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ALARMS AND DISCURSIONS
By G. K. Chesterton
Introductory: On Gargoyles
Alone at some distance from the wasting walls of a disused abbey I found half sunken in the grass the grey and goggle-eyed visage of one of those graven monsters that made the ornamental water-spouts in the cathedrals of the Middle Ages. It lay there, scoured by ancient rains or striped by recent fungus, but still looking like the head of some huge dragon slain by a primeval hero. And as I looked at it, I thought of the meaning of the grotesque, and passed into some symbolic reverie of the three great stages of art.
Alone at a distance from the crumbling walls of an abandoned abbey, I found half-buried in the grass the grey, wide-eyed face of one of those carved monsters that served as decorative water spouts in medieval cathedrals. It lay there, worn down by old rains or marked by recent mold, but still resembling the head of a massive dragon killed by an ancient hero. As I gazed at it, I contemplated the significance of the grotesque and drifted into a symbolic daydream about the three major stages of art.
I
Once upon a time there lived upon an island a merry and innocent people, mostly shepherds and tillers of the earth. They were republicans, like all primitive and simple souls; they talked over their affairs under a tree, and the nearest approach they had to a personal ruler was a sort of priest or white witch who said their prayers for them. They worshipped the sun, not idolatrously, but as the golden crown of the god whom all such infants see almost as plainly as the sun.
Once upon a time, on an island, there lived a happy and simple people, mostly shepherds and farmers. They were republicans, like all primitive and straightforward folks; they discussed their matters under a tree, and their closest thing to a personal leader was a kind of priest or white witch who prayed for them. They worshipped the sun, not in a superstitious way, but as the golden crown of the god that all such innocent beings can see almost as clearly as the sun itself.
Now this priest was told by his people to build a great tower, pointing to the sky in salutation of the Sun-god; and he pondered long and heavily before he picked his materials. For he was resolved to use nothing that was not almost as clear and exquisite as sunshine itself; he would use nothing that was not washed as white as the rain can wash the heavens, nothing that did not sparkle as spotlessly as that crown of God. He would have nothing grotesque or obscure; he would not have even anything emphatic or even anything mysterious. He would have all the arches as light as laughter and as candid as logic. He built the temple in three concentric courts, which were cooler and more exquisite in substance each than the other. For the outer wall was a hedge of white lilies, ranked so thick that a green stalk was hardly to be seen; and the wall within that was of crystal, which smashed the sun into a million stars. And the wall within that, which was the tower itself, was a tower of pure water, forced up in an everlasting fountain; and upon the very tip and crest of that foaming spire was one big and blazing diamond, which the water tossed up eternally and caught again as a child catches a ball.
Now this priest was told by his people to build a grand tower, reaching towards the sky to honor the Sun-god; and he thought long and hard before choosing his materials. He was determined to use nothing that wasn't nearly as clear and beautiful as sunshine itself; he wanted nothing that wasn't as white as the rain can make the heavens, nothing that didn't sparkle as perfectly as that divine crown. He wanted to avoid anything grotesque or obscure; he didn't want anything too bold or mysterious. He envisioned all the arches to be as light as laughter and as straightforward as logic. He built the temple in three concentric courtyards, each one cooler and more exquisite than the last. The outer wall was a hedge of white lilies, so thick that hardly any green stem could be seen; the wall inside that was made of crystal, which shattered the sunlight into a million stars. The wall within that, which was the tower itself, was a structure of pure water, continuously flowing from an everlasting fountain; and at the very tip and peak of that foaming spire was a single large and blazing diamond, tossed up by the water forever, like a child catching a ball.
“Now,” said the priest, “I have made a tower which is a little worthy of the sun.”
“Now,” said the priest, “I’ve built a tower that’s somewhat worthy of the sun.”
II
But about this time the island was caught in a swarm of pirates; and the shepherds had to turn themselves into rude warriors and seamen; and at first they were utterly broken down in blood and shame; and the pirates might have taken the jewel flung up for ever from their sacred fount. And then, after years of horror and humiliation, they gained a little and began to conquer because they did not mind defeat. And the pride of the pirates went sick within them after a few unexpected foils; and at last the invasion rolled back into the empty seas and the island was delivered. And for some reason after this men began to talk quite differently about the temple and the sun. Some, indeed, said, “You must not touch the temple; it is classical; it is perfect, since it admits no imperfections.” But the others answered, “In that it differs from the sun, that shines on the evil and the good and on mud and monsters everywhere. The temple is of the noon; it is made of white marble clouds and sapphire sky. But the sun is not always of the noon. The sun dies daily, every night he is crucified in blood and fire.” Now the priest had taught and fought through all the war, and his hair had grown white, but his eyes had grown young. And he said, “I was wrong and they are right. The sun, the symbol of our father, gives life to all those earthly things that are full of ugliness and energy. All the exaggerations are right, if they exaggerate the right thing. Let us point to heaven with tusks and horns and fins and trunks and tails so long as they all point to heaven. The ugly animals praise God as much as the beautiful. The frog's eyes stand out of his head because he is staring at heaven. The giraffe's neck is long because he is stretching towards heaven. The donkey has ears to hear—let him hear.”
But around this time, the island got overrun by a group of pirates, and the shepherds had to become rough warriors and sailors. At first, they were completely defeated, filled with bloodshed and shame, and the pirates could have taken the precious jewel that had been thrown away from their sacred source forever. After years of terror and humiliation, they started to recover a bit and began to fight back because they didn’t fear losing. The pirates’ pride weakened after a few unexpected defeats, and eventually, the invasion receded into the empty seas, freeing the island. For some reason, after all this, people began to talk about the temple and the sun in a whole new way. Some said, “You must not touch the temple; it is classical; it is perfect because it allows no flaws.” But others replied, “In that regard, it’s different from the sun, which shines on the wicked and the good, on mud and monsters everywhere. The temple represents noon; it’s made of white marble clouds and a sapphire sky. But the sun isn’t always at its peak. The sun dies every day; every night, it's crucified in blood and fire.” The priest had taught and fought throughout the entire war, his hair had turned white, but his eyes became youthful. He said, “I was wrong, and they are right. The sun, our father’s symbol, gives life to all those earthly things filled with ugliness and energy. All the exaggerations are valid if they highlight the right thing. Let’s point to heaven with tusks, horns, fins, trunks, and long tails, as long as they all point to heaven. The ugly creatures praise God just as much as the beautiful ones. The frog’s eyes bulge out because he’s gazing at heaven. The giraffe’s neck is long because he’s reaching for heaven. The donkey has big ears to listen—let him listen.”
And under the new inspiration they planned a gorgeous cathedral in the Gothic manner, with all the animals of the earth crawling over it, and all the possible ugly things making up one common beauty, because they all appealed to the god. The columns of the temple were carved like the necks of giraffes; the dome was like an ugly tortoise; and the highest pinnacle was a monkey standing on his head with his tail pointing at the sun. And yet the whole was beautiful, because it was lifted up in one living and religious gesture as a man lifts his hands in prayer.
And with this new inspiration, they designed a stunning cathedral in the Gothic style, adorned with all the animals of the earth crawling over it, and all the possible ugly things blending together to create a single beauty because they all connected to the divine. The columns of the temple were sculpted like giraffe necks; the dome resembled an ugly tortoise; and the highest spire featured a monkey standing on its head with its tail pointed at the sun. Yet, the entire structure was beautiful because it was elevated in one living and spiritual gesture, like a person lifting their hands in prayer.
III
But this great plan was never properly completed. The people had brought up on great wagons the heavy tortoise roof and the huge necks of stone, and all the thousand and one oddities that made up that unity, the owls and the efts and the crocodiles and the kangaroos, which hideous by themselves might have been magnificent if reared in one definite proportion and dedicated to the sun. For this was Gothic, this was romantic, this was Christian art; this was the whole advance of Shakespeare upon Sophocles. And that symbol which was to crown it all, the ape upside down, was really Christian; for man is the ape upside down.
But this grand plan was never fully finished. The people had hauled in large wagons the heavy turtle shell roof and the massive stone necks, along with all the strange things that made up that unity: the owls, the efts, the crocodiles, and the kangaroos, which, hideous on their own, could have been magnificent if arranged in a specific proportion and dedicated to the sun. For this was Gothic, this was romantic, this was Christian art; this was the whole progression of Shakespeare over Sophocles. And that symbol meant to represent it all, the upside-down ape, was genuinely Christian; for man is the upside-down ape.
But the rich, who had grown riotous in the long peace, obstructed the thing, and in some squabble a stone struck the priest on the head and he lost his memory. He saw piled in front of him frogs and elephants, monkeys and giraffes, toadstools and sharks, all the ugly things of the universe which he had collected to do honour to God. But he forgot why he had collected them. He could not remember the design or the object. He piled them all wildly into one heap fifty feet high; and when he had done it all the rich and influential went into a passion of applause and cried, “This is real art! This is Realism! This is things as they really are!”
But the wealthy, who had become reckless during the long period of peace, got in the way of things, and during a dispute, a stone hit the priest on the head, causing him to lose his memory. He saw piled in front of him frogs and elephants, monkeys and giraffes, toadstools and sharks—every ugly thing in the universe that he had collected to honor God. But he forgot why he had gathered them. He couldn’t remember the purpose or the plan. He haphazardly stacked them all into one heap fifty feet high; and when he finished, the rich and influential erupted in applause, shouting, “This is real art! This is Realism! This is how things really are!”
That, I fancy, is the only true origin of Realism. Realism is simply Romanticism that has lost its reason. This is so not merely in the sense of insanity but of suicide. It has lost its reason; that is its reason for existing. The old Greeks summoned godlike things to worship their god. The medieval Christians summoned all things to worship theirs, dwarfs and pelicans, monkeys and madmen. The modern realists summon all these million creatures to worship their god; and then have no god for them to worship. Paganism was in art a pure beauty; that was the dawn. Christianity was a beauty created by controlling a million monsters of ugliness; and that in my belief was the zenith and the noon. Modern art and science practically mean having the million monsters and being unable to control them; and I will venture to call that the disruption and the decay. The finest lengths of the Elgin marbles consist splendid houses going to the temple of a virgin. Christianity, with its gargoyles and grotesques, really amounted to saying this: that a donkey could go before all the horses of the world when it was really going to the temple. Romance means a holy donkey going to the temple. Realism means a lost donkey going nowhere.
I think that’s the only true source of Realism. Realism is just Romanticism that’s lost its purpose. This isn’t just in the sense of madness but of self-destruction. It has lost its purpose; that’s its reason for existing. The ancient Greeks called upon divine things to worship their god. The medieval Christians called upon everything to worship theirs, from dwarfs and pelicans to monkeys and madmen. Modern realists gather all these countless creatures to worship their god; and then find there’s no god for them to worship. Paganism in art represented pure beauty; that was the beginning. Christianity created beauty by taming countless monsters of ugliness; and I believe that was the peak and the height of it all. Modern art and science almost mean having those million monsters and being unable to control them; and I’d say that’s the breakdown and decay. The finest parts of the Elgin marbles show magnificent houses going to a virgin's temple. Christianity, with its gargoyles and grotesques, essentially said this: a donkey could lead all the horses in the world if it was on its way to the temple. Romance means a sacred donkey heading to the temple. Realism means a lost donkey going nowhere.
The fragments of futile journalism or fleeting impression which are here collected are very like the wrecks and riven blocks that were piled in a heap round my imaginary priest of the sun. They are very like that grey and gaping head of stone that I found overgrown with the grass. Yet I will venture to make even of these trivial fragments the high boast that I am a medievalist and not a modern. That is, I really have a notion of why I have collected all the nonsensical things there are. I have not the patience nor perhaps the constructive intelligence to state the connecting link between all these chaotic papers. But it could be stated. This row of shapeless and ungainly monsters which I now set before the reader does not consist of separate idols cut out capriciously in lonely valleys or various islands. These monsters are meant for the gargoyles of a definite cathedral. I have to carve the gargoyles, because I can carve nothing else; I leave to others the angels and the arches and the spires. But I am very sure of the style of the architecture, and of the consecration of the church.
The bits of pointless journalism or passing impressions collected here are a lot like the wreckage and broken pieces piled around my imagined sun priest. They remind me of that gray stone head I found covered in grass. Still, I’ll boldly claim that even these trivial bits show I’m more of a medievalist than a modern thinker. I actually understand why I’ve gathered all this random stuff. I might not have the patience or perhaps the skill to explain the connections between all these chaotic papers, but they could be explained. This collection of awkward and odd creations I’m presenting to the reader isn’t just a random assortment of isolated figures from deserted valleys or different islands. These creations are meant to be the gargoyles of a specific cathedral. I have to carve the gargoyles because it’s the only thing I can carve; I’ll leave the angels, arches, and spires to others. But I'm very confident in the style of the architecture and the purpose of the church.
The Surrender of a Cockney
Evert man, though he were born in the very belfry of Bow and spent his infancy climbing among chimneys, has waiting for him somewhere a country house which he has never seen; but which was built for him in the very shape of his soul. It stands patiently waiting to be found, knee-deep in orchards of Kent or mirrored in pools of Lincoln; and when the man sees it he remembers it, though he has never seen it before. Even I have been forced to confess this at last, who am a Cockney, if ever there was one, a Cockney not only on principle, but with savage pride. I have always maintained, quite seriously, that the Lord is not in the wind or thunder of the waste, but if anywhere in the still small voice of Fleet Street. I sincerely maintain that Nature-worship is more morally dangerous than the most vulgar man-worship of the cities; since it can easily be perverted into the worship of an impersonal mystery, carelessness, or cruelty. Thoreau would have been a jollier fellow if he had devoted himself to a greengrocer instead of to greens. Swinburne would have been a better moralist if he had worshipped a fishmonger instead of worshipping the sea. I prefer the philosophy of bricks and mortar to the philosophy of turnips. To call a man a turnip may be playful, but is seldom respectful. But when we wish to pay emphatic honour to a man, to praise the firmness of his nature, the squareness of his conduct, the strong humility with which he is interlocked with his equals in silent mutual support, then we invoke the nobler Cockney metaphor, and call him a brick.
Every man, no matter if he was born in the belfry of Bow and spent his childhood climbing among chimneys, has a country house waiting for him somewhere that he has never seen, but was built in the very shape of his soul. It stands patiently waiting to be discovered, surrounded by orchards in Kent or reflected in pools in Lincoln; and when he sees it, he recognizes it, even though he has never laid eyes on it before. Even I have had to admit this at last, as a true Cockney, with both conviction and fierce pride. I have always argued, quite seriously, that God is not in the wind or thunder of the wilderness, but if anywhere, in the still, small voice of Fleet Street. I genuinely believe that nature worship is more morally dangerous than the most crude idolization of city dwellers; because it can easily turn into the worship of an impersonal mystery, carelessness, or cruelty. Thoreau would have been a happier person if he had focused on a greengrocer instead of vegetables. Swinburne would have been a better moralist if he had honored a fishmonger instead of the sea. I prefer the philosophy of bricks and mortar over that of turnips. Calling someone a turnip may be playful, but it’s rarely respectful. Yet when we want to pay serious respect to a man, to praise the strength of his character, the straightforwardness of his actions, the deep humility with which he connects with his equals in silent mutual support, we use a nobler Cockney metaphor and call him a brick.
But, despite all these theories, I have surrendered; I have struck my colours at sight; at a mere glimpse through the opening of a hedge. I shall come down to living in the country, like any common Socialist or Simple Lifer. I shall end my days in a village, in the character of the Village Idiot, and be a spectacle and a judgment to mankind. I have already learnt the rustic manner of leaning upon a gate; and I was thus gymnastically occupied at the moment when my eye caught the house that was made for me. It stood well back from the road, and was built of a good yellow brick; it was narrow for its height, like the tower of some Border robber; and over the front door was carved in large letters, “1908.” That last burst of sincerity, that superb scorn of antiquarian sentiment, overwhelmed me finally. I closed my eyes in a kind of ecstasy. My friend (who was helping me to lean on the gate) asked me with some curiosity what I was doing.
But despite all these theories, I’ve given in; I’ve raised my white flag at the first sight of it, just from a quick peek through a gap in the hedge. I’m going to start living in the countryside, like any regular Socialist or Simple Lifer. I’ll spend my days in a village, taking on the persona of the Village Idiot, becoming a spectacle and a judgment for others. I’ve even learned the rustic skill of leaning on a gate; and I was doing just that when I spotted the house that was meant for me. It was set back from the road, made from nice yellow brick; it was tall and narrow, like the tower of some Border bandit; and above the front door, large letters spelled out “1908.” That last burst of honesty, that amazing rejection of any old-fashioned sentiment, hit me hard. I closed my eyes in a sort of ecstasy. My friend, who was helping me lean on the gate, asked me with some curiosity what I was up to.
“My dear fellow,” I said, with emotion, “I am bidding farewell to forty-three hansom cabmen.”
“My dear friend,” I said, with feeling, “I am saying goodbye to forty-three cab drivers.”
“Well,” he said, “I suppose they would think this county rather outside the radius.”
“Well,” he said, “I guess they would consider this county a bit off the map.”
“Oh, my friend,” I cried brokenly, “how beautiful London is! Why do they only write poetry about the country? I could turn every lyric cry into Cockney.
“Oh, my friend,” I said with emotion, “how beautiful London is! Why do they only write poetry about the countryside? I could turn every lyrical cry into Cockney.”
“'My heart leaps up when I behold A sky-sign in the sky,'
“'My heart races when I see A rainbow in the sky,'
“as I observed in a volume which is too little read, founded on the older English poets. You never saw my 'Golden Treasury Regilded; or, The Classics Made Cockney'—it contained some fine lines.
“as I noticed in a book that doesn’t get enough attention, based on the older English poets. You’ve never seen my 'Golden Treasury Regilded; or, The Classics Made Cockney'—it had some great lines.
“'O Wild West End, thou breath of London's being,'
“'O Wild West End, you essence of London's spirit,'
“or the reminiscence of Keats, beginning
“or the memory of Keats, starting
“'City of smuts and mellow fogfulness.';
'City of dirt and mellow fog.'
“I have written many such lines on the beauty of London; yet I never realized that London was really beautiful till now. Do you ask me why? It is because I have left it for ever.”
“I’ve written a lot about the beauty of London, but I never truly appreciated its beauty until now. Why, you ask? It's because I’ve left it for good.”
“If you will take my advice,” said my friend, “you will humbly endeavour not to be a fool. What is the sense of this mad modern notion that every literary man must live in the country, with the pigs and the donkeys and the squires? Chaucer and Spenser and Milton and Dryden lived in London; Shakespeare and Dr. Johnson came to London because they had had quite enough of the country. And as for trumpery topical journalists like you, why, they would cut their throats in the country. You have confessed it yourself in your own last words. You hunger and thirst after the streets; you think London the finest place on the planet. And if by some miracle a Bayswater omnibus could come down this green country lane you would utter a yell of joy.”
“If you take my advice,” my friend said, “you should try not to be a fool. What’s with this crazy modern idea that every writer has to live in the countryside, among pigs, donkeys, and local lords? Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, and Dryden all lived in London; Shakespeare and Dr. Johnson went to London because they’d had enough of the countryside. And as for trivial reporters like you, they'd be miserable out in the country. You’ve said it yourself in your last words. You crave the streets; you think London is the best place on Earth. And if a bus from Bayswater could somehow roll down this green country lane, you’d shout with joy.”
Then a light burst upon my brain, and I turned upon him with terrible sternness.
Then a light flashed in my mind, and I faced him with intense seriousness.
“Why, miserable aesthete,” I said in a voice of thunder, “that is the true country spirit! That is how the real rustic feels. The real rustic does utter a yell of joy at the sight of a Bayswater omnibus. The real rustic does think London the finest place on the planet. In the few moments that I have stood by this stile, I have grown rooted here like an ancient tree; I have been here for ages. Petulant Suburban, I am the real rustic. I believe that the streets of London are paved with gold; and I mean to see it before I die.”
“Why, miserable aesthete,” I said loudly, “that’s the true spirit of the countryside! That’s how the real country person feels. The real country person does shout with joy at the sight of a Bayswater bus. The real country person thinks London is the best place on earth. In the few moments I’ve stood by this stile, I’ve felt rooted here like an ancient tree; I’ve been here for ages. Whiny Suburbanite, I am the real country person. I believe the streets of London are paved with gold; and I intend to see it before I die.”
The evening breeze freshened among the little tossing trees of that lane, and the purple evening clouds piled up and darkened behind my Country Seat, the house that belonged to me, making, by contrast, its yellow bricks gleam like gold. At last my friend said: “To cut it short, then, you mean that you will live in the country because you won't like it. What on earth will you do here; dig up the garden?”
The evening breeze picked up among the small, swaying trees along that path, and the purple evening clouds gathered and darkened behind my country house, which was mine, making its yellow bricks shine like gold in contrast. Finally, my friend said, “To get straight to the point, you mean you’ll live in the country because you don't actually enjoy it. What on earth will you do here? Dig up the garden?”
“Dig!” I answered, in honourable scorn. “Dig! Do work at my Country Seat; no, thank you. When I find a Country Seat, I sit in it. And for your other objection, you are quite wrong. I do not dislike the country, but I like the town more. Therefore the art of happiness certainly suggests that I should live in the country and think about the town. Modern nature-worship is all upside down. Trees and fields ought to be the ordinary things; terraces and temples ought to be extraordinary. I am on the side of the man who lives in the country and wants to go to London. I abominate and abjure the man who lives in London and wants to go to the country; I do it with all the more heartiness because I am that sort of man myself. We must learn to love London again, as rustics love it. Therefore (I quote again from the great Cockney version of The Golden Treasury)—
“Dig!” I replied with a noble sense of disdain. “Dig! Work at my country house? No, thanks. When I find a country house, I relax in it. And as for your other point, you’re completely mistaken. I don’t dislike the countryside, but I prefer the city much more. So, common sense suggests I should live in the country and think about the city. Modern nature-worship is totally messed up. Trees and fields should be the norm; terraces and temples should be the exceptions. I’m on the side of the person who lives in the country and wants to go to London. I absolutely loathe and reject the person who lives in London and wants to go to the country; I feel this even more strongly because I’m that kind of person myself. We need to learn to love London again, just like country folks do. So (I’ll quote again from the great Cockney version of The Golden Treasury)—
“'Therefore, ye gas-pipes, ye asbestos? stoves, Forbode not any severing of our loves. I have relinquished but your earthly sight, To hold you dear in a more distant way. I'll love the 'buses lumbering through the wet, Even more than when I lightly tripped as they. The grimy colour of the London clay Is lovely yet,'
“'So, you gas pipes and you asbestos stoves, Don't think for a second that this will break our love. I may have given up your physical presence, But I hold you dear in a different way. I'll love the buses rumbling through the rain, Even more than when I used to joyfully hop on them. The dirty color of the London clay Is still beautiful,'
“because I have found the house where I was really born; the tall and quiet house from which I can see London afar off, as the miracle of man that it is.”
“because I have found the house where I was truly born; the tall and quiet house from which I can see London in the distance, as the miracle of humanity that it is.”
The Nightmare
A sunset of copper and gold had just broken down and gone to pieces in the west, and grey colours were crawling over everything in earth and heaven; also a wind was growing, a wind that laid a cold finger upon flesh and spirit. The bushes at the back of my garden began to whisper like conspirators; and then to wave like wild hands in signal. I was trying to read by the last light that died on the lawn a long poem of the decadent period, a poem about the old gods of Babylon and Egypt, about their blazing and obscene temples, their cruel and colossal faces.
A sunset of copper and gold had just shattered in the west, and grey hues were spreading over everything in the sky and on the ground; a breeze was picking up, one that felt cold against both skin and soul. The bushes at the back of my garden started to whisper like conspirators; then they began to wave like wild hands signaling. I was trying to read a long poem from the decadent era by the last light fading on the lawn, a poem about the ancient gods of Babylon and Egypt, about their fiery and scandalous temples, their harsh and gigantic faces.
“Or didst thou love the God of Flies who plagued the Hebrews and was splashed With wine unto the waist, or Pasht who had green beryls for her eyes?”
“Or did you love the God of Flies who troubled the Hebrews and was soaked with wine up to the waist, or Pasht who had green beryls for her eyes?”
I read this poem because I had to review it for the Daily News; still it was genuine poetry of its kind. It really gave out an atmosphere, a fragrant and suffocating smoke that seemed really to come from the Bondage of Egypt or the Burden of Tyre There is not much in common (thank God) between my garden with the grey-green English sky-line beyond it, and these mad visions of painted palaces huge, headless idols and monstrous solitudes of red or golden sand. Nevertheless (as I confessed to myself) I can fancy in such a stormy twilight some such smell of death and fear. The ruined sunset really looks like one of their ruined temples: a shattered heap of gold and green marble. A black flapping thing detaches itself from one of the sombre trees and flutters to another. I know not if it is owl or flittermouse; I could fancy it was a black cherub, an infernal cherub of darkness, not with the wings of a bird and the head of a baby, but with the head of a goblin and the wings of a bat. I think, if there were light enough, I could sit here and write some very creditable creepy tale, about how I went up the crooked road beyond the church and met Something—say a dog, a dog with one eye. Then I should meet a horse, perhaps, a horse without a rider, the horse also would have one eye. Then the inhuman silence would be broken; I should meet a man (need I say, a one-eyed man?) who would ask me the way to my own house. Or perhaps tell me that it was burnt to the ground. I could tell a very cosy little tale along some such lines. Or I might dream of climbing for ever the tall dark trees above me. They are so tall that I feel as if I should find at their tops the nests of the angels; but in this mood they would be dark and dreadful angels; angels of death.
I read this poem because I had to review it for the Daily News; still, it was genuine poetry of its kind. It really created an atmosphere, a fragrant and suffocating smoke that felt like it came from the Bondage of Egypt or the Burden of Tyre. Thankfully, there’s not much in common between my garden with the grey-green English skyline behind it and these wild visions of painted palaces, huge headless idols, and monstrous desolation of red or golden sand. Nevertheless, as I admitted to myself, I can imagine in such a stormy twilight a scent of death and fear. The fading sunset truly resembles one of their ruined temples: a shattered pile of gold and green marble. A black flapping thing separates itself from one of the gloomy trees and flutters to another. I'm not sure if it’s an owl or a bat; I could picture it as a black cherub, an infernal cherub of darkness, not with the wings of a bird and the head of a baby, but with the head of a goblin and the wings of a bat. I think, if there were enough light, I could sit here and write a pretty decent creepy story about how I went up the winding road past the church and encountered Something—let's say a dog, a one-eyed dog. Then I might meet a horse, perhaps, a horse without a rider, and this horse would also have one eye. Then, the eerie silence would be broken; I would meet a man (need I mention, a one-eyed man?) who would ask me for directions to my own house. Or maybe he would tell me that it burned to the ground. I could weave a nice little tale along those lines. Or I might dream of endlessly climbing the tall dark trees above me. They are so high that I feel like I’d find at their tops the nests of angels; but in this mood, they would be dark, terrifying angels; angels of death.
Only, you see, this mood is all bosh. I do not believe in it in the least. That one-eyed universe, with its one-eyed men and beasts, was only created with one universal wink. At the top of the tragic trees I should not find the Angel's Nest. I should only find the Mare's Nest; the dreamy and divine nest is not there. In the Mare's Nest I shall discover that dim, enormous opalescent egg from which is hatched the Nightmare. For there is nothing so delightful as a nightmare—when you know it is a nightmare.
Only, you see, this mood is complete nonsense. I don’t believe in it at all. That one-eyed universe, with its one-eyed men and animals, was just created with a single universal wink. At the top of the tragic trees, I wouldn’t find the Angel's Nest. I would only find the Mare's Nest; the dreamy and divine nest isn’t there. In the Mare's Nest, I’ll discover that dim, huge opalescent egg from which the Nightmare hatches. Because there’s nothing quite as delightful as a nightmare—when you know it’s a nightmare.
That is the essential. That is the stern condition laid upon all artists touching this luxury of fear. The terror must be fundamentally frivolous. Sanity may play with insanity; but insanity must not be allowed to play with sanity. Let such poets as the one I was reading in the garden, by all means, be free to imagine what outrageous deities and violent landscapes they like. By all means let them wander freely amid their opium pinnacles and perspectives. But these huge gods, these high cities, are toys; they must never for an instant be allowed to be anything else. Man, a gigantic child, must play with Babylon and Nineveh, with Isis and with Ashtaroth. By all means let him dream of the Bondage of Egypt, so long as he is free from it. By all means let him take up the Burden of Tyre, so long as he can take it lightly. But the old gods must be his dolls, not his idols. His central sanctities, his true possessions, should be Christian and simple. And just as a child would cherish most a wooden horse or a sword that is a mere cross of wood, so man, the great child, must cherish most the old plain things of poetry and piety; that horse of wood that was the epic end of Ilium, or that cross of wood that redeemed and conquered the world.
That’s the key point. That’s the strict rule for all artists regarding this luxury of fear. The terror must be fundamentally trivial. Sanity can play with insanity, but insanity must never be allowed to mess with sanity. Poets like the one I was reading in the garden should be free to imagine whatever outrageous gods and wild landscapes they want. They should definitely roam freely among their opium peaks and perspectives. But these massive gods and grand cities are just toys; they must never be treated as anything more. Humanity, a gigantic child, should play with Babylon and Nineveh, with Isis and Ashtaroth. They can dream about the Bondage of Egypt, as long as they’re free from it. They can take up the Burden of Tyre, as long as they can handle it lightly. But the old gods should be his toys, not his idols. His true values, his real possessions, should be Christian and straightforward. Just like a child treasures a wooden horse or a sword that’s just a simple piece of wood, humanity, the great child, should value the old, simple things of poetry and faith; that wooden horse which was the epic end of Ilium, or that wooden cross that redeemed and conquered the world.
In one of Stevenson's letters there is a characteristically humorous remark about the appalling impression produced on him in childhood by the beasts with many eyes in the Book of Revelations: “If that was heaven, what in the name of Davy Jones was hell like?” Now in sober truth there is a magnificent idea in these monsters of the Apocalypse. It is, I suppose, the idea that beings really more beautiful or more universal than we are might appear to us frightful and even confused. Especially they might seem to have senses at once more multiplex and more staring; an idea very imaginatively seized in the multitude of eyes. I like those monsters beneath the throne very much. But I like them beneath the throne. It is when one of them goes wandering in deserts and finds a throne for himself that evil faiths begin, and there is (literally) the devil to pay—to pay in dancing girls or human sacrifice. As long as those misshapen elemental powers are around the throne, remember that the thing that they worship is the likeness of the appearance of a man.
In one of Stevenson's letters, he humorously mentioned the terrifying impression he got as a child from the many-eyed beasts in the Book of Revelations: “If that was heaven, what on earth was hell like?” Honestly, there's a brilliant idea behind these monsters of the Apocalypse. It seems to suggest that beings more beautiful or universal than we are might appear terrifying and even confusing to us. They could seem to have senses that are more varied and more intense; a concept captured vividly in the multitude of eyes. I really like those monsters underneath the throne. But I prefer them there. It's when one of them starts wandering in deserts and finds a throne for himself that evil beliefs begin, and then there’s (literally) a price to pay—whether in dancing girls or human sacrifice. As long as those twisted, elemental forces are around the throne, keep in mind that what they worship is a representation of the appearance of a man.
That is, I fancy, the true doctrine on the subject of Tales of Terror and such things, which unless a man of letters do well and truly believe, without doubt he will end by blowing his brains out or by writing badly. Man, the central pillar of the world must be upright and straight; around him all the trees and beasts and elements and devils may crook and curl like smoke if they choose. All really imaginative literature is only the contrast between the weird curves of Nature and the straightness of the soul. Man may behold what ugliness he likes if he is sure that he will not worship it; but there are some so weak that they will worship a thing only because it is ugly. These must be chained to the beautiful. It is not always wrong even to go, like Dante, to the brink of the lowest promontory and look down at hell. It is when you look up at hell that a serious miscalculation has probably been made.
That’s, I believe, the real theory on the topic of Tales of Terror and similar stories. If a writer doesn’t truly believe in them, he’ll likely end up either harming himself or writing badly. A man, the central foundation of the world, needs to stand tall and straight; everything around him — trees, animals, elements, and demons — can twist and turn like smoke if they want. All truly imaginative literature highlights the contrast between the strange shapes of Nature and the straightness of the soul. A person can confront any ugliness he likes as long as he knows he won’t worship it; but some are so fragile that they end up idolizing something simply because it’s ugly. These individuals need to be anchored to beauty. It’s not always wrong to, like Dante, approach the edge of the deepest abyss and look down into hell. It’s when you start looking up at hell that a significant mistake is likely being made.
Therefore I see no wrong in riding with the Nightmare to-night; she whinnies to me from the rocking tree-tops and the roaring wind; I will catch her and ride her through the awful air. Woods and weeds are alike tugging at the roots in the rising tempest, as if all wished to fly with us over the moon, like that wild amorous cow whose child was the Moon-Calf. We will rise to that mad infinite where there is neither up nor down, the high topsy-turveydom of the heavens. I will answer the call of chaos and old night. I will ride on the Nightmare; but she shall not ride on me.
Therefore, I see nothing wrong in riding with the Nightmare tonight; she calls to me from the swaying treetops and the howling wind; I will catch her and ride her through the terrifying air. Trees and weeds are all pulling at their roots in the rising storm, as if they all want to soar with us over the moon, like that wild, passionate cow whose child was the Moon-Calf. We will ascend to that crazy infinity where there is neither up nor down, the chaotic upside-down of the heavens. I will answer the call of chaos and ancient night. I will ride on the Nightmare; but she will not ride on me.
