralattractiveness.

ThetyrantsanddeceiversofmankindinthismatterhavebeentheGreeks.Alltheirsplendidworkforcivilizationoughtnottohavewhollyblindedustothefactoftheirgreatandterriblesinagainstthevarietyoflife.Itisaremarkablefact thatwhile the Jewshave longagobeen rebelledagainst andaccusedofblightingtheworldwithastringentandone-sidedethicalstandard,nobodyhasnoticed that the Greeks have committed us to an infinitely more horribleasceticism—anasceticismofthefancy,aworshipofoneaesthetictypealone.Jewishseverityhadatleastcommon-senseasitsbasis;itrecognisedthatmenlivedinaworldoffact,andthatifamanmarriedwithinthedegreesofbloodcertain consequencesmight follow.But they did not starve their instinct forcontrastsandcombinations;theirprophetsgavetwowingstotheoxandanynumberofeyestothecherubimwithalltheriotousingenuityofLewisCarroll.ButtheGreekscarriedtheirpoliceregulationintoelfland;theyvetoednottheactualadulteriesoftheearthbutthewildweddingsofideas,andforbadethebannsofthought.

ItisextraordinarytowatchthegradualemasculationofthemonstersofGreekmythunderthepestilentinfluenceoftheApolloBelvedere.Thechimaerawasacreatureofwhomanyhealthy-mindedpeoplewouldhavebeenproud;butwhenweseeitinGreekpictureswefeelinclinedtotiearibbonrounditsneckandgive itasaucerofmilk.Whoeverfeels that thegiants inGreekartandpoetry were really big—big as some folk-lore giants have been? In someScandinavian story a hero walks for miles along a mountain ridge, whicheventually turns out to be the bridge of the giant's nose. That is what weshouldcall,withacalmconscience,a largegiant.But thisearthquake fancyterrified the Greeks, and their terror has terrified all mankind out of theirnatural loveof size,vitality,variety, energy,ugliness.Nature intendedeveryhuman face, so long as it was forcible, individual, and expressive, to beregardedasdistinctfromallothers,asapoplarisdistinctfromanoak,andanapple-tree from a willow. But what the Dutch gardeners did for trees theGreeks did for the human form; they lopped away its living and sprawlingfeaturestogiveitacertainacademicshape;theyhackedoffnosesandpareddownchinswithaghastlyhorticulturalcalm.Andtheyhavereallysucceededsofarastomakeuscallsomeofthemostpowerfulandendearingfacesugly,andsomeofthemostsillyandrepulsivefacesbeautiful.Thisdisgracefulvia

media, this pitiful sense of dignity, has bitten far deeper into the soul ofmodern civilization than the external and practical Puritanismof Israel.TheJewattheworsttoldamantodanceinfetters;theGreekputanexquisitevaseuponhisheadandtoldhimnottomove.

Scripture says that one star differeth from another in glory, and the sameconceptionappliestonoses.ToinsistthatonetypeoffaceisuglybecauseitdiffersfromthatoftheVenusofMiloistolookatitentirelyinamisleadinglight. It is strange thatweshould resentpeoplediffering fromourselves;weshouldresentmuchmoreviolentlytheirresemblingourselves.Thisprinciplehas made a sufficient hash of literary criticism, in which it is always thecustom tocomplainof the lackof sound logic in a fairy tale, and theentireabsenceoftrueoratoricalpowerinathree-actfarce.Buttocallanotherman'sface ugly because it powerfully expresses another man's soul is likecomplainingthatacabbagehasnottwolegs.Ifwedidso,theonlycourseforthecabbagewouldbetopointoutwithseverity,butwithsomeshowoftruth,thatwewerenotabeautifulgreenallover.

Butthisfrigidtheoryofthebeautifulhasnotsucceededinconqueringtheartoftheworld,exceptinname.Insomequarters,indeed,ithasneverheldsway.AglanceatChinesedragonsorJapanesegodswillshowhowindependentareOrientals of the conventional idea of facial and bodily regularity, and howkeenandfieryistheirenjoymentofrealbeauty,ofgoggleeyes,ofsprawlingclaws, of gapingmouths andwrithing coils. In theMiddleAgesmen brokeawayfromtheGreekstandardofbeauty,andliftedupinadorationtoheavengreat towers, which seemed alive with dancing apes and devils. In the fullsummer of technical artistic perfection the revolt was carried to itsrealconsummationinthestudyofthefacesofmen.Rembrandtdeclaredthesaneandmanlygospelthatamanwasdignified,notwhenhewaslikeaGreekgod, butwhen he had a strong, square nose like a cudgel, a boldly-blockedheadlikeahelmet,andajawlikeasteeltrap.

This branch of art is commonly dismissed as the grotesque.We have neverbeenabletounderstandwhyitshouldbehumiliatingtobelaughable,sinceitisgivinganelevatedartisticpleasuretoothers.Ifagentlemanwhosawusinthe street were suddenly to burst into tears at the mere thought of ourexistence, it might be considered disquieting and uncomplimentary; butlaughterisnotuncomplimentary.Intruth,however,thephrase'grotesque'isamisleading description of ugliness in art. It does not follow that either theChinese dragons or the Gothic gargoyles or the goblinish old women ofRembrandtwereintheleastintendedtobecomic.Theirextravagancewasnotthe extravagance of satire, but simply the extravagance of vitality; and hereliesthewholekeyoftheplaceofuglinessinaesthetics.Weliketoseeacragjutoutinshamelessdecisionfromthecliff,weliketoseetheredpinesstand

uphardilyuponahighcliff,weliketoseeachasmclovenfromendtoendofa mountain. With equally noble enthusiasm we like to see a nose jut outdecisively,we like tosee the redhairofa friendstanduphardily inbristlesuponhishead,weliketoseehismouthbroadandcleancutlikethemountaincrevasse.Atleastsomeofuslikeallthis;itisnotaquestionofhumour.Wedonotburstwithamusementatthefirstsightofthepinesorthechasm;butwelikethembecausetheyareexpressiveofthedramaticstillnessofNature,herboldexperiments,herdefinitedepartures,herfearlessnessandsavageprideinherchildren.Themomentwehavesnappedthespellofconventionalbeauty,thereareamillionbeautifulfaceswaitingforuseverywhere,justasthereareamillionbeautifulspirits.