The Telegraph Poles
My friend and I were walking in one of those wastes of pine-wood which make inland seas of solitude in every part of Western Europe; which have the true terror of a desert, since they are uniform, and so one may lose one's way in them. Stiff, straight, and similar, stood up all around us the pines of the wood, like the pikes of a silent mutiny. There is a truth in talking of the variety of Nature; but I think that Nature often shows her chief strangeness in her sameness. There is a weird rhythm in this very repetition; it is as if the earth were resolved to repeat a single shape until the shape shall turn terrible.
My friend and I were walking through one of those stretches of pine forest that create lonely inland seas all over Western Europe; they have the true fear of a desert because everything looks the same, and it’s easy to get lost in them. All around us, the pines stood stiff, straight, and uniform, like the pikes of a silent rebellion. While it’s true that Nature has variety, I think she often reveals her most peculiar qualities in her sameness. There’s a strange rhythm in this repetition; it’s as if the earth is determined to keep repeating a single shape until that shape becomes horrifying.
Have you ever tried the experiment of saying some plain word, such as “dog,” thirty times? By the thirtieth time it has become a word like “snark” or “pobble.” It does not become tame, it becomes wild, by repetition. In the end a dog walks about as startling and undecipherable as Leviathan or Croquemitaine.
Have you ever tried saying a simple word, like "dog," thirty times? By the thirtieth time, it turns into a word like "snark" or "pobble." It doesn't get tamer; it gets wilder with repetition. In the end, a dog seems as strange and incomprehensible as Leviathan or Croquemitaine.
It may be that this explains the repetitions in Nature, it may be for this reason that there are so many million leaves and pebbles. Perhaps they are not repeated so that they may grow familiar. Perhaps they are repeated only in the hope that they may at last grow unfamiliar. Perhaps a man is not startled at the first cat he sees, but jumps into the air with surprise at the seventy-ninth cat. Perhaps he has to pass through thousands of pine trees before he finds the one that is really a pine tree. However this may be, there is something singularly thrilling, even something urgent and intolerant, about the endless forest repetitions; there is the hint of something like madness in that musical monotony of the pines.
It could be that this explains the repetitions in nature; maybe that's why there are so many millions of leaves and pebbles. Perhaps they aren't repeated to become familiar. Maybe they’re repeated only in the hope that they’ll eventually become unfamiliar. Perhaps a person isn't shocked by the first cat they see, but jumps in surprise at the seventy-ninth cat. Maybe they have to walk past thousands of pine trees before they find the one that truly is a pine tree. Whatever the case, there’s something uniquely exciting, even something urgent and intense, about the endless repetitions in the forest; there's a hint of something like madness in that musical monotony of the pines.
I said something like this to my friend; and he answered with sardonic truth, “Ah, you wait till we come to a telegraph post.”
I said something like this to my friend, and he replied with a sarcastic truth, “Oh, just wait until we get to a telephone pole.”
My friend was right, as he occasionally is in our discussions, especially upon points of fact. We had crossed the pine forest by one of its paths which happened to follow the wires of the provincial telegraphy; and though the poles occurred at long intervals they made a difference when they came. The instant we came to the straight pole we could see that the pines were not really straight. It was like a hundred straight lines drawn with schoolboy pencils all brought to judgment suddenly by one straight line drawn with a ruler. All the amateur lines seemed to reel to right and left. A moment before I could have sworn they stood as straight as lances; now I could see them curve and waver everywhere, like scimitars and yataghans. Compared with the telegraph post the pines were crooked—and alive. That lonely vertical rod at once deformed and enfranchised the forest. It tangled it all together and yet made it free, like any grotesque undergrowth of oak or holly.
My friend was right, as he sometimes is during our discussions, especially on factual points. We had crossed the pine forest via one of its paths that happened to follow the provincial telegraph lines; even though the poles were spaced far apart, their presence made a difference when they appeared. As soon as we reached the straight pole, we could see that the pines weren't actually straight. It was like a hundred crooked lines drawn with a kid's pencil suddenly judged by one straight line made with a ruler. All the crooked lines seemed to wiggle to the right and left. Just a moment ago, I would have sworn they stood as straight as spears; now I could see them bend and sway everywhere, like curved swords. Compared to the telegraph pole, the pines seemed crooked—and alive. That solitary vertical post both deformed and freed the forest. It tangled everything together yet made it feel liberated, like any wild thicket of oak or holly.
“Yes,” said my gloomy friend, answering my thoughts. “You don't know what a wicked shameful thing straightness is if you think these trees are straight. You never will know till your precious intellectual civilization builds a forty-mile forest of telegraph poles.”
“Yes,” said my gloomy friend, responding to my thoughts. “You have no idea what a wickedly shameful thing straightness is if you think these trees are straight. You won’t truly understand until your precious intellectual civilization constructs a forty-mile forest of telegraph poles.”
We had started walking from our temporary home later in the day than we intended; and the long afternoon was already lengthening itself out into a yellow evening when we came out of the forest on to the hills above a strange town or village, of which the lights had already begun to glitter in the darkening valley. The change had already happened which is the test and definition of evening. I mean that while the sky seemed still as bright, the earth was growing blacker against it, especially at the edges, the hills and the pine-tops. This brought out yet more clearly the owlish secrecy of pine-woods; and my friend cast a regretful glance at them as he came out under the sky. Then he turned to the view in front; and, as it happened, one of the telegraph posts stood up in front of him in the last sunlight. It was no longer crossed and softened by the more delicate lines of pine wood; it stood up ugly, arbitrary, and angular as any crude figure in geometry. My friend stopped, pointing his stick at it, and all his anarchic philosophy rushed to his lips.
We started walking from our temporary home later in the day than we planned, and the long afternoon was already stretching into a yellow evening when we emerged from the forest onto the hills overlooking a strange town or village, where the lights had begun to twinkle in the darkening valley. The transition that marks the arrival of evening had already occurred. While the sky still seemed bright, the earth was becoming darker against it, especially at the edges, where the hills and pine treetops showed. This made the secretive nature of the pine woods stand out even more; my friend took a wistful look at them as he stepped into the open sky. Then he turned to the view in front of him, and, coincidentally, one of the telegraph poles rose before him in the fading sunlight. It was no longer softened by the delicate lines of the pine woods; it stood there, ugly, arbitrary, and angular like a crude geometric shape. My friend halted, pointing his stick at it, and all his rebellious philosophy came rushing to his lips.
“Demon,” he said to me briefly, “behold your work. That palace of proud trees behind us is what the world was before you civilized men, Christians or democrats or the rest, came to make it dull with your dreary rules of morals and equality. In the silent fight of that forest, tree fights speechless against tree, branch against branch. And the upshot of that dumb battle is inequality—and beauty. Now lift up your eyes and look at equality and ugliness. See how regularly the white buttons are arranged on that black stick, and defend your dogmas if you dare.”
“Demon,” he said to me briefly, “look at your work. That palace of proud trees behind us represents what the world was like before you civilized men, whether Christians, democrats, or others, came and made it dull with your boring rules of morals and equality. In the silent struggle of that forest, tree fights silently against tree, branch against branch. And the result of that silent battle is inequality—and beauty. Now lift your eyes and look at equality and ugliness. See how neatly the white buttons are arranged on that black stick, and defend your beliefs if you dare.”
“Is that telegraph post so much a symbol of democracy?” I asked. “I fancy that while three men have made the telegraph to get dividends, about a thousand men have preserved the forest to cut wood. But if the telegraph pole is hideous (as I admit) it is not due to doctrine but rather to commercial anarchy. If any one had a doctrine about a telegraph pole it might be carved in ivory and decked with gold. Modern things are ugly, because modern men are careless, not because they are careful.”
“Is that telegraph pole really a symbol of democracy?” I asked. “I think while three people have created the telegraph to make profits, around a thousand have preserved the forest to chop wood. But if the telegraph pole is ugly (which I agree it is), it’s not because of a belief system but more because of commercial chaos. If anyone had a belief about a telegraph pole, it could be made from ivory and adorned with gold. Modern things are unattractive because modern people are careless, not because they’re meticulous.”
“No,” answered my friend with his eye on the end of a splendid and sprawling sunset, “there is something intrinsically deadening about the very idea of a doctrine. A straight line is always ugly. Beauty is always crooked. These rigid posts at regular intervals are ugly because they are carrying across the world the real message of democracy.”
“No,” my friend replied, his gaze fixed on the beautiful, sprawling sunset. “There’s something fundamentally stifling about the idea of a doctrine. A straight line is always unattractive. True beauty is always imperfect. These stiff posts lined up at even intervals are unattractive because they carry the real message of democracy across the world.”
“At this moment,” I answered, “they are probably carrying across the world the message, 'Buy Bulgarian Rails.' They are probably the prompt communication between some two of the wealthiest and wickedest of His children with whom God has ever had patience. No; these telegraph poles are ugly and detestable, they are inhuman and indecent. But their baseness lies in their privacy, not in their publicity. That black stick with white buttons is not the creation of the soul of a multitude. It is the mad creation of the souls of two millionaires.”
“At this moment,” I replied, “they’re probably spreading the message, 'Buy Bulgarian Rails,' around the world. They’re likely the quick link between two of the richest and most immoral people God has ever tolerated. No; these telegraph poles are ugly and repulsive, inhumane and inappropriate. But their true disgrace comes from their secrecy, not their visibility. That black stick with white buttons isn’t a product of the soul of the masses. It’s the crazy invention of two millionaires.”
“At least you have to explain,” answered my friend gravely, “how it is that the hard democratic doctrine and the hard telegraphic outline have appeared together; you have... But bless my soul, we must be getting home. I had no idea it was so late. Let me see, I think this is our way through the wood. Come, let us both curse the telegraph post for entirely different reasons and get home before it is dark.”
“At least you need to explain,” my friend replied seriously, “how the tough democratic idea and the strict telegraphic outline have come together; you have… But wow, we should be getting home. I didn’t realize it was so late. Let me see, I think this is our way through the woods. Come on, let’s both complain about the telegraph pole for totally different reasons and get home before it gets dark.”
We did not get home before it was dark. For one reason or another we had underestimated the swiftness of twilight and the suddenness of night, especially in the threading of thick woods. When my friend, after the first five minutes' march, had fallen over a log, and I, ten minutes after, had stuck nearly to the knees in mire, we began to have some suspicion of our direction. At last my friend said, in a low, husky voice:
We didn't get home until it was dark. For one reason or another, we had misjudged how quickly twilight fades and how suddenly night sets in, especially in dense woods. When my friend tripped over a log after the first five minutes of walking, and I nearly got stuck in mud up to my knees ten minutes later, we started to suspect we were going the wrong way. Finally, my friend said in a low, raspy voice:
“I'm afraid we're on the wrong path. It's pitch dark.”
“I'm afraid we're going the wrong way. It's completely dark.”
“I thought we went the right way,” I said, tentatively.
"I thought we took the right path," I said, hesitantly.
“Well,” he said; and then, after a long pause, “I can't see any telegraph poles. I've been looking for them.”
“Well,” he said, and after a long pause, “I can’t see any telegraph poles. I’ve been looking for them.”
“So have I,” I said. “They're so straight.”
“So have I,” I said. “They're so straightforward.”
We groped away for about two hours of darkness in the thick of the fringe of trees which seemed to dance round us in derision. Here and there, however, it was possible to trace the outline of something just too erect and rigid to be a pine tree. By these we finally felt our way home, arriving in a cold green twilight before dawn.
We stumbled around for about two hours in the dark, surrounded by trees that seemed to mock us. However, every now and then, we could make out the shape of something that was too upright and stiff to be a pine tree. We used these shapes to guide ourselves back home, arriving in a chilly green light just before dawn.
A Drama of Dolls
In a small grey town of stone in one of the great Yorkshire dales, which is full of history, I entered a hall and saw an old puppet-play exactly as our fathers saw it five hundred years ago. It was admirably translated from the old German, and was the original tale of Faust. The dolls were at once comic and convincing; but if you cannot at once laugh at a thing and believe in it, you have no business in the Middle Ages. Or in the world, for that matter.
In a small gray town made of stone in one of the great Yorkshire valleys, rich in history, I walked into a hall and saw an old puppet play just like our ancestors did five hundred years ago. It was beautifully adapted from the old German and was the original story of Faust. The puppets were both funny and believable; but if you can't laugh at something and also believe in it at the same time, you don't belong in the Middle Ages. Or in the world, for that matter.
The puppet-play in question belongs, I believe, to the fifteenth century; and indeed the whole legend of Dr. Faustus has the colour of that grotesque but somewhat gloomy time. It is very unfortunate that we so often know a thing that is past only by its tail end. We remember yesterday only by its sunsets. There are many instances. One is Napoleon. We always think of him as a fat old despot, ruling Europe with a ruthless military machine. But that, as Lord Rosebery would say, was only “The Last Phase”; or at least the last but one. During the strongest and most startling part of his career, the time that made him immortal, Napoleon was a sort of boy, and not a bad sort of boy either, bullet-headed and ambitious, but honestly in love with a woman, and honestly enthusiastic for a cause, the cause of French justice and equality.
The puppet show we're talking about probably dates back to the fifteenth century, and the entire legend of Dr. Faustus reflects the quirky yet somewhat dark vibe of that era. It's unfortunate that we often only know about the past from its final moments. We remember yesterday mainly for its sunsets. This happens in many cases. One example is Napoleon. We always picture him as a fat old dictator, controlling Europe with a merciless military force. But, as Lord Rosebery would put it, that was just “The Last Phase”; or at least the second to last. During the most intense and remarkable part of his career, the period that made him legendary, Napoleon was almost like a young man—a somewhat naïve one at that—just a determined guy who was genuinely in love with a woman and truly passionate about a cause, the cause of French justice and equality.
Another instance is the Middle Ages, which we also remember only by the odour of their ultimate decay. We think of the life of the Middle Ages as a dance of death, full of devils and deadly sins, lepers and burning heretics. But this was not the life of the Middle Ages, but the death of the Middle Ages. It is the spirit of Louis XI and Richard III, not of Louis IX and Edward I.
Another example is the Middle Ages, which we tend to remember only by the scent of their final decline. We picture life in the Middle Ages as a dance of death, filled with demons and deadly sins, lepers and burning heretics. But this wasn’t the life of the Middle Ages; it was the death of the Middle Ages. It reflects the spirit of Louis XI and Richard III, not of Louis IX and Edward I.
This grim but not unwholesome fable of Dr. Faustus, with its rebuke to the mere arrogance of learning, is sound and stringent enough; but it is not a fair sample of the mediaeval soul at its happiest and sanest. The heart of the true Middle Ages might be found far better, for instance, in the noble tale of Tannhauser, in which the dead staff broke into leaf and flower to rebuke the pontiff who had declared even one human being beyond the strength of sorrow and pardon.
This dark but not entirely negative story of Dr. Faustus, with its critique of the arrogant pursuit of knowledge, is solid and strict; however, it doesn't accurately represent the medieval spirit at its most joyful and rational. A better example of the true Middle Ages can be found in the wonderful tale of Tannhauser, where the dead staff sprang to life with leaves and flowers to challenge the pope who claimed that even one person was beyond the reach of sorrow and forgiveness.
But there were in the play two great human ideas which the mediaeval mind never lost its grip on, through the heaviest nightmares of its dissolution. They were the two great jokes of mediaevalism, as they are the two eternal jokes of mankind. Wherever those two jokes exist there is a little health and hope; wherever they are absent, pride and insanity are present. The first is the idea that the poor man ought to get the better of the rich man. The other is the idea that the husband is afraid of the wife.
But in the play, there were two major human ideas that the medieval mind never let go of, even during its darkest times. They were the two big jokes of medievalism, just like they are the two timeless jokes of humanity. Wherever these two jokes are found, there's a bit of health and hope; where they’re missing, pride and madness take over. The first idea is that the poor should outsmart the rich. The second is that the husband is scared of his wife.
I have heard that there is a place under the knee which, when struck, should produce a sort of jump; and that if you do not jump, you are mad. I am sure that there are some such places in the soul. When the human spirit does not jump with joy at either of those two old jokes, the human spirit must be struck with incurable paralysis. There is hope for people who have gone down into the hells of greed and economic oppression (at least, I hope there is, for we are such a people ourselves), but there is no hope for a people that does not exult in the abstract idea of the peasant scoring off the prince. There is hope for the idle and the adulterous, for the men that desert their wives and the men that beat their wives. But there is no hope for men who do not boast that their wives bully them.
I’ve heard there’s a spot under the knee that, when hit, should make you jump; if you don’t jump, it means you’re crazy. I’m convinced there are similar spots in the soul. When the human spirit doesn’t leap with joy at either of those two old jokes, it must be suffering from a permanent paralysis. There’s hope for people who have fallen into the depths of greed and economic oppression (at least, I hope there is, since we’re those people ourselves), but there’s no hope for those who don’t celebrate the idea of the peasant outsmarting the prince. There’s hope for the lazy and the unfaithful, for men who abandon their wives and men who abuse them. But there’s no hope for men who don’t take pride in their wives putting them in their place.
The first idea, the idea about the man at the bottom coming out on top, is expressed in this puppet-play in the person of Dr. Faustus' servant, Caspar. Sentimental old Tones, regretting the feudal times, sometimes complain that in these days Jack is as good as his master. But most of the actual tales of the feudal times turn on the idea that Jack is much better than his master, and certainly it is so in the case of Caspar and Faust. The play ends with the damnation of the learned and illustrious doctor, followed by a cheerful and animated dance by Caspar, who has been made watchman of the city.
The first idea, that the underdog can rise to the top, is illustrated in this puppet show through Dr. Faustus' servant, Caspar. Sentimental old Tones, who long for the feudal days, often lament that nowadays, anyone can be as good as their boss. However, most stories from feudal times suggest that the underdog is far better than their superior, which is definitely true in the case of Caspar and Faust. The play wraps up with the damnation of the learned and famous doctor, followed by a lively and energetic dance by Caspar, who has now become the city watchman.
But there was a much keener stroke of mediaeval irony earlier in the play. The learned doctor has been ransacking all the libraries of the earth to find a certain rare formula, now almost unknown, by which he can control the infernal deities. At last he procures the one precious volume, opens it at the proper page, and leaves it on the table while he seeks some other part of his magic equipment. The servant comes in, reads off the formula, and immediately becomes an emperor of the elemental spirits. He gives them a horrible time. He summons and dismisses them alternately with the rapidity of a piston-rod working at high speed; he keeps them flying between the doctor's house and their own more unmentionable residences till they faint with rage and fatigue. There is all the best of the Middle Ages in that; the idea of the great levellers, luck and laughter; the idea of a sense of humour defying and dominating hell.
But there was a much sharper twist of medieval irony earlier in the play. The knowledgeable doctor has been searching through all the libraries in the world to find a rare formula, now nearly forgotten, that would allow him to control the infernal deities. Finally, he gets his hands on the one invaluable book, opens it to the right page, and leaves it on the table while he looks for another part of his magical tools. The servant comes in, reads the formula aloud, and suddenly becomes an emperor of the elemental spirits. He gives them a terrible time. He summons and dismisses them back and forth with the speed of a piston rod moving quickly; he has them racing between the doctor's house and their own more questionable haunts until they collapse from anger and exhaustion. There’s definitely a taste of the Middle Ages in that; the idea of great equalizers, chance and laughter; the notion of a sense of humor defying and dominating hell.
One of the best points in the play as performed in this Yorkshire town was that the servant Caspar was made to talk Yorkshire, instead of the German rustic dialect which he talked in the original. That also smacks of the good air of that epoch. In those old pictures and poems they always made things living by making them local. Thus, queerly enough, the one touch that was not in the old mediaeval version was the most mediaeval touch of all.
One of the highlights of the play performed in this Yorkshire town was that the servant Caspar spoke in a Yorkshire accent instead of the German rural dialect from the original. That also captures the spirit of that time. In those old pictures and poems, they always brought things to life by making them local. So, strangely enough, the one element that was missing from the old medieval version was the most medieval element of all.
That other ancient and Christian jest, that a wife is a holy terror, occurs in the last scene, where the doctor (who wears a fur coat throughout, to make him seem more offensively rich and refined) is attempting to escape from the avenging demons, and meets his old servant in the street. The servant obligingly points out a house with a blue door, and strongly recommends Dr. Faustus to take refuge in it. “My old woman lives there,” he says, “and the devils are more afraid of her than you are of them.” Faustus does not take this advice, but goes on meditating and reflecting (which had been his mistake all along) until the clock strikes twelve, and dreadful voices talk Latin in heaven. So Faustus, in his fur coat, is carried away by little black imps; and serve him right for being an Intellectual.
That other old joke about how a wife is a holy terror comes up in the last scene, where the doctor (who wears a fur coat the whole time to make him seem even more obnoxiously wealthy and sophisticated) tries to escape from the vengeful demons and runs into his old servant on the street. The servant kindly points out a house with a blue door and strongly suggests that Dr. Faustus take refuge there. “My wife lives there,” he says, “and the devils are more scared of her than you are of them.” Faustus ignores this advice and keeps thinking and reflecting (which had been his problem all along) until the clock strikes twelve, and terrifying voices speak Latin in heaven. So, Faustus, in his fur coat, is taken away by little black imps; and serves him right for being an Intellectual.
The Man and His Newspaper
At a little station, which I decline to specify, somewhere between Oxford and Guildford, I missed a connection or miscalculated a route in such manner that I was left stranded for rather more than an hour. I adore waiting at railway stations, but this was not a very sumptuous specimen. There was nothing on the platform except a chocolate automatic machine, which eagerly absorbed pennies but produced no corresponding chocolate, and a small paper-stall with a few remaining copies of a cheap imperial organ which we will call the Daily Wire. It does not matter which imperial organ it was, as they all say the same thing.
At a little station, which I won't name, somewhere between Oxford and Guildford, I missed a connection or miscalculated my route and ended up stranded for over an hour. I love waiting at train stations, but this one wasn’t very impressive. There was nothing on the platform except a chocolate vending machine, which eagerly took my coins but didn’t give me any chocolate in return, and a small newsstand with a few leftover copies of a cheap tabloid that we’ll call the Daily Wire. It doesn't really matter which tabloid it was, since they all say the same thing.
Though I knew it quite well already, I read it with gravity as I strolled out of the station and up the country road. It opened with the striking phrase that the Radicals were setting class against class. It went on to remark that nothing had contributed more to make our Empire happy and enviable, to create that obvious list of glories which you can supply for yourself, the prosperity of all classes in our great cities, our populous and growing villages, the success of our rule in Ireland, etc., etc., than the sound Anglo-Saxon readiness of all classes in the State “to work heartily hand-in-hand.” It was this alone, the paper assured me, that had saved us from the horrors of the French Revolution. “It is easy for the Radicals,” it went on very solemnly, “to make jokes about the dukes. Very few of these revolutionary gentlemen have given to the poor one half of the earnest thought, tireless unselfishness, and truly Christian patience that are given to them by the great landlords of this country. We are very sure that the English people, with their sturdy common sense, will prefer to be in the hands of English gentlemen rather than in the miry claws of Socialistic buccaneers.”
Though I was already quite familiar with it, I read it seriously as I walked out of the station and up the country road. It started with the striking statement that the Radicals were pitting class against class. It went on to state that nothing had contributed more to make our Empire happy and desirable, creating that obvious list of glories you can easily name, like the prosperity of all classes in our major cities, our crowded and expanding villages, the success of our rule in Ireland, and so on, than the solid Anglo-Saxon willingness of all classes in the State “to work diligently together.” It was this alone, the article assured me, that had saved us from the horrors of the French Revolution. “It’s easy for the Radicals,” it continued very seriously, “to make jokes about the dukes. Very few of these revolutionary figures have given to the poor even half of the earnest thought, relentless selflessness, and truly Christian patience that the great landlords of this country have shown. We are very confident that the English people, with their strong common sense, will prefer to be in the hands of English gentlemen rather than in the muddy grasp of Socialistic pirates.”
Just when I had reached this point I nearly ran into a man. Despite the populousness and growth of our villages, he appeared to be the only man for miles, but the road up which I had wandered turned and narrowed with equal abruptness, and I nearly knocked him off the gate on which he was leaning. I pulled up to apologize, and since he seemed ready for society, and even pathetically pleased with it, I tossed the Daily Wire over a hedge and fell into speech with him. He wore a wreck of respectable clothes, and his face had that plebeian refinement which one sees in small tailors and watchmakers, in poor men of sedentary trades. Behind him a twisted group of winter trees stood up as gaunt and tattered as himself, but I do not think that the tragedy that he symbolized was a mere fancy from the spectral wood. There was a fixed look in his face which told that he was one of those who in keeping body and soul together have difficulties not only with the body, but also with the soul.
Just when I got to this point, I almost bumped into a man. Even though our villages were crowded and growing, he seemed to be the only person around for miles. The road I had been wandering on turned and narrowed suddenly, and I nearly knocked him off the gate he was leaning on. I stopped to apologize, and since he seemed open to conversation and even a bit too eager for it, I tossed the Daily Wire over a hedge and started talking to him. He was wearing a tattered version of decent clothes, and his face had that working-class refinement you see in small tailors and watchmakers, in poor people with desk jobs. Behind him, a twisted cluster of winter trees stood as thin and ragged as he did, but I don't believe the tragedy he represented was just a figment from the ghostly forest. There was a distant look in his eyes that suggested he was one of those who struggle not only to stay alive but also with their inner selves.
He was a Cockney by birth, and retained the touching accent of those streets from which I am an exile; but he had lived nearly all his life in this countryside; and he began to tell me the affairs of it in that formless, tail-foremost way in which the poor gossip about their great neighbours. Names kept coming and going in the narrative like charms or spells, unaccompanied by any biographical explanation. In particular the name of somebody called Sir Joseph multiplied itself with the omnipresence of a deity. I took Sir Joseph to be the principal landowner of the district; and as the confused picture unfolded itself, I began to form a definite and by no means pleasing picture of Sir Joseph. He was spoken of in a strange way, frigid and yet familiar, as a child might speak of a stepmother or an unavoidable nurse; something intimate, but by no means tender; something that was waiting for you by your own bed and board; that told you to do this and forbade you to do that, with a caprice that was cold and yet somehow personal. It did not appear that Sir Joseph was popular, but he was “a household word.” He was not so much a public man as a sort of private god or omnipotence. The particular man to whom I spoke said he had “been in trouble,” and that Sir Joseph had been “pretty hard on him.”
He was a Cockney by birth, and kept the charming accent of those streets from which I am an exile; but he had lived most of his life in this countryside. He started to tell me about it in that jumbled, backwards way that poor people have of gossiping about their wealthy neighbors. Names kept popping up in the story like charms or spells, without any background information. In particular, the name Sir Joseph appeared repeatedly, almost like a god. I assumed Sir Joseph was the main landowner in the area, and as the confusing picture unfolded, I started to form a clear and quite unflattering image of him. People spoke of him in an odd way, cold yet familiar, like how a child might talk about a stepmother or a necessary caregiver; it felt intimate but not affectionate—something that was always there at your own home, telling you what to do and what not to do, with a capriciousness that was both icy and oddly personal. It seemed Sir Joseph wasn't well-liked, but he was “a household name.” He wasn't so much a public figure as more of a private deity or all-powerful presence. The person I spoke with said he'd “been in trouble,” and that Sir Joseph had been “pretty hard on him.”
And under that grey and silver cloudland, with a background of those frost-bitten and wind-tortured trees, the little Londoner told me a tale which, true or false, was as heartrending as Romeo and Juliet.
And beneath that gray and silver sky, with the backdrop of those frostbitten and wind-tortured trees, the young Londoner shared a story with me that, whether true or false, was as heartbreaking as Romeo and Juliet.
He had slowly built up in the village a small business as a photographer, and he was engaged to a girl at one of the lodges, whom he loved with passion. “I'm the sort that 'ad better marry,” he said; and for all his frail figure I knew what he meant. But Sir Joseph, and especially Sir Joseph's wife, did not want a photographer in the village; it made the girls vain, or perhaps they disliked this particular photographer. He worked and worked until he had just enough to marry on honestly; and almost on the eve of his wedding the lease expired, and Sir Joseph appeared in all his glory. He refused to renew the lease; and the man went wildly elsewhere. But Sir Joseph was ubiquitous; and the whole of that place was barred against him. In all that country he could not find a shed to which to bring home his bride. The man appealed and explained; but he was disliked as a demagogue, as well as a photographer. Then it was as if a black cloud came across the winter sky; for I knew what was coming. I forget even in what words he told of Nature maddened and set free. But I still see, as in a photograph, the grey muscles of the winter trees standing out like tight ropes, as if all Nature were on the rack.
He had gradually built up a small photography business in the village, and he was engaged to a girl at one of the lodges, whom he loved passionately. “I’m the kind of guy who should get married,” he said; and despite his fragile frame, I understood what he meant. But Sir Joseph, and especially his wife, didn’t want a photographer in the village; they thought it made the girls vain, or maybe they just didn’t like this particular photographer. He worked tirelessly until he had just enough to marry honestly; but almost right before his wedding, the lease expired, and Sir Joseph showed up in all his glory. He refused to renew the lease, and the man frantically sought other options. But Sir Joseph was everywhere; the entire area was closed off to him. In all that region, he couldn’t find a single place to bring his bride home. The man appealed and explained his situation, but he was disliked as both a demagogue and a photographer. Then it felt like a dark cloud passed over the winter sky; I knew what was about to happen. I can’t even remember how he described Nature going wild and breaking free. But I can still see, like in a photograph, the gray muscles of the winter trees standing out like tight ropes, as if all of Nature were being tortured.
“She 'ad to go away,” he said.
“She had to go away,” he said.
“Wouldn't her parents,” I began, and hesitated on the word “forgive.”
“Wouldn't her parents,” I started, and paused on the word “forgive.”
“Oh, her people forgave her,” he said. “But Her Ladyship...”
“Oh, her people forgave her,” he said. “But Her Ladyship...”
“Her Ladyship made the sun and moon and stars,” I said, impatiently. “So of course she can come between a mother and the child of her body.”
“Her Ladyship created the sun, the moon, and the stars,” I said, impatiently. “So obviously she can come between a mother and her own child.”
“Well, it does seem a bit 'ard...” he began with a break in his voice.
“Well, it does seem a bit hard...” he started, his voice cracking.
“But, good Lord, man,” I cried, “it isn't a matter of hardness! It's a matter of impious and indecent wickedness. If your Sir Joseph knew the passions he was playing with, he did you a wrong for which in many Christian countries he would have a knife in him.”
“But, good Lord, man,” I shouted, “it’s not about being tough! It’s about the disrespectful and immoral evil. If your Sir Joseph understood the emotions he was messing with, he would have wronged you in a way that, in many Christian countries, could get him stabbed.”
The man continued to look across the frozen fields with a frown. He certainly told his tale with real resentment, whether it was true or false, or only exaggerated. He was certainly sullen and injured; but he did not seem to think of any avenue of escape. At last he said:
The man kept staring at the frozen fields with a frown. He definitely shared his story with genuine bitterness, regardless of whether it was true, false, or just exaggerated. He was clearly moody and hurt, but he didn’t seem to consider any way out. Finally, he said:
“Well, it's a bad world; let's 'ope there's a better one.”
“Well, it’s a tough world; let’s hope there’s a better one.”
“Amen,” I said. “But when I think of Sir Joseph, I understand how men have hoped there was a worse one.”
“Amen,” I said. “But when I think of Sir Joseph, I get how guys have hoped there was someone even worse.”
Then we were silent for a long time and felt the cold of the day crawling up, and at last I said, abruptly:
Then we were quiet for a long time, feeling the chill of the day creeping in, and finally I said, out of nowhere:
“The other day at a Budget meeting, I heard.”
“The other day at a budget meeting, I heard.”
He took his elbows off the stile and seemed to change from head to foot like a man coming out of sleep with a yawn. He said in a totally new voice, louder but much more careless, “Ah yes, sir,... this 'ere Budget... the Radicals are doing a lot of 'arm.”
He removed his elbows from the stile and appeared to transform from head to toe like someone waking up from a deep sleep with a yawn. He spoke in a completely different voice, louder but much more indifferent, “Ah yes, sir,... this Budget... the Radicals are causing a lot of trouble.”
I listened intently, and he went on. He said with a sort of careful precision, “Settin' class against class; that's what I call it. Why, what's made our Empire except the readiness of all classes to work 'eartily 'and-in-'and.”
I listened closely as he continued. He said with a kind of careful precision, “Setting class against class; that's what I call it. Why, what has built our Empire except the willingness of all classes to work wholeheartedly together.”
He walked a little up and down the lane and stamped with the cold. Then he said, “What I say is, what else kept us from the 'errors of the French Revolution?”
He walked up and down the lane a bit, stamping his feet to keep warm. Then he said, “What I mean is, what else stopped us from making the same mistakes as the French Revolution?”
My memory is good, and I waited in tense eagerness for the phrase that came next. “They may laugh at Dukes; I'd like to see them 'alf as kind and Christian and patient as lots of the landlords are. Let me tell you, sir,” he said, facing round at me with the final air of one launching a paradox. “The English people 'ave some common sense, and they'd rather be in the 'ands of gentlemen than in the claws of a lot of Socialist thieves.”