ADEFENCEOFFARCEI have never been able to understand why certain forms of art should bemarked off as something debased and trivial. A comedy is spoken of as'degeneratingintofarce';itwouldbefaircriticismtospeakofit'changingintofarce';butasfordegeneratingintofarce,wemightequallyreasonablyspeakofitasdegeneratingintotragedy.Again,astoryisspokenofas 'melodramatic,'and the phrase, queerly enough, is notmeant as a compliment. To speak ofsomethingas'pantomimic'or'sensational'isinnocentlysupposedtobebiting,Heavenknowswhy,forallworksofartaresensations,andagoodpantomime(nowextinct)isoneofthepleasantestsensationsofall. 'Thisstuffisfitforadetectivestory,'isoftensaid,aswhoshouldsay,'Thisstuffisfitforanepic.'

Whatevermaybe the rightsandwrongsof thismodeofclassification, therecan be no doubt about onemost practical and disastrous effect of it. Theselighterorwilderformsofart,havingnostandardsetupforthem,nogustofgenerousartisticpride to lift themup,doactually tend tobecomeasbadastheyaresupposedtobe.Neglectedchildrenofthegreatmother,theygrowupindarkness,dirtyandunlettered,andwhentheyarerighttheyarerightalmostbyaccident,becauseofthebloodintheirveins.Thecommondetectivestoryof mystery and murder seems to the intelligent reader to be little except astrangeglimpseofaplanetpeopledbycongenitalidiots,whocannotfindtheend of their own noses or the character of their own wives. The commonpantomimeseemslikesomehorriblesatiricpictureofaworldwithoutcauseoreffect,amassof 'jarringatoms,'aprolongedmentaltortureofirrelevancy.Theordinary farce seemsaworldof almostpiteousvulgarity,where ahalf-wittedandstuntedcreatureisafraidwhenhiswifecomeshome,andamusedwhenshesitsdownonthedoorstep.All this is, inasense, true,but it is the

faultofnothinginheavenorearthexcepttheattitudeandthephrasesquotedatthebeginningofthisarticle.Wehavenodoubtintheworldthat,iftheotherforms of art had been equally despised, they would have been equallydespicable.Ifpeoplehadspokenof'sonnets'withthesameaccentwithwhichtheyspeakof 'music-hallsongs,'asonnetwouldhavebeenathingsofearfuland wonderful that we almost regret we cannot have a specimen; a rowdysonnetisathingtodreamabout.Ifpeoplehadsaidthatepicswereonlyfitforchildren and nursemaids, 'Paradise Lost' might have been an averagepantomime: it might have been called 'Harlequin Satan, or HowAdam 'Ad'em.' For who would trouble to bring to perfection a work in which evenperfection is grotesque?Why shouldShakespearewrite 'Othello' if even histriumphconsisted in the eulogy, 'Mr.Shakespeare is fit for somethingbetterthanwritingtragedies'?

The case of farce, and its wilder embodiment in harlequinade, is especiallyimportant. That these high and legitimate forms of art, glorified byAristophanesandMolière,havesunkintosuchcontemptmaybeduetomanycauses:Imyselfhavelittledoubtthatitisduetotheastonishingandludicrouslackofbeliefinhopeandhilaritywhichmarksmodernaesthetics,tosuchanextentthatithasspreadeventotherevolutionists(oncethehopefulsectionofmen),sothateventhosewhoaskustoflingthestarsintotheseaarenotquitesure that theywill be anybetter there than theywerebefore.Every formofliteraryartmustbeasymbolofsomephaseofthehumanspirit;butwhereasthephaseis,inhumanlife,sufficientlyconvincinginitself,inartitmusthaveacertainpungencyandneatnessofform,tocompensateforitslackofreality.Thus any set of young people round a tea-table may have all the comedyemotions of 'Much Ado about Nothing' or 'Northanger Abbey,' but if theiractualconversationwerereported,itwouldpossiblynotbeaworthyadditiontoliterature.AnoldmansittingbyhisfiremayhaveallthedesolategrandeurofLearorPèreGoriot,but ifhecomes into literaturehemustdosomethingbesidessitbythefire.Theartisticjustification,then,offarceandpantomimemust consist in the emotions of life which correspond to them. And theseemotionsaretoanincredibleextentcrushedoutbythemoderninsistenceonthepainfulsideoflifeonly.Pain,itissaid,isthedominantelementoflife;butthis is true only in a very special sense. If painwere for one single instantliterallythedominantelementinlife,everymanwouldbefoundhangingdeadfrom his own bed-post by themorning. Pain, as the black and catastrophicthing, attracts the youthful artist, just as the schoolboy draws devils andskeletons andmenhanging.But joy is a farmore elusive andelvishmatter,sinceitisourreasonforexisting,andaveryfemininereason;itmingleswitheverybreathwedrawandeverycupof teawedrink.Theliteratureof joyisinfinitelymore difficult,more rare andmore triumphant than the black andwhiteliteratureofpain.Andofallthevariedformsoftheliteratureofjoy,the

formmost trulyworthyofmoral reverenceandartisticambition is the formcalled'farce'—oritswildershapeinpantomime.Tothequietesthumanbeing,seated in the quietest house, there will sometimes come a sudden andunmeaning hunger for the possibilities or impossibilities of things; he willabruptlywonderwhethertheteapotmaynotsuddenlybegintopourouthoneyorsea-water, theclocktopoint toallhoursof thedayatonce, thecandle toburngreenorcrimson,thedoortoopenuponalakeorapotato-fieldinsteadofaLondonstreet.Uponanyonewhofeels thisnamelessanarchismthere restsforthetimebeingtheabidingspiritofpantomime.Oftheclownwhocutsthepolicemanintwoitmaybesaid(withnodarkermeaning)thatherealizesoneof our visions. And it may be noted here that this internal quality inpantomime is perfectly symbolized and preserved by that commonplace orcockneylandscapeandarchitecturewhichcharacterizespantomimeandfarce.Ifthewholeaffairhappenedinsomealienatmosphere,ifapear-treebegantogrowapplesorariver torunwithwine insomestrangefairyland, theeffectwould be quite different. The streets and shops and door-knockers oftheharlequinade,whichtothevulgaraesthetemakeitseemcommonplace,arein truth the very essence of the aesthetic departure. It must be an actualmoderndoorwhichopensandshuts,constantlydisclosingdifferentinteriors;itmustbearealbakerwhose loavesflyup into theairwithouthis touchingthem, or else the whole internal excitement of this elvish invasion ofcivilization, this abrupt entrance of Puck into Pimlico, is lost. Some day,perhaps, when the present narrow phase of aesthetics has ceased tomonopolize the name, the glory of a farcical art may become fashionable.Long aftermen have ceased to drape their houses in green and gray and toadornthemwithJapanesevases,anaesthetemaybuildahouseonpantomimeprinciples, inwhich all the doors shall have their bells and knockers on theinside,allthestaircasesbeconstructedtovanishonthepressingofabutton,andallthedinners(humorousdinnersinthemselves)comeupcookedthroughatrapdoor.Weareverysure,atleast,thatitisasreasonabletoregulateone'slifeandlodgingsbythiskindofartasbyanyother.

Thewholeofthisviewoffarceandpantomimemayseeminsanetous;butwefearthatitiswewhoareinsane.Nothinginthisstrangeageoftransitionissodepressingasitsmerriment.All themostbrilliantmenof thedaywhentheysetaboutthewritingofcomicliteraturedoitunderonedestructivefallacyanddisadvantage: the notion that comic literature is in some sort of waysuperficial.Theygiveus little knick-knacksof thebrittlenessofwhich theypositivelyboast,althoughtwothousandyearshavebeatenasvainlyuponthefolliesofthe'Frogs'asonthewisdomofthe'Republic.'Itisallameanshameof joy.Whenwe come out from a performance of the 'MidsummerNight'sDream'wefeelasneartothestarsaswhenwecomeoutfrom'KingLear.'Forthe joyof theseworks isolder than sorrow, their extravagance is saner than

wisdom,theirloveisstrongerthandeath.

The old masters of a healthy madness, Aristophanes or Rabelais orShakespeare, doubtless hadmany brusheswith the precisians or ascetics oftheirday,butwecannotbut feel that forhonest severityandconsistentself-maceration theywouldalwayshavehad respect.Butwhat abyssesof scorn,inconceivabletoanymodern,wouldtheyhavereservedforanaesthetictypeandmovementwhichviolatedmoralityanddidnotevenfindpleasure,whichoutragedsanityandcouldnotattaintoexuberance,whichcontenteditselfwiththefool'scapwithoutthebells!

ADEFENCEOFHUMILITYTheactofdefendinganyofthecardinalvirtueshasto-dayalltheexhilarationofavice.Moraltruismshavebeensomuchdisputedthattheyhavebeguntosparklelikesomanybrilliantparadoxes.Andespecially(inthisageofegoisticidealism) there is about one who defends humility something inexpressiblyrakish.

Itisnopartofmyintentiontodefendhumilityonpracticalgrounds.Practicalgrounds are uninteresting, and, moreover, on practical grounds the case forhumility is overwhelming.We all know that the 'divine glory of the ego' issocially a great nuisance; we all do actually value our friends formodesty,freshness, and simplicity of heart. Whatever may be the reason, we all dowarmlyrespecthumility—inotherpeople.

Butthemattermustgodeeperthanthis.Ifthegroundsofhumilityarefoundonly in social convenience, they may be quite trivial and temporary. Theegoists may be the martyrs of a nobler dispensation, agonizing for a morearduous ideal. To judge from the comparative lack of ease in their socialmanner,thisseemsareasonablesuggestion.

Thereisonethingthatmustbeseenattheoutsetofthestudyofhumilityfromanintrinsicandeternalpointofview.Thenewphilosophyofself-esteemandself-assertiondeclaresthathumilityisavice.Ifitbeso,itisquiteclearthatitisoneofthoseviceswhichareanintegralpartoforiginalsin.Itfollowswiththe precision of clockwork every one of the great joys of life. No one, forexample,waseverinlovewithoutindulginginapositivedebauchofhumility.All full-blooded and natural people, such as schoolboys, enjoy humility themoment they attain hero-worship. Humility, again, is said both by itsupholders and opponents to be the peculiar growth ofChristianity. The realand obvious reason of this is often missed. The pagans insisted upon self-

assertionbecauseitwastheessenceoftheircreedthatthegods,thoughstrongand just, were mystic, capricious, and even indifferent. But the essence ofChristianitywas ina literalsense theNewTestament—acovenantwithGodwhich opened tomen a clear deliverance. They thought themselves secure;they claimed palaces of pearl and silver under the oath and seal of theOmnipotent; they believed themselves rich with an irrevocable benedictionwhichsetthemabovethestars;andimmediatelytheydiscoveredhumility.Itwasonly another example of the same immutable paradox. It is always thesecurewhoarehumble.

This particular instance survives in the evangelical revivalists of the street.Theyareirritatingenough,butnoonewhohasreallystudiedthemcandenythattheirritationisoccasionedbythesetwothings,anirritatinghilarityandanirritatinghumility.Thiscombinationofjoyandself-prostrationisagreatdealtoouniversaltobeignored.Ifhumilityhasbeendiscreditedasavirtueatthepresentday,itisnotwhollyirrelevanttoremarkthatthisdiscredithasarisenatthesame timeasagreatcollapseof joy incurrent literatureandphilosophy.MenhaverevivedthesplendourofGreekself-assertionatthesametimethatthey have revived the bitterness ofGreek pessimism.A literature has arisenwhich commands us all to arrogate to ourselves the liberty of self-sufficingdeitiesatthesametimethatitexhibitsustoourselvesasdingymaniacswhoought to be chained up like dogs. It is certainly a curious state of thingsaltogether. When we are genuinely happy, we think we are unworthy ofhappiness.Butwhenwearedemandingadivineemancipationweseemtobeperfectlycertainthatweareunworthyofanything.

The only explanation of the matter must be found in the conviction thathumilityhasinfinitelydeeperrootsthananymodernmensuppose;thatitisametaphysicaland,onemightalmostsay,amathematicalvirtue.Probablythiscan best be tested by a study of those who frankly disregard humility andassertthesupremedutyofperfectingandexpressingone'sself.Thesepeopletend,by aperfectlynaturalprocess, tobring their owngreathumangiftsofculture, intellect, ormoralpower to agreatperfection, successively shuttingout everything that they feel tobe lower than themselves.Nowshuttingoutthingsisallverywell,but ithasonesimplecorollary—thatfromeverythingthatwe shut outwe are ourselves shut out.Whenwe shut our door on thewind, it would be equally true to say that the wind shuts its door on us.Whatevervirtuesa triumphantegoismreally leadsto,noonecanreasonablypretend that it leads to knowledge. Turning a beggar from the doormay beright enough, but pretending to know all the stories the beggarmight havenarratedispurenonsense;andthisispracticallytheclaimoftheegoismwhichthinks thatself-assertioncanobtainknowledge.Abeetlemayormaynotbeinferiortoaman—thematterawaitsdemonstration;butifhewereinferiorby

tenthousandfathoms,thefactremainsthatthereisprobablyabeetleviewofthingsofwhichamanisentirelyignorant.Ifhewishestoconceivethatpointofview,hewillscarcelyreachitbypersistentlyrevellinginthefactthatheisnot a beetle. The most brilliant exponent of the egoistic school, Nietszche,with deadly and honourable logic, admitted that the philosophy of self-satisfaction led to looking down upon the weak, the cowardly, and theignorant.Lookingdownonthingsmaybeadelightfulexperience,onlythereisnothing, fromamountain toacabbage, that is reallyseenwhen it isseenfromaballoon.Thephilosopheroftheegoseeseverything,nodoubt,fromahighandrarifiedheaven;onlyheseeseverythingforeshortenedordeformed.