My memory is sharp, and I waited in anxious anticipation for the next line. “They might mock Dukes; I’d like to see them half as kind, compassionate, and patient as many of the landlords are. Let me tell you, sir,” he said, turning to face me as if he were about to share a controversial opinion. “The English people have some common sense, and they’d prefer to be in the hands of gentlemen than in the clutches of a bunch of Socialist crooks.”
I had an indescribable sense that I ought to applaud, as if I were a public meeting. The insane separation in the man's soul between his experience and his ready-made theory was but a type of what covers a quarter of England. As he turned away, I saw the Daily Wire sticking out of his shabby pocket. He bade me farewell in quite a blaze of catchwords, and went stumping up the road. I saw his figure grow smaller and smaller in the great green landscape; even as the Free Man has grown smaller and smaller in the English countryside.
I felt an overwhelming urge to clap, as if I were at a public event. The crazy disconnect between the man's experiences and his preconceived ideas was just a reflection of what affects a large part of England. As he walked away, I noticed the Daily Wire sticking out of his worn pocket. He said goodbye with a flurry of buzzwords and marched up the road. I watched his figure shrink smaller and smaller in the vast green landscape, just like the Free Man has diminished over time in the English countryside.
The Appetite of Earth
I was walking the other day in a kitchen garden, which I find has somehow got attached to my premises, and I was wondering why I liked it. After a prolonged spiritual self-analysis I came to the conclusion that I like a kitchen garden because it contains things to eat. I do not mean that a kitchen garden is ugly; a kitchen garden is often very beautiful. The mixture of green and purple on some monstrous cabbage is much subtler and grander than the mere freakish and theatrical splashing of yellow and violet on a pansy. Few of the flowers merely meant for ornament are so ethereal as a potato. A kitchen garden is as beautiful as an orchard; but why is it that the word “orchard” sounds as beautiful as the word “flower-garden,” and yet also sounds more satisfactory? I suggest again my extraordinarily dark and delicate discovery: that it contains things to eat.
I was walking the other day in a kitchen garden that somehow seems to belong to my property, and I was thinking about why I liked it. After a lengthy reflection, I realized that I enjoy a kitchen garden because it has things to eat. I don’t mean to say that a kitchen garden is unattractive; in fact, it's often very lovely. The blend of green and purple on a giant cabbage is much more subtle and impressive than the random, flashy yellow and violet on a pansy. Few flowers designed purely for decoration are as delicate as a potato. A kitchen garden is as beautiful as an orchard; but why is it that the word “orchard” sounds as lovely as “flower garden,” yet seems more satisfying? I’ll point out again my surprisingly deep and subtle discovery: it holds things to eat.
The cabbage is a solid; it can be approached from all sides at once; it can be realized by all senses at once. Compared with that the sunflower, which can only be seen, is a mere pattern, a thing painted on a flat wall. Now, it is this sense of the solidity of things that can only be uttered by the metaphor of eating. To express the cubic content of a turnip, you must be all round it at once. The only way to get all round a turnip at once is to eat the turnip. I think any poetic mind that has loved solidity, the thickness of trees, the squareness of stones, the firmness of clay, must have sometimes wished that they were things to eat. If only brown peat tasted as good as it looks; if only white firwood were digestible! We talk rightly of giving stones for bread: but there are in the Geological Museum certain rich crimson marbles, certain split stones of blue and green, that make me wish my teeth were stronger.
The cabbage is something solid; you can approach it from all sides at once, and it can be experienced by all the senses simultaneously. In comparison, the sunflower, which can only be seen, is just a simple pattern, like something painted on a flat wall. It’s this sense of the solidity of things that can only be captured by the metaphor of eating. To truly express the volume of a turnip, you need to be around it completely. The only way to fully experience a turnip at once is to eat it. I think any poetic soul that has appreciated solidity—the thickness of trees, the squareness of stones, the firmness of clay—must have occasionally wished these were edible. If only brown peat tasted as good as it looks; if only white firwood could be eaten! We often say we're giving stones for bread, but there are certain rich crimson marbles and split stones of blue and green in the Geological Museum that make me wish my teeth were stronger.
Somebody staring into the sky with the same ethereal appetite declared that the moon was made of green cheese. I never could conscientiously accept the full doctrine. I am Modernist in this matter. That the moon is made of cheese I have believed from childhood; and in the course of every month a giant (of my acquaintance) bites a big round piece out of it. This seems to me a doctrine that is above reason, but not contrary to it. But that the cheese is green seems to be in some degree actually contradicted by the senses and the reason; first because if the moon were made of green cheese it would be inhabited; and second because if it were made of green cheese it would be green. A blue moon is said to be an unusual sight; but I cannot think that a green one is much more common. In fact, I think I have seen the moon looking like every other sort of cheese except a green cheese. I have seen it look exactly like a cream cheese: a circle of warm white upon a warm faint violet sky above a cornfield in Kent. I have seen it look very like a Dutch cheese, rising a dull red copper disk amid masts and dark waters at Honfleur. I have seen it look like an ordinary sensible Cheddar cheese in an ordinary sensible Prussian blue sky; and I have once seen it so naked and ruinous-looking, so strangely lit up, that it looked like a Gruyere cheese, that awful volcanic cheese that has horrible holes in it, as if it had come in boiling unnatural milk from mysterious and unearthly cattle. But I have never yet seen the lunar cheese green; and I incline to the opinion that the moon is not old enough. The moon, like everything else, will ripen by the end of the world; and in the last days we shall see it taking on those volcanic sunset colours, and leaping with that enormous and fantastic life.
Somebody gazing up at the sky with the same otherworldly curiosity claimed that the moon was made of green cheese. I could never fully accept that idea. I consider myself a Modernist in this regard. I've believed since childhood that the moon is made of cheese; and every month, a giant I know takes a big bite out of it. This idea seems reasonable to me, but not completely without basis. However, the notion that the cheese is green appears to contradict both the senses and reason: first, if the moon were made of green cheese, it would definitely have inhabitants; and second, if it were made of green cheese, it would actually be green. A blue moon is said to be a rare occurrence, but I don't think a green one is any more common. In fact, I feel like I've seen the moon resemble every other kind of cheese except green cheese. I've seen it look exactly like cream cheese: a bright white circle against a warm, faint violet sky over a cornfield in Kent. I've seen it resemble a Dutch cheese, rising as a dull red copper disk among masts and dark waters at Honfleur. I've seen it look like plain, sensible Cheddar cheese in a practical Prussian blue sky; and once, I observed it so bare and worn-looking, so oddly illuminated, that it appeared like Gruyere cheese, that horrible volcanic cheese with scary holes, as if it had come from bizarre, otherworldly cattle. But I have yet to see the lunar cheese as green; and I suspect that the moon isn’t old enough for that. The moon, like everything else, will mature by the end of the world; and in the final days, we will witness it taking on those fiery sunset colors and bursting with that immense and fantastic energy.
But this is a parenthesis; and one perhaps slightly lacking in prosaic actuality. Whatever may be the value of the above speculations, the phrase about the moon and green cheese remains a good example of this imagery of eating and drinking on a large scale. The same huge fancy is in the phrase “if all the trees were bread and cheese,” which I have cited elsewhere in this connection; and in that noble nightmare of a Scandinavian legend, in which Thor drinks the deep sea nearly dry out of a horn. In an essay like the present (first intended as a paper to be read before the Royal Society) one cannot be too exact; and I will concede that my theory of the gradual vire-scence of our satellite is to be regarded rather as an alternative theory than as a law finally demonstrated and universally accepted by the scientific world. It is a hypothesis that holds the field, as the scientists say of a theory when there is no evidence for it so far.
But that’s just a side note, and maybe not very grounded in reality. Regardless of the worth of the speculations above, the saying about the moon being made of green cheese is a great example of this imagery of feasting on a grand scale. The same big imagination is found in the phrase “if all the trees were made of bread and cheese,” which I have referenced elsewhere in this context; and in that fascinating nightmare of a Scandinavian legend, where Thor nearly drinks the entire sea out of a horn. In an essay like this one (originally intended as a paper for the Royal Society), one can't be too precise; and I acknowledge that my theory about the slow greening of our moon should be seen more as an alternative theory than as a proven law accepted by the scientific community. It’s a hypothesis that’s currently holding ground, as scientists refer to a theory lacking supporting evidence so far.
But the reader need be under no apprehension that I have suddenly gone mad, and shall start biting large pieces out of the trunks of trees; or seriously altering (by large semicircular mouthfuls) the exquisite outline of the mountains. This feeling for expressing a fresh solidity by the image of eating is really a very old one. So far from being a paradox of perversity, it is one of the oldest commonplaces of religion. If any one wandering about wants to have a good trick or test for separating the wrong idealism from the right, I will give him one on the spot. It is a mark of false religion that it is always trying to express concrete facts as abstract; it calls sex affinity; it calls wine alcohol; it calls brute starvation the economic problem. The test of true religion is that its energy drives exactly the other way; it is always trying to make men feel truths as facts; always trying to make abstract things as plain and solid as concrete things; always trying to make men, not merely admit the truth, but see, smell, handle, hear, and devour the truth. All great spiritual scriptures are full of the invitation not to test, but to taste; not to examine, but to eat. Their phrases are full of living water and heavenly bread, mysterious manna and dreadful wine. Worldliness, and the polite society of the world, has despised this instinct of eating; but religion has never despised it. When we look at a firm, fat, white cliff of chalk at Dover, I do not suggest that we should desire to eat it; that would be highly abnormal. But I really mean that we should think it good to eat; good for some one else to eat. For, indeed, some one else is eating it; the grass that grows upon its top is devouring it silently, but, doubtless, with an uproarious appetite.
But the reader shouldn't worry that I've suddenly gone crazy and will start biting big chunks out of tree trunks or seriously changing the beautiful outlines of the mountains. This idea of expressing new solidity through the image of eating is actually very old. Far from being a strange paradox, it's one of the oldest themes in religion. If anyone wandering around wants a good trick to distinguish between the wrong kind of idealism and the right one, I’ll give them one right away. A sign of false religion is that it always tries to express actual facts as abstract ideas; it calls sex “affinity,” it calls wine “alcohol,” and it calls basic hunger the “economic problem.” The test of true religion is that its energy goes the other way; it always seeks to make people feel truths as facts, to make abstract concepts as clear and substantial as concrete things, always trying to make people not just accept the truth, but to see, smell, touch, hear, and devour the truth. All great spiritual scriptures invite us not just to test, but to taste; not to analyze, but to eat. Their words are full of living water and heavenly bread, mysterious manna, and strong wine. The world and polite society have looked down on this instinct to eat, but religion has never disrespected it. When we look at a strong, plump, white chalk cliff at Dover, I’m not suggesting that we should want to eat it; that would be pretty abnormal. But I do mean that we should think it’s good to eat, good for someone else to eat. Because, in fact, someone else is eating it; the grass growing on top is silently devouring it, but certainly with a loud appetite.
Simmons and the Social Tie
It is a platitude, and none the less true for that, that we need to have an ideal in our minds with which to test all realities. But it is equally true, and less noted, that we need a reality with which to test ideals. Thus I have selected Mrs. Buttons, a charwoman in Battersea, as the touchstone of all modern theories about the mass of women. Her name is not Buttons; she is not in the least a contemptible nor entirely a comic figure. She has a powerful stoop and an ugly, attractive face, a little like that of Huxley—without the whiskers, of course. The courage with which she supports the most brutal bad luck has something quite creepy about it. Her irony is incessant and inventive; her practical charity very large; and she is wholly unaware of the philosophical use to which I put her.
It’s a cliché, but still very true, that we need to have an ideal in our minds to measure all realities. But it’s also true, and less often mentioned, that we need a reality to test our ideals against. So, I’ve chosen Mrs. Buttons, a cleaner in Battersea, as the benchmark for all modern theories about women in general. Her name isn’t actually Buttons; she’s neither a pathetic nor purely comedic character. She has a strong stoop and an unappealing yet interesting face, somewhat resembling Huxley—without the sideburns, of course. The way she bravely endures the harshest bad luck is somewhat unsettling. Her sarcasm is constant and creative; her real-world kindness is considerable; and she is completely unaware of the philosophical purpose to which I apply her.
But when I hear the modern generalization about her sex on all sides I simply substitute her name, and see how the thing sounds then. When on the one side the mere sentimentalist says, “Let woman be content to be dainty and exquisite, a protected piece of social art and domestic ornament,” then I merely repeat it to myself in the “other form,” “Let Mrs. Buttons be content to be dainty and exquisite, a protected piece of social art, etc.” It is extraordinary what a difference the substitution seems to make. And on the other hand, when some of the Suffragettes say in their pamphlets and speeches, “Woman, leaping to life at the trumpet call of Ibsen and Shaw, drops her tawdry luxuries and demands to grasp the sceptre of empire and the firebrand of speculative thought”—in order to understand such a sentence I say it over again in the amended form: “Mrs. Buttons, leaping to life at the trumpet call of Ibsen and Shaw, drops her tawdry luxuries and demands to grasp the sceptre of empire and the firebrand of speculative thought.” Somehow it sounds quite different. And yet when you say Woman I suppose you mean the average woman; and if most women are as capable and critical and morally sound as Mrs. Buttons, it is as much as we can expect, and a great deal more than we deserve.
But when I hear the current generalizations about women everywhere, I just replace the term with her name and see how it sounds. When, on one side, the sentimentalist says, “Let women be content to be delicate and refined, a protected piece of social art and home decoration,” I simply repeat it to myself in the other form: “Let Mrs. Buttons be content to be delicate and refined, a protected piece of social art, etc.” It’s amazing how much difference this substitution makes. On the other hand, when some of the Suffragettes say in their pamphlets and speeches, “Women, responding to the call of Ibsen and Shaw, cast aside their trivial luxuries and demand to hold the scepter of power and the torch of intellectual inquiry”—to understand such a statement, I rephrase it: “Mrs. Buttons, responding to the call of Ibsen and Shaw, casts aside her trivial luxuries and demands to hold the scepter of power and the torch of intellectual inquiry.” Somehow it sounds quite different. Yet, when you say "women," I suppose you mean the average woman; and if most women are as capable, critical, and morally solid as Mrs. Buttons, that’s about all we can expect, and a lot more than we deserve.
But this study is not about Mrs. Buttons; she would require many studies. I will take a less impressive case of my principle, the principle of keeping in the mind an actual personality when we are talking about types or tendencies or generalized ideals. Take, for example, the question of the education of boys. Almost every post brings me pamphlets expounding some advanced and suggestive scheme of education; the pupils are to be taught separate; the sexes are to be taught together; there should be no prizes; there should be no punishments; the master should lift the boys to his level; the master should descend to their level; we should encourage the heartiest comradeship among boys, and also the tenderest spiritual intimacy with masters; toil must be pleasant and holidays must be instructive; with all these things I am daily impressed and somewhat bewildered. But on the great Buttons' principle I keep in my mind and apply to all these ideals one still vivid fact; the face and character of a particular schoolboy whom I once knew. I am not taking a mere individual oddity, as you will hear. He was exceptional, and yet the reverse of eccentric; he was (in a quite sober and strict sense of the words) exceptionally average. He was the incarnation and the exaggeration of a certain spirit which is the common spirit of boys, but which nowhere else became so obvious and outrageous. And because he was an incarnation he was, in his way, a tragedy.
But this study isn’t about Mrs. Buttons; she would need a lot of studies. I’ll focus on a less remarkable example of my point, which is to keep an actual person in mind when discussing types, trends, or broad ideals. For instance, let’s consider the education of boys. Almost every day, I receive pamphlets promoting some innovative and interesting education scheme; boys should be taught separately, or the sexes should be taught together; there should be no rewards; there should be no punishments; teachers should elevate the boys to his level; teachers should lower themselves to the boys’ level; we should encourage strong friendships among boys and also the closest spiritual connections with teachers; work should be enjoyable, and vacations should be educational. All these ideas impress and confuse me daily. But applying the great Buttons' principle, I keep in mind a tangible fact: the face and character of a specific schoolboy I once knew. I’m not referring to just some individual quirk, as you’ll see. He was unique but not eccentric; he was, in a very realistic and strict sense of the term, exceptionally average. He was the embodiment and exaggeration of a certain spirit that represents the common nature of boys, but nowhere else did it appear so obvious and extreme. And because he was an embodiment, he was, in his way, a tragedy.
I will call him Simmons. He was a tall, healthy figure, strong, but a little slouching, and there was in his walk something between a slight swagger and a seaman's roll; he commonly had his hands in his pockets. His hair was dark, straight, and undistinguished; and his face, if one saw it after his figure, was something of a surprise. For while the form might be called big and braggart, the face might have been called weak, and was certainly worried. It was a hesitating face, which seemed to blink doubtfully in the daylight. He had even the look of one who has received a buffet that he cannot return. In all occupations he was the average boy; just sufficiently good at sports, just sufficiently bad at work to be universally satisfactory. But he was prominent in nothing, for prominence was to him a thing like bodily pain. He could not endure, without discomfort amounting to desperation, that any boy should be noticed or sensationally separated from the long line of boys; for him, to be distinguished was to be disgraced.
I’ll call him Simmons. He was tall and healthy, strong but a bit slouchy, and his walk had a mix of a slight swagger and a sailor's roll; he usually had his hands in his pockets. His hair was dark, straight, and plain; and his face, when you looked at it after seeing his body, was a bit surprising. While his build could be described as big and boastful, his face could be seen as weak and definitely looked worried. It had a hesitant quality that seemed to blink nervously in the daylight. He even had the vibe of someone who’s taken a hit but can’t fight back. In every activity, he was just an average kid; pretty good at sports but just bad enough at schoolwork to be acceptable to everyone. But he stood out in nothing, because standing out felt to him like physical pain. He couldn’t handle the discomfort of any kid being noticed or standing out from the crowd; for him, being recognized was like being shamed.
Those who interpret schoolboys as merely wooden and barbarous, unmoved by anything but a savage seriousness about tuck or cricket, make the mistake of forgetting how much of the schoolboy life is public and ceremonial, having reference to an ideal; or, if you like, to an affectation. Boys, like dogs, have a sort of romantic ritual which is not always their real selves. And this romantic ritual is generally the ritual of not being romantic; the pretence of being much more masculine and materialistic than they are. Boys in themselves are very sentimental. The most sentimental thing in the world is to hide your feelings; it is making too much of them. Stoicism is the direct product of sentimentalism; and schoolboys are sentimental individually, but stoical collectively.
Those who see schoolboys as just rigid and savage, only focused on food or cricket, overlook how much of a schoolboy's life is public and ceremonial, tied to an ideal or, if you prefer, an act. Boys, much like dogs, have a kind of romantic routine that doesn't always reflect their true selves. This romantic routine usually involves pretending not to be romantic at all; they act like they’re tougher and more materialistic than they actually are. Deep down, boys are very sentimental. The most sentimental thing you can do is hide your feelings; it means you're making too big a deal out of them. Stoicism directly comes from sentimentalism; while schoolboys are individually sentimental, they become stoic when they come together.
For example, there were numbers of boys at my school besides myself who took a private pleasure in poetry; but red-hot iron would not have induced most of us to admit this to the masters, or to repeat poetry with the faintest inflection of rhythm or intelligence. That would have been anti-social egoism; we called it “showing off.” I myself remember running to school (an extraordinary thing to do) with mere internal ecstasy in repeating lines of Walter Scott about the taunts of Marmion or the boasts of Roderick Dhu, and then repeating the same lines in class with the colourless decorum of a hurdy-gurdy. We all wished to be invisible in our uniformity; a mere pattern of Eton collars and coats.
For instance, there were several boys at my school, including myself, who secretly enjoyed poetry; however, nothing would have made most of us admit this to the teachers or recite poetry with even a hint of rhythm or understanding. That would have seemed selfish; we called it “showing off.” I remember running to school (which was quite unusual) with pure joy as I recited lines from Walter Scott about Marmion's taunts or Roderick Dhu's boasts, only to repeat those same lines in class without any expression, like a mechanical toy. We all wanted to blend in, just another example of identical Eton collars and coats.
But Simmons went even further. He felt it as an insult to brotherly equality if any task or knowledge out of the ordinary track was discovered even by accident. If a boy had learnt German in infancy; or if a boy knew some terms in music; or if a boy was forced to confess feebly that he had read “The Mill on the Floss”—then Simmons was in a perspiration of discomfort. He felt no personal anger, still less any petty jealousy, what he felt was an honourable and generous shame. He hated it as a lady hates coarseness in a pantomime; it made him want to hide himself. Just that feeling of impersonal ignominy which most of us have when some one betrays indecent ignorance, Simmons had when some one betrayed special knowledge. He writhed and went red in the face; he used to put up the lid of his desk to hide his blushes for human dignity, and from behind this barrier would whisper protests which had the hoarse emphasis of pain. “O, shut up, I say... O, I say, shut up.... O, shut it, can't you?” Once when a little boy admitted that he had heard of the Highland claymore, Simmons literally hid his head inside his desk and dropped the lid upon it in desperation; and when I was for a moment transferred from the bottom of the form for knowing the name of Cardinal Newman, I thought he would have rushed from the room.
But Simmons took it even further. He saw it as an insult to brotherly equality if anyone discovered any task or knowledge outside the usual routine, even by accident. If a boy had learned German as a child, or if a boy knew some music terms, or if a boy had to weakly admit that he had read “The Mill on the Floss,” then Simmons would become visibly uncomfortable. He didn’t feel personal anger, nor was it petty jealousy; what he felt was a proud and generous shame. He hated it like a woman dislikes crudeness in a play; it made him want to hide. He experienced the type of impersonal embarrassment most people feel when someone reveals embarrassing ignorance, but for him, it was when someone showed special knowledge. He squirmed and turned red; he would lift the lid of his desk to cover his blushes for the sake of dignity, and from behind this shield, he would whisper protests that sounded heavy with frustration. “Oh, shut up, I say... Oh, I say, shut up... Oh, can't you just be quiet?” Once, when a little boy admitted he had heard of the Highland claymore, Simmons actually hid his head inside his desk and slammed the lid down in desperation; and when I was momentarily moved from the bottom of the class for knowing the name of Cardinal Newman, I thought he might have run out of the room.
His psychological eccentricity increased; if one can call that an eccentricity which was a wild worship of the ordinary. At last he grew so sensitive that he could not even bear any question answered correctly without grief. He felt there was a touch of disloyalty, of unfraternal individualism, even about knowing the right answer to a sum. If asked the date of the battle of Hastings, he considered it due to social tact and general good feeling to answer 1067. This chivalrous exaggeration led to bad feeling between him and the school authority, which ended in a rupture unexpectedly violent in the case of so good-humoured a creature. He fled from the school, and it was discovered upon inquiry that he had fled from his home also.
His psychological quirks intensified; if you can even call it a quirk when it was a passionate admiration for the ordinary. Eventually, he became so sensitive that he couldn't stand any question being answered correctly without feeling upset. He sensed a hint of disloyalty, of unbrotherly individualism, even in knowing the right answer to a math problem. If someone asked him the date of the Battle of Hastings, he thought it was appropriate to say 1067 out of social tact and general goodwill. This noble exaggeration led to tension between him and the school authorities, resulting in an unexpectedly violent fallout for someone who was usually so good-natured. He ran away from the school, and when people looked into it, they found out he had also fled from his home.
I never expected to see him again; yet it is one of the two or three odd coincidences of my life that I did see him. At some public sports or recreation ground I saw a group of rather objectless youths, one of whom was wearing the dashing uniform of a private in the Lancers. Inside that uniform was the tall figure, shy face, and dark, stiff hair of Simmons. He had gone to the one place where every one is dressed alike—a regiment. I know nothing more; perhaps he was killed in Africa. But when England was full of flags and false triumphs, when everybody was talking manly trash about the whelps of the lion and the brave boys in red, I often heard a voice echoing in the under-caverns of my memory, “Shut up... O, shut up... O, I say, shut it.”
I never thought I'd see him again, but it's one of the few strange coincidences in my life that I did. At some public sports or recreation area, I spotted a group of somewhat aimless young guys, one of whom was wearing the flashy uniform of a private in the Lancers. Inside that uniform was Simmons, with his tall figure, shy face, and dark, stiff hair. He had gone to the one place where everyone wears the same thing—a regiment. I don’t know anything more; maybe he was killed in Africa. But when England was full of flags and false victories, when everyone was talking manly nonsense about the whelps of the lion and the brave boys in red, I often heard a voice echoing in the recesses of my memory, “Shut up... O, shut up... O, I say, shut it.”
Cheese
My forthcoming work in five volumes, “The Neglect of Cheese in European Literature” is a work of such unprecedented and laborious detail that it is doubtful if I shall live to finish it. Some overflowings from such a fountain of information may therefore be permitted to springle these pages. I cannot yet wholly explain the neglect to which I refer. Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. Virgil, if I remember right, refers to it several times, but with too much Roman restraint. He does not let himself go on cheese. The only other poet I can think of just now who seems to have had some sensibility on the point was the nameless author of the nursery rhyme which says: “If all the trees were bread and cheese”—which is, indeed a rich and gigantic vision of the higher gluttony. If all the trees were bread and cheese there would be considerable deforestation in any part of England where I was living. Wild and wide woodlands would reel and fade before me as rapidly as they ran after Orpheus. Except Virgil and this anonymous rhymer, I can recall no verse about cheese. Yet it has every quality which we require in exalted poetry. It is a short, strong word; it rhymes to “breeze” and “seas” (an essential point); that it is emphatic in sound is admitted even by the civilization of the modern cities. For their citizens, with no apparent intention except emphasis, will often say, “Cheese it!” or even “Quite the cheese.” The substance itself is imaginative. It is ancient—sometimes in the individual case, always in the type and custom. It is simple, being directly derived from milk, which is one of the ancestral drinks, not lightly to be corrupted with soda-water. You know, I hope (though I myself have only just thought of it), that the four rivers of Eden were milk, water, wine, and ale. Aerated waters only appeared after the Fall.
My upcoming work in five volumes, “The Neglect of Cheese in European Literature,” is such an unprecedented and detailed project that I might not live to finish it. Therefore, some insights from this fountain of information can spill onto these pages. I still can’t fully explain the neglect I’m talking about. Poets have been strangely silent on the subject of cheese. Virgil, if I recall correctly, mentions it a few times, but with too much Roman restraint. He doesn’t let loose with his thoughts on cheese. The only other poet I can think of right now who seems to have had some sensitivity to the topic is the unnamed author of the nursery rhyme that says: “If all the trees were bread and cheese”—which is, in fact, a rich and grand vision of the ultimate indulgence. If all the trees were bread and cheese, there would be significant deforestation wherever I was living in England. Wild and sprawling woodlands would retreat before me as quickly as they did for Orpheus. Aside from Virgil and this anonymous poet, I can't remember any verses about cheese. Yet it possesses every quality we look for in great poetry. It’s a short, punchy word; it rhymes with “breeze” and “seas” (which is essential); and its emphasis is recognized even by the culture of modern cities. Their citizens, with no apparent purpose other than emphasis, often say, “Cheese it!” or even “Quite the cheese.” The substance itself is imaginative. It’s ancient—sometimes in an individual case, and always in its type and tradition. It’s simple, directly derived from milk, which is one of the oldest beverages, not to be easily mixed with soda-water. You know, I hope (though I've only just thought of it), that the four rivers of Eden were milk, water, wine, and ale. Carbonated drinks only appeared after the Fall.
But cheese has another quality, which is also the very soul of song. Once in endeavouring to lecture in several places at once, I made an eccentric journey across England, a journey of so irregular and even illogical shape that it necessitated my having lunch on four successive days in four roadside inns in four different counties. In each inn they had nothing but bread and cheese; nor can I imagine why a man should want more than bread and cheese, if he can get enough of it. In each inn the cheese was good; and in each inn it was different. There was a noble Wensleydale cheese in Yorkshire, a Cheshire cheese in Cheshire, and so on. Now, it is just here that true poetic civilization differs from that paltry and mechanical civilization which holds us all in bondage. Bad customs are universal and rigid, like modern militarism. Good customs are universal and varied, like native chivalry and self-defence. Both the good and bad civilization cover us as with a canopy, and protect us from all that is outside. But a good civilization spreads over us freely like a tree, varying and yielding because it is alive. A bad civilization stands up and sticks out above us like an umbrella—artificial, mathematical in shape; not merely universal, but uniform. So it is with the contrast between the substances that vary and the substances that are the same wherever they penetrate. By a wise doom of heaven men were commanded to eat cheese, but not the same cheese. Being really universal it varies from valley to valley. But if, let us say, we compare cheese with soap (that vastly inferior substance), we shall see that soap tends more and more to be merely Smith's Soap or Brown's Soap, sent automatically all over the world. If the Red Indians have soap it is Smith's Soap. If the Grand Lama has soap it is Brown's soap. There is nothing subtly and strangely Buddhist, nothing tenderly Tibetan, about his soap. I fancy the Grand Lama does not eat cheese (he is not worthy), but if he does it is probably a local cheese, having some real relation to his life and outlook. Safety matches, tinned foods, patent medicines are sent all over the world; but they are not produced all over the world. Therefore there is in them a mere dead identity, never that soft play of slight variation which exists in things produced everywhere out of the soil, in the milk of the kine, or the fruits of the orchard. You can get a whisky and soda at every outpost of the Empire: that is why so many Empire-builders go mad. But you are not tasting or touching any environment, as in the cider of Devonshire or the grapes of the Rhine. You are not approaching Nature in one of her myriad tints of mood, as in the holy act of eating cheese.
But cheese has another quality that captures the essence of song. Once, while trying to give lectures in multiple places at once, I took an unusual trip across England, one so irregular and oddly shaped that I ended up having lunch for four straight days at four roadside inns in four different counties. In each inn, they only had bread and cheese; and honestly, I can’t see why anyone would want more than bread and cheese if there’s plenty of it. The cheese in each inn was good, and it was unique. There was a marvelous Wensleydale cheese in Yorkshire, a Cheshire cheese in Cheshire, and so forth. This is where true poetic civilization differs from the petty, mechanical civilization that binds us all. Bad customs are universal and stiff, like modern militarism. Good customs are universal yet diverse, like native chivalry and self-defense. Both good and bad civilizations cover us like a canopy, shielding us from everything outside. But a good civilization surrounds us freely like a tree, adapting and changing because it’s alive. A bad civilization looms over us like an umbrella—artificial, rigid; not just universal, but uniform. This reflects the difference between things that vary and those that remain the same no matter where they are found. By a wise decree of fate, people were meant to eat cheese, but not the same cheese. Being truly universal, it varies from valley to valley. However, if we compare cheese with soap (that vastly inferior product), we’ll see that soap increasingly tends to be just Smith's Soap or Brown's Soap, distributed globally without nuance. If the Native Americans have soap, it’s Smith’s Soap. If the Dalai Lama has soap, it’s Brown's Soap. There’s nothing subtly and uniquely Buddhist or tenderly Tibetan about his soap. I doubt the Dalai Lama eats cheese (he likely isn’t worthy), but if he does, it must be a local cheese, connected to his life and perspective. Safety matches, canned food, and patent medicines are sent everywhere; but they’re not produced everywhere. Thus, they carry a lifeless sameness, lacking the gentle variations that come from items produced from the local soil, in cow's milk, or the fruits of the orchard. You can get a whisky and soda at every corner of the Empire: that’s why so many Empire-builders go mad. But you aren’t tasting or experiencing any environment, like in the cider of Devonshire or the grapes of the Rhine. You’re not engaging with Nature in one of her countless emotional hues, as you do in the sacred act of eating cheese.
When I had done my pilgrimage in the four wayside public-houses I reached one of the great northern cities, and there I proceeded, with great rapidity and complete inconsistency, to a large and elaborate restaurant, where I knew I could get many other things besides bread and cheese. I could get that also, however; or at least I expected to get it; but I was sharply reminded that I had entered Babylon, and left England behind. The waiter brought me cheese, indeed, but cheese cut up into contemptibly small pieces; and it is the awful fact that, instead of Christian bread, he brought me biscuits. Biscuits—to one who had eaten the cheese of four great countrysides! Biscuits—to one who had proved anew for himself the sanctity of the ancient wedding between cheese and bread! I addressed the waiter in warm and moving terms. I asked him who he was that he should put asunder those whom Humanity had joined. I asked him if he did not feel, as an artist, that a solid but yielding substance like cheese went naturally with a solid, yielding substance like bread; to eat it off biscuits is like eating it off slates. I asked him if, when he said his prayers, he was so supercilious as to pray for his daily biscuits. He gave me generally to understand that he was only obeying a custom of Modern Society. I have therefore resolved to raise my voice, not against the waiter, but against Modern Society, for this huge and unparalleled modern wrong.
When I finished my journey through the four roadside pubs, I arrived in one of the major northern cities. There, I quickly and inconsistently made my way to a large and fancy restaurant, where I knew I could get much more than just bread and cheese. I expected to get that too; however, I was quickly reminded that I had entered Babylon and left England behind. The waiter did bring me cheese, but it was sliced into embarrassingly small pieces. What's worse, instead of proper bread, he brought me biscuits. Biscuits—after I had enjoyed the cheeses from four great regions! Biscuits—to someone who had rediscovered the sacred pairing of cheese and bread! I spoke to the waiter in heartfelt terms. I asked him who he thought he was to break apart what Humanity had united. I asked him if he didn’t see, as a professional, that a solid yet yielding substance like cheese naturally pairs with a solid, yielding substance like bread; eating it with biscuits feels like eating it off chalkboards. I asked him if, when he said his prayers, he was so arrogant as to ask for his daily biscuits. He generally indicated that he was just following a custom of Modern Society. Therefore, I have decided to raise my voice, not against the waiter, but against Modern Society for this massive and unprecedented modern injustice.