Now if we imagine that a man wished truly, as far as possible, to seeeverythingas itwas,hewouldcertainlyproceedonadifferentprinciple.Hewouldseektodivesthimselffora timeof thosepersonalpeculiaritieswhichtendtodividehimfromthethinghestudies.Itisasdifficult,forexample,foraman toexaminea fishwithoutdevelopingacertainvanity inpossessingapairof legs,as if theywere the latestarticleofpersonaladornment.But ifafish is tobeapproximatelyunderstood, thisphysiologicaldandyismmustbeovercome.Theearneststudentoffishmoralitywill,spirituallyspeaking,chopoff his legs. And similarly the student of birds will eliminate his arms; thefrog-loverwillwithonestrokeoftheimaginationremoveallhisteeth,andthespiritwishingtoenterintoallthehopesandfearsofjelly-fishwillsimplifyhispersonal appearance to a really alarming extent. It would appear, therefore,thatthisgreatbodyofoursandallitsnaturalinstincts,ofwhichweareproud,andjustlyproud,isratheranencumbranceatthemomentwhenweattempttoappreciatethingsastheyshouldbeappreciated.Wedoactuallygothroughaprocessofmentalasceticism,acastrationoftheentirebeing,whenwewishtofeel the abounding good in all things. It is good for us at certain times thatourselves should be like a mere window—as clear, as luminous, and asinvisible.

In a very entertaining work, over which we have roared in childhood, it isstatedthatapointhasnopartsandnomagnitude.Humilityistheluxuriousartofreducingourselves toapoint,not toasmall thingora largeone,but toathingwithnosizeatall,sothattoitallthecosmicthingsarewhattheyreallyare—ofimmeasurablestature.Thatthetreesarehighandthegrassesshortisamere accident of our own foot-rules and our own stature. But to the spiritwhichhasstrippedoffforamomentitsownidletemporalstandardsthegrassisaneverlastingforest,withdragonsfordenizens;thestonesoftheroadareasincrediblemountainspiledoneupontheother;thedandelionsarelikegiganticbonfiresilluminatingthelandsaround;andtheheath-bellsontheirstalksarelikeplanetshunginheaveneachhigherthantheother.Betweenonestakeofapalingandanother therearenewand terrible landscapes;hereadesert,with

nothing but onemisshapen rock; here amiraculous forest, of which all thetreesflowerabovetheheadwiththehuesofsunset;here,again,aseafullofmonstersthatDantewouldnothavedaredtodream.Thesearethevisionsofhim who, like the child in the fairy tales, is not afraid to become small.Meanwhile,thesagewhosefaithisinmagnitudeandambitionis,likeagiant,becoming larger and larger, which only means that the stars are becomingsmaller and smaller. World after world falls from him into insignificance;thewholepassionateand intricate lifeofcommon thingsbecomesas lost tohim as is the life of the infusoria to amanwithout amicroscope.He risesalwaysthroughdesolateeternities.Hemayfindnewsystems,andforgetthem;hemaydiscoverfreshuniverses,andlearntodespisethem.Butthetoweringand tropical vision of things as they really are—the gigantic daisies, theheaven-consumingdandelions, thegreatOdysseyof strange-colouredoceansand strange-shaped trees,ofdust like thewreckof temples, and thistledownliketheruinofstars—allthiscolossalvisionshallperishwiththelastofthehumble.

ADEFENCEOFSLANGThe aristocrats of the nineteenth century have destroyed entirely their onesolitaryutility.Itistheirbusinesstobeflauntingandarrogant;buttheyflauntunobtrusively,andtheirattemptsatarrogancearedepressing.Theirchiefdutyhitherto has been the development of variety, vivacity, and fulness of life;oligarchy was the world's first experiment in liberty. But now they haveadoptedtheoppositeidealof'goodform,'whichmaybedefinedasPuritanismwithout religion.Goodformhassent themall intoblack like thestrokeofafuneralbell.Theyengage, likeMr.Gilbert'scurates, inawarofmildness,apositive competition of obscurity. In old times the lords of the earth soughtabove all things to be distinguished from each other; with that object theyerectedoutrageousimagesontheirhelmetsandpaintedpreposterouscolourson theirshields.Theywished tomake itentirelyclear thataNorfolkwasasdifferent,say,fromanArgyllasawhitelionfromablackpig.Butto-daytheirideal is precisely the opposite one, and if a Norfolk and an Argyll weredressedsomuchalikethattheyweremistakenforeachothertheywouldbothgohomedancingwithjoy.

The consequences of this are inevitable. The aristocracy must lose theirfunction of standing to the world for the idea of variety, experiment, andcolour,andwemustfindthesethingsinsomeotherclass.Toaskwhetherweshallfindtheminthemiddleclasswouldbetojestuponsacredmatters.The

onlyconclusion, therefore, is that it is to certain sectionsof the lowerclass,chiefly,forexample,toomnibus-conductors,withtheirrichandrococomodeofthought,thatwemustlookforguidancetowardslibertyandlight.

Theonestreamofpoetrywhich iscontinuallyflowingisslang.Everydayanamelesspoetweavessomefairytraceryofpopularlanguage.Itmaybesaidthatthefashionableworldtalksslangasmuchasthedemocratic;thisistrue,and it strongly supports the view under consideration. Nothing is morestartlingthanthecontrastbetweentheheavy,formal,lifelessslangoftheman-about-townand the light, living,andflexibleslangof thecoster.The talkoftheupperstrataof theeducatedclasses isabout themostshapeless,aimless,and hopeless literary product that the world has ever seen. Clearly in this,again, theupperclasseshavedegenerated.Wehaveampleevidence that theold leaders of feudal war could speak on occasion with a certain naturalsymbolismandeloquencethattheyhadnotgainedfrombooks.WhenCyranode Bergerac, in Rostand's play, throws doubts on the reality of Christian'sdulnessandlackofculture,thelatterreplies:

'Bah!ontrouvedesmotsquandonmonteàl'assaut;Oui,j'aiuncertainespritfacileetmilitaire;'and these two lines sum up a truth about the old oligarchs. They could notwritethreelegibleletters,buttheycouldsometimesspeakliterature.Douglas,whenhehurledtheheartofBruceinfrontofhiminhislastbattle,criedout,'Pass first, great heart, as thouwert everwont.' A Spanish nobleman,whencommandedbytheKingtoreceiveahigh-placedandnotorioustraitor,said:'Iwillreceivehiminallobedience,andburndownmyhouseafterwards.'Thisisliteraturewithoutculture;itisthespeechofmenconvincedthattheyhavetoassertproudlythepoetryoflife.

Anyone, however,who should seek for such pearls in the conversation of ayoungmanofmodernBelgraviawouldhavemuchsorrowinhislife.Itisnotonly impossible foraristocrats toassertproudly thepoetryof life; it ismoreimpossibleforthemthanforanyoneelse.Itispositivelyconsideredvulgarforanoblemantoboastofhisancientname,whichis,whenonecomestothinkofit,theonlyrationalobjectofhisexistence.Ifamaninthestreetproclaimed,with rude feudal rhetoric, that he was the Earl of Doncaster, he would bearrestedasa lunatic;but if itwerediscovered thathe reallywas theEarlofDoncaster, he would simply be cut as a cad. No poetical prose must beexpected from Earls as a class. The fashionable slang is hardly even alanguage; it is like the formless cries of animals, dimly indicating certainbroad,well-understoodstatesofmind. 'Bored,' 'cutup,' 'jolly,' 'rotten,'andsoon, are like thewords of some tribe of savageswhose vocabulary has onlytwentyofthem.Ifamanoffashionwishedtoprotestagainstsomesolecismin

anothermanoffashion,hisutterancewouldbeamerestringofsetphrases,aslifelessasastringofdeadfish.Butanomnibusconductor(beingfilledwiththeMuse) would burst out into a solid literary effort: 'You're a gen'leman,aren'tyer ... yerboots is a lotbrighter thanyer 'ed...there'sprecious littleofyer,andthat'sclothes...that'sright,putyercigarinyermouth 'cosIcan'tseeyerbe'indit...takeitoutagain,doyer!you'reyoungforsmokin',butI'vesentforyermother....Goin'?oh,don'trunaway:Iwon't 'armyer.I'vegotagood'art, I 'ave.... "Downwithcroolty toanimals," I say,' andsoon. It isevidentthatthismodeofspeechisnotonlyliterary,butliteraryinaveryornateandalmost artificial sense. Keats never put into a sonnet so many remotemetaphorsasacosterputs intoacurse;hisspeech isone longallegory, likeSpenser's'FaerieQueen.'

Idonotimaginethatitisnecessarytodemonstratethatthispoeticallusivenessisthecharacteristicoftrueslang.Suchanexpressionas'Keepyourhairon'ispositivelyMeredithianinitsperverseandmysteriousmannerofexpressinganidea.TheAmericanshaveawell-knownexpressionabout 'swelled-head'asadescriptionof self-approval, and theotherday Ihearda remarkable fantasiaupon this air. An American said that after the Chinese War the Japanesewanted'toputontheirhatswithashoe-horn.'Thisisamonumentofthetruenature of slang,which consists in getting further and further away from theoriginalconception,intreatingitmoreandmoreasanassumption.ItisratherliketheliterarydoctrineoftheSymbolists.

The real reason of this great development of eloquence among the lowerordersagainbringsusbacktothecaseofthearistocracyinearliertimes.Thelower classes live in a state of war, a war of words. Their readiness is theproduct of the same fiery individualism as the readiness of the old fightingoligarchs.Anycabmanhastobereadywithhistongue,asanygentlemanofthelastcenturyhadtobereadywithhissword.Itisunfortunatethatthepoetrywhichisdevelopedbythisprocessshouldbepurelyagrotesquepoetry.Butasthehigherordersofsocietyhaveentirelyabdicatedtheirrighttospeakwithaheroiceloquence,itisnowonderthatthelanguageshoulddevelopbyitselfinthedirectionofarowdyeloquence.Theessentialpointisthatsomebodymustbeatworkaddingnewsymbolsandnewcircumlocutionstoalanguage.

Allslangismetaphor,andallmetaphorispoetry.Ifwepausedforamomenttoexaminethecheapestcantphrasesthatpassourlipseveryday,weshouldfindthattheywereasrichandsuggestiveassomanysonnets.Totakeasingleinstance:we speakof aman inEnglish social relations 'breaking the ice.' Ifthiswereexpandedintoasonnet,weshouldhavebeforeusadarkandsublimepictureofanoceanofeverlasting ice, the sombreandbafflingmirrorof theNorthern nature, overwhichmenwalked and danced and skated easily, butunderwhichthelivingwatersroaredandtoiledfathomsbelow.Theworldof

slang is a kind of topsy-turveydomof poetry, full of bluemoons andwhiteelephants,ofmenlosing theirheads,andmenwhose tonguesrunawaywiththem—awholechaosoffairytales.

ADEFENCEOFBABY-WORSHIPThetwofactswhichattractalmosteverynormalpersontochildrenare,first,that they are very serious, and, secondly, that they are in consequence veryhappy. They are jolly with the completeness which is possible only in theabsence of humour. The most unfathomable schools and sages have neverattainedtothegravitywhichdwellsintheeyesofababyofthreemonthsold.It is the gravity of astonishment at the universe, and astonishment at theuniverseisnotmysticism,butatranscendentcommon-sense.Thefascinationofchildrenlies in this: thatwitheachof themall thingsareremade,andtheuniverse isputagainupon its trial.Aswewalk thestreetsandseebelowusthosedelightfulbulbousheads, threetimestoobigfor thebody,whichmarkthese human mushrooms, we ought always primarily to remember thatwithineveryoneoftheseheadsthereisanewuniverse,asnewasitwasonthe seventh day of creation. In each of those orbs there is a new system ofstars,newgrass,newcities,anewsea.

Thereisalwaysinthehealthymindanobscurepromptingthatreligionteachesusrathertodigthantoclimb;that ifwecouldonceunderstandthecommonclay of earth we should understand everything. Similarly, we have thesentimentthatifwecoulddestroycustomatablowandseethestarsasachildseesthem,weshouldneednootherapocalypse.Thisisthegreattruthwhichhasalwayslainatthebackofbaby-worship,andwhichwillsupportittotheend. Maturity, with its endless energies and aspirations, may easily beconvinced that it will find new things to appreciate; but it will never beconvinced,atbottom,thatithasproperlyappreciatedwhatithasgot.Wemayscaletheheavensandfindnewstarsinnumerable,butthereisstillthenewstarwehavenotfound—thatonwhichwewereborn.