The Red Town
When a man says that democracy is false because most people are stupid, there are several courses which the philosopher may pursue. The most obvious is to hit him smartly and with precision on the exact tip of the nose. But if you have scruples (moral or physical) about this course, you may proceed to employ Reason, which in this case has all the savage solidity of a blow with the fist. It is stupid to say that “most people” are stupid. It is like saying “most people are tall,” when it is obvious that “tall” can only mean taller than most people. It is absurd to denounce the majority of mankind as below the average of mankind.
When someone claims that democracy is a sham because most people are ignorant, there are a few ways a philosopher might respond. The most straightforward approach is to give him a sharp and precise hit right on the nose. But if you have moral or physical objections to this method, you can opt to use Reason, which, in this scenario, packs just as much punch as a fist. It's foolish to assert that “most people” are ignorant. It's like saying “most people are tall,” when it’s clear that “tall” can only refer to being taller than most people. It’s ridiculous to criticize the majority of humanity as being below the average for humanity.
Should the man have been hammered on the nose and brained with logic, and should he still remain cold, a third course opens: lead him by the hand (himself half-willing) towards some sunlit and yet secret meadow and ask him who made the names of the common wild flowers. They were ordinary people, so far as any one knows, who gave to one flower the name of the Star of Bethlehem and to another and much commoner flower the tremendous title of the Eye of Day. If you cling to the snobbish notion that common people are prosaic, ask any common person for the local names of the flowers, names which vary not only from county to county, but even from dale to dale.
Should the man have been hit in the face and overwhelmed with logic, and if he still remains unresponsive, a third option opens up: gently guide him (partly willing) towards a sunlit but secret meadow and ask him who came up with the names of the common wildflowers. They were ordinary people, as far as anyone knows, who named one flower the Star of Bethlehem and another, much more common flower, the impressive title of the Eye of Day. If you hold onto the snobby idea that everyday people are dull, ask any regular person for the local names of the flowers, names that change not just from county to county, but even from valley to valley.
But, curiously enough, the case is much stronger than this. It will be said that this poetry is peculiar to the country populace, and that the dim democracies of our modern towns at least have lost it. For some extraordinary reason they have not lost it. Ordinary London slang is full of witty things said by nobody in particular. True, the creed of our cruel cities is not so sane and just as the creed of the old countryside; but the people are just as clever in giving names to their sins in the city as in giving names to their joys in the wilderness. One could not better sum up Christianity than by calling a small white insignificant flower “The Star of Bethlehem.” But then, again, one could not better sum up the philosophy deduced from Darwinism than in the one verbal picture of “having your monkey up.”
But, interestingly enough, the situation is actually stronger than this. People might say that this poetry belongs only to rural folks and that the vague democracies of our modern cities have lost it. For some surprising reason, they haven’t lost it. Regular London slang is full of clever phrases said by no one in particular. It's true that the mindset of our harsh cities isn’t as sane or just as the mindset of the old countryside; yet, people are just as skilled at naming their sins in the city as they are at celebrating their joys in the wilderness. You couldn't summarize Christianity better than by calling a small, unassuming white flower “The Star of Bethlehem.” However, you also couldn't capture the philosophy derived from Darwinism better than with the phrase “having your monkey up.”
Who first invented these violent felicities of language? Who first spoke of a man “being off his head”? The obvious comment on a lunatic is that his head is off him; yet the other phrase is far more fantastically exact. There is about every madman a singular sensation that his body has walked off and left the important part of him behind.
Who first came up with these intense joys of language? Who first talked about a man “losing his mind”? The obvious remark about a crazy person is that his mind is disconnected from him; yet the other phrase is way more surprisingly accurate. There's something uniquely felt about every madman—that his body has walked away, leaving the most essential part of him behind.
But the cases of this popular perfection in phrase are even stronger when they are more vulgar. What concentrated irony and imagination there is for instance, in the metaphor which describes a man doing a midnight flitting as “shooting the moon”? It expresses everything about the run away: his eccentric occupation, his improbable explanations, his furtive air as of a hunter, his constant glances at the blank clock in the sky.
But the examples of this popular perfection in language are even more striking when they’re more common. Take, for example, the metaphor that describes a man making a midnight escape as “shooting the moon.” It captures everything about the runaway: his unusual job, his far-fetched excuses, his sneaky demeanor like a hunter, and his constant looks at the empty clock in the sky.
No; the English democracy is weak enough about a number of things; for instance, it is weak in politics. But there is no doubt that democracy is wonderfully strong in literature. Very few books that the cultured class has produced of late have been such good literature as the expression “painting the town red.”
No; English democracy is pretty weak in a lot of areas; for example, it struggles in politics. But there's no denying that democracy is incredibly strong in literature. Very few books produced by the educated class recently have been as good as the phrase “painting the town red.”
Oddly enough, this last Cockney epigram clings to my memory. For as I was walking a little while ago round a corner near Victoria I realized for the first time that a familiar lamp-post was painted all over with a bright vermilion just as if it were trying (in spite of the obvious bodily disqualification) to pretend that it was a pillar-box. I have since heard official explanations of these startling and scarlet objects. But my first fancy was that some dissipated gentleman on his way home at four o'clock in the morning had attempted to paint the town red and got only as far as one lamp-post.
Oddly enough, this last Cockney saying sticks in my mind. While I was walking around a corner near Victoria not long ago, I noticed for the first time that a familiar lamp-post was covered in bright vermilion, as if it was trying (despite its obvious shortcomings) to pass for a pillar-box. I've since heard official explanations for these shocking and bright objects. But my initial thought was that some party-loving guy on his way home at four o'clock in the morning had tried to paint the town red and only managed to get as far as one lamp-post.
I began to make a fairy tale about the man; and, indeed, this phrase contains both a fairy tale and a philosophy; it really states almost the whole truth about those pure outbreaks of pagan enjoyment to which all healthy men have often been tempted. It expresses the desire to have levity on a large scale which is the essence of such a mood. The rowdy young man is not content to paint his tutor's door green: he would like to paint the whole city scarlet. The word which to us best recalls such gigantesque idiocy is the word “mafficking.” The slaves of that saturnalia were not only painting the town red; they thought that they were painting the map red—that they were painting the world red. But, indeed, this Imperial debauch has in it something worse than the mere larkiness which is my present topic; it has an element of real self-flattery and of sin. The Jingo who wants to admire himself is worse than the blackguard who only wants to enjoy himself. In a very old ninth-century illumination which I have seen, depicting the war of the rebel angels in heaven, Satan is represented as distributing to his followers peacock feathers—the symbols of an evil pride. Satan also distributed peacock feathers to his followers on Mafeking Night...
I started to create a fairy tale about the man; and honestly, this phrase includes both a fairy tale and a philosophy; it really captures almost the entire truth about those pure moments of pagan enjoyment that all healthy men have often been tempted by. It conveys the desire to enjoy life on a grand scale, which is the core of such a mood. The rowdy young man isn’t satisfied with just painting his tutor's door green: he wants to paint the entire city scarlet. The term that best brings to mind such enormous foolishness is “mafficking.” The revelers of that wild celebration weren't just painting the town red; they thought they were painting the entire map red—that they were painting the world red. Yet, this imperial indulgence carries something more troubling than the mere frivolity I’m discussing; it incorporates an element of real self-admiration and sin. The nationalist who wants to admire himself is worse than the scoundrel who only seeks to have fun. In an ancient ninth-century illustration I’ve seen, showing the war of the rebel angels in heaven, Satan is depicted handing out peacock feathers to his followers—the symbols of a wicked pride. Satan also handed out peacock feathers to his followers on Mafeking Night...
But taking the case of ordinary pagan recklessness and pleasure seeking, it is, as we have said, well expressed in this image. First, because it conveys this notion of filling the world with one private folly; and secondly, because of the profound idea involved in the choice of colour. Red is the most joyful and dreadful thing in the physical universe; it is the fiercest note, it is the highest light, it is the place where the walls of this world of ours wear thinnest and something beyond burns through. It glows in the blood which sustains and in the fire which destroys us, in the roses of our romance and in the awful cup of our religion. It stands for all passionate happiness, as in faith or in first love.
But when we look at ordinary pagan recklessness and the pursuit of pleasure, it is, as we've mentioned, well represented in this image. First, because it illustrates the idea of filling the world with personal foolishness; and second, due to the deep meaning behind the choice of color. Red is both the most joyful and terrifying thing in the physical universe; it is the strongest note, the brightest light, the point where the walls of our world are thinnest and something beyond shines through. It glows in the blood that sustains us and in the fire that destroys us, in the roses of our love stories and in the dreadful cup of our beliefs. It symbolizes all intense happiness, whether in faith or in first love.
Now, the profligate is he who wishes to spread this crimson of conscious joy over everything; to have excitement at every moment; to paint everything red. He bursts a thousand barrels of wine to incarnadine the streets; and sometimes (in his last madness) he will butcher beasts and men to dip his gigantic brushes in their blood. For it marks the sacredness of red in nature, that it is secret even when it is ubiquitous, like blood in the human body, which is omnipresent, yet invisible. As long as blood lives it is hidden; it is only dead blood that we see. But the earlier parts of the rake's progress are very natural and amusing. Painting the town red is a delightful thing until it is done. It would be splendid to see the cross of St. Paul's as red as the cross of St. George, and the gallons of red paint running down the dome or dripping from the Nelson Column. But when it is done, when you have painted the town red, an extraordinary thing happens. You cannot see any red at all.
Now, the reckless person is one who wants to spread this vibrant joy everywhere; to feel excitement at every moment; to cover everything in red. He spills a thousand barrels of wine to stain the streets; and sometimes (in his final madness) he will slaughter animals and people to soak his giant brushes in their blood. It signifies the sacredness of red in nature, that it remains hidden even when it surrounds us, like blood in the human body, which is everywhere, yet invisible. As long as blood is alive, it is concealed; only dead blood is visible. But the earlier stages of the reckless person's journey are quite natural and entertaining. Painting the town red is a fun idea until it actually happens. It would be amazing to see St. Paul's cross as red as St. George's, with gallons of red paint pouring down the dome or dripping from the Nelson Column. But once it's done, once you’ve painted the town red, something remarkable happens. You can't see any red at all.
I can see, as in a sort of vision, the successful artist standing in the midst of that frightful city, hung on all sides with the scarlet of his shame. And then, when everything is red, he will long for a red rose in a green hedge and long in vain; he will dream of a red leaf and be unable even to imagine it. He has desecrated the divine colour, and he can no longer see it, though it is all around. I see him, a single black figure against the red-hot hell that he has kindled, where spires and turrets stand up like immobile flames: he is stiffened in a sort of agony of prayer. Then the mercy of Heaven is loosened, and I see one or two flakes of snow very slowly begin to fall.
I can see, almost like a vision, the successful artist standing in the middle of that terrible city, surrounded by the red of his shame. And then, when everything is red, he'll long for a red rose in a green hedge and wish for it in vain; he will dream of a red leaf and won't even be able to picture it. He has tarnished the divine color, and he can no longer see it, even though it’s all around him. I see him, a lone black figure against the blazing hell he has created, where spires and towers rise like unmoving flames: he is frozen in a kind of agonizing prayer. Then the mercy of Heaven is released, and I see one or two snowflakes slowly starting to fall.
The Furrows
As I see the corn grow green all about my neighbourhood, there rushes on me for no reason in particular a memory of the winter. I say “rushes,” for that is the very word for the old sweeping lines of the ploughed fields. From some accidental turn of a train-journey or a walking tour, I saw suddenly the fierce rush of the furrows. The furrows are like arrows; they fly along an arc of sky. They are like leaping animals; they vault an inviolable hill and roll down the other side. They are like battering battalions; they rush over a hill with flying squadrons and carry it with a cavalry charge. They have all the air of Arabs sweeping a desert, of rockets sweeping the sky, of torrents sweeping a watercourse. Nothing ever seemed so living as those brown lines as they shot sheer from the height of a ridge down to their still whirl of the valley. They were swifter than arrows, fiercer than Arabs, more riotous and rejoicing than rockets. And yet they were only thin straight lines drawn with difficulty, like a diagram, by painful and patient men. The men that ploughed tried to plough straight; they had no notion of giving great sweeps and swirls to the eye. Those cataracts of cloven earth; they were done by the grace of God. I had always rejoiced in them; but I had never found any reason for my joy. There are some very clever people who cannot enjoy the joy unless they understand it. There are other and even cleverer people who say that they lose the joy the moment they do understand it. Thank God I was never clever, and I could always enjoy things when I understood them and when I didn't. I can enjoy the orthodox Tory, though I could never understand him. I can also enjoy the orthodox Liberal, though I understand him only too well.
As I watch the corn grow green all around my neighborhood, a memory of winter suddenly rushes back to me for no particular reason. I say “rushes” because that perfectly describes the sweeping lines of the plowed fields. From some random turn during a train ride or a walk, I suddenly saw the fierce rush of the furrows. The furrows are like arrows; they soar across the sky. They resemble leaping animals, vaulting over a strong hill and rolling down the other side. They are like battalions charging; they rush over a hill with flying troops, carrying it with the force of a cavalry charge. They evoke the image of Arabs sweeping across a desert, rockets soaring through the sky, torrents rushing through a watercourse. Nothing ever felt as alive as those brown lines as they shot straight down from the ridge into the still whirl of the valley. They were faster than arrows, fiercer than Arabs, and more vibrant and joyful than rockets. Yet, they were just thin, straight lines painstakingly drawn by hardworking men. The farmers who plowed tried to keep their lines straight; they had no intention of creating grand sweeps and curves for effect. Those waterfalls of plowed earth were crafted by the grace of God. I had always found joy in them, but I had never understood why. There are some very smart people who can't enjoy happiness unless they comprehend it. There are even smarter folks who say they lose that joy the moment they comprehend it. Thank God I was never clever, and I could always enjoy things whether I understood them or not. I can appreciate the traditional Tory, even though I could never grasp him. I can also enjoy the traditional Liberal, even though I understand him all too well.
But the splendour of furrowed fields is this: that like all brave things they are made straight, and therefore they bend. In everything that bows gracefully there must be an effort at stiffness. Bows arc beautiful when they bend only because they try to remain rigid; and sword-blades can curl like silver ribbons only because they are certain to spring straight again. But the same is true of every tough curve of the tree-trunk, of every strong-backed bend of the bough; there is hardly any such thing in Nature as a mere droop of weakness. Rigidity yielding a little, like justice swayed by mercy, is the whole beauty of the earth. The cosmos is a diagram just bent beautifully out of shape. Everything tries to be straight; and everything just fortunately fails.
But the beauty of plowed fields is this: like all brave things, they are straightened, which is why they bend. In everything that bows gracefully, there’s an effort to stay stiff. Bows look beautiful when they bend only because they try to stay rigid; and swords can curve like silver ribbons only because they are sure to spring straight again. The same goes for every tough curve of a tree trunk, for every strong bend of a branch; there’s hardly anything in Nature that simply droops out of weakness. Rigidity yielding a little, like justice tempered by mercy, is the whole beauty of the earth. The cosmos is a design just beautifully bent out of shape. Everything tries to be straight; and everything just happily falls short.
The foil may curve in the lunge, but there is nothing beautiful about beginning the battle with a crooked foil. So the strict aim, the strong doctrine, may give a little in the actual fight with facts: but that is no reason for beginning with a weak doctrine or a twisted aim. Do not be an opportunist; try to be theoretic at all the opportunities; fate can be trusted to do all the opportunist part of it. Do not try to bend, any more than the trees try to bend. Try to grow straight, and life will bend you.
The foil might curve during the lunge, but there's nothing graceful about starting the fight with a bent foil. So while a strict goal and strong principles might loosen a bit when facing reality, that doesn’t mean you should start with a weak belief or unclear aim. Don’t be an opportunist; aim to be theoretical whenever you can; fate will handle the opportunistic part. Don’t try to bend, any more than trees try to bend. Strive to grow straight, and life will shape you.
Alas! I am giving the moral before the fable; and yet I hardly think that otherwise you could see all that I mean in that enormous vision of the ploughed hills. These great furrowed slopes are the oldest architecture of man: the oldest astronomy was his guide, the oldest botany his object. And for geometry, the mere word proves my case.
Alas! I'm sharing the lesson before the story; yet I doubt you would fully grasp what I mean by that vast view of the plowed hills. These great, furrowed slopes are humanity's oldest architecture: the oldest astronomy was his guide, and the oldest botany was his goal. And when it comes to geometry, just the word itself supports my point.
But when I looked at those torrents of ploughed parallels, that great rush of rigid lines, I seemed to see the whole huge achievement of democracy, Here was mere equality: but equality seen in bulk is more superb than any supremacy. Equality free and flying, equality rushing over hill and dale, equality charging the world—that was the meaning of those military furrows, military in their identity, military in their energy. They sculptured hill and dale with strong curves merely because they did not mean to curve at all. They made the strong lines of landscape with their stiffly driven swords of the soil. It is not only nonsense, but blasphemy, to say that man has spoilt the country. Man has created the country; it was his business, as the image of God. No hill, covered with common scrub or patches of purple heath, could have been so sublimely hilly as that ridge up to which the ranked furrows rose like aspiring angels. No valley, confused with needless cottages and towns, can have been so utterly valleyish as that abyss into which the down-rushing furrows raged like demons into the swirling pit.
But when I looked at those wide, plowed fields, those strong lines stretching out, I felt like I was witnessing the entire grand achievement of democracy. Here was straightforward equality: but equality in large amounts is more impressive than any kind of superiority. Equality soaring and flying, equality rushing over hills and valleys, equality charging through the world—that was the meaning of those military-like furrows, both in their nature and their energy. They shaped the landscape with bold curves just because they didn’t intend to curve at all. They created the strong lines of the land with their stiff blades turning the soil. It’s not just nonsense; it’s an insult to say that humans have ruined the countryside. Humans have crafted the countryside; it was their role, as the image of God. No hill, covered with ordinary brush or patches of purple heather, could have been as impressively hilly as that ridge where the rows of furrows rose like eager angels. No valley, cluttered with unnecessary cottages and towns, could be as completely valiant as that abyss into which the descending furrows crashed like demons into a swirling pit.
It is the hard lines of discipline and equality that mark out a landscape and give it all its mould and meaning. It is just because the lines of the furrow arc ugly and even that the landscape is living and superb. As I think I have remarked elsewhere, the Republic is founded on the plough.
It’s the strong boundaries of discipline and equality that shape a landscape and give it all its form and significance. It’s precisely because the lines of the furrow are neat and even that the landscape feels vibrant and beautiful. As I believe I've pointed out before, the Republic is built on the plough.
The Philosophy of Sight-seeing
It would be really interesting to know exactly why an intelligent person—by which I mean a person with any sort of intelligence—can and does dislike sight-seeing. Why does the idea of a char-a-banc full of tourists going to see the birth-place of Nelson or the death-scene of Simon de Montfort strike a strange chill to the soul? I can tell quite easily what this dim aversion to tourists and their antiquities does not arise from—at least, in my case. Whatever my other vices (and they are, of course, of a lurid cast), I can lay my hand on my heart and say that it does not arise from a paltry contempt for the antiquities, nor yet from the still more paltry contempt for the tourists. If there is one thing more dwarfish and pitiful than irreverence for the past, it is irreverence for the present, for the passionate and many-coloured procession of life, which includes the char-a-banc among its many chariots and triumphal cars. I know nothing so vulgar as that contempt for vulgarity which sneers at the clerks on a Bank Holiday or the Cockneys on Margate sands. The man who notices nothing about the clerk except his Cockney accent would have noticed nothing about Simon de Montfort except his French accent. The man who jeers at Jones for having dropped an “h” might have jeered at Nelson for having dropped an arm. Scorn springs easily to the essentially vulgar-minded, and it is as easy to gibe at Montfort as a foreigner or at Nelson as a cripple, as to gibe at the struggling speech and the maimed bodies of the mass of our comic and tragic race. If I shrink faintly from this affair of tourists and tombs, it is certainly not because I am so profane as to think lightly either of the tombs or the tourists. I reverence those great men who had the courage to die; I reverence also these little men who have the courage to live.
It would be really interesting to know why an intelligent person—by which I mean anyone with any kind of intelligence—can and does dislike sight-seeing. Why does the thought of a bus full of tourists going to see Nelson's birthplace or Simon de Montfort's death site create such an odd chill? I can easily say what this vague dislike for tourists and their historical sites doesn’t come from—at least, for me. No matter what my other flaws are (and they're pretty outrageous), I can honestly say it has nothing to do with a petty disdain for the historical sites, nor for the tourists themselves. If there’s one thing more small-minded and pathetic than disrespecting the past, it’s disrespecting the present, the vibrant and colorful flow of life, which includes the tour bus among its many vehicles. I know nothing more low-class than looking down on everyday people while mocking the office workers on a holiday or the locals enjoying the beach at Margate. A person who only hears the clerk's Cockney accent would have missed everything about Simon de Montfort except his French accent. A person who mocks Jones for dropping an "h" might have mocked Nelson for having lost an arm. Scorn comes easily to those with a crude mindset, and it’s just as easy to make fun of Montfort as a foreigner or Nelson as a disabled person, as it is to mock the clumsy speech and broken bodies of our comedic and tragic human race. If I feel a slight aversion towards this whole tourist and tomb thing, it's definitely not because I’m so disrespectful as to think poorly of either the tombs or the tourists. I respect those great men who had the courage to die; I also respect those little men who have the courage to live.
Even if this be conceded, another suggestion may be made. It may be said that antiquities and commonplace crowds are indeed good things, like violets and geraniums; but they do not go together. A billycock is a beautiful object (it may be eagerly urged), but it is not in the same style of architecture as Ely Cathedral; it is a dome, a small rococo dome in the Renaissance manner, and does not go with the pointed arches that assault heaven like spears. A char-a-banc is lovely (it may be said) if placed upon a pedestal and worshipped for its own sweet sake; but it does not harmonize with the curve and outline of the old three-decker on which Nelson died; its beauty is quite of another sort. Therefore (we will suppose our sage to argue) antiquity and democracy should be kept separate, as inconsistent things. Things may be inconsistent in time and space which are by no means inconsistent in essential value and idea. Thus the Catholic Church has water for the new-born and oil for the dying: but she never mixes oil and water.
Even if we accept that, another point can be made. One could argue that antiques and everyday crowds are indeed nice things, like violets and geraniums; but they don’t go together. A bowler hat is a beautiful item (some might insist), but it doesn’t match the style of Ely Cathedral; it’s a dome, a small rococo dome in the Renaissance style, and doesn’t fit with the pointed arches that reach up to the heavens like spears. A char-a-banc is lovely (people might say) if it’s placed on a pedestal and admired for its own sake; but it doesn’t blend with the curves and silhouette of the old three-decker on which Nelson died; its beauty is of a completely different kind. Therefore (let's imagine our wise thinker arguing) antiquity and democracy should be kept apart, as they are incompatible. Things can be inconsistent in time and space that are by no means inconsistent in their fundamental value and concept. Thus, the Catholic Church has water for the newborn and oil for the dying: but she never mixes oil and water.
This explanation is plausible; but I do not find it adequate. The first objection is that the same smell of bathos haunts the soul in the case of all deliberate and elaborate visits to “beauty spots,” even by persons of the most elegant position or the most protected privacy. Specially visiting the Coliseum by moonlight always struck me as being as vulgar as visiting it by limelight. One millionaire standing on the top of Mont Blanc, one millionaire standing in the desert by the Sphinx, one millionaire standing in the middle of Stonehenge, is just as comic as one millionaire is anywhere else; and that is saying a good deal. On the other hand, if the billycock had come privately and naturally into Ely Cathedral, no enthusiast for Gothic harmony would think of objecting to the billycock—so long, of course, as it was not worn on the head. But there is indeed a much deeper objection to this theory of the two incompatible excellences of antiquity and popularity. For the truth is that it has been almost entirely the antiquities that have normally interested the populace; and it has been almost entirely the populace who have systematically preserved the antiquities. The Oldest Inhabitant has always been a clodhopper; I have never heard of his being a gentleman. It is the peasants who preserve all traditions of the sites of battles or the building of churches. It is they who remember, so far as any one remembers, the glimpses of fairies or the graver wonders of saints. In the classes above them the supernatural has been slain by the supercilious. That is a true and tremendous text in Scripture which says that “where there is no vision the people perish.” But it is equally true in practice that where there is no people the visions perish.
This explanation makes sense, but I don't think it's sufficient. The first problem is that the same feeling of cheapness lingers in the air during all intentional and elaborate trips to “scenic spots,” even by people of the highest status or the most private lives. Specifically visiting the Coliseum by moonlight has always seemed as tacky to me as visiting it with bright stage lights. One millionaire standing on top of Mont Blanc, one millionaire standing in the desert by the Sphinx, one millionaire standing in the middle of Stonehenge, is just as silly as a millionaire anywhere else; and that's saying something. On the flip side, if the flat cap had come in a casual and natural way into Ely Cathedral, no fan of Gothic architecture would think to complain about the flat cap—provided, of course, it wasn't worn on the head. But there's a much deeper objection to this idea that antiquity and popularity are incompatible. The truth is that it's been mostly the ancient sites that have captured the public's interest; and it's mostly the public that has systematically preserved these ancient sites. The Oldest Inhabitant has always been a country bumpkin; I've never heard of them being a gentleman. It's the peasants who keep alive all the stories of battle sites or church foundations. They're the ones who remember, as far as anyone remembers, the glimpses of fairies or the more serious wonders of saints. In the classes above them, the supernatural has been dismissed by those who look down on it. That is a true and powerful phrase in Scripture that says, “where there is no vision the people perish.” But it's equally true in practice that where there are no people, the visions fade away.
The idea must be abandoned, then, that this feeling of faint dislike towards popular sight-seeing is due to any inherent incompatibility between the idea of special shrines and trophies and the idea of large masses of ordinary men. On the contrary, these two elements of sanctity and democracy have been specially connected and allied throughout history. The shrines and trophies were often put up by ordinary men. They were always put up for ordinary men. To whatever things the fastidious modern artist may choose to apply his theory of specialist judgment, and an aristocracy of taste, he must necessarily find it difficult really to apply it to such historic and monumental art. Obviously, a public building is meant to impress the public. The most aristocratic tomb is a democratic tomb, because it exists to be seen; the only aristocratic thing is the decaying corpse, not the undecaying marble; and if the man wanted to be thoroughly aristocratic, he should be buried in his own back-garden. The chapel of the most narrow and exclusive sect is universal outside, even if it is limited inside, its walls and windows confront all points of the compass and all quarters of the cosmos. It may be small as a dwelling-place, but it is universal as a monument; if its sectarians had really wished to be private they should have met in a private house. Whenever and wherever we erect a national or municipal hall, pillar, or statue, we are speaking to the crowd like a demagogue.
We need to let go of the idea that this slight dislike of popular tourist attractions comes from some inherent clash between the concept of special shrines and trophies and the idea of large groups of ordinary people. In fact, these two elements of sacredness and democracy have been closely linked throughout history. The shrines and trophies were often established by everyday people. They were always created for everyone. No matter how the more refined modern artist applies their theory of specialized judgment and a hierarchy of taste, they will struggle to apply it genuinely to such historic and monumental art. Clearly, a public building is designed to impress the public. The most aristocratic tomb is actually a democratic one because it exists to be seen; the only truly aristocratic aspect is the decaying body, not the enduring marble; if a person wanted to be completely aristocratic, they should have been buried in their own backyard. The chapel of even the most narrow and exclusive sect is universal on the outside, even if it's limited on the inside; its walls and windows face all directions and all corners of the universe. It might be small as a living space, but it is universal as a monument; if its members truly wanted privacy, they should have gathered in a private home. Whenever and wherever we build a national or municipal hall, pillar, or statue, we are addressing the crowd like a demagogue.
The statue of every statesman offers itself for election as much as the statesman himself. Every epitaph on a church slab is put up for the mob as much as a placard in a General Election. And if we follow this track of reflection we shall, I think, really find why it is that modern sight-seeing jars on something in us, something that is not a caddish contempt for graves nor an equally caddish contempt for cads. For, after all, there is many a—churchyard which consists mostly of dead cads; but that does not make it less sacred or less sad.
The statue of every politician campaigns for attention just like the politician does. Every inscription on a church tombstone is displayed for the public just like a flyer in a General Election. If we pursue this line of thinking, I believe we will discover why modern sightseeing feels off to us, something that isn’t just a snobby disdain for graves or an equally snobby disdain for shady characters. After all, there are plenty of churchyards filled mostly with shady characters, but that doesn’t make them any less sacred or any less sorrowful.
The real explanation, I fancy, is this: that these cathedrals and columns of triumph were meant, not for people more cultured and self-conscious than modern tourists, but for people much rougher and more casual. Those leaps of live stone like frozen fountains, were so placed and poised as to catch the eye of ordinary inconsiderate men going about their daily business; and when they are so seen they are never forgotten. The true way of reviving the magic of our great minsters and historic sepulchres is not the one which Ruskin was always recommending. It is not to be more careful of historic buildings. Nay, it is rather to be more careless of them. Buy a bicycle in Maidstone to visit an aunt in Dover, and you will see Canterbury Cathedral as it was built to be seen. Go through London only as the shortest way between Croydon and Hampstead, and the Nelson Column will (for the first time in your life) remind you of Nelson. You will appreciate Hereford Cathedral if you have come for cider, not if you have come for architecture. You will really see the Place Vendome if you have come on business, not if you have come for art. For it was for the simple and laborious generations of men, practical, troubled about many things, that our fathers reared those portents. There is, indeed, another element, not unimportant: the fact that people have gone to cathedrals to pray. But in discussing modern artistic cathedral-lovers, we need not consider this.
The real explanation, I think, is this: these cathedrals and monuments weren't built for people who are more cultured and self-aware than today's tourists, but for those who are much rougher and more laid-back. Those impressive stone structures, like frozen fountains, were designed to grab the attention of ordinary people going about their daily lives; and once seen, they are never forgotten. The true way to revive the magic of our great cathedrals and historic tombs isn't what Ruskin always suggested. It's not about being more careful with historic buildings. Instead, it’s about being a bit careless with them. Buy a bike in Maidstone to visit an aunt in Dover, and you'll see Canterbury Cathedral as it was meant to be seen. Travel through London just as the quickest route between Croydon and Hampstead, and the Nelson Column will remind you of Nelson for the first time in your life. You’ll appreciate Hereford Cathedral if you came for cider, not for architecture. You’ll really see the Place Vendome if you’re there for business, not for art. Our ancestors built those awe-inspiring structures for simple, hardworking generations who were practical and concerned about many things. There’s also another important aspect: people have gone to cathedrals to pray. But when discussing modern art-loving cathedral enthusiasts, we don’t need to take this into account.
A Criminal Head
When men of science (or, more often, men who talk about science) speak of studying history or human society scientifically they always forget that there are two quite distinct questions involved. It may be that certain facts of the body go with certain facts of the soul, but it by no means follows that a grasp of such facts of the body goes with a grasp of the things of the soul. A man may show very learnedly that certain mixtures of race make a happy community, but he may be quite wrong (he generally is) about what communities are happy. A man may explain scientifically how a certain physical type involves a really bad man, but he may be quite wrong (he generally is) about which sort of man is really bad. Thus his whole argument is useless, for he understands only one half of the equation.
When scientists (or, more often, people who talk about science) discuss studying history or human society in a scientific way, they always overlook that there are two completely different questions at play. It may be true that certain physical traits are linked to certain aspects of the mind, but that doesn't mean understanding the physical aspects means you understand the mental ones. A person might convincingly argue that certain racial mixtures create a happy community, but they could be completely wrong (and they usually are) about which communities are actually happy. Someone could scientifically explain how a specific physical type leads to a truly bad person, but they might be totally off (and they generally are) about which kind of person is really bad. Therefore, their whole argument is pointless because they only grasp half of the situation.
The drearier kind of don may come to me and say, “Celts are unsuccessful; look at Irishmen, for instance.” To which I should reply, “You may know all about Celts; but it is obvious that you know nothing about Irishmen. The Irish are not in the least unsuccessful, unless it is unsuccessful to wander from their own country over a great part of the earth, in which case the English are unsuccessful too.” A man with a bumpy head may say to me (as a kind of New Year greeting), “Fools have microcephalous skulls,” or what not. To which I shall reply, “In order to be certain of that, you must be a good judge both of the physical and of the mental fact. It is not enough that you should know a microcephalous skull when you see it. It is also necessary that you should know a fool when you see him; and I have a suspicion that you do not know a fool when you see him, even after the most lifelong and intimate of all forms of acquaintanceship.”
The gloomier type of professor might come to me and say, “Celts are unsuccessful; look at the Irish, for example.” To which I would respond, “You might know everything about Celts, but it’s clear you know nothing about the Irish. The Irish aren’t unsuccessful at all, unless you consider wandering away from their homeland across much of the globe to be unsuccessful, in which case the English aren’t successful either.” A guy with a strange-shaped head might say to me (as a sort of New Year greeting), “Fools have small skulls,” or something like that. To which I would reply, “To be sure of that, you need to be a solid judge of both physical and mental traits. It’s not enough to just recognize a small skull when you see it. You also need to be able to identify a fool when you see one; and I suspect you can’t identify a fool even after a lifetime of close acquaintance.”