But the influence of children goes further than its first trifling effort ofremaking heaven and earth. It forces us actually to remodel our conduct inaccordancewiththisrevolutionarytheoryofthemarvellousnessofallthings.Wedo(evenwhenweareperfectlysimpleorignorant)—wedoactuallytreattalkinginchildrenasmarvellous,walkinginchildrenasmarvellous,commonintelligenceinchildrenasmarvellous.Thecynicalphilosopherfancieshehasavictory in thismatter—thathecan laughwhenheshowsthat thewordsoranticsofthechild,somuchadmiredbyitsworshippers,arecommonenough.

The fact is that this is preciselywhere baby-worship is so profoundly right.Anywordsandanyanticsinalumpofclayarewonderful,thechild'swordsandanticsarewonderful,anditisonlyfairtosaythatthephilosopher'swordsandanticsareequallywonderful.

Thetruthisthatitisourattitudetowardschildrenthatisright,andourattitudetowardsgrown-uppeoplethatiswrong.Ourattitudetowardsourequalsinageconsistsinaservilesolemnity,overlyingaconsiderabledegreeofindifferenceor disdain. Our attitude towards children consists in a condescendingindulgence,overlyinganunfathomablerespect.Webowtogrownpeople,takeoff our hats to them, refrain from contradicting them flatly, but we do notappreciate them properly. We make puppets of children, lecture them, pulltheirhair,andreverence,love,andfearthem.Whenwereverenceanythinginthemature,it istheirvirtuesortheirwisdom,andthisisaneasymatter.Butwereverencethefaultsandfolliesofchildren.

Weshouldprobablycomeconsiderablynearertothetrueconceptionofthingsifwetreatedallgrown-uppersons,ofall titlesandtypes,withprecisely thatdarkaffectionanddazedrespectwithwhichwetreattheinfantilelimitations.Achildhasadifficulty inachieving themiracleof speech,consequentlywefindhisblundersalmostasmarvellousashisaccuracy.Ifweonlyadoptedthesame attitude towards Premiers and Chancellors of the Exchequer, if wegenially encouraged their stammering and delightful attempts at humanspeech,we should be in a farmorewise and tolerant temper.A child has aknack ofmaking experiments in life, generally healthy inmotive, but oftenintolerable in a domestic commonwealth. Ifwe only treated all commercialbuccaneersandbumptioustyrantsonthesameterms,ifwegentlychidedtheirbrutalities as ratherquaintmistakes in the conductof life, ifwe simply toldthemthattheywould 'understandwhentheywereolder,'weshouldprobablybe adopting the best andmost crushing attitude towards the weaknesses ofhumanity. In our relations to childrenwe prove that the paradox is entirelytrue,thatitispossibletocombineanamnestythatvergesoncontemptwithaworship that verges upon terror.We forgive childrenwith the same kind ofblasphemousgentlenesswithwhichOmarKhayyamforgavetheOmnipotent.

Theessentialrectitudeofourviewofchildrenliesinthefactthatwefeelthemand theirways tobe supernaturalwhile, for somemysterious reason,wedonotfeelourselvesorourownwaystobesupernatural.Theverysmallnessofchildrenmakesitpossible toregardthemasmarvels;weseemtobedealingwithanewrace,only tobeseenthroughamicroscope.Idoubt ifanyoneofany tendernessor imaginationcansee thehandofachildandnotbea littlefrightenedofit.Itisawfultothinkoftheessentialhumanenergymovingsotinyathing;itislikeimaginingthathumannaturecouldliveinthewingofabutterflyortheleafofatree.Whenwelookuponlivessohumanandyetso

small,wefeelasifweourselveswereenlargedtoanembarrassingbignessofstature.We feel the same kind of obligation to these creatures that a deitymightfeelifhehadcreatedsomethingthathecouldnotunderstand.

But the humorous look of children is perhaps themost endearing of all thebondsthatholdtheCosmostogether.Theirtop-heavydignityismoretouchingthan any humility; their solemnity gives usmore hope for all things than athousandcarnivalsofoptimism;theirlargeandlustrouseyesseemtoholdallthestarsintheirastonishment;theirfascinatingabsenceofnoseseemstogiveto us themost perfect hint of the humour that awaits us in the kingdom ofheaven.

ADEFENCEOFDETECTIVESTORIESInattemptingtoreachthegenuinepsychologicalreasonforthepopularityofdetectivestories,itisnecessarytoridourselvesofmanymerephrases.Itisnottrue, forexample, that thepopulacepreferbad literature togood,andacceptdetectivestoriesbecausetheyarebadliterature.Themereabsenceofartisticsubtlety doesnotmake a bookpopular.Bradshaw'sRailwayGuide containsfewgleamsofpsychologicalcomedy,yetitisnotreadalouduproariouslyonwinter evenings. If detective stories are read with more exuberance thanrailwayguides,itiscertainlybecausetheyaremoreartistic.Manygoodbookshave fortunatelybeenpopular;manybadbooks, stillmore fortunately, havebeenunpopular.Agooddetectivestorywouldprobablybeevenmorepopularthanabadone.Thetroubleinthismatter is thatmanypeopledonotrealizethatthereissuchathingasagooddetectivestory;itistothemlikespeakingofagooddevil.Towritea storyaboutaburglary is, in their eyes, a sortofspiritualmanner of committing it. To persons of somewhatweak sensibilitythisisnaturalenough;itmustbeconfessedthatmanydetectivestoriesareasfullofsensationalcrimeasoneofShakespeare'splays.

Thereis,however,betweenagooddetectivestoryandabaddetectivestoryasmuch,or,rathermore,differencethanthereisbetweenagoodepicandabadone.Notonlyisadetectivestoryaperfectlylegitimateformofart,butithascertaindefiniteandrealadvantagesasanagentofthepublicweal.

Thefirstessentialvalueofthedetectivestoryliesinthis,thatitistheearliestandonly formofpopular literature inwhich is expressed somesenseof thepoetryofmodernlife.Menlivedamongmightymountainsandeternalforestsfor ages before they realized that they were poetical; it may reasonably beinferred that some of our descendants may see the chimney-pots as rich a

purpleasthemountain-peaks,andfindthelamp-postsasoldandnaturalasthetrees.Of this realizationofagreatcity itselfassomethingwildandobviousthedetectivestoryiscertainlythe'Iliad.'NoonecanhavefailedtonoticethatinthesestoriestheheroortheinvestigatorcrossesLondonwithsomethingofthelonelinessandlibertyofaprinceinataleofelfland,thatinthecourseofthatincalculablejourneythecasualomnibusassumestheprimalcoloursofafairyship.Thelightsofthecitybegintoglowlikeinnumerablegoblineyes,sincetheyaretheguardiansofsomesecret,howevercrude,whichthewriterknowsandthereaderdoesnot.Everytwistoftheroadislikeafingerpointingto it; every fantastic skyline of chimney-pots seems wildly and derisivelysignallingthemeaningofthemystery.