The trouble with most sociologists, criminologists, etc., is that while their knowledge of their own details is exhaustive and subtle, their knowledge of man and society, to which these are to be applied, is quite exceptionally superficial and silly. They know everything about biology, but almost nothing about life. Their ideas of history, for instance, are simply cheap and uneducated. Thus some famous and foolish professor measured the skull of Charlotte Corday to ascertain the criminal type; he had not historical knowledge enough to know that if there is any “criminal type,” certainly Charlotte Corday had not got it. The skull, I believe, afterwards turned out not to be Charlotte Corday's at all; but that is another story. The point is that the poor old man was trying to match Charlotte Corday's mind with her skull without knowing anything whatever about her mind.
The problem with most sociologists, criminologists, and similar fields is that while they have extensive and nuanced knowledge of their own specific details, their understanding of humanity and society, which these details are meant to apply to, is often incredibly superficial and misguided. They know everything about biology, but very little about life itself. Their views on history, for example, are just cheap and uninformed. Take, for instance, a well-known but foolish professor who measured the skull of Charlotte Corday to identify a criminal type; he didn't have enough historical knowledge to recognize that if there is any “criminal type,” Charlotte Corday certainly didn’t fit it. I believe the skull was later found not to be Charlotte Corday's at all, but that’s a different story. The key point is that the poor man was trying to match Charlotte Corday's mind with her skull without having any real understanding of her mind.
But I came yesterday upon a yet more crude and startling example.
But I came across an even more shocking and primitive example yesterday.
In a popular magazine there is one of the usual articles about criminology; about whether wicked men could be made good if their heads were taken to pieces. As by far the wickedest men I know of are much too rich and powerful ever to submit to the process, the speculation leaves me cold. I always notice with pain, however, a curious absence of the portraits of living millionaires from such galleries of awful examples; most of the portraits in which we are called upon to remark the line of the nose or the curve of the forehead appear to be the portraits of ordinary sad men, who stole because they were hungry or killed because they were in a rage. The physical peculiarity seems to vary infinitely; sometimes it is the remarkable square head, sometimes it is the unmistakable round head; sometimes the learned draw attention to the abnormal development, sometimes to the striking deficiency of the back of the head. I have tried to discover what is the invariable factor, the one permanent mark of the scientific criminal type; after exhaustive classification I have to come to the conclusion that it consists in being poor.
In a popular magazine, there’s one of those typical articles about criminology; discussing whether evil people could be made good if they were dissected. Since the most wicked people I know are way too rich and powerful to ever go through that process, the speculation doesn’t interest me. However, I always feel a twinge of disappointment at the noticeable lack of portraits of living millionaires among those galleries of terrible examples; most of the images we’re asked to examine for their nose shape or forehead curve seem to be of ordinary, unhappy men who stole out of hunger or killed in a fit of rage. The physical characteristics appear to vary widely; sometimes it’s the noticeable square head, other times it’s the unmistakable round head; at times, the experts highlight either an unusual growth or a significant lack in the back of the head. I’ve tried to identify the one constant factor, the single defining feature of the scientific criminal type; after extensive classification, I’ve concluded that it comes down to being poor.
But it was among the pictures in this article that I received the final shock; the enlightenment which has left me in lasting possession of the fact that criminologists are generally more ignorant than criminals. Among the starved and bitter, but quite human, faces was one head, neat but old-fashioned, with the powder of the 18th century and a certain almost pert primness in the dress which marked the conventions of the upper middle-class about 1790. The face was lean and lifted stiffly up, the eyes stared forward with a frightful sincerity, the lip was firm with a heroic firmness; all the more pathetic because of a certain delicacy and deficiency of male force, Without knowing who it was, one could have guessed that it was a man in the manner of Shakespeare's Brutus, a man of piercingly pure intentions, prone to use government as a mere machine for morality, very sensitive to the charge of inconsistency and a little too proud of his own clean and honourable life. I say I should have known this almost from the face alone, even if I had not known who it was.
But it was among the pictures in this article that I got the final shock; the realization that criminologists are usually more clueless than criminals. Among the starved and bitter, yet totally human, faces was one head, neat but old-fashioned, with the powder of the 18th century and a certain almost cheeky primness in the style that reflected the conventions of the upper middle class around 1790. The face was lean and held up stiffly, the eyes stared ahead with a terrifying honesty, the lip was firm with a heroic determination; all the more heartbreaking because of a certain delicacy and lack of male strength. Without knowing who it was, you could have guessed it was a man in the style of Shakespeare's Brutus, a man with piercingly pure intentions, likely to use government as just a tool for morality, very sensitive to the accusation of inconsistency and a bit too proud of his own clean and honorable life. I say I would have known this almost from the face alone, even if I hadn't known who it was.
But I did know who it was. It was Robespierre. And underneath the portrait of this pale and too eager moralist were written these remarkable words: “Deficiency of ethical instincts,” followed by something to the effect that he knew no mercy (which is certainly untrue), and by some nonsense about a retreating forehead, a peculiarity which he shared with Louis XVI and with half the people of his time and ours.
But I knew who it was. It was Robespierre. And underneath the portrait of this pale and overly eager moralist were these striking words: “Lack of ethical instincts,” followed by something like he showed no mercy (which is definitely not true), and some nonsense about a receding forehead, a trait he shared with Louis XVI and half the people of his time and ours.
Then it was that I measured the staggering distance between the knowledge and the ignorance of science. Then I knew that all criminology might be worse than worthless, because of its utter ignorance of that human material of which it is supposed to be speaking. The man who could say that Robespierre was deficient in ethical instincts is a man utterly to be disregarded in all calculations of ethics. He might as well say that John Bunyan was deficient in ethical instincts. You may say that Robespierre was morbid and unbalanced, and you may say the same of Bunyan. But if these two men were morbid and unbalanced they were morbid and unbalanced by feeling too much about morality, not by feeling too little. You may say if you like that Robespierre was (in a negative sort of way) mad. But if he was mad he was mad on ethics. He and a company of keen and pugnacious men, intellectually impatient of unreason and wrong, resolved that Europe should not be choked up in every channel by oligarchies and state secrets that already stank. The work was the greatest that was ever given to men to do except that which Christianity did in dragging Europe out of the abyss of barbarism after the Dark Ages. But they did it, and no one else could have done it.
Then I realized the shocking gap between the knowledge and ignorance in science. I understood that all criminology could be worse than useless because it completely overlooked the human aspects it’s supposed to address. Anyone who claims that Robespierre lacked ethical instincts should be ignored in any discussion of ethics. They might as well say that John Bunyan lacked ethical instincts too. You could argue that Robespierre was unsettled and extreme, and you could say the same about Bunyan. But if these two men were indeed unsettled and extreme, it was because they cared too much about morality, not too little. You might argue that Robespierre was (in a kind of negative way) insane. But if he was insane, it was due to his obsession with ethics. He, along with a group of sharp and combative individuals who were intellectually intolerant of injustice and absurdity, decided that Europe should not be suffocated by corrupt governments and state secrets that already reeked. Their task was the greatest ever assigned to humanity, except for what Christianity achieved in pulling Europe out of the depths of barbarism after the Dark Ages. But they did it, and no one else could have accomplished it.
Certainly we could not do it. We are not ready to fight all Europe on a point of justice. We are not ready to fling our most powerful class as mere refuse to the foreigner; we are not ready to shatter the great estates at a stroke; we are not ready to trust ourselves in an awful moment of utter dissolution in order to make all things seem intelligible and all men feel honourable henceforth. We are not strong enough to be as strong as Danton. We are not strong enough to be as weak as Robespierre. There is only one thing, it seems, that we can do. Like a mob of children, we can play games upon this ancient battlefield; we can pull up the bones and skulls of the tyrants and martyrs of that unimaginable war; and we can chatter to each other childishly and innocently about skulls that are imbecile and heads that are criminal. I do not know whose heads are criminal, but I think I know whose are imbecile.
Surely we can’t do it. We're not prepared to fight all of Europe over a matter of justice. We’re not ready to cast our most powerful class aside like trash for outsiders; we aren't ready to dismantle the great estates in one go; we aren’t willing to plunge ourselves into a moment of total chaos just to make everything seem clear and everyone feel honorable from now on. We aren’t strong enough to be as strong as Danton. We aren’t strong enough to be as weak as Robespierre. It seems there’s only one thing we can do. Like a group of children, we can play games on this ancient battlefield; we can dig up the bones and skulls of the tyrants and martyrs from that unfathomable war; and we can chat happily and innocently about skulls that are foolish and heads that are guilty. I don’t know whose heads are guilty, but I think I know whose are foolish.
The Wrath of the Roses
The position of the rose among flowers is like that of the dog among animals. It is so much that both are domesticated as that have some dim feeling that they were always domesticated. There are wild roses and there are wild dogs. I do not know the wild dogs; wild roses are very nice. But nobody ever thinks of either of them if the name is abruptly mentioned in a gossip or a poem. On the other hand, there are tame tigers and tame cobras, but if one says, “I have a cobra in my pocket,” or “There is a tiger in the music-room,” the adjective “tame” has to be somewhat hastily added. If one speaks of beasts one thinks first of wild beasts; if of flowers one thinks first of wild flowers.
The rose's place among flowers is like the dog's place among animals. Both have become so domesticated that there's a vague sense that they were always domesticated. There are wild roses and there are wild dogs. I don’t know about the wild dogs; wild roses are really nice. But no one thinks of either of them when those names come up suddenly in gossip or poetry. Meanwhile, there are tame tigers and tame cobras, but if someone says, “I have a cobra in my pocket,” or “There’s a tiger in the music room,” they need to quickly add the word “tame.” When talking about animals, people usually think of wild animals first; when discussing flowers, wild flowers come to mind first.
But there are two great exceptions; caught so completely into the wheel of man's civilization, entangled so unalterably with his ancient emotions and images, that the artificial product seems more natural than the natural. The dog is not a part of natural history, but of human history; and the real rose grows in a garden. All must regard the elephant as something tremendous, but tamed; and many, especially in our great cultured centres, regard every bull as presumably a mad bull. In the same way we think of most garden trees and plants as fierce creatures of the forest or morass taught at last to endure the curb.
But there are two major exceptions; caught so completely in the cycle of human civilization, intertwined so deeply with his ancient emotions and images, that the artificial product feels more natural than the actual natural one. The dog isn't part of natural history but part of human history; and the real rose grows in a garden. Everyone views the elephant as something enormous, yet tamed; and many, especially in our major cultured cities, assume every bull is likely a mad bull. Similarly, we think of most garden trees and plants as fierce creatures from the forest or swamp that have finally learned to tolerate confinement.
But with the dog and the rose this instinctive principle is reversed. With them we think of the artificial as the archetype; the earth-born as the erratic exception. We think vaguely of the wild dog as if he had run away, like the stray cat. And we cannot help fancying that the wonderful wild rose of our hedges has escaped by jumping over the hedge. Perhaps they fled together, the dog and the rose: a singular and (on the whole) an imprudent elopement. Perhaps the treacherous dog crept from the kennel, and the rebellious rose from the flower-bed, and they fought their way out in company, one with teeth and the other with thorns. Possibly this is why my dog becomes a wild dog when he sees roses, and kicks them anywhere. Possibly this is why the wild rose is called a dog-rose. Possibly not.
But with the dog and the rose, this instinctive idea is flipped. With them, we see the artificial as the standard; the natural as the unusual exception. We can only vaguely think of the wild dog as if he ran away, like a stray cat. And we can't help but imagine that the beautiful wild rose in our hedges jumped over the fence to escape. Maybe they ran away together, the dog and the rose: a unique and (overall) reckless getaway. Maybe the sneaky dog slipped out of the kennel, and the defiant rose broke free from the flower bed, and they fought their way out together, one using teeth and the other using thorns. Perhaps this is why my dog turns into a wild dog when he sees roses and kicks them around. Maybe this is also why the wild rose is called a dog-rose. Maybe not.
But there is this degree of dim barbaric truth in the quaint old-world legend that I have just invented. That in these two cases the civilized product is felt to be the fiercer, nay, even the wilder. Nobody seems to be afraid of a wild dog: he is classed among the jackals and the servile beasts. The terrible cave canem is written over man's creation. When we read “Beware of the Dog,” it means beware of the tame dog: for it is the tame dog that is terrible. He is terrible in proportion as he is tame: it is his loyalty and his virtues that are awful to the stranger, even the stranger within your gates; still more to the stranger halfway over your gates. He is alarmed at such deafening and furious docility; he flees from that great monster of mildness.
But there's a certain raw, barbaric truth in the quirky old-world legend I've just made up. In these two cases, the civilized version seems to be the more intense, even the wilder. Nobody appears to be scared of a wild dog; it's seen as just another jackal or a lowly beast. The warning “cave canem” hangs over humanity's creation. When we see “Beware of the Dog,” it actually means to watch out for the domesticated dog: because it's the domesticated dog that's truly dangerous. Its danger grows the more tame it is; it’s its loyalty and virtues that are frightening to outsiders, even to those who are merely visiting. The stranger is unsettled by such loud and furious obedience; he runs away from that huge monster of gentleness.
Well, I have much the same feeling when I look at the roses ranked red and thick and resolute round a garden; they seem to me bold and even blustering. I hasten to say that I know even less about my own garden than about anybody else's garden. I know nothing about roses, not even their names. I know only the name Rose; and Rose is (in every sense of the word) a Christian name. It is Christian in the one absolute and primordial sense of Christian—that it comes down from the age of pagans. The rose can be seen, and even smelt, in Greek, Latin, Provencal, Gothic, Renascence, and Puritan poems. Beyond this mere word Rose, which (like wine and other noble words) is the same in all the tongues of white men, I know literally nothing. I have heard the more evident and advertised names. I know there is a flower which calls itself the Glory of Dijon—which I had supposed to be its cathedral. In any case, to have produced a rose and a cathedral is to have produced not only two very glorious and humane things, but also (as I maintain) two very soldierly and defiant things. I also know there is a rose called Marechal Niel—note once more the military ring.
Well, I feel pretty much the same way when I look at the bold, vibrant red roses all lined up in a garden; they come across as strong and even a bit showy. I should quickly mention that I know even less about my own garden than I do about anyone else's. I don’t know anything about roses, not even their names. The only name I know is Rose; and Rose is (in every sense of the word) a Christian name. It’s Christian in the most basic and fundamental sense, as it dates back to pagan times. You can find the rose mentioned and even described in poems from Greek, Latin, Provençal, Gothic, Renaissance, and Puritan literature. Apart from the word Rose, which (like wine and other noble terms) is the same in all the languages of people of European descent, I literally know nothing else. I’ve heard of some of the more well-known names. I know there’s a flower called the Glory of Dijon—which I had thought referred to its cathedral. In any case, creating a rose and a cathedral means we’re talking about not just two very beautiful and significant things, but also (as I argue) two very bold and proud things. I also know there's a rose named Marechal Niel—noticing again the military flair.
And when I was walking round my garden the other day I spoke to my gardener (an enterprise of no little valour) and asked him the name of a strange dark rose that had somehow oddly taken my fancy. It was almost as if it reminded me of some turbid element in history and the soul. Its red was not only swarthy, but smoky; there was something congested and wrathful about its colour. It was at once theatrical and sulky. The gardener told me it was called Victor Hugo.
And when I was walking around my garden the other day, I talked to my gardener (which took some courage) and asked him the name of a strange dark rose that had somehow caught my attention. It was almost like it reminded me of some murky part of history and the human spirit. Its red wasn't just dark, but smoky; there was something heavy and angry about its color. It was both dramatic and moody. The gardener told me it was called Victor Hugo.
Therefore it is that I feel all roses to have some secret power about them; even their names may mean something in connexion with themselves, in which they differ from nearly all the sons of men. But the rose itself is royal and dangerous; long as it has remained in the rich house of civilization, it has never laid off its armour. A rose always looks like a mediaeval gentleman of Italy, with a cloak of crimson and a sword: for the thorn is the sword of the rose.
Therefore, I believe that all roses have some kind of hidden power. Even their names might hold special meanings related to them, which sets them apart from almost all human beings. But the rose itself is both elegant and risky; even after all this time in the luxurious realm of civilization, it has never shed its armor. A rose always resembles a medieval gentleman from Italy, wearing a crimson cloak and carrying a sword: the thorn is the sword of the rose.
And there is this real moral in the matter; that we have to remember that civilization as it goes on ought not perhaps to grow more fighting—but ought to grow more ready to fight. The more valuable and reposeful is the order we have to guard, the more vivid should be our ultimate sense of vigilance and potential violence. And when I walk round a summer garden, I can understand how those high mad lords at the end of the Middle Ages, just before their swords clashed, caught at roses for their instinctive emblems of empire and rivalry. For to me any such garden is full of the wars of the roses.
And there's a real lesson in this; we need to remember that as civilization advances, it shouldn't necessarily become more aggressive—rather, it should be more prepared to defend itself. The more precious and peaceful the order we need to protect, the stronger our awareness and readiness for potential conflict should be. When I stroll through a summer garden, I can see how those noble yet reckless lords at the end of the Middle Ages, just before their swords clashed, reached for roses as instinctive symbols of power and competition. For me, any garden like that is rich with the echoes of the Wars of the Roses.
The Gold of Glastonbury
One silver morning I walked into a small grey town of stone, like twenty other grey western towns, which happened to be called Glastonbury; and saw the magic thorn of near two thousand years growing in the open air as casually as any bush in my garden.
One silver morning, I strolled into a small gray stone town, like twenty other gray towns in the West, called Glastonbury. I saw the magical thorn, almost two thousand years old, growing outdoors just as casually as any bush in my garden.
In Glastonbury, as in all noble and humane things, the myth is more important than the history. One cannot say anything stronger of the strange old tale of St. Joseph and the Thorn than that it dwarfs St. Dunstan. Standing among the actual stones and shrubs one thinks of the first century and not of the tenth; one's mind goes back beyond the Saxons and beyond the greatest statesman of the Dark Ages. The tale that Joseph of Arimathea came to Britain is presumably a mere legend. But it is not by any means so incredible or preposterous a legend as many modern people suppose. The popular notion is that the thing is quite comic and inconceivable; as if one said that Wat Tyler went to Chicago, or that John Bunyan discovered the North Pole. We think of Palestine as little, localized and very private, of Christ's followers as poor folk, astricti globis, rooted to their towns or trades; and we think of vast routes of travel and constant world-communications as things of recent and scientific origin. But this is wrong; at least, the last part of it is. It is part of that large and placid lie that the rationalists tell when they say that Christianity arose in ignorance and barbarism. Christianity arose in the thick of a brilliant and bustling cosmopolitan civilization. Long sea-voyages were not so quick, but were quite as incessant as to-day; and though in the nature of things Christ had not many rich followers, it is not unnatural to suppose that He had some. And a Joseph of Arimathea may easily have been a Roman citizen with a yacht that could visit Britain. The same fallacy is employed with the same partisan motive in the case of the Gospel of St. John; which critics say could not have been written by one of the first few Christians because of its Greek transcendentalism and its Platonic tone. I am no judge of the philology, but every human being is a divinely appointed judge of the philosophy: and the Platonic tone seems to me to prove nothing at all. Palestine was not a secluded valley of barbarians; it was an open province of a polyglot empire, overrun with all sorts of people of all kinds of education. To take a rough parallel: suppose some great prophet arose among the Boers in South Africa. The prophet himself might be a simple or unlettered man. But no one who knows the modern world would be surprised if one of his closest followers were a Professor from Heidelberg or an M.A. from Oxford.
In Glastonbury, like in all things noble and humane, the myth is more important than the history. The strange old story of St. Joseph and the Thorn overshadows St. Dunstan. Standing among the actual stones and shrubs, one thinks of the first century rather than the tenth; our minds wander beyond the Saxons and the greatest statesman of the Dark Ages. The tale that Joseph of Arimathea came to Britain is likely just a legend. However, it’s not nearly as unbelievable or ridiculous a legend as many modern people think. The common belief is that the idea is comical and impossible; as if someone claimed Wat Tyler went to Chicago or that John Bunyan discovered the North Pole. We perceive Palestine as small, localized, and very private, viewing Christ's followers as poor folk, strictly tied to their towns or trades; and we consider extensive travel routes and constant global communication as modern inventions. But this is incorrect; at least, the last part of it is. It’s part of the larger, comforting falsehood that rationalists tell when they assert that Christianity emerged from ignorance and barbarism. Christianity emerged in the midst of a vibrant, bustling cosmopolitan civilization. Long sea voyages might not have been quick, but they were just as frequent as they are today; and while it’s true that Christ didn’t have many wealthy followers, it’s not unreasonable to think that He had some. A Joseph of Arimathea might easily have been a Roman citizen with a yacht capable of visiting Britain. The same misconception is used with the same biased intent regarding the Gospel of St. John; critics argue it couldn’t have been written by one of the early Christians due to its Greek transcendentalism and Platonic tone. I’m not an expert in philology, but every person is a divinely appointed judge of philosophy: and the Platonic tone seems to prove nothing at all. Palestine was not a remote valley of barbarians; it was an open province of a diverse empire, filled with all sorts of people of varying levels of education. To draw a rough parallel: imagine a great prophet emerging among the Boers in South Africa. The prophet himself might be a simple or uneducated person. But anyone familiar with the modern world wouldn’t be surprised if one of his closest followers were a professor from Heidelberg or an M.A. from Oxford.
All this is not urged here with any notion of proving that the tale of the thorn is not a myth; as I have said, it probably is a myth. It is urged with the much more important object of pointing out the proper attitude towards such myths.. The proper attitude is one of doubt and hope and of a kind of light mystery. The tale is certainly not impossible; as it is certainly not certain. And through all the ages since the Roman Empire men have fed their healthy fancies and their historical imagination upon the very twilight condition of such tales. But to-day real agnosticism has declined along with real theology. People cannot leave a creed alone; though it is the essence of a creed to be clear. But neither can they leave a legend alone; though it is the essence of a legend to be vague. That sane half scepticism which was found in all rustics, in all ghost tales and fairy tales, seems to be a lost secret. Modern people must make scientifically certain that St. Joseph did or did not go to Glastonbury, despite the fact that it is now quite impossible to find out; and that it does not, in a religious sense, very much matter. But it is essential to feel that he may have gone to Glastonbury: all songs, arts, and dedications branching and blossoming like the thorn, are rooted in some such sacred doubt. Taken thus, not heavily like a problem but lightly like an old tale, the thing does lead one along the road of very strange realities, and the thorn is found growing in the heart of a very secret maze of the soul. Something is really present in the place; some closer contact with the thing which covers Europe but is still a secret. Somehow the grey town and the green bush touch across the world the strange small country of the garden and the grave; there is verily some communion between the thorn tree and the crown of thorns.
All this isn't said with the idea of proving that the story of the thorn isn't a myth; as I've mentioned, it probably is a myth. It's brought up to emphasize the important perspective we should have towards such myths. The right approach is one of doubt, hope, and a sense of light mystery. The story is definitely not impossible; yet it’s also not certain. Throughout the ages since the Roman Empire, people have fueled their vivid imaginations and historical curiosity with the twilight state of such tales. However, today, genuine agnosticism has faded alongside true theology. People can’t leave a belief system alone; even though clarity is the essence of a belief. Yet they also can’t let a legend be; even though vagueness is what defines a legend. That rational skepticism once found in all common folk, in ghost stories and fairy tales, seems to be a lost art. Modern folks feel they must scientifically ascertain whether St. Joseph went to Glastonbury or not, despite the fact that it's impossible to find out; and that, from a religious perspective, it doesn’t really matter too much. But it’s vital to feel that he might have gone to Glastonbury: all songs, arts, and dedicatory gestures that branch and bloom like the thorn are rooted in such sacred doubt. Viewed in this way, not heavily like a problem but lightly like an old story, it guides one through very strange realities, and the thorn can be found growing in the heart of a secret maze of the soul. There is indeed something present in that place; a deeper connection with what encompasses Europe yet remains a secret. Somehow, the grey town and the green bush connect across the world to the peculiar little realm of the garden and the grave; there is truly some bond between the thorn tree and the crown of thorns.
A man never knows what tiny thing will startle him to such ancestral and impersonal tears. Piles of superb masonry will often pass like a common panorama; and on this grey and silver morning the ruined towers of the cathedral stood about me somewhat vaguely like grey clouds. But down in a hollow where the local antiquaries are making a fruitful excavation, a magnificent old ruffian with a pickaxe (whom I believe to have been St. Joseph of Arimathea) showed me a fragment of the old vaulted roof which he had found in the earth; and on the whitish grey stone there was just a faint brush of gold. There seemed a piercing and swordlike pathos, an unexpected fragrance of all forgotten or desecrated things, in the bare survival of that poor little pigment upon the imperishable rock. To the strong shapes of the Roman and the Gothic I had grown accustomed; but that weak touch of colour was at once tawdry and tender, like some popular keepsake. Then I knew that all my fathers were men like me; for the columns and arches were grave, and told of the gravity of the builders; but here was one touch of their gaiety. I almost expected it to fade from the stone as I stared. It was as if men had been able to preserve a fragment of a sunset.
A man can never predict what small thing will bring him to tears that feel like they've come from deep within his ancestry. Majestic buildings often pass by like a regular view; on this gray and silver morning, the ruined towers of the cathedral loomed around me vaguely, like gray clouds. But down in a dip where local historians are digging up records of the past, a magnificent old character with a pickaxe (whom I think was St. Joseph of Arimathea) showed me a piece of the old vaulted roof that he had uncovered; and on the pale gray stone, there was just a faint hint of gold. It carried a piercing and sword-like sadness, an unexpected hint of all forgotten or lost things, in the mere survival of that tiny bit of color on the enduring rock. I had gotten used to the strong shapes of Roman and Gothic architecture; but that fragile touch of color was both gaudy and delicate, like some popular keepsake. Then I understood that all my ancestors were just men like me; the columns and arches were serious, reflecting the solemnity of their builders; but here was a glimpse into their joy. I almost expected it to fade from the stone as I watched. It felt like men had managed to keep a piece of a sunset.
And then I remembered how the artistic critics have always praised the grave tints and the grim shadows of the crumbling cloisters and abbey towers, and how they themselves often dress up like Gothic ruins in the sombre tones of dim grey walls or dark green ivy. I remembered how they hated almost all primary things, but especially primary colours. I knew they were appreciating much more delicately and truly than I the sublime skeleton and the mighty fungoids of the dead Glastonbury. But I stood for an instant alive in the living Glastonbury, gay with gold and coloured like the toy-book of a child.
And then I remembered how art critics have always praised the dark shades and gloomy shadows of the crumbling cloisters and abbey towers, and how they often dress like Gothic ruins in the muted tones of dull gray walls or dark green ivy. I recalled how they almost universally disliked primary things, especially primary colors. I knew they appreciated the sublime remnants and the powerful fungi of the dead Glastonbury in a much more delicate and genuine way than I did. But for a moment, I stood alive in the vibrant Glastonbury, bright with gold and colorful like a child's storybook.
The Futurists
It was a warm golden evening, fit for October, and I was watching (with regret) a lot of little black pigs being turned out of my garden, when the postman handed to me, with a perfunctory haste which doubtless masked his emotion, the Declaration of Futurism. If you ask me what Futurism is, I cannot tell you; even the Futurists themselves seem a little doubtful; perhaps they are waiting for the future to find out. But if you ask me what its Declaration is, I answer eagerly; for I can tell you quite a lot about that. It is written by an Italian named Marinetti, in a magazine which is called Poesia. It is headed “Declaration of Futurism” in enormous letters; it is divided off with little numbers; and it starts straight away like this: “1. We intend to glorify the love of danger, the custom of energy, the strengt of daring. 2. The essential elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity, and revolt. 3. Literature having up to now glorified thoughtful immobility, ecstasy, and slumber, we wish to exalt the aggressive movement, the feverish insomnia, running, the perilous leap, the cuff and the blow.” While I am quite willing to exalt the cuff within reason, it scarcely seems such an entirely new subject for literature as the Futurists imagine. It seems to me that even through the slumber which fills the Siege of Troy, the Song of Roland, and the Orlando Furioso, and in spite of the thoughtful immobility which marks “Pantagruel,” “Henry V,” and the Ballad of Chevy Chase, there are occasional gleams of an admiration for courage, a readiness to glorify the love of danger, and even the “strengt of daring,” I seem to remember, slightly differently spelt, somewhere in literature.
It was a warm golden evening, perfect for October, and I was watching (with regret) a lot of little black pigs being herded out of my garden when the postman handed me, with a hurried indifference that probably hid his feelings, the Declaration of Futurism. If you ask me what Futurism is, I can’t really say; even the Futurists themselves seem a bit unsure; maybe they’re waiting for the future to figure it out. But if you want to know what its Declaration is, I can answer that enthusiastically; I can tell you quite a bit about it. It was written by an Italian named Marinetti, in a magazine called Poesia. It’s titled “Declaration of Futurism” in huge letters; it’s organized with little numbers; and it starts right off like this: “1. We aim to glorify the love of danger, the habit of energy, the strength of daring. 2. The core elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity, and revolt. 3. Literature has, until now, glorified thoughtful immobility, ecstasy, and slumber; we want to celebrate aggressive movement, feverish insomnia, running, the risky leap, the hit and the blow.” While I’m totally open to celebrating the hit within reason, it doesn’t seem like such a completely new topic for literature as the Futurists believe. It seems to me that even amidst the slumber that fills the Siege of Troy, the Song of Roland, and Orlando Furioso, and despite the thoughtful stillness in “Pantagruel,” “Henry V,” and the Ballad of Chevy Chase, there are moments that show an appreciation for courage, a willingness to glorify the love of danger, and even the “strength of daring,” which I feel like I recall, spelled a bit differently, somewhere in literature.
The distinction, however, seems to be that the warriors of the past went in for tournaments, which were at least dangerous for themselves, while the Futurists go in for motor-cars, which are mainly alarming for other people. It is the Futurist in his motor who does the “aggressive movement,” but it is the pedestrians who go in for the “running” and the “perilous leap.” Section No. 4 says, “We declare that the splendour of the world has been enriched with a new form of beauty, the beauty of speed. A race-automobile adorned with great pipes like serpents with explosive breath.... A race-automobile which seems to rush over exploding powder is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.” It is also much easier, if you have the money. It is quite clear, however, that you cannot be a Futurist at all unless you are frightfully rich. Then follows this lucid and soul-stirring sentence: “5. We will sing the praises of man holding the flywheel of which the ideal steering-post traverses the earth impelled itself around the circuit of its own orbit.” What a jolly song it would be—so hearty, and with such a simple swing in it! I can imagine the Futurists round the fire in a tavern trolling out in chorus some ballad with that incomparable refrain; shouting over their swaying flagons some such words as these:
The difference seems to be that warriors of the past participated in tournaments, which were at least dangerous for them, while the Futurists are into motorcars, which are mostly hazardous for others. It’s the Futurist in his car who does the “aggressive movement,” but it’s the pedestrians who engage in the “running” and the “dangerous leap.” Section No. 4 states, “We declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched with a new form of beauty, the beauty of speed. A racecar decorated with huge pipes like serpents with explosive breath... A racecar that seems to fly over exploding powder is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.” It’s also much easier, if you have the cash. However, it’s pretty clear that you can’t be a Futurist at all unless you’re extremely wealthy. Then comes this clear and inspiring sentence: “5. We will sing the praises of the man holding the flywheel of which the ideal steering post traverses the Earth, pushed around the circuit of its own orbit.” What a fun song that would be—so lively, and with such a catchy rhythm! I can picture the Futurists around a fire in a tavern belting out a chorus to some ballad with that amazing refrain; shouting over their tilting mugs some words like these:
A notion came into my head as new as it was bright That poems might be written on the subject of a fight; No praise was given to Lancelot, Achilles, Nap or Corbett, But we will sing the praises of man holding the flywheel of which the ideal steering-post traverses the earth impelled itself around the circuit of its own orbit.
A new and brilliant idea popped into my mind That poems could be written about a fight; No one sang the praises of Lancelot, Achilles, Nap, or Corbett, But we will celebrate the man holding the flywheel, with the ideal steering post moving through the earth, driven by its own orbit.
Then lest it should be supposed that Futurism would be so weak as to permit any democratic restraints upon the violence and levity of the luxurious classes, there would be a special verse in honour of the motors also:
Then, to avoid the assumption that Futurism would be too weak to allow any democratic limits on the violence and frivolity of the wealthy classes, there would be a special verse celebrating the cars as well:
My fathers scaled the mountains in their pilgrimages far, But I feel full of energy while sitting in a car; And petrol is the perfect wine, I lick it and absorb it, So we will sing the praises of man holding the flywheel of which the ideal steering-post traverses the earth impelled itself around the circuit of its own orbit.
My ancestors climbed mountains on their long journeys, But I feel energized just sitting in a car; And gas is the perfect fuel, I savor it and soak it up, So we will celebrate the man behind the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle as it travels through its own course around the planet.
Yes, it would be a rollicking catch. I wish there were space to finish the song, or to detail all the other sections in the Declaration. Suffice it to say that Futurism has a gratifying dislike both of Liberal politics and Christian morals; I say gratifying because, however unfortunately the cross and the cap of liberty have quarrelled, they are always united in the feeble hatred of such silly megalomaniacs as these. They will “glorify war—the only true hygiene of the world—militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of Anarchism, the beautiful ideas which kill, and the scorn of woman.” They will “destroy museums, libraries, and fight against moralism, feminism, and all utilitarian cowardice.” The proclamation ends with an extraordinary passage which I cannot understand at all, all about something that is going to happen to Mr. Marinetti when he is forty. As far as I can make out he will then be killed by other poets, who will be overwhelmed with love and admiration for him. “They will come against us from far away, from everywhere, leaping on the cadence of their first poems, clawing the air with crooked fingers and scenting at the Academy gates the good smell of our decaying minds.” Well, it is satisfactory to be told, however obscurely, that this sort of thing is coming to an end some day, to be replaced by some other tomfoolery. And though I commonly refrain from clawing the air with crooked fingers, I can assure Mr. Marinetti that this omission does not disqualify me, and that I scent the good smell of his decaying mind all right.
Yes, it would be a wild catch. I wish there were space to finish the song or to cover all the other parts of the Declaration. It’s enough to say that Futurism really doesn’t like either Liberal politics or Christian morals; I say it’s gratifying because, despite the unfortunate conflict between the cross and the cap of liberty, they are always joined in their weak disdain for silly megalomaniacs like these. They will “glorify war—the only true hygiene of the world—militarism, patriotism, the destructive act of Anarchism, the beautiful ideas that kill, and the contempt for women.” They will “destroy museums, libraries, and fight against moralism, feminism, and all forms of cowardice that focus on utility.” The proclamation wraps up with a bizarre statement that I can’t quite grasp, about something that’s supposed to happen to Mr. Marinetti when he turns forty. From what I understand, he will be killed by other poets who will be filled with love and admiration for him. “They will come at us from far away, from everywhere, jumping to the rhythm of their first poems, clawing the air with bent fingers and smelling at the Academy gates the foul stench of our decaying minds.” Well, it’s reassuring to be told, even if it’s a bit vague, that this kind of nonsense will eventually end, to be replaced by another brand of foolishness. And even though I usually don’t claw the air with bent fingers, I can assure Mr. Marinetti that this doesn’t disqualify me, and that I definitely smell the foul stench of his decaying mind.
I think the only other point of Futurism is contained in this sentence: “It is in Italy that we hurl this overthrowing and inflammatory Declaration, with which to-day we found Futurism, for we will free Italy from her numberless museums which cover her with countless cemeteries.” I think that rather sums it up. The best way, one would think, of freeing oneself from a museum would be not to go there. Mr. Marinetti's fathers and grandfathers freed Italy from prisons and torture chambers, places where people were held by force. They, being in the bondage of “moralism,” attacked Governments as unjust, real Governments, with real guns. Such was their utilitarian cowardice that they would die in hundreds upon the bayonets of Austria. I can well imagine why Mr. Marinetti in his motor-car does not wish to look back at the past. If there was one thing that could make him look smaller even than before it is that roll of dead men's drums and that dream of Garibaldi going by. The old Radical ghosts go by, more real than the living men, to assault I know not what ramparted city in hell. And meanwhile the Futurist stands outside a museum in a warlike attitude, and defiantly tells the official at the turnstile that he will never, never come in.
I think the only other point of Futurism is in this sentence: “It is in Italy that we throw down this groundbreaking and provocative Declaration, with which we establish Futurism today, to liberate Italy from the countless museums that turn her into a graveyard.” I think that pretty much sums it up. You’d think the best way to free oneself from a museum would be to simply not go there. Mr. Marinetti's predecessors freed Italy from prisons and torture chambers, places where people were held against their will. They, being shackled by “moralism,” fought against Governments as unjust, real Governments, with real weapons. Their practical cowardice was such that they would die by the hundreds on the bayonets of Austria. I can easily understand why Mr. Marinetti, in his car, doesn’t want to look back at the past. If there’s anything that could make him feel even smaller, it’s the echo of dead men’s drums and the vision of Garibaldi passing by. The old Radical ghosts pass by, more tangible than the living, to assault, I know not what fortified city in hell. And meanwhile, the Futurist stands outside a museum in a confrontational stance and defiantly tells the official at the ticket booth that he will never, ever go in.
There is a certain solid use in fools. It is not so much that they rush in where angels fear to tread, but rather that they let out what devils intend to do. Some perversion of folly will float about nameless and pervade a whole society; then some lunatic gives it a name, and henceforth it is harmless. With all really evil things, when the danger has appeared the danger is over. Now it may be hoped that the self-indulgent sprawlers of Poesia have put a name once and for all to their philosophy. In the case of their philosophy, to put a name to it is to put an end to it. Yet their philosophy has been very widespread in our time; it could hardly have been pointed and finished except by this perfect folly. The creed of which (please God) this is the flower and finish consists ultimately in this statement: that it is bold and spirited to appeal to the future. Now, it is entirely weak and half-witted to appeal to the future. A brave man ought to ask for what he wants, not for what he expects to get. A brave man who wants Atheism in the future calls himself an Atheist; a brave man who wants Socialism, a Socialist; a brave man who wants Catholicism, a Catholic. But a weak-minded man who does not know what he wants in the future calls himself a Futurist.
There’s a certain solid value in fools. It’s not that they rush in where angels fear to tread, but rather that they reveal what devils plan to do. Some form of foolishness will linger nameless and spread through an entire society; then some crazy person gives it a name, and from that point on, it becomes harmless. With all truly evil things, once the danger becomes apparent, the danger has passed. Now, we can hope that the self-indulgent dreamers of Poesia have named their philosophy once and for all. For their philosophy, naming it means putting an end to it. However, their philosophy has been quite widespread in our time; it could hardly have been articulated and wrapped up except by this perfect folly. The core belief of which (please God) this is the culmination states that it is bold and daring to look to the future. But, in truth, it’s entirely weak and foolish to look to the future. A brave person should ask for what they want, not for what they expect to get. A brave person who desires Atheism in the future calls themselves an Atheist; a brave person who desires Socialism, a Socialist; a brave person who desires Catholicism, a Catholic. But a weak-minded person who doesn’t know what they want in the future calls themselves a Futurist.
They have driven all the pigs away. Oh that they had driven away the prigs, and left the pigs! The sky begins to droop with darkness and all birds and blossoms to descend unfaltering into the healthy underworld where things slumber and grow. There was just one true phrase of Mr. Marinetti's about himself: “the feverish insomnia.” The whole universe is pouring headlong to the happiness of the night. It is only the madman who has not the courage to sleep.
They have chased all the pigs away. Oh, if only they had chased away the snobs and left the pigs! The sky is starting to darken, and all the birds and flowers are sinking steadily into the rich underworld where things rest and grow. There was just one true statement from Mr. Marinetti about himself: “the feverish insomnia.” The entire universe is rushing toward the joy of the night. Only the madman lacks the courage to sleep.
Dukes
The Duc de Chambertin-Pommard was a small but lively relic of a really aristocratic family, the members of which were nearly all Atheists up to the time of the French Revolution, but since that event (beneficial in such various ways) had been very devout. He was a Royalist, a Nationalist, and a perfectly sincere patriot in that particular style which consists of ceaselessly asserting that one's country is not so much in danger as already destroyed. He wrote cheery little articles for the Royalist Press entitled “The End of France” or “The Last Cry,” or what not, and he gave the final touches to a picture of the Kaiser riding across a pavement of prostrate Parisians with a glow of patriotic exultation. He was quite poor, and even his relations had no money. He walked briskly to all his meals at a little open cafe, and he looked just like everybody else.
The Duc de Chambertin-Pommard was a small but energetic remnant of a genuinely aristocratic family, most of whom were nearly all atheists until the French Revolution. After that event, which had many positive effects, they became very devout. He was a Royalist, a Nationalist, and a truly sincere patriot in that specific way of always claiming that one's country is not just in danger but already destroyed. He wrote cheerful little articles for the Royalist Press titled “The End of France” or “The Last Cry,” among others, and he put the finishing touches on a painting of the Kaiser riding over a pavement of fallen Parisians with a sense of patriotic pride. He was quite poor, and even his relatives had no money. He walked quickly to all his meals at a small outdoor café, and he looked just like everyone else.
Living in a country where aristocracy does not exist, he had a high opinion of it. He would yearn for the swords and the stately manners of the Pommards before the Revolution—most of whom had been (in theory) Republicans. But he turned with a more practical eagerness to the one country in Europe where the tricolour has never flown and men have never been roughly equalized before the State. The beacon and comfort of his life was England, which all Europe sees clearly as the one pure aristocracy that remains. He had, moreover, a mild taste for sport and kept an English bulldog, and he believed the English to be a race of bulldogs, of heroic squires, and hearty yeomen vassals, because he read all this in English Conservative papers, written by exhausted little Levantine clerks. But his reading was naturally for the most part in the French Conservative papers (though he knew English well), and it was in these that he first heard of the horrible Budget. There he read of the confiscatory revolution planned by the Lord Chancellor of the Exchequer, the sinister Georges Lloyd. He also read how chivalrously Prince Arthur Balfour of Burleigh had defied that demagogue, assisted by Austen the Lord Chamberlain and the gay and witty Walter Lang. And being a brisk partisan and a capable journalist, he decided to pay England a special visit and report to his paper upon the struggle.
Living in a country without aristocracy, he held it in high regard. He longed for the swords and dignified manners of the Pommards before the Revolution—most of whom had technically been Republicans. However, he looked with greater enthusiasm toward the one country in Europe where the tricolor flag has never flown and men have never been forcibly made equal by the State. His guiding light and solace was England, recognized by all of Europe as the last bastion of true aristocracy. He also had a mild interest in sports and owned an English bulldog, believing that the English were a breed of bulldogs, heroic squires, and hearty yeomen vassals because he read that in English Conservative papers, written by weary little Levantine clerks. However, most of his reading was in French Conservative papers (even though he was well-versed in English), and it was in these that he first learned about the dreadful Budget. There he read about the confiscatory revolution planned by the Lord Chancellor of the Exchequer, the ominous Georges Lloyd. He also learned how chivalrous Prince Arthur Balfour of Burleigh had stood up to that demagogue, with the support of Austen the Lord Chamberlain and the charming and witty Walter Lang. Being an enthusiastic partisan and a skilled journalist, he decided to make a special trip to England and report on the struggle for his paper.
He drove for an eternity in an open fly through beautiful woods, with a letter of introduction in his pocket to one duke, who was to introduce him to another duke. The endless and numberless avenues of bewildering pine woods gave him a queer feeling that he was driving through the countless corridors of a dream. Yet the vast silence and freshness healed his irritation at modern ugliness and unrest. It seemed a background fit for the return of chivalry. In such a forest a king and all his court might lose themselves hunting or a knight errant might perish with no companion but God. The castle itself when he reached it was somewhat smaller than he had expected, but he was delighted with its romantic and castellated outline. He was just about to alight when somebody opened two enormous gates at the side and the vehicle drove briskly through.
He drove for what felt like forever in an open carriage through beautiful woods, with a letter of introduction to one duke in his pocket, who was supposed to introduce him to another duke. The endless and countless paths of confusing pine woods gave him a strange sensation, as if he were driving through the many corridors of a dream. Yet the vast silence and freshness eased his irritation with modern ugliness and chaos. It felt like the perfect setting for the return of chivalry. In such a forest, a king and his entire court could easily get lost while hunting, or a wandering knight might perish with only God as his companion. When he finally reached the castle, it was a bit smaller than he had expected, but he was thrilled by its romantic, castle-like silhouette. Just as he was about to get out, someone opened two huge gates at the side, and the carriage drove quickly through.
“That is not the house?” he inquired politely of the driver.
“Is that not the house?” he asked politely of the driver.
“No, sir,” said the driver, controlling the corners of his mouth. “The lodge, sir.”
“No, sir,” said the driver, trying to keep a straight face. “The lodge, sir.”
“Indeed,” said the Duc de Chambertin-Pommard, “that is where the Duke's land begins?”
“Yeah,” said the Duc de Chambertin-Pommard, “is that where the Duke's land starts?”
“Oh no, sir,” said the man, quite in distress. “We've been in his Grace's land all day.”
“Oh no, sir,” the man said, clearly upset. “We've been on his Grace's land all day.”
The Frenchman thanked him and leant back in the carriage, feeling as if everything were incredibly huge and vast, like Gulliver in the country of the Brobdingnags.
The Frenchman thanked him and leaned back in the carriage, feeling as if everything was incredibly huge and vast, like Gulliver in the land of the Brobdingnags.
He got out in front of a long facade of a somewhat severe building, and a little careless man in a shooting jacket and knickerbockers ran down the steps. He had a weak, fair moustache and dull, blue, babyish eyes; his features were insignificant, but his manner extremely pleasant and hospitable, This was the Duke of Aylesbury, perhaps the largest landowner in Europe, and known only as a horsebreeder until he began to write abrupt little letters about the Budget. He led the French Duke upstairs, talking trivialties in a hearty way, and there presented him to another and more important English oligarch, who got up from a writing-desk with a slightly senile jerk. He had a gleaming bald head and glasses; the lower part of his face was masked with a short, dark beard, which did not conceal a beaming smile, not unmixed with sharpness. He stooped a little as he ran, like some sedentary head clerk or cashier; and even without the cheque-book and papers on his desk would have given the impression of a merchant or man of business. He was dressed in a light grey check jacket. He was the Duke of Windsor, the great Unionist statesman. Between these two loose, amiable men, the little Gaul stood erect in his black frock coat, with the monstrous gravity of French ceremonial good manners. This stiffness led the Duke of Windsor to put him at his ease (like a tenant), and he said, rubbing his hands:
He stepped out in front of a long, somewhat austere building, and a slightly disheveled man in a shooting jacket and knickerbockers hurried down the steps. He had a weak, light mustache and dull, babyish blue eyes; his features were unremarkable, but his demeanor was extremely friendly and welcoming. This was the Duke of Aylesbury, possibly the largest landowner in Europe, who was only known as a horse breeder until he started writing abrupt little letters about the Budget. He led the French Duke upstairs, chatting about trivial matters in a cheerful way, and then introduced him to another, more prominent English aristocrat, who rose from a writing desk with a slightly shaky movement. He had a shiny bald head and glasses; the lower part of his face was covered by a short dark beard, which did not hide his bright smile, mixed with a hint of sharpness. He slouched a bit as he moved, like a sedentary office worker or cashier; and even without the checkbook and papers on his desk, he would have given off the vibe of a businessman. He was dressed in a light gray check jacket. He was the Duke of Windsor, the notable Unionist statesman. Between these two relaxed, friendly men, the little Frenchman stood tall in his black frock coat, embodying the serious gravity of French formal good manners. This stiffness prompted the Duke of Windsor to make him feel more at ease (like a tenant), and he said, rubbing his hands:
“I was delighted with your letter... delighted. I shall be very pleased if I can give you—er—any details.”
“I was really happy to receive your letter... really happy. I’ll be glad to provide you with—um—any details.”
“My visit,” said the Frenchman, “scarcely suffices for the scientific exhaustion of detail. I seek only the idea. The idea, that is always the immediate thing.”
“My visit,” said the Frenchman, “barely covers the scientific details. I’m only looking for the concept. The concept, that’s always the most important thing.”
“Quite so,” said the other rapidly; “quite so... the idea.”
“Exactly,” said the other quickly; “exactly... the idea.”
Feeling somehow that it was his turn (the English Duke having done all that could be required of him) Pommard had to say: “I mean the idea of aristocracy. I regard this as the last great battle for the idea. Aristocracy, like any other thing, must justify itself to mankind. Aristocracy is good because it preserves a picture of human dignity in a world where that dignity is often obscured by servile necessities. Aristocracy alone can keep a certain high reticence of soul and body, a certain noble distance between the sexes.”
Feeling that it was his turn (the English Duke having done everything expected of him), Pommard had to say: “I mean the concept of aristocracy. I see this as the final big fight for that idea. Aristocracy, like anything else, has to prove its worth to humanity. Aristocracy is valuable because it maintains a vision of human dignity in a world where that dignity is often hidden by servile needs. Aristocracy alone can uphold a certain level of grace in both spirit and body, a certain noble distance between the sexes.”
The Duke of Aylesbury, who had a clouded recollection of having squirted soda-water down the neck of a Countess on the previous evening, looked somewhat gloomy, as if lamenting the theoretic spirit of the Latin race. The elder Duke laughed heartily, and said: “Well, well, you know; we English are horribly practical. With us the great question is the land. Out here in the country ... do you know this part?”
The Duke of Aylesbury, who vaguely remembered squirting soda water down a Countess's neck the night before, looked a bit gloomy, as if he were mourning the idealistic nature of the Latin race. The older Duke laughed heartily and said, “Well, well, you know; we English are extremely practical. For us, the big question is the land. Out here in the country ... do you know this area?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the Frenchmen eagerly. “I See what you mean. The country! the old rustic life of humanity! A holy war upon the bloated and filthy towns. What right have these anarchists to attack your busy and prosperous countrysides? Have they not thriven under your management? Are not the English villages always growing larger and gayer under the enthusiastic leadership of their encouraging squires? Have you not the Maypole? Have you not Merry England?”
“Yes, yes,” the Frenchmen exclaimed eagerly. “I get what you're saying. The countryside! The good old simple life of people! A righteous battle against the overgrown and dirty cities. What right do these anarchists have to assault your thriving and successful rural areas? Haven't they prospered under your guidance? Aren't the English villages always expanding and becoming more vibrant under the passionate leadership of their supportive landowners? Don’t you have the Maypole? Don’t you have Merry England?”
The Duke of Aylesbury made a noise in his throat, and then said very indistinctly: “They all go to London.”
The Duke of Aylesbury cleared his throat and then said very softly, “They all go to London.”
“All go to London?” repeated Pommard, with a blank stare. “Why?”
“All going to London?” Pommard repeated, staring blankly. “Why?”
This time nobody answered, and Pommard had to attack again.
This time, no one answered, and Pommard had to try again.
“The spirit of aristocracy is essentially opposed to the greed of the industrial cities. Yet in France there are actually one or two nobles so vile as to drive coal and gas trades, and drive them hard.” The Duke of Windsor looked at the carpet. The Duke of Aylesbury went and looked out of the window. At length the latter said: “That's rather stiff, you know. One has to look after one's own business in town as well.”
“The spirit of aristocracy is fundamentally against the greed of industrial cities. Still, in France, there are a couple of nobles so low that they actually go into coal and gas trades, and do so aggressively.” The Duke of Windsor stared at the carpet. The Duke of Aylesbury walked over to the window and looked out. Finally, the latter said, “That's a bit harsh, you know. One has to take care of their own business in the city too.”
“Do not say it,” cried the little Frenchman, starting up. “I tell you all Europe is one fight between business and honour. If we do not fight for honour, who will? What other right have we poor two-legged sinners to titles and quartered shields except that we staggeringly support some idea of giving things which cannot be demanded and avoiding things which cannot be punished? Our only claim is to be a wall across Christendom against the Jew pedlars and pawnbrokers, against the Goldsteins and the—”
“Don’t say that,” yelled the little Frenchman, jumping up. “I’m telling you, all of Europe is in a battle between business and honor. If we don’t fight for honor, who will? What right do we, poor two-legged sinners, have to titles and heraldic shields except that we awkwardly uphold some idea of offering things that can’t be demanded and dodging things that can’t be punished? Our only claim is to stand as a barrier across Christendom against the Jewish peddlers and pawnbrokers, against the Goldsteins and the—”
The Duke of Aylesbury swung round with his hands in his pockets.
The Duke of Aylesbury turned around with his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, I say,” he said, “you've been readin' Lloyd George. Nobody but dirty Radicals can say a word against Goldstein.”
“Oh, I say,” he said, “you've been reading Lloyd George. Only dirty Radicals would say anything against Goldstein.”
“I certainly cannot permit,” said the elder Duke, rising rather shakily, “the respected name of Lord Goldstein—”
“I definitely can’t allow,” said the older Duke, standing up a bit unsteadily, “the esteemed name of Lord Goldstein—”
He intended to be impressive, but there was something in the Frenchman's eye that is not so easily impressed; there shone there that steel which is the mind of France.
He wanted to make an impression, but there was something in the Frenchman's eye that wasn't easily impressed; there was a glint of that steel which represents the mind of France.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I think I have all the details now. You have ruled England for four hundred years. By your own account you have not made the countryside endurable to men. By your own account you have helped the victory of vulgarity and smoke. And by your own account you are hand and glove with those very money-grubbers and adventurers whom gentlemen have no other business but to keep at bay. I do not know what your people will do; but my people would kill you.”
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I think I have all the details now. You have governed England for four hundred years. By your own admission, you have not made the countryside livable for people. By your own admission, you have contributed to the rise of mediocrity and pollution. And by your own admission, you are closely allied with those very money-hungry opportunists whom gentlemen should only aim to keep away. I don’t know what your people will do; but my people would kill you.”
Some seconds afterwards he had left the Duke's house, and some hours afterwards the Duke's estate.
Some seconds later, he left the Duke's house, and a few hours after that, he left the Duke's estate.
The Glory of Grey
I suppose that, taking this summer as a whole, people will not call it an appropriate time for praising the English climate. But for my part I will praise the English climate till I die—even if I die of the English climate. There is no weather so good as English weather. Nay, in a real sense there is no weather at all anywhere but in England. In France you have much sun and some rain; in Italy you have hot winds and cold winds; in Scotland and Ireland you have rain, either thick or thin; in America you have hells of heat and cold, and in the Tropics you have sunstrokes varied by thunderbolts. But all these you have on a broad and brutal scale, and you settle down into contentment or despair. Only in our own romantic country do you have the strictly romantic thing called Weather; beautiful and changing as a woman. The great English landscape painters (neglected now like everything that is English) have this salient distinction: that the Weather is not the atmosphere of their pictures; it is the subject of their pictures. They paint portraits of the Weather. The Weather sat to Constable. The Weather posed for Turner, and a deuce of a pose it was. This cannot truly be said of the greatest of their continental models or rivals. Poussin and Claude painted objects, ancient cities or perfect Arcadian shepherds through a clear medium of the climate. But in the English painters Weather is the hero; with Turner an Adelphi hero, taunting, flashing and fighting, melodramatic but really magnificent. The English climate, a tall and terrible protagonist, robed in rain and thunder and snow and sunlight, fills the whole canvas and the whole foreground. I admit the superiority of many other French things besides French art. But I will not yield an inch on the superiority of English weather and weather-painting. Why, the French have not even got a word for Weather: and you must ask for the weather in French as if you were asking for the time in English.
I guess that, if you look at this summer overall, people won’t exactly say it’s the best time to praise the English climate. But for me, I will defend the English climate until the day I die—even if I die because of it. There’s no weather better than English weather. In fact, in a real sense, there’s no weather anywhere but in England. In France, you get lots of sun and some rain; in Italy, you have hot winds and cold winds; in Scotland and Ireland, it’s all about rain, whether heavy or light; in America, it’s extreme heat and cold, and in the Tropics, you have sunstrokes interrupted by thunderstorms. But all those places deal with extremes, and you either feel satisfied or hopeless. Only in our own romantic country do you get that truly romantic thing called Weather; beautiful and ever-changing like a woman. The great English landscape painters (now overlooked like everything else English) have a key difference: the Weather isn’t just the background of their paintings; it’s the focus. They paint portraits of the Weather. The Weather posed for Constable. The Weather was featured in Turner’s work, and what a scene it was. This can’t really be said of the best of their continental counterparts. Poussin and Claude painted objects, ancient cities, or perfect Arcadian shepherds through a clear lens of the climate. But for English painters, Weather is the star; with Turner as a dramatic hero, challenging, sparkling, and battling—it’s melodramatic but truly spectacular. The English climate, a tall and fierce protagonist draped in rain, thunder, snow, and sunshine, dominates the entire canvas and foreground. I acknowledge the superiority of many other French things beyond art. But I won’t back down on the superiority of English weather and weather painting. After all, the French don’t even have a word for Weather; you have to ask for the weather in French as if you were asking what time it is in English.
Then, again, variety of climate should always go with stability of abode. The weather in the desert is monotonous; and as a natural consequence the Arabs wander about, hoping it may be different somewhere. But an Englishman's house is not only his castle; it is his fairy castle. Clouds and colours of every varied dawn and eve are perpetually touching and turning it from clay to gold, or from gold to ivory. There is a line of woodland beyond a corner of my garden which is literally different on every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days. Sometimes it seems as near as a hedge, and sometimes as far as a faint and fiery evening cloud. The same principle (by the way) applies to the difficult problem of wives. Variability is one of the virtues of a woman. It avoids the crude requirement of polygamy. So long as you have one good wife you are sure to have a spiritual harem.
Then again, different climates should always come with a stable home. The weather in the desert is unchanging, which is why the Arabs move around, hoping for a change. But an Englishman's home is not just a fortress; it's a magical castle. The clouds and colors of every unique dawn and dusk constantly shift and transform it from clay to gold or from gold to ivory. There’s a line of trees beyond a corner of my garden that looks different every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days. Sometimes it feels as close as a hedge, and other times as distant as a faint, glowing evening cloud. This same idea (by the way) applies to the tricky issue of wives. Variety is one of a woman's strengths. It takes away the harsh necessity of polygamy. As long as you have one great wife, you can be sure to have a spiritual harem.
Now, among the heresies that are spoken in this matter is the habit of calling a grey day a “colourless” day. Grey is a colour, and can be a very powerful and pleasing colour. There is also an insulting style of speech about “one grey day just like another” You might as well talk about one green tree just like another. A grey clouded sky is indeed a canopy between us and the sun; so is a green tree, if it comes to that. But the grey umbrellas differ as much as the green in their style and shape, in their tint and tilt. One day may be grey like steel, and another grey like dove's plumage. One may seem grey like the deathly frost, and another grey like the smoke of substantial kitchens. No things could seem further apart than the doubt of grey and the decision of scarlet. Yet grey and red can mingle, as they do in the morning clouds: and also in a sort of warm smoky stone of which they build the little towns in the west country. In those towns even the houses that are wholly grey have a glow in them; as if their secret firesides were such furnaces of hospitality as faintly to transfuse the walls like walls of cloud. And wandering in those westland parts I did once really find a sign-post pointing up a steep crooked path to a town that was called Clouds. I did not climb up to it; I feared that either the town would not be good enough for the name, or I should not be good enough for the town. Anyhow, the little hamlets of the warm grey stone have a geniality which is not achieved by all the artistic scarlet of the suburbs; as if it were better to warm one's hands at the ashes of Glastonbury than at the painted flames of Croydon.
Now, one of the misconceptions about this is the habit of calling a grey day a “colorless” day. Grey is a color and can be a very strong and beautiful one. There's also a dismissive way of saying “one grey day is just like another.” You might as well say one green tree is just like another. A grey cloudy sky is indeed a cover between us and the sun, just like a green tree is. But grey umbrellas vary just as much as green ones in style and shape, in their hue and angle. One day might be grey like steel, and another like a dove's feathers. One can appear grey like deathly frost, while another looks grey like the smoke from busy kitchens. It’s hard to imagine anything more different than the uncertainty of grey and the certainty of scarlet. Yet grey and red can blend, as they do in morning clouds, and in a kind of warm, smoky stone used to build little towns in the west. In those towns, even the houses that are completely grey have a warmth within them, as if their cozy interiors were such furnaces of welcome that they faintly colored the walls like a cloak of cloud. While wandering in those western regions, I once found a sign pointing up a steep, winding path to a town called Clouds. I didn't climb up to it; I worried that either the town wouldn't live up to its name, or I wouldn't be good enough for it. Anyway, the small villages of warm grey stone have a friendliness that's not matched by all the artistic scarlet of the suburbs; as if it’s better to warm your hands at the embers of Glastonbury than at the painted flames of Croydon.
Again, the enemies of grey (those astute, daring and evil-minded men) are fond of bringing forward the argument that colours suffer in grey weather, and that strong sunlight is necessary to all the hues of heaven and earth. Here again there are two words to be said; and it is essential to distinguish. It is true that sun is needed to burnish and bring into bloom the tertiary and dubious colours; the colour of peat, pea-soup, Impressionist sketches, brown velvet coats, olives, grey and blue slates, the complexions of vegetarians, the tints of volcanic rock, chocolate, cocoa, mud, soot, slime, old boots; the delicate shades of these do need the sunlight to bring out the faint beauty that often clings to them. But if you have a healthy negro taste in colour, if you choke your garden with poppies and geraniums, if you paint your house sky-blue and scarlet, if you wear, let us say, a golden top-hat and a crimson frock-coat, you will not only be visible on the greyest day, but you will notice that your costume and environment produce a certain singular effect. You will find, I mean, that rich colours actually look more luminous on a grey day, because they are seen against a sombre background and seem to be burning with a lustre of their own. Against a dark sky all flowers look like fireworks. There is something strange about them, at once vivid and secret, like flowers traced in fire in the phantasmal garden of a witch. A bright blue sky is necessarily the high light of the picture; and its brightness kills all the bright blue flowers. But on a grey day the larkspur looks like fallen heaven; the red daisies are really the red lost eyes of day; and the sunflower is the vice-regent of the sun.
Again, those who dislike gray (those clever, bold, and ill-intentioned people) love to argue that colors fade in gray weather, and that strong sunlight is essential for all the shades of heaven and earth. Once again, there are two points to address, and it's important to clarify. It's true that the sun is needed to enhance and bring out the vibrancy of tertiary and uncertain colors—the color of peat, pea soup, Impressionist paintings, brown velvet coats, olives, gray and blue slates, the complexions of vegetarians, the hues of volcanic rock, chocolate, cocoa, mud, soot, slime, old boots; these delicate shades do require sunlight to reveal the subtle beauty that often lingers in them. But if you have a vibrant taste in color, if you fill your garden with poppies and geraniums, if you paint your house sky blue and scarlet, if you wear, let's say, a golden top hat and a crimson frock coat, you won’t just stand out on the grayest day, but you’ll notice that your outfit and surroundings create a unique effect. You’ll find that rich colors actually appear more vibrant on a gray day because they're set against a dark backdrop and seem to glow with their own light. Against a dark sky, all flowers resemble fireworks. There’s something odd about them, at once bright and mysterious, like flowers outlined in flames in a witch’s surreal garden. A bright blue sky is naturally the highlight of the scene; and its brightness drowns out all the bright blue flowers. But on a gray day, the larkspur looks like fallen heaven; the red daisies are truly the lost fiery eyes of day; and the sunflower is the deputy of the sun.
Lastly, there is this value about the colour that men call colourless; that it suggests in some way the mixed and troubled average of existence, especially in its quality of strife and expectation and promise. Grey is a colour that always seems on the eve of changing to some other colour; of brightening into blue or blanching into white or bursting into green and gold. So we may be perpetually reminded of the indefinite hope that is in doubt itself; and when there is grey weather in our hills or grey hairs in our heads, perhaps they may still remind us of the morning.
Lastly, there's this idea about the color that people call colorless; it somehow hints at the mixed and troubled average of life, especially in its aspects of struggle, anticipation, and potential. Grey is a color that always seems on the verge of changing into something else; it’s about to brighten into blue, fade into white, or burst into green and gold. So, we might be constantly reminded of the uncertain hope that exists even in doubt itself; when we see grey weather on our hills or grey hairs on our heads, maybe they can still remind us of the dawn.
The Anarchist
I have now lived for about two months in the country, and have gathered the last rich autumnal fruit of a rural life, which is a strong desire to see London. Artists living in my neighbourhood talk rapturously of the rolling liberty of the landscape, the living peace of woods. But I say to them (with a slight Buckinghamshire accent), “Ah, that is how Cockneys feel. For us real old country people the country is reality; it is the town that is romance. Nature is as plain as one of her pigs, as commonplace, as comic, and as healthy. But civilization is full of poetry, even if it be sometimes an evil poetry. The streets of London are paved with gold; that is, with the very poetry of avarice.” With these typically bucolic words I touch my hat and go ambling away on a stick, with a stiffness of gait proper to the Oldest Inhabitant; while in my more animated moments I am taken for the Village Idiot. Exchanging heavy but courteous salutations with other gaffers, I reach the station, where I ask for a ticket for London where the king lives. Such a journey, mingled of provincial fascination and fear, did I successfully perform only a few days ago; and alone and helpless in the capital, found myself in the tangle of roads around the Marble Arch.
I've now been living in the countryside for about two months, and I've collected the last rich autumn fruits of rural life, which is a strong desire to see London. The artists in my area rave about the open freedom of the landscape and the peacefulness of the woods. But I say to them (with a slight Buckinghamshire accent), “Ah, that’s how Cockneys feel. For us true country folks, the countryside is reality; it's the city that's romantic. Nature is as straightforward as one of her pigs, as ordinary, as humorous, and as healthy. But civilization is full of poetry, even if it can sometimes be a darker kind of poetry. The streets of London are paved with gold; that is, with the very poetry of greed.” With these typically rural words, I tip my hat and stroll away on a stick, moving with the stiffness proper to the Oldest Inhabitant; while in my more energetic moments, I’m mistaken for the Village Idiot. After exchanging heavy but polite greetings with other old-timers, I arrive at the station and ask for a ticket to London, where the king lives. Such a trip, filled with a mix of provincial curiosity and fear, is one I accomplished just a few days ago; and alone and bewildered in the capital, I found myself in the maze of streets around Marble Arch.