This realization of the poetry of London is not a small thing. A city is,properlyspeaking,morepoeticeventhanacountryside,forwhileNatureisachaosofunconsciousforces,acityisachaosofconsciousones.Thecrestoftheflowerorthepatternofthelichenmayormaynotbesignificantsymbols.Butthereisnostoneinthestreetandnobrickinthewallthatisnotactuallyadeliberate symbol—a message from some man, as much as if it were atelegram or a post-card. The narrowest street possesses, in every crook andtwist of its intention, the soul of themanwho built it, perhaps long in hisgrave.Everybrickhasashumanahieroglyphasif itwereagravenbrickofBabylon;everyslateontheroofisaseducationaladocumentas if itwereaslatecoveredwithadditionandsubtractionsums.Anythingwhichtends,evenunder the fantastic form of theminutiae of Sherlock Holmes, to assert thisromance of detail in civilization, to emphasize this unfathomably humancharacter in flints and tiles, is agood thing. It isgood that theaveragemanshouldfallintothehabitoflookingimaginativelyattenmeninthestreetevenifitisonlyonthechancethattheeleventhmightbeanotoriousthief.Wemaydream,perhaps,thatitmightbepossibletohaveanotherandhigherromanceofLondon, thatmen's souls have stranger adventures than their bodies, andthat itwould be harder andmore exciting to hunt their virtues than to hunttheir crimes. But since our great authors (with the admirable exception ofStevenson)declinetowriteofthatthrillingmoodandmomentwhentheeyesofthegreatcity,liketheeyesofacat,begintoflameinthedark,wemustgivefair credit to the popular literature which, amid a babble of pedantry andpreciosity, declines to regard the present as prosaic or the common ascommonplace. Popular art in all ages has been interested in contemporarymannersandcostume;itdressedthegroupsaroundtheCrucifixioninthegarbof Florentine gentlefolk or Flemish burghers. In the last century it was thecustom for distinguished actors to presentMacbeth in a powdered wig andruffles. How far we are ourselves in this age from such conviction of thepoetryofourownlifeandmannersmayeasilybeconceivedbyanyonewhochoosestoimagineapictureofAlfredtheGreattoastingthecakesdressedin

tourist's knickerbockers, or a performance of 'Hamlet' in which the Princeappearedinafrock-coat,withacrapebandroundhishat.Butthisinstinctoftheagetolookback,likeLot'swife,couldnotgoonforever.Arude,popularliteratureoftheromanticpossibilitiesofthemoderncitywasboundtoarise.Ithas arisen in the popular detective stories, as rough and refreshing as theballadsofRobinHood.

Thereis,however,anothergoodworkthatisdonebydetectivestories.WhileitistheconstanttendencyoftheOldAdamtorebelagainstsouniversalandautomatic a thing as civilization, to preach departure and rebellion, theromanceofpoliceactivitykeeps insomesensebefore themindthefact thatcivilizationitselfisthemostsensationalofdeparturesandthemostromanticofrebellions.Bydealingwiththeunsleepingsentinelswhoguardtheoutpostsofsociety, it tends to remindus thatwe live inanarmedcamp,makingwarwithachaoticworld,andthatthecriminals,thechildrenofchaos,arenothingbutthetraitorswithinourgates.Whenthedetectiveinapoliceromancestandsalone,andsomewhatfatuouslyfearlessamidtheknivesandfistsofathieves'kitchen, it does certainly serve tomake us remember that it is the agent ofsocial justice who is the original and poetic figure, while the burglars andfootpadsaremerelyplacidoldcosmicconservatives,happyintheimmemorialrespectabilityofapesandwolves.Theromanceofthepoliceforceisthusthewholeromanceofman.It isbasedonthefact thatmoralityis themostdarkand daring of conspiracies. It reminds us that the whole noiseless andunnoticeablepolicemanagementbywhichweareruledandprotectedisonlyasuccessfulknight-errantry.

ADEFENCEOFPATRIOTISMThedecayofpatriotisminEnglandduringthelastyearortwoisaseriousanddistressingmatter.Onlyinconsequenceofsuchadecaycouldthecurrentlustofterritorybeconfoundedwiththeancientloveofcountry.Wemayimaginethat if therewere no such thing as a pair of lovers left in theworld, all thevocabularyoflovemightwithoutrebukebetransferredtothelowestandmostautomatic desire. If no type of chivalrous and purifying passion remained,therewouldbenoonelefttosaythatlustborenoneofthemarksoflove,thatlustwasrapaciousandlovepitiful, thatlustwasblindandlovevigilant, thatlustsateditselfandlovewasinsatiable.Soitiswiththe'loveofthecity,'thathighandancient intellectualpassionwhichhasbeenwritten in redbloodonthesametablewiththeprimalpassionsofourbeing.Onallsideswehearto-dayof the loveofourcountry,andyetanyonewhohas literallysucha love

mustbebewilderedatthetalk,likeamanhearingallmensaythatthemoonshinesbydayandthesunbynight.Theconvictionmustcometohimatlastthat thesemendonot realizewhat theword 'love'means, that theymeanbythe love of country, notwhat amysticmightmeanby the love ofGod, butsomethingofwhatachildmightmeanbytheloveofjam.Toonewholoveshisfatherland,forinstance,ourboastedindifferencetotheethicsofanationalwar is mere mysterious gibberism. It is like telling a man that a boy hascommittedmurder,butthatheneednotmindbecauseitisonlyhisson.Hereclearly the word 'love' is used unmeaningly. It is the essence of love to besensitive, it is a part of its doom; and anyonewho objects to the onemustcertainlygetridoftheother.Thissensitiveness,risingsometimestoanalmostmorbidsensitiveness,wasthemarkofallgreatloverslikeDanteandallgreatpatriots likeChatham. 'Mycountry,rightorwrong,' isa thingthatnopatriotwouldthinkofsayingexceptinadesperatecase.Itislikesaying,'Mymother,drunk or sober.'No doubt if a decentman'smother took to drink hewouldshareher troubles to the last;but to talk as ifhewouldbe in a stateofgayindifferenceastowhetherhismothertooktodrinkornotiscertainlynotthelanguageofmenwhoknowthegreatmystery.