A faint prejudice may possess the mind that I have slightly exaggerated my rusticity and remoteness. And yet it is true as I came to that corner of the Park that, for some unreasonable reason of mood, I saw all London as a strange city and the civilization itself as one enormous whim. The Marble Arch itself, in its new insular position, with traffic turning dizzily all about it, struck me as a placid monstrosity. What could be wilder than to have a huge arched gateway, with people going everywhere except under it? If I took down my front door and stood it up all by itself in the middle of my back garden, my village neighbours (in their simplicity) would probably stare. Yet the Marble Arch is now precisely that; an elaborate entrance and the only place by which no one can enter. By the new arrangement its last weak pretence to be a gate has been taken away. The cabman still cannot drive through it, but he can have the delights of riding round it, and even (on foggy nights) the rapture of running into it. It has been raised from the rank of a fiction to the dignity of an obstacle.
A slight bias might lead one to think that I’ve exaggerated my rural background and isolation. Yet, as I arrived at that corner of the Park, I felt, for some odd reason, that all of London appeared as a strange city and civilization itself as an immense quirk. The Marble Arch, in its new isolated spot, with traffic swirling around it, seemed to me like a calm monstrosity. What could be stranger than having a massive arched gateway, with people heading everywhere except underneath it? If I were to take my front door and set it up alone in the middle of my backyard, my simple village neighbors would likely just stare. But the Marble Arch is exactly that; a grand entrance and the only place no one can actually go through. With the new setup, its last feeble claim to being a gate has been stripped away. The cab driver still can't drive through it, but he can enjoy the thrill of circling it, and even (on foggy nights) the excitement of colliding with it. It has been elevated from being a mere illusion to a real obstacle.
As I began to walk across a corner of the Park, this sense of what is strange in cities began to mingle with some sense of what is stern as well as strange. It was one of those queer-coloured winter days when a watery sky changes to pink and grey and green, like an enormous opal. The trees stood up grey and angular, as if in attitudes of agony; and here and there on benches under the trees sat men as grey and angular as they. It was cold even for me, who had eaten a large breakfast and purposed to eat a perfectly Gargantuan lunch; it was colder for the men under the trees. And to eastward through the opalescent haze, the warmer whites and yellows of the houses in Park-lane shone as unsubstantially as if the clouds themselves had taken on the shape of mansions to mock the men who sat there in the cold. But the mansions were real—like the mockery.
As I started to walk across a corner of the park, the sense of what feels odd in cities began to blend with a feeling that was both serious and strange. It was one of those weirdly colored winter days when a cloudy sky shifts to pink, gray, and green, like a giant opal. The trees stood tall and angular, as if in positions of pain; and scattered on benches beneath the trees were men as gray and angular as the trees themselves. It was cold even for me, who had eaten a big breakfast and planned to have an enormous lunch; it was colder for the men sitting under the trees. Eastward, through the shimmering haze, the warm whites and yellows of the houses on Park Lane glowed as unreal as if the clouds themselves had formed into mansions to tease the men sitting there in the cold. But the mansions were real—just like the tease.
No one worth calling a man allows his moods to change his convictions; but it is by moods that we understand other men's convictions. The bigot is not he who knows he is right; every sane man knows he is right. The bigot is he whose emotions and imagination are too cold and weak to feel how it is that other men go wrong. At that moment I felt vividly how men might go wrong, even unto dynamite. If one of those huddled men under the trees had stood up and asked for rivers of blood, it would have been erroneous—but not irrelevant. It would have been appropriate and in the picture; that lurid grey picture of insolence on one side and impotence on the other. It may be true (on the whole it is) that this social machine we have made is better than anarchy. Still, it is a machine; and we have made it. It does hold those poor men helpless: and it does lift those rich men high... and such men—good Lord! By the time I flung myself on a bench beside another man I was half inclined to try anarchy for a change.
No one truly worthy of being called a man lets his feelings change his beliefs; however, it's through feelings that we grasp the beliefs of others. A bigot isn't someone who is sure they're right; every rational person is confident in their correctness. A bigot is someone whose emotions and imagination are too dull and weak to understand why others may be mistaken. At that moment, I clearly sensed how easy it was for people to go wrong, even to the extent of resorting to violence. If one of those men huddled under the trees had stood up and demanded rivers of blood, it would have been misguided—but not out of place. It would have fit with the scene; that stark, gloomy image of arrogance on one side and powerlessness on the other. It may generally be true (and mostly is) that the social structure we've created is better than chaos. Yet, it is still a system; and we created it. It does leave those poor men powerless: and it does elevate those wealthy men... and oh, those men! By the time I threw myself onto a bench next to another man, I was seriously considering trying anarchy for a change.
The other was of more prosperous appearance than most of the men on such seats; still, he was not what one calls a gentleman, and had probably worked at some time like a human being. He was a small, sharp-faced man, with grave, staring eyes, and a beard somewhat foreign. His clothes were black; respectable and yet casual; those of a man who dressed conventionally because it was a bore to dress unconventionally—as it is. Attracted by this and other things, and wanting an outburst for my bitter social feelings, I tempted him into speech, first about the cold, and then about the General Election. To this the respectable man replied:
The other man looked more well-off than most of the guys around, but he wasn’t what you’d call a gentleman and probably worked hard at some point like the rest of us. He was small with a sharp face, serious staring eyes, and a beard that looked a bit foreign. He wore black clothes—respectable but laid-back; the kind of outfit you wear just to fit in because dressing differently is a hassle, which it is. Drawn in by this and other things, and eager for a chance to vent my frustrations about society, I struck up a conversation with him, starting with the cold weather and then moving on to the General Election. To this, the respectable man replied:
“Well, I don't belong to any party myself. I'm an Anarchist.”
“Well, I don't belong to any party. I'm an anarchist.”
I looked up and almost expected fire from heaven. This coincidence was like the end of the world. I had sat down feeling that somehow or other Park-lane must be pulled down; and I had sat down beside the man who wanted to pull it down. I bowed in silence for an instant under the approaching apocalypse; and in that instant the man turned sharply and started talking like a torrent.
I looked up and almost expected fire from the sky. This coincidence felt like the end of the world. I had sat down thinking that somehow Park Lane needed to be torn down; and I ended up sitting next to the guy who wanted to do just that. I paused in silence for a moment, overwhelmed by the impending apocalypse; and in that moment, the man turned sharply and started talking like a waterfall.
“Understand me,” he said. “Ordinary people think an Anarchist means a man with a bomb in his pocket. Herbert Spencer was an Anarchist. But for that fatal admission of his on page 793, he would be a complete Anarchist. Otherwise, he agrees wholly with Pidge.”
"Understand me," he said. "Most people think an Anarchist is just someone carrying a bomb. Herbert Spencer was an Anarchist. If it weren't for that disastrous statement of his on page 793, he would be a full Anarchist. Otherwise, he completely agrees with Pidge."
This was uttered with such blinding rapidity of syllabification as to be a better test of teetotalism than the Scotch one of saying “Biblical criticism” six times. I attempted to speak, but he began again with the same rippling rapidity.
This was said so quickly that it was a better test of being a teetotaler than the Scottish challenge of saying “Biblical criticism” six times. I tried to speak, but he started again with the same flowing speed.
“You will say that Pidge also admits government in that tenth chapter so easily misunderstood. Bolger has attacked Pidge on those lines. But Bolger has no scientific training. Bolger is a psychometrist, but no sociologist. To any one who has combined a study of Pidge with the earlier and better discoveries of Kruxy, the fallacy is quite clear. Bolger confounds social coercion with coercional social action.”
“You'll say that Pidge also accepts government in that tenth chapter, which is so easily misunderstood. Bolger has criticized Pidge on those points. But Bolger doesn’t have any scientific training. He’s a psychometrist, not a sociologist. For anyone who has studied Pidge alongside the earlier and more significant findings of Kruxy, the mistake is obvious. Bolger confuses social coercion with coercive social action.”
His rapid rattling mouth shut quite tight suddenly, and he looked steadily and triumphantly at me, with his head on one side. I opened my mouth, and the mere motion seemed to sting him to fresh verbal leaps.
His quick, chatty mouth suddenly snapped shut, and he looked at me intently and victoriously, tilting his head to the side. I opened my mouth, and just that movement seemed to inspire him to start talking again with even more energy.
“Yes,” he said, “that's all very well. The Finland Group has accepted Bolger. But,” he said, suddenly lifting a long finger as if to stop me, “but—Pidge has replied. His pamphlet is published. He has proved that Potential Social Rebuke is not a weapon of the true Anarchist. He has shown that just as religious authority and political authority have gone, so must emotional authority and psychological authority. He has shown—”
“Yes,” he said, “that's great. The Finland Group has accepted Bolger. But,” he suddenly raised a long finger as if to interrupt me, “but—Pidge has responded. His pamphlet is out. He has demonstrated that Potential Social Rebuke is not a tool for the true Anarchist. He has shown that just as religious authority and political authority have been discarded, so must emotional authority and psychological authority. He has shown—”
I stood up in a sort of daze. “I think you remarked,” I said feebly, “that the mere common populace do not quite understand Anarchism”—“Quite so,” he said with burning swiftness; “as I said, they think any Anarchist is a man with a bomb, whereas—”
I got up feeling a bit dazed. “I think you mentioned,” I said weakly, “that the average people don’t really get Anarchism”—“Exactly,” he replied quickly with intensity; “as I pointed out, they believe any Anarchist is just someone with a bomb, whereas—”
“But great heavens, man!” I said; “it's the man with the bomb that I understand! I wish you had half his sense. What do I care how many German dons tie themselves in knots about how this society began? My only interest is about how soon it will end. Do you see those fat white houses over in Park-lane, where your masters live?”
“But great heavens, man!” I said; “I get what the guy with the bomb is talking about! I wish you had half his brains. Why should I care how many German professors are getting tangled up in debates about how this society started? My only concern is when it will come to an end. Do you see those big white houses over in Park Lane, where your bosses live?”
He assented and muttered something about concentrations of capital.
He agreed and mumbled something about capital concentration.
“Well,” I said, “if the time ever comes when we all storm those houses, will you tell me one thing? Tell me how we shall do it without authority? Tell me how you will have an army of revolt without discipline?”
“Well,” I said, “if the time ever comes when we all charge those houses, will you tell me one thing? How will we do it without authority? How will you have a rebel army without discipline?”
For the first instant he was doubtful; and I had bidden him farewell, and crossed the street again, when I saw him open his mouth and begin to run after me. He had remembered something out of Pidge.
For a moment, he hesitated; I'd said goodbye and crossed the street again when I saw him open his mouth and start running after me. He had recalled something from Pidge.
I escaped, however, and as I leapt on an omnibus I saw again the enormous emblem of the Marble Arch. I saw that massive symbol of the modern mind: a door with no house to it; the gigantic gate of Nowhere.
I managed to escape, and as I jumped onto a bus, I once again saw the large emblem of the Marble Arch. I noticed that huge symbol of modern thinking: a door with no building behind it; the massive gate to Nowhere.
How I found the Superman
Readers of Mr. Bernard Shaw and other modern writers may be interested to know that the Superman has been found. I found him; he lives in South Croydon. My success will be a great blow to Mr. Shaw, who has been following quite a false scent, and is now looking for the creature in Blackpool; and as for Mr. Wells's notion of generating him out of gases in a private laboratory, I always thought it doomed to failure. I assure Mr. Wells that the Superman at Croydon was born in the ordinary way, though he himself, of course, is anything but ordinary.
Readers of Mr. Bernard Shaw and other contemporary writers might be intrigued to know that the Superman has been found. I discovered him; he lives in South Croydon. My success will be a significant setback for Mr. Shaw, who has been completely misguided and is currently searching for the being in Blackpool. As for Mr. Wells's idea of creating him from gases in a private lab, I always believed it was doomed to fail. I assure Mr. Wells that the Superman in Croydon was born the usual way, although he himself is definitely anything but ordinary.
Nor are his parents unworthy of the wonderful being whom they have given to the world. The name of Lady Hypatia Smythe-Browne (now Lady Hypatia Hagg) will never be forgotten in the East End, where she did such splendid social work. Her constant cry of “Save the children!” referred to the cruel neglect of children's eyesight involved in allowing them to play with crudely painted toys. She quoted unanswerable statistics to prove that children allowed to look at violet and vermilion often suffered from failing eyesight in their extreme old age; and it was owing to her ceaseless crusade that the pestilence of the Monkey-on-the-Stick was almost swept from Hoxton. The devoted worker would tramp the streets untiringly, taking away the toys from all the poor children, who were often moved to tears by her kindness. Her good work was interrupted, partly by a new interest in the creed of Zoroaster, and partly by a savage blow from an umbrella. It was inflicted by a dissolute Irish apple-woman, who, on returning from some orgy to her ill-kept apartment, found Lady Hypatia in the bedroom taking down an oleograph, which, to say the least of it, could not really elevate the mind. At this the ignorant and partly intoxicated Celt dealt the social reformer a severe blow, adding to it an absurd accusation of theft. The lady's exquisitely balanced mind received a shock, and it was during a short mental illness that she married Dr. Hagg.
Nor are his parents unworthy of the amazing person they brought into the world. The name of Lady Hypatia Smythe-Browne (now Lady Hypatia Hagg) will always be remembered in the East End, where she did incredible social work. Her constant call of “Save the children!” highlighted the cruel neglect of children’s eyesight from allowing them to play with poorly painted toys. She presented undeniable statistics showing that children exposed to violet and vermilion often faced deteriorating eyesight in their old age; it was due to her relentless campaign that the scourge of the Monkey-on-the-Stick was nearly eradicated from Hoxton. This dedicated worker would tirelessly walk the streets, confiscating toys from all the poor children, many of whom were brought to tears by her compassion. Her charitable efforts were interrupted partly by a newfound interest in the teachings of Zoroaster, and partly by a brutal blow from an umbrella. It was dealt by a reckless Irish apple-woman who, after returning from a drunken spree to her rundown apartment, found Lady Hypatia in the bedroom taking down a cheap print that, to say the least, didn’t really uplift the mind. The ignorant and somewhat intoxicated woman struck the social reformer hard, accusing her absurdly of theft. Lady Hypatia's well-balanced mind was shaken, and it was during a brief mental health crisis that she married Dr. Hagg.
Of Dr. Hagg himself I hope there is no need to speak. Any one even slightly acquainted with those daring experiments in Neo-Individualist Eugenics, which are now the one absorbing interest of the English democracy, must know his name and often commend it to the personal protection of an impersonal power. Early in life he brought to bear that ruthless insight into the history of religions which he had gained in boyhood as an electrical engineer. Later he became one of our greatest geologists; and achieved that bold and bright outlook upon the future of Socialism which only geology can give. At first there seemed something like a rift, a faint, but perceptible, fissure, between his views and those of his aristocratic wife. For she was in favour (to use her own powerful epigram) of protecting the poor against themselves; while he declared pitilessly, in a new and striking metaphor, that the weakest must go to the wall. Eventually, however, the married pair perceived an essential union in the unmistakably modern character of both their views, and in this enlightening and intelligible formula their souls found peace. The result is that this union of the two highest types of our civilization, the fashionable lady and the all but vulgar medical man, has been blessed by the birth of the Superman, that being whom all the labourers in Battersea are so eagerly expecting night and day.
Of Dr. Hagg himself, I hope there’s no need to elaborate. Anyone even a little familiar with those bold experiments in Neo-Individualist Eugenics, which are currently the main focus of the English democracy, must recognize his name and often recommend it to an impersonal force for protection. Early on, he applied his sharp insights from studying the history of religions, which he honed as a young electrical engineer. Later, he became one of our top geologists and gained an optimistic perspective on the future of Socialism that only geology can provide. Initially, there seemed to be a slight, but noticeable, divide between his views and those of his aristocratic wife. She supported (to borrow her own powerful phrasing) the idea of shielding the poor from their own choices, while he ruthlessly asserted, using a fresh and striking metaphor, that the weakest must be left behind. Eventually, however, the couple recognized a fundamental connection in the distinctly modern nature of both their beliefs, and through this enlightening and clear understanding, they found peace. As a result, this union of the two highest types of our civilization—the fashionable woman and the nearly vulgar medical man—has been blessed with the arrival of the Superman, the being that all the workers in Battersea are eagerly awaiting day and night.
I found the house of Dr. and Lady Hypatia Hagg without much difficulty; it is situated in one of the last straggling streets of Croydon, and overlooked by a line of poplars. I reached the door towards the twilight, and it was natural that I should fancifully see something dark and monstrous in the dim bulk of that house which contained the creature who was more marvellous than the children of men. When I entered the house I was received with exquisite courtesy by Lady Hypatia and her husband; but I found much greater difficulty in actually seeing the Superman, who is now about fifteen years old, and is kept by himself in a quiet room. Even my conversation with the father and mother did not quite clear up the character of this mysterious being. Lady Hypatia, who has a pale and poignant face, and is clad in those impalpable and pathetic greys and greens with which she has brightened so many homes in Hoxton, did not appear to talk of her offspring with any of the vulgar vanity of an ordinary human mother. I took a bold step and asked if the Superman was nice looking.
I found the home of Dr. and Lady Hypatia Hagg without much trouble; it’s located on one of the last winding streets of Croydon, next to a line of poplar trees. I arrived at the door as twilight was falling, and it was only natural for me to imaginatively see something dark and monstrous in the shadowy outline of the house that held the being who was more extraordinary than any human. When I entered, Lady Hypatia and her husband greeted me with incredible kindness; however, I struggled to actually see the Superman, who is now about fifteen and is kept alone in a quiet room. Even chatting with the parents didn’t fully clarify the nature of this mysterious being. Lady Hypatia, with her pale and striking face, dressed in those soft and touching greys and greens that she has used to beautify so many homes in Hoxton, didn’t seem to speak of her child with the ordinary pride of a typical mother. I took a bold step and asked if the Superman was good-looking.
“He creates his own standard, you see,” she replied, with a slight sigh. “Upon that plane he is more than Apollo. Seen from our lower plane, of course—” And she sighed again.
“He sets his own standard, you know,” she replied, with a slight sigh. “On that level, he’s more than Apollo. From our lower level, of course—” And she sighed again.
I had a horrible impulse, and said suddenly, “Has he got any hair?”
I had a terrible impulse and suddenly said, “Does he have any hair?”
There was a long and painful silence, and then Dr. Hagg said smoothly: “Everything upon that plane is different; what he has got is not... well, not, of course, what we call hair... but—”
There was a long and uncomfortable silence, and then Dr. Hagg said casually: “Everything on that plane is different; what he has isn’t... well, not, of course, what we call hair... but—”
“Don't you think,” said his wife, very softly, “don't you think that really, for the sake of argument, when talking to the mere public, one might call it hair?”
“Don’t you think,” his wife said softly, “that just for the sake of argument, when talking to the general public, one could call it hair?”
“Perhaps you are right,” said the doctor after a few moments' reflection. “In connexion with hair like that one must speak in parables.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said the doctor after a moment of thinking. “When it comes to hair like that, you have to speak in parables.”
“Well, what on earth is it,” I asked in some irritation, “if it isn't hair? Is it feathers?”
“Well, what the heck is it,” I asked, a bit annoyed, “if it isn't hair? Is it feathers?”
“Not feathers, as we understand feathers,” answered Hagg in an awful voice.
“Not feathers, like we think of feathers,” Hagg replied in a terrible voice.
I got up in some irritation. “Can I see him, at any rate?” I asked. “I am a journalist, and have no earthly motives except curiosity and personal vanity. I should like to say that I had shaken hands with the Superman.”
I got up feeling a bit annoyed. “Can I see him, at least?” I asked. “I'm a journalist, and I have no ulterior motives other than curiosity and a bit of pride. I just want to be able to say that I met the Superman.”
The husband and wife had both got heavily to their feet, and stood, embarrassed. “Well, of course, you know,” said Lady Hypatia, with the really charming smile of the aristocratic hostess. “You know he can't exactly shake hands... not hands, you know.... The structure, of course—”
The husband and wife had both gotten up on their feet, feeling awkward. “Well, of course, you know,” said Lady Hypatia, with the genuinely charming smile of an aristocratic hostess. “You know he can't exactly shake hands... not hands, you know.... The structure, of course—”
I broke out of all social bounds, and rushed at the door of the room which I thought to contain the incredible creature. I burst it open; the room was pitch dark. But from in front of me came a small sad yelp, and from behind me a double shriek.
I broke free from all social constraints and dashed towards the door of the room that I believed held the incredible creature. I kicked it open; the room was completely dark. But in front of me, there was a small, sad yelp, and from behind me came a double scream.
“You have done it, now!” cried Dr. Hagg, burying his bald brow in his hands. “You have let in a draught on him; and he is dead.”
“You did it this time!” shouted Dr. Hagg, burying his bald head in his hands. “You let a draft in on him, and now he’s dead.”
As I walked away from Croydon that night I saw men in black carrying out a coffin that was not of any human shape. The wind wailed above me, whirling the poplars, so that they drooped and nodded like the plumes of some cosmic funeral. “It is, indeed,” said Dr. Hagg, “the whole universe weeping over the frustration of its most magnificent birth.” But I thought that there was a hoot of laughter in the high wail of the wind.
As I walked away from Croydon that night, I saw men in black carrying a coffin that didn’t resemble anything human. The wind howled above me, swirling the poplars, making them droop and nod like the feathers of some cosmic funeral. “It is, indeed,” said Dr. Hagg, “the whole universe weeping over the disappointment of its most incredible birth.” But I thought there was a hint of laughter in the high wail of the wind.
The New House
Within a stone's throw of my house they are building another house. I am glad they are building it, and I am glad it is within a stone's throw; quite well within it, with a good catapult. Nevertheless, I have not yet cast the first stone at the new house—not being, strictly speaking, guiltless myself in the matter of new houses. And, indeed, in such cases there is a strong protest to be made. The whole curse of the last century has been what is called the Swing of the Pendulum; that is the idea that Man must go alternately from one extreme to the other. It is a shameful and even shocking fancy; it is the denial of the whole dignity of mankind. When Man is alive he stands still. It is only when he is dead that he swings. But whenever one meets modern thinkers (as one often does) progressing towards a madhouse, one always finds, on inquiry, that they have just had a splendid escape from another madhouse. Thus, hundreds of people become Socialists, not because they have tried Socialism and found it nice, but because they have tried Individualism and found it particularly nasty. Thus, many embrace Christian Science solely because they are quite sick of heathen science; they are so tired of believing that everything is matter that they will even take refuge in the revolting fable that everything is mind. Man ought to march somewhere. But modern man (in his sick reaction) is ready to march nowhere—so long as it is the Other End of Nowhere.
Within a short distance from my house, they’re building another home. I’m glad they’re doing it, and I’m even happier it’s close by; in fact, it's pretty close, as if I had a good catapult. However, I haven’t thrown the first stone at the new house—not because I’m completely innocent in the topic of new homes myself. And truthfully, there’s a valid criticism to be made in these situations. The biggest issue of the last century has been what’s known as the Swing of the Pendulum; the idea that people must constantly move from one extreme to another. It’s a disgraceful and shocking notion; it denies the value of humanity. When a person is alive, they stand still. It’s only when they’re dead that they swing. Yet, whenever you come across modern thinkers (which happens quite often) spiraling towards insanity, you often find that they’ve just recently escaped another insane situation. As a result, countless individuals become Socialists, not because they’ve tried Socialism and liked it, but because they’ve experienced Individualism and found it particularly unpleasant. Similarly, many turn to Christian Science simply because they’re fed up with traditional science; they’re so tired of the belief that everything is physical that they’ll even take shelter in the disturbing belief that everything is mental. People need to march toward something. But modern individuals (in their unhealthy reaction) are prepared to march nowhere—so long as it’s the farthest point from somewhere.
The case of building houses is a strong instance of this. Early in the nineteenth century our civilization chose to abandon the Greek and medieval idea of a town, with walls, limited and defined, with a temple for faith and a market-place for politics; and it chose to let the city grow like a jungle with blind cruelty and bestial unconsciousness; so that London and Liverpool are the great cities we now see. Well, people have reacted against that; they have grown tired of living in a city which is as dark and barbaric as a forest only not as beautiful, and there has been an exodus into the country of those who could afford it, and some I could name who can't. Now, as soon as this quite rational recoil occurred, it flew at once to the opposite extreme. People went about with beaming faces, boasting that they were twenty-three miles from a station. Rubbing their hands, they exclaimed in rollicking asides that their butcher only called once a month, and that their baker started out with fresh hot loaves which were quite stale before they reached the table. A man would praise his little house in a quiet valley, but gloomily admit (with a slight shake of the head) that a human habitation on the distant horizon was faintly discernible on a clear day. Rival ruralists would quarrel about which had the most completely inconvenient postal service; and there were many jealous heartburnings if one friend found out any uncomfortable situation which the other friend had thoughtlessly overlooked.
The case of building houses is a clear example of this. Early in the nineteenth century, our civilization decided to move away from the Greek and medieval concept of a town, with defined walls, a temple for faith, and a marketplace for politics. Instead, it allowed the city to develop chaotically, with brutal indifference and a lack of awareness, resulting in the great cities of London and Liverpool as we know them today. Well, people have started to push back against that; they’ve grown tired of living in a city that feels as dark and uncivilized as a forest, just not as beautiful, leading to an exodus to the countryside by those who could afford it, and even some who couldn’t. As soon as this completely understandable reaction took place, it swung to the opposite extreme. People walked around with bright smiles, proudly claiming they lived twenty-three miles from a station. Excitedly, they would mention that their butcher came just once a month, and their baker set off with fresh hot loaves that were stale by the time they reached the table. A man might praise his small house in a peaceful valley but would sadly acknowledge (with a slight shake of the head) that he could barely see a human home on the distant horizon on a clear day. Competing rural dwellers would argue about who had the most inconvenient postal service; and there were many jealously held grudges if one friend discovered an uncomfortable issue that the other had carelessly overlooked.
In the feverish summer of this fanaticism there arose the phrase that this or that part of England is being “built over.” Now, there is not the slightest objection, in itself, to England being built over by men, any more than there is to its being (as it is already) built over by birds, or by squirrels, or by spiders. But if birds' nests were so thick on a tree that one could see nothing but nests and no leaves at all, I should say that bird civilization was becoming a bit decadent. If whenever I tried to walk down the road I found the whole thoroughfare one crawling carpet of spiders, closely interlocked, I should feel a distress verging on distaste. If one were at every turn crowded, elbowed, overlooked, overcharged, sweated, rack-rented, swindled, and sold up by avaricious and arrogant squirrels, one might at last remonstrate. But the great towns have grown intolerable solely because of such suffocating vulgarities and tyrannies. It is not humanity that disgusts us in the huge cities; it is inhumanity. It is not that there are human beings; but that they are not treated as such. We do not, I hope, dislike men and women; we only dislike their being made into a sort of jam: crushed together so that they are not merely powerless but shapeless. It is not the presence of people that makes London appalling. It is merely the absence of The People.
In the sweltering summer of this obsession, the phrase emerged that this or that part of England is being “built over.” Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with England being built over by people, just as there’s nothing wrong with it being (as it already is) built over by birds, squirrels, or spiders. But if bird nests were so thick on a tree that you could see nothing but nests and no leaves at all, I’d say bird civilization is becoming a bit decadent. If every time I tried to walk down the road, I found the entire street a crawling carpet of spiders, all interlocked, I’d feel a discomfort bordering on disgust. If at every turn I were crowded, elbowed, overlooked, overcharged, sweated, rack-rented, conned, and sold out by greedy and arrogant squirrels, I might finally complain. But the great cities have become unbearable mainly because of such stifling vulgarities and oppressions. It’s not humanity that repulses us in the big cities; it’s inhumanity. It’s not that there are people; it’s that they’re not treated as such. We do not, I hope, dislike men and women; we just dislike how they are turned into a kind of jam: crammed together so that they are not only powerless but shapeless. It’s not the presence of people that makes London shocking. It’s simply the absence of The People.
Therefore, I dance with joy to think that my part of England is being built over, so long as it is being built over in a human way at human intervals and in a human proportion. So long, in short, as I am not myself built over, like a pagan slave buried in the foundations of a temple, or an American clerk in a star-striking pagoda of flats, I am delighted to see the faces and the homes of a race of bipeds, to which I am not only attracted by a strange affection, but to which also (by a touching coincidence) I actually happen to belong. I am not one desiring deserts. I am not Timon of Athens; if my town were Athens I would stay in it. I am not Simeon Stylites; except in the mournful sense that every Saturday I find myself on the top of a newspaper column. I am not in the desert repenting of some monstrous sins; at least, I am repenting of them all right, but not in the desert. I do not want the nearest human house to be too distant to see; that is my objection to the wilderness. But neither do I want the nearest human house to be too close to see; that is my objection to the modern city. I love my fellow-man; I do not want him so far off that I can only observe anything of him through a telescope, nor do I want him so close that I can examine parts of him with a microscope. I want him within a stone's throw of me; so that whenever it is really necessary, I may throw the stone.
So, I dance with joy to think that my part of England is being developed, as long as it's done in a human way, at a human pace, and in human proportions. As long as I’m not buried under it, like a pagan slave trapped in the foundation of a temple, or an American clerk in a towering apartment building, I’m happy to see the faces and homes of a group of people that I not only feel strangely drawn to, but, by a touching coincidence, to which I actually belong. I don’t crave desolation. I’m not Timon of Athens; if my town were Athens, I would stay there. I’m not Simeon Stylites; except in the sad sense that every Saturday I find myself at the top of a newspaper column. I’m not in the desert repenting for some monstrous sins; well, I’m repenting of them, but not in the desert. I don’t want the nearest human house to be so far away that I can’t see it; that’s my issue with the wilderness. But I also don’t want the nearest human house to be so close that I can see all the details; that’s my issue with the modern city. I love my fellow man; I don’t want him so far away that I can only observe him through a telescope, nor so close that I can examine parts of him with a microscope. I want him within a stone's throw of me, so that whenever it’s really necessary, I can throw the stone.
Perhaps, after all, it may not be a stone. Perhaps, after all, it may be a bouquet, or a snowball, or a firework, or a Free Trade Loaf; perhaps they will ask for a stone and I shall give them bread. But it is essential that they should be within reach: how can I love my neighbour as myself if he gets out of range for snowballs? There should be no institution out of the reach of an indignant or admiring humanity. I could hit the nearest house quite well with the catapult; but the truth is that the catapult belongs to a little boy I know, and, with characteristic youthful 'selfishness, he has taken it away.
Maybe, after all, it isn't a stone. Maybe, after all, it's a bouquet, or a snowball, or a firework, or a Free Trade Loaf; maybe they'll ask for a stone and I'll give them bread. But it's crucial that they should be within reach: how can I love my neighbor as myself if they’re out of range for snowballs? There shouldn't be any institution beyond the reach of indignant or admiring humanity. I could easily hit the nearest house with the slingshot; but the truth is, the slingshot belongs to a little boy I know, and, like most kids, he’s taken it away with typical selfishness.
The Wings of Stone
The preceding essay is about a half-built house upon my private horizon; I wrote it sitting in a garden-chair; and as, though it was a week ago, I have scarcely moved since then (to speak of), I do not see why I should not go on writing about it. Strictly speaking, I have moved; I have even walked across a field—a field of turf all fiery in our early summer sunlight—and studied the early angular red skeleton which has turned golden in the sun. It is odd that the skeleton of a house is cheerful when the skeleton of a man is mournful, since we only see it after the man is destroyed. At least, we think the skeleton is mournful; the skeleton himself does not seem to think so. Anyhow, there is something strangely primary and poetic about this sight of the scaffolding and main lines of a human building; it is a pity there is no scaffolding round a human baby. One seems to see domestic life as the daring and ambitious thing that it is, when one looks at those open staircases and empty chambers, those spirals of wind and open halls of sky. Ibsen said that the art of domestic drama was merely to knock one wall out of the four walls of a drawing-room. I find the drawing-room even more impressive when all four walls are knocked out.
The previous essay is about a half-finished house on my private horizon; I wrote it while sitting in a garden chair, and since it was a week ago, I’ve barely moved since then (if we're being honest), so I don’t see why I shouldn’t keep writing about it. Technically, I have moved; I even walked across a field—a field of grass glowing in the early summer sunlight—and looked at the early angular red framework that has turned golden in the sun. It’s strange that the frame of a house feels cheerful while the frame of a person feels sad, since we only see it after the person is gone. At least we think the frame is sad; the frame itself doesn’t seem to think so. Either way, there’s something oddly fundamental and poetic about seeing the scaffolding and main lines of a human structure; it’s too bad there’s no scaffolding around a newborn baby. You start to see domestic life as the bold and ambitious thing it truly is when you look at those open staircases and empty rooms, those flows of air and open skies. Ibsen said that the art of domestic drama was simply to knock one wall out of the four walls of a living room. I find the living room even more impressive when all four walls are gone.
I have never understood what people mean by domesticity being tame; it seems to me one of the wildest of adventures. But if you wish to see how high and harsh and fantastic an adventure it is, consider only the actual structure of a house itself. A man may march up in a rather bored way to bed; but at least he is mounting to a height from which he could kill himself. Every rich, silent, padded staircase, with banisters of oak, stair-rods of brass, and busts and settees on every landing, every such staircase is truly only an awful and naked ladder running up into the Infinite to a deadly height. The millionaire who stumps up inside the house is really doing the same thing as the tiler or roof-mender who climbs up outside the house; they are both mounting up into the void. They are both making an escalade of the intense inane. Each is a sort of domestic mountaineer; he is reaching a point from which mere idle falling will kill a man; and life is always worth living while men feel that they may die.