Whatwereallyneedfor thefrustrationandoverthrowofadeafandraucousJingoismisarenascenceoftheloveofthenativeland.Whenthatcomes,allshrill cries will cease suddenly. For the first of all the marks of love isseriousness:lovewillnotacceptshambulletinsortheemptyvictoryofwords.Itwill always esteem themost candid counsellor thebest.Love isdrawn totruthbytheunerringmagnetismofagony;itgivesnopleasuretothelovertoseetendoctorsdancingwithvociferousoptimismroundadeath-bed.

Wehavetoask,then,WhyisitthatthisrecentmovementinEngland,whichhashonestlyappearedtomanyarenascenceofpatriotism,seemstoustohavenoneof themarks of patriotism—at least, of patriotism in its highest form?Why has the adoration of our patriots been given wholly to qualities andcircumstances good in themselves, but comparativelymaterial and trivial:—trade,physical force,a skirmishata remote frontier,a squabble ina remotecontinent? Colonies are things to be proud of, but for a country to be onlyproud of its extremities is like aman being only proud of his legs.Why isthere not a high central intellectual patriotism, a patriotism of the head andheartoftheEmpire,andnotmerelyofitsfistsanditsboots?ArudeAtheniansailormayverylikelyhavethoughtthatthegloryofAthenslayinrowingwiththerightkindofoars,orhavingagoodsupplyofgarlic;butPericlesdidnotthinkthatthiswasthegloryofAthens.Withus,ontheotherhand,thereisnodifferenceatallbetweenthepatriotismpreachedbyMr.ChamberlainandthatpreachedbyMr.PatRafferty,whosings'WhatdoyouthinkoftheIrishnow?'They are both honest, simple-minded, vulgar eulogies upon trivialities and

truisms.

I have, rightly or wrongly, a notion of the chief cause of this pettiness inEnglishpatriotismofto-day,andIwillattempttoexpoundit.Itmaybetakengenerally that aman loves his own stock and environment, and that hewillfindsomethingtopraiseinit;butwhetheritisthemostpraiseworthythingorno will depend upon the man's enlightenment as to the facts. If the son ofThackeray, letus say,werebroughtup in ignoranceofhis father's fameandgenius,itisnotimprobablethathewouldbeproudofthefactthathisfatherwasoversixfeethigh.Itseemstomethatwe,asanation,arepreciselyinthepositionofthishypotheticalchildofThackeray's.Wefallbackupongrossandfrivolousthingsforourpatriotism,forasimplereason.Wearetheonlypeopleintheworldwhoarenottaughtinchildhoodourownliteratureandourownhistory.

Weare, as anation, in the truly extraordinary conditionofnotknowingourown merits. We have played a great and splendid part in the history ofuniversal thought and sentiment; we have been among the foremost in thateternal and bloodless battle in which the blows do not slay, but create. Inpainting andmusic we are inferior tomany other nations; but in literature,science,philosophy,andpoliticaleloquence,ifhistorybetakenasawhole,wecanholdourownwith any.But all this vast heritageof intellectual glory iskeptfromourschoolboyslikeaheresy;andtheyarelefttoliveanddieinthedull and infantile type of patriotism which they learnt from a box of tinsoldiers.Thereisnoharmintheboxoftinsoldiers;wedonotexpectchildrentobeequallydelightedwithabeautifulboxoftinphilanthropists.ButthereisgreatharminthefactthatthesubtlerandmorecivilizedhonourofEnglandisnotpresented soas tokeeppacewith the expandingmind.AFrenchboy istaughtthegloryofMolièreaswellasthatofTurenne;aGermanboyistaughthisowngreatnationalphilosophybeforehelearnsthephilosophyofantiquity.Theresultisthat,thoughFrenchpatriotismisoftencrazyandboastful,thoughGerman patriotism is often isolated and pedantic, they are neither of themmerelydull,common,andbrutal,asissooftenthestrangefateofthenationofBaconandLocke.Itisnaturalenough,andevenrighteousenough,underthecircumstances. An Englishman must love England for something;consequently,hetendstoexaltcommerceorprize-fighting,justasaGermanmight tend toexaltmusic,or aFlamand toexaltpainting,becausehe reallybelieves it is the chief merit of his fatherland. It would not be in the leastextraordinaryifaclaimofeatingupprovincesandpullingdownprinceswerethechiefboastofaZulu.Theextraordinarythingis,thatitisthechiefboastofapeoplewhohaveShakespeare,Newton,Burke,andDarwintoboastof.

The peculiar lack of any generosity or delicacy in the current Englishnationalism appears to have no other possible origin but in this fact of our

unique neglect in education of the study of the national literature. AnEnglishmancouldnotbesillyenoughtodespiseothernationsifheonceknewhow much England had done for them. Great men of letters cannot avoidbeinghumaneanduniversal.TheabsenceoftheteachingofEnglishliteraturein our schools is, when we come to think of it, an almost amazingphenomenon.ItisevenmoreamazingwhenwelistentotheargumentsurgedbyheadmastersandothereducationalconservativesagainstthedirectteachingofEnglish.Itissaid,forexample,thatavastamountofEnglishgrammarandliterature is picked up in the course of learning Latin and Greek. This isperfectlytrue,butthetopsy-turvinessoftheideaneverseemstostrikethem.Itislikesayingthatababypicksuptheartofwalkinginthecourseoflearningtohop,orthataFrenchmanmaysuccessfullybetaughtGermanbyhelpingaPrussiantolearnAshanti.Surelytheobviousfoundationofalleducationisthelanguageinwhichthateducationisconveyed;ifaboyhasonlytimetolearnonething,hehadbetterlearnthat.

Wehavedeliberatelyneglectedthisgreatheritageofhighnationalsentiment.Wehavemadeourpublicschoolsthestrongestwallsagainstawhisperofthehonour of England. And we have had our punishment in this strange andpervertedfactthat,whileaunifyingvisionofpatriotismcanennoblebandsofbrutalsavagesordingyburghers,andbethebestthingintheirlives,we,whoare—theworldbeingjudge—humane,honest,andseriousindividually,haveapatriotismthatistheworstthinginours.Whathavewedone,andwherehavewe wandered, we that have produced sages who could have spoken withSocratesandpoetswhocouldwalkwithDante, thatweshould talkas ifwehave never done anything more intelligent than found colonies and kickniggers?Wearethechildrenoflight,anditiswethatsitindarkness.Ifwearejudged, it will not be for the merely intellectual transgression of failing toappreciateothernations,butforthesupremespiritualtransgressionoffailingtoappreciateourselves.

THEEND

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