I’ve never understood what people mean when they say that domestic life is boring; to me, it’s one of the wildest adventures. But if you want to see just how intense, intense, and fantastical that adventure can be, just think about the actual structure of a house. A guy might stroll up to bed in a bit of a daze, but at least he’s climbing to a height from which he could really hurt himself. Every elegant, quiet, cushioned staircase, with oak banisters, brass stair rods, and sculptures and couches on every landing, is really just a terrifying and bare ladder reaching up into the Infinite at a dangerous height. The millionaire who strides through his house is really doing the same thing as the roofer who climbs up the outside; they’re both going up into the emptiness. They’re both making a leap into the extreme unknown. Each is a kind of domestic climber; he’s reaching a point from which just falling can be fatal; and life is always worth living as long as people feel that they might die.
I cannot understand people at present making such a fuss about flying ships and aviation, when men ever since Stonehenge and the Pyramids have done something so much more wild than flying. A grasshopper can go astonishingly high up in the air, his biological limitation and weakness is that he cannot stop there. Hosts of unclean birds and crapulous insects can pass through the sky, but they cannot pass any communication between it and the earth. But the army of man has advanced vertically into infinity, and not been cut off. It can establish outposts in the ether, and yet keep open behind it its erect and insolent road. It would be grand (as in Jules Verne) to fire a cannon-ball at the moon; but would it not be grander to build a railway to the moon? Yet every building of brick or wood is a hint of that high railroad; every chimney points to some star, and every tower is a Tower of Babel. Man rising on these awful and unbroken wings of stone seems to me more majestic and more mystic than man fluttering for an instant on wings of canvas and sticks of steel. How sublime and, indeed, almost dizzy is the thought of these veiled ladders on which we all live, like climbing monkeys! Many a black-coated clerk in a flat may comfort himself for his sombre garb by reflecting that he is like some lonely rook in an immemorial elm. Many a wealthy bachelor on the top floor of a pile of mansions should look forth at morning and try (if possible) to feel like an eagle whose nest just clings to the edge of some awful cliff. How sad that the word “giddy” is used to imply wantonness or levity! It should be a high compliment to a man's exalted spirituality and the imagination to say he is a little giddy.
I can't understand why people are making such a big deal about flying ships and aviation today when humans have done something much crazier than flying since the days of Stonehenge and the Pyramids. A grasshopper can jump incredibly high, but its biological limits and weaknesses prevent it from staying up there. Many dirty birds and pesky insects can fly through the sky, but they can't communicate between the sky and the earth. Yet, humanity has risen vertically into the infinite and has not been cut off. We can establish outposts in the sky while still maintaining our bold and direct paths below. It would be amazing (like in Jules Verne) to shoot a cannonball at the moon, but wouldn’t it be even more incredible to build a railway to the moon? Every building made of brick or wood hints at that lofty railway; every chimney reaches for a star, and every tower is a modern Tower of Babel. Humanity's rise on these imposing and unyielding structures of stone seems to me more impressive and mystical than people fluttering for a moment with wings made of canvas and steel. The idea of these hidden ladders we all live on, like monkeys trying to climb, is both sublime and almost dizzying! Many stuffy office workers in cramped apartments can take comfort in their dull clothes by thinking they are like a lonely crow in an ancient elm. Many rich bachelors living at the top of tall buildings should look out in the morning and try (if they can) to feel like eagles whose nests cling to the edge of a steep cliff. It’s unfortunate that the word “giddy” is used to suggest recklessness or frivolity! It should be a compliment to a person's elevated spirit and imagination to say they are a little giddy.
I strolled slowly back across the stretch of turf by the sunset, a field of the cloth of gold. As I drew near my own house, its huge size began to horrify me; and when I came to the porch of it I discovered with an incredulity as strong as despair that my house was actually bigger than myself. A minute or two before there might well have seemed to be a monstrous and mythical competition about which of the two should swallow the other. But I was Jonah; my house was the huge and hungry fish; and even as its jaws darkened and closed about me I had again this dreadful fancy touching the dizzy altitude of all the works of man. I climbed the stairs stubbornly, planting each foot with savage care, as if ascending a glacier. When I got to a landing I was wildly relieved, and waved my hat. The very word “landing” has about it the wild sound of some one washed up by the sea. I climbed each flight like a ladder in naked sky. The walls all round me failed and faded into infinity; I went up the ladder to my bedroom as Montrose went up the ladder to the gallows; sic itur ad astro. Do you think this is a little fantastic—even a little fearful and nervous? Believe me, it is only one of the wild and wonderful things that one can learn by stopping at home.
I slowly walked back across the grass under the sunset, a field of golden fabric. As I approached my house, its massive size started to terrify me; and when I reached the porch, I realized with disbelief as strong as despair that my house was actually bigger than me. A minute or two earlier, it might have seemed like a monstrous and mythical contest over which of us would consume the other. But I was Jonah; my house was the giant and hungry fish; and even as its jaws loomed and closed around me, I had this dreadful thought about the dizzying height of all human creations. I climbed the stairs stubbornly, placing each foot carefully, as if I were scaling a glacier. When I reached a landing, I felt a wild relief and waved my hat. The word “landing” itself evokes the wild sound of someone washed ashore. I climbed each flight like a ladder into the open sky. The walls around me faded into infinity; I ascended to my bedroom like Montrose climbing to the gallows; sic itur ad astra. Do you think this sounds a bit fantastic—even a little frightening and anxious? Believe me, it's just one of the wild and wonderful things you can discover by staying at home.
The Three Kinds of Men
Roughly speaking, there are three kinds of people in this world. The first kind of people are People; they are the largest and probably the most valuable class. We owe to this class the chairs we sit down on, the clothes we wear, the houses we live in; and, indeed (when we come to think of it), we probably belong to this class ourselves. The second class may be called for convenience the Poets; they are often a nuisance to their families, but, generally speaking, a blessing to mankind. The third class is that of the Professors or Intellectuals; sometimes described as the thoughtful people; and these are a blight and a desolation both to their families and also to mankind. Of course, the classification sometimes overlaps, like all classification. Some good people are almost poets and some bad poets are almost professors. But the division follows lines of real psychological cleavage. I do not offer it lightly. It has been the fruit of more than eighteen minutes of earnest reflection and research.
Roughly speaking, there are three types of people in this world. The first type is People; they are the largest and probably the most valuable group. We owe this group the chairs we sit in, the clothes we wear, the houses we live in; and really, when we think about it, we probably belong to this group ourselves. The second group can be called Poets for convenience; they can often be a nuisance to their families but are generally a blessing to humanity. The third group is made up of Professors or Intellectuals; sometimes they’re described as the thoughtful people, and they tend to be a burden and a hardship both to their families and to mankind. Of course, these classifications sometimes overlap, like with all classifications. Some good people are almost poets, and some bad poets are almost professors. But the division is based on real psychological differences. I'm not suggesting this lightly. It’s the result of more than eighteen minutes of serious thinking and research.
The class called People (to which you and I, with no little pride, attach ourselves) has certain casual, yet profound, assumptions, which are called “commonplaces,” as that children are charming, or that twilight is sad and sentimental, or that one man fighting three is a fine sight. Now, these feelings are not crude; they are not even simple. The charm of children is very subtle; it is even complex, to the extent of being almost contradictory. It is, at its very plainest, mingled of a regard for hilarity and a regard for helplessness. The sentiment of twilight, in the vulgarest drawing-room song or the coarsest pair of sweethearts, is, so far as it goes, a subtle sentiment. It is strangely balanced between pain and pleasure; it might also be called pleasure tempting pain. The plunge of impatient chivalry by which we all admire a man fighting odds is not at all easy to define separately, it means many things, pity, dramatic surprise, a desire for justice, a delight in experiment and the indeterminate. The ideas of the mob are really very subtle ideas; but the mob does not express them subtly. In fact, it does not express them at all, except on those occasions (now only too rare) when it indulges in insurrection and massacre.
The group known as People (to which you and I, with some pride, belong) has certain casual yet deep assumptions, referred to as “commonplaces,” such as the idea that children are charming, that twilight is sad and sentimental, or that seeing one man fight against three is an impressive sight. Now, these feelings aren’t primitive; they’re not even simple. The charm of children is quite subtle; it’s even complex to the point of being almost contradictory. At its simplest, it combines an appreciation for joy with a sense of helplessness. The sentiment of twilight, whether in a cheesy song or among a couple in love, is, by its nature, a nuanced feeling. It strikingly balances pain and pleasure; it might also be described as pleasure that flirts with pain. The rush of admiration we all feel for a man facing overwhelming odds is not easy to pin down on its own; it encompasses many things: compassion, dramatic surprise, a yearning for justice, a love for the unknown, and the unpredictable. The beliefs of the crowd are actually quite nuanced ideas; however, the crowd doesn’t express them in subtle ways. In fact, it rarely expresses them at all, except during those occasions (which are now all too infrequent) when it engages in rebellion and violence.
Now, this accounts for the otherwise unreasonable fact of the existence of Poets. Poets are those who share these popular sentiments, but can so express them that they prove themselves the strange and delicate things that they really are. Poets draw out the shy refinement of the rabble. Where the common man covers the queerest emotions by saying, “Rum little kid,” Victor Hugo will write “L'art d'etre grand-pere”; where the stockbroker will only say abruptly, “Evenings closing in now,” Mr. Yeats will write “Into the twilight”; where the navvy can only mutter something about pluck and being “precious game,” Homer will show you the hero in rags in his own hall defying the princes at their banquet. The Poets carry the popular sentiments to a keener and more splendid pitch; but let it always be remembered that it is the popular sentiments that they are carrying. No man ever wrote any good poetry to show that childhood was shocking, or that twilight was gay and farcical, or that a man was contemptible because he had crossed his single sword with three. The people who maintain this are the Professors, or Prigs.
Now, this explains the otherwise unreasonable fact of the existence of Poets. Poets are those who resonate with popular feelings, but can express them in ways that reveal their unique and delicate nature. Poets bring out the subtle complexity of the masses. While the average person might gloss over peculiar emotions by saying, “Odd little kid,” Victor Hugo will write “The Art of Being a Grandfather”; where the stockbroker might simply state, “Evenings are getting shorter,” Mr. Yeats will write “Into the Twilight”; where the laborer can only mumble something about courage and being “tough as nails,” Homer will portray the hero in rags standing up to the princes at their feast. The Poets elevate popular sentiments to a sharper and more magnificent level; but it should always be remembered that they are expressing those popular sentiments. No one has ever written good poetry to argue that childhood is appalling, that twilight is silly or lighthearted, or that a man is worthless because he fought his duel with three opponents. The people who believe this are the Professors or Snobs.
The Poets are those who rise above the people by understanding them. Of course, most of the Poets wrote in prose—Rabelais, for instance, and Dickens. The Prigs rise above the people by refusing to understand them: by saying that all their dim, strange preferences are prejudices and superstitions. The Prigs make the people feel stupid; the Poets make the people feel wiser than they could have imagined that they were. There are many weird elements in this situation. The oddest of all perhaps is the fate of the two factors in practical politics. The Poets who embrace and admire the people are often pelted with stones and crucified. The Prigs who despise the people are often loaded with lands and crowned. In the House of Commons, for instance, there are quite a number of prigs, but comparatively few poets. There are no People there at all.
The Poets are those who elevate themselves above the masses by truly understanding them. Naturally, most Poets wrote in prose—like Rabelais and Dickens. The Prigs elevate themselves by refusing to understand the people, labeling their unclear, peculiar preferences as mere prejudices and superstitions. The Prigs make people feel foolish; the Poets make them feel smarter than they ever thought possible. There are many strange aspects to this situation. Perhaps the oddest is the fate of both in real politics. The Poets who embrace and admire the people are often attacked and persecuted. The Prigs who look down on the people are frequently rewarded with wealth and power. For example, in the House of Commons, there are quite a few prigs, but relatively few poets. There are no real People there at all.
By poets, as I have said, I do not mean people who write poetry, or indeed people who write anything. I mean such people as, having culture and imagination, use them to understand and share the feelings of their fellows; as against those who use them to rise to what they call a higher plane. Crudely, the poet differs from the mob by his sensibility; the professor differs from the mob by his insensibility. He has not sufficient finesse and sensitiveness to sympathize with the mob. His only notion is coarsely to contradict it, to cut across it, in accordance with some egotistical plan of his own; to tell himself that, whatever the ignorant say, they are probably wrong. He forgets that ignorance often has the exquisite intuitions of innocence.
By poets, as I’ve said, I don’t mean people who just write poetry or anyone who writes anything at all. I’m talking about those who, with culture and imagination, use these traits to understand and share the feelings of others; in contrast to those who use them to elevate themselves to what they call a higher level. Simply put, the poet stands apart from the crowd because of his sensitivity; the professor stands apart from the crowd due to his lack of sensitivity. He doesn’t have enough finesse and awareness to empathize with the masses. His only idea is to crudely oppose them, to go against them based on some self-centered agenda; to convince himself that, no matter what the uninformed say, they’re probably wrong. He overlooks the fact that ignorance often possesses the beautiful instincts of innocence.
Let me take one example which may mark out the outline of the contention. Open the nearest comic paper and let your eye rest lovingly upon a joke about a mother-in-law. Now, the joke, as presented for the populace, will probably be a simple joke; the old lady will be tall and stout, the hen-pecked husband will be small and cowering. But for all that, a mother-in-law is not a simple idea. She is a very subtle idea. The problem is not that she is big and arrogant; she is frequently little and quite extraordinarily nice. The problem of the mother-in-law is that she is like the twilight: half one thing and half another. Now, this twilight truth, this fine and even tender embarrassment, might be rendered, as it really is, by a poet, only here the poet would have to be some very penetrating and sincere novelist, like George Meredith, or Mr. H. G. Wells, whose “Ann Veronica” I have just been reading with delight. I would trust the fine poets and novelists because they follow the fairy clue given them in Comic Cuts. But suppose the Professor appears, and suppose he says (as he almost certainly will), “A mother-in-law is merely a fellow-citizen. Considerations of sex should not interfere with comradeship. Regard for age should not influence the intellect. A mother-in-law is merely Another Mind. We should free ourselves from these tribal hierarchies and degrees.” Now, when the Professor says this (as he always does), I say to him, “Sir, you are coarser than Comic Cuts. You are more vulgar and blundering than the most elephantine music-hall artiste. You are blinder and grosser than the mob. These vulgar knockabouts have, at least, got hold of a social shade and real mental distinction, though they can only express it clumsily. You are so clumsy that you cannot get hold of it at all. If you really cannot see that the bridegroom's mother and the bride have any reason for constraint or diffidence, then you are neither polite nor humane: you have no sympathy in you for the deep and doubtful hearts of human folk.” It is better even to put the difficulty as the vulgar put it than to be pertly unconscious of the difficulty altogether.
Let me take one example that might highlight the main point. Open the nearest comic magazine and let your gaze linger on a joke about a mother-in-law. Typically, this joke will be straightforward; the mother-in-law will be depicted as tall and hefty, while the henpecked husband appears small and vulnerable. However, a mother-in-law is not a straightforward concept. She is quite nuanced. The issue isn’t that she’s big and domineering; often she’s petite and remarkably pleasant. The challenge with the mother-in-law is that she embodies a gray area: half one thing and half another. This complex truth, this delicate and even tender awkwardness, could be captured, as it truly is, by a poet, but here the poet would need to be a deeply insightful and genuine novelist, like George Meredith or Mr. H. G. Wells, whose “Ann Veronica” I’ve just enjoyed reading. I would trust these fine poets and novelists because they follow the playful clues given to them in comic strips. But what if the Professor steps in and declares (as he likely will), “A mother-in-law is simply another member of society. Gender shouldn’t affect companionship. Respect for age shouldn't cloud our thinking. A mother-in-law is just Another Mind. We need to liberate ourselves from these social hierarchies and levels.” Now, when the Professor says this (as he often does), I respond, “Sir, you are coarser than comic strips. You are more unsophisticated and clumsy than the most heavy-handed comedian. You’re more oblivious and crass than the crowd. These silly performers at least grasp some social nuance and real mental distinction, even if they can only express it awkwardly. You are so clumsy that you can’t grasp it at all. If you genuinely can’t recognize that the bride's mother and the bride have any reason to feel restrained or uneasy, then you lack politeness and humanity: you have no empathy for the deep and uncertain hearts of people.” It's better to frame the challenge as the unrefined do than to be arrogantly unaware of it.
The same question might be considered well enough in the old proverb that two is company and three is none. This proverb is the truth put popularly: that is, it is the truth put wrong. Certainly it is untrue that three is no company. Three is splendid company: three is the ideal number for pure comradeship: as in the Three Musketeers. But if you reject the proverb altogether; if you say that two and three are the same sort of company; if you cannot see that there is a wider abyss between two and three than between three and three million—then I regret to inform you that you belong to the Third Class of human beings; that you shall have no company either of two or three, but shall be alone in a howling desert till you die.
The same question might be rephrased through the old saying that two's a company and three's a crowd. This saying is a popular version of the truth: in other words, it gets it wrong. It's not true that three is no company. Three is great company: it’s the perfect number for true friendship, like in The Three Musketeers. But if you completely dismiss the saying; if you argue that two and three are the same kind of company; if you can't see that there's a much bigger gap between two and three than between three and three million—then I regret to say that you belong to the Third Class of human beings; you won't have the company of two or three, but will be alone in a lonely wasteland until you die.
The Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds
The other day on a stray spur of the Chiltern Hills I climbed up upon one of those high, abrupt, windy churchyards from which the dead seem to look down upon all the living. It was a mountain of ghosts as Olympus was a mountain of gods. In that church lay the bones of great Puritan lords, of a time when most of the power of England was Puritan, even of the Established Church. And below these uplifted bones lay the huge and hollow valleys of the English countryside, where the motors went by every now and then like meteors, where stood out in white squares and oblongs in the chequered forest many of the country seats even of those same families now dulled with wealth or decayed with Toryism. And looking over that deep green prospect on that luminous yellow evening, a lovely and austere thought came into my mind, a thought as beautiful as the green wood and as grave as the tombs. The thought was this: that I should like to go into Parliament, quarrel with my party, accept the Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds, and then refuse to give it up.
The other day, I hiked up to one of those high, windy churchyards on a ridge of the Chiltern Hills, where the dead seem to overlook the living. It felt like a mountain of ghosts, just as Olympus is a mountain of gods. Inside that church rested the remains of great Puritan leaders from a time when Puritans held much of England's power, even over the Established Church. Below those elevated bones stretched the vast, empty valleys of the English countryside, where cars occasionally zipped by like meteors, and where the country estates of those same families, now weighed down by wealth or faded from Toryism, stood out like white squares and rectangles amidst the forest. Gazing at that deep green view on that bright yellow evening, a lovely yet serious thought crossed my mind, one as beautiful as the lush woods and as solemn as the tombs. The thought was this: I wanted to enter Parliament, clash with my party, take the Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds, and then refuse to give it up.
We are so proud in England of our crazy constitutional anomalies that I fancy that very few readers indeed will need to be told about the Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds. But in case there should be here or there one happy man who has never heard of such twisted tomfooleries, I will rapidly remind you what this legal fiction is. As it is quite a voluntary, sometimes even an eager, affair to get into Parliament, you would naturally suppose that it would be also a voluntary matter to get out again. You would think your fellow-members would be indifferent, or even relieved to see you go; especially as (by another exercise of the shrewd, illogical old English common sense) they have carefully built the room too small for the people who have to sit in it. But not so, my pippins, as it says in the “Iliad.” If you are merely a member of Parliament (Lord knows why) you can't resign. But if you are a Minister of the Crown (Lord knows why) you can. It is necessary to get into the Ministry in order to get out of the House; and they have to give you some office that doesn't exist or that nobody else wants and thus unlock the door. So you go to the Prime Minister, concealing your air of fatigue, and say, “It has been the ambition of my life to be Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds.” The Prime Minister then replies, “I can imagine no man more fitted both morally and mentally for that high office.” He then gives it you, and you hurriedly leave, reflecting how the republics of the Continent reel anarchically to and fro for lack of a little solid English directness and simplicity.
We take such pride in England in our quirky constitutional oddities that I bet very few readers actually need a reminder about the Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds. But just in case there’s one lucky person here who hasn’t heard of such ridiculous nonsense, I’ll quickly explain what this legal fiction is. Since getting into Parliament is a completely voluntary, and sometimes even eagerly sought, endeavor, you would naturally think that leaving would also be a voluntary choice. You'd assume your fellow members would be indifferent or even glad to see you go, especially since (thanks to another example of the shrewd, illogical old English common sense) they’ve made the room deliberately too small for everyone who has to sit in it. But no, my friends, as it says in the “Iliad.” If you’re just a member of Parliament (who knows why), you can’t resign. But if you’re a Minister of the Crown (who knows why), you can. You have to join the Ministry to leave the House; they have to give you some nonexistent position or one nobody else wants to open the exit. So you approach the Prime Minister, hiding your exhaustion, and say, “It has been the ambition of my life to be Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds.” The Prime Minister then responds, “I can think of no one more suited both morally and mentally for that esteemed position.” He then appoints you, and you quickly leave, pondering how the republics on the Continent stagger chaotically back and forth for lack of a bit of solid English straightforwardness and simplicity.
Now, the thought that struck me like a thunderbolt as I sat on the Chiltern slope was that I would like to get the Prime Minister to give me the Chiltern Hundreds, and then startle and disturb him by showing the utmost interest in my work. I should profess a general knowledge of my duties, but wish to be instructed in the details. I should ask to see the Under-Steward and the Under-Under-Steward, and all the fine staff of experienced permanent officials who are the glory of this department. And, indeed, my enthusiasm would not be wholly unreal. For as far as I can recollect the original duties of a Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds were to put down the outlaws and brigands in that part of the world. Well, there are a great many outlaws and brigands in that part of the world still, and though their methods have so largely altered as to require a corresponding alteration in the tactics of the Steward, I do not see why an energetic and public-spirited Steward should not nab them yet.
Now, the idea that hit me like a lightning bolt while I was sitting on the Chiltern slope was that I’d like to get the Prime Minister to appoint me to the Chiltern Hundreds, and then surprise him by showing a genuine interest in my work. I would claim to have a basic understanding of my responsibilities but would want to learn the details. I’d ask to meet the Under-Steward and the Under-Under-Steward, along with the impressive team of experienced permanent officials who are the pride of this department. And, really, my enthusiasm wouldn’t be entirely fake. Because as far as I remember, the original duties of a Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds were to deal with the outlaws and bandits in that area. Well, there are still plenty of outlaws and bandits around there, and although their methods have changed so much that the Steward's tactics would also need to adapt, I don’t see why a dedicated and community-minded Steward couldn’t catch them still.
For the robbers have not vanished from the old high forests to the west of the great city. The thieves have not vanished; they have grown so large that they are invisible. You do not see the word “Asia” written across a map of that neighbourhood; nor do you see the word “Thief” written across the countrysides of England; though it is really written in equally large letters. I know men governing despotically great stretches of that country, whose every step in life has been such that a slip would have sent them to Dartmoor; but they trod along the high hard wall between right and wrong, the wall as sharp as a swordedge, as softly and craftily and lightly as a cat. The vastness of their silent violence itself obscured what they were at; if they seem to stand for the rights of property it is really because they have so often invaded them. And if they do not break the laws, it is only because they make them.
For the robbers haven't disappeared from the old forests to the west of the big city. The thieves haven't vanished; they've gotten so powerful that they're invisible. You won’t see the word “Asia” on a map of that area; nor will you find “Thief” written across the countryside of England, even though it's written in equally big letters. I know men ruling over large parts of that country with an iron fist, where just one wrong move could have sent them to Dartmoor; yet they walk the fine line between right and wrong, that line as sharp as a sword's edge, as smoothly and cunningly as a cat. The sheer scale of their silent violence hides what they're really doing; if they appear to support property rights, it's just because they've invaded those rights so often. And if they don't break the laws, it's only because they've created them.
But after all we only need a Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds who really understands cats and thieves. Men hunt one animal differently from another; and the rich could catch swindlers as dexterously as they catch otters or antlered deer if they were really at all keen upon doing it. But then they never have an uncle with antlers; nor a personal friend who is an otter. When some of the great lords that lie in the churchyard behind me went out against their foes in those deep woods beneath I wager that they had bows against the bows of the outlaws, and spears against the spears of the robber knights. They knew what they were about; they fought the evildoers of their age with the weapons of their age. If the same common sense were applied to commercial law, in forty-eight hours it would be all over with the American Trusts and the African forward finance. But it will not be done: for the governing class either does not care, or cares very much, for the criminals, and as for me, I had a delusive opportunity of being Constable of Beaconsfield (with grossly inadequate powers), but I fear I shall never really be Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds.
But really, all we need is a Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds who actually gets cats and con artists. People hunt different animals in unique ways; the wealthy could catch scammers just as skillfully as they catch otters or deer if they genuinely wanted to. But then, they never have a deer for an uncle or a close friend who's an otter. When some of the noble figures buried in the churchyard behind me went out to face their enemies in those deep woods below, I bet they had bows ready against the outlaws' bows, and spears against the robber knights' spears. They knew what they were doing; they confronted the wrongdoers of their time with the tools of their era. If the same practicality were applied to business law, in just 48 hours, it would be game over for the American Trusts and the financial games in Africa. But that won't happen, because the ruling class either doesn’t care or cares too much about the criminals. As for me, I once had a misleading chance to be Constable of Beaconsfield (with pretty much no real power), but I fear I’ll never actually be Steward of the Chiltern Hundreds.
The Field of Blood
In my daily paper this morning I read the following interesting paragraphs, which take my mind back to an England which I do not remember and which, therefore (perhaps), I admire.
In my daily newspaper this morning, I read the following interesting paragraphs, which remind me of an England that I don't remember and which, maybe because of that, I admire.
“Nearly sixty years ago—on 4 September, 1850—the Austrian General Haynau, who had gained an unenviable fame throughout the world by his ferocious methods in suppressing the Hungarian revolution in 1849, while on a visit to this country, was belaboured in the streets of London by the draymen of Messrs. Barclay, Perkins and Co., whose brewery he had just inspected in company of an adjutant. Popular delight was so great that the Government of the time did not dare to prosecute the assailants, and the General—the 'women-flogger,' as he was called by the people—had to leave these shores without remedy.
“Nearly sixty years ago—on September 4, 1850—the Austrian General Haynau, who had gained a notorious reputation worldwide for his brutal tactics in quelling the Hungarian revolution in 1849, was attacked in the streets of London by the draymen of Messrs. Barclay, Perkins and Co., whose brewery he had just toured with an adjutant. The public was so pleased that the government at the time didn’t dare to take action against the attackers, and the General—the 'women-flogger,' as people called him—had to leave without any recourse.”
“He returned to his own country and settled upon his estate at Szekeres, which is close to the commune above-mentioned. By his will the estate passed to his daughter, after whose death it was to be presented to the commune. This daughter has just died, but the Communal Council, after much deliberation, has declined to accept the gift, and ordered that the estate should be left to fall out of cultivation, and be called the 'Bloody Meadow.'”
“He went back to his home country and settled on his estate at Szekeres, which is near the aforementioned commune. According to his will, the estate was to go to his daughter, and after her death, it was to be given to the commune. That daughter has just passed away, but the Communal Council, after much discussion, has decided to reject the gift and has ordered that the estate be left uncultivated and referred to as the 'Bloody Meadow.'”
Now that is an example of how things happen under an honest democratical impulse. I do not dwell specially on the earlier part of the story, though the earlier part of the story is astonishingly interesting. It recalls the days when Englishmen were potential lighters; that is, potential rebels. It is not for lack of agonies of intellectual anger: the Sultan and the late King Leopold have been denounced as heartily as General Haynau. But I doubt if they would have been physically thrashed in the London streets.
Now that’s a prime example of how things unfold with a genuine democratic drive. I won't focus too much on the earlier part of the story, even though it's incredibly interesting. It takes us back to the days when Englishmen were ready to ignite change; in other words, potential rebels. There’s no shortage of intense intellectual outrage: the Sultan and the late King Leopold have faced just as much condemnation as General Haynau. But I wonder if they would have actually been physically beaten in the streets of London.
It is not the tyrants that are lacking, but the draymen. Nevertheless, it is not upon the historic heroes of Barclay, Perkins and Co. that I build all my hope. Fine as it was, it was not a full and perfect revolution. A brewer's drayman beating an eminent European General with a stick, though a singularly bright and pleasing vision, is not a complete one. Only when the brewer's drayman beats the brewer with a stick shall we see the clear and radiant sunrise of British self-government. The fun will really start when we begin to thump the oppressors of England as well as the oppressors of Hungary. It is, however, a definite decline in the spiritual character of draymen that now they can thump neither one nor the other.
It’s not the tyrants that are missing, but the delivery drivers. Still, I don’t put all my hope in the legendary figures from Barclay, Perkins, and Co. As great as it was, it wasn’t a complete and perfect revolution. A brewery delivery driver hitting a famous European General with a stick, while a compelling and amusing image, doesn’t paint the whole picture. Only when the delivery driver strikes the brewer with a stick will we witness the bright and clear dawn of British self-government. The real fun will begin when we start taking down the oppressors of England, as well as those of Hungary. However, it’s clear that the spirit of delivery drivers has seriously declined; now they can’t stand up to either one.
But, as I have already suggested, my real quarrel is not about the first part of the extract, but about the second. Whether or no the draymen of Barclay and Perkins have degenerated, the Commune which includes Szekeres has not degenerated. By the way, the Commune which includes Szekeres is called Kissekeres; I trust that this frank avowal will excuse me from the necessity of mentioning either of these places again by name. The Commune is still capable of performing direct democratic actions, if necessary, with a stick.
But, as I've already mentioned, my main issue isn't with the first part of the quote, but with the second. Regardless of whether the draymen of Barclay and Perkins have declined, the Commune that includes Szekeres has not. By the way, the Commune that includes Szekeres is called Kissekeres; I hope this honest admission frees me from needing to mention either of these places by name again. The Commune can still carry out direct democratic actions if needed, even using a stick.
I say with a stick, not with sticks, for that is the whole argument about democracy. A people is a soul; and if you want to know what a soul is, I can only answer that it is something that can sin and that can sacrifice itself. A people can commit theft; a people can confess theft; a people can repent of theft. That is the idea of the republic. Now, most modern people have got into their heads the idea that democracies are dull, drifting things, a mere black swarm or slide of clerks to their accustomed doom. In most modern novels and essays it is insisted (by way of contrast) that a walking gentleman may have ad-ventures as he walks. It is insisted that an aristocrat can commit crimes, because an aristocrat always cultivates liberty. But, in truth, a people can have adventures, as Israel did crawling through the desert to the promised land. A people can do heroic deeds; a people can commit crimes; the French people did both in the Revolution; the Irish people have done both in their much purer and more honourable progress.
I say with a stick, not with sticks, because that’s the whole point about democracy. A people is a soul; and if you want to understand what a soul is, I can only say it’s something that can sin and can sacrifice itself. A people can steal; a people can confess to stealing; a people can repent for stealing. That’s the idea of the republic. Now, most modern people have come to believe that democracies are dull, aimless things, just a black swarm or group of clerks heading towards their inevitable fate. In most modern novels and essays, it’s emphasized (by contrast) that a gentleman can have adventures as he walks. It’s stated that an aristocrat can commit crimes because an aristocrat always embraces freedom. But, in reality, a people can have adventures, just like Israel did while crawling through the desert to the promised land. A people can perform heroic deeds; a people can commit crimes; the French people did both during the Revolution; the Irish people have done both in their much nobler and more honorable progress.
But the real answer to this aristocratic argument which seeks to identify democracy with a drab utilitarianism may be found in action such as that of the Hungarian Commune—whose name I decline to repeat. This Commune did just one of those acts that prove that a separate people has a separate personality; it threw something away. A man can throw a bank note into the fire. A man can fling a sack of corn into the river. The bank-note may be burnt as a satisfaction of some scruple; the corn may be destroyed as a sacrifice to some god. But whenever there is sacrifice we know there is a single will. Men may be disputatious and doubtful, may divide by very narrow majorities in their debate about how to gain wealth. But men have to be uncommonly unanimous in order to refuse wealth. It wants a very complete committee to burn a bank note in the office grate. It needs a highly religious tribe really to throw corn into the river. This self-denial is the test and definition of self-government.
But the real answer to this aristocratic argument that tries to link democracy with a boring utilitarianism can be found in actions like those of the Hungarian Commune—whose name I won't repeat. This Commune did something that shows a distinct group has its own unique identity; it discarded something. A person can throw a banknote into the fire. A person can toss a sack of corn into the river. The banknote might be burned as a way to resolve some internal conflict; the corn could be destroyed as an offering to a deity. But whenever there is sacrifice, we know there is a unified will. People can be argumentative and uncertain, may split into narrow majorities in their discussions on how to accumulate wealth. But people must be extraordinarily united to reject wealth. It takes a very organized committee to burn a banknote in the office fireplace. It requires a deeply devout community to genuinely throw corn into the river. This self-denial is the test and definition of self-governance.
I wish I could feel certain that any English County Council or Parish Council would be single enough to make that strong gesture of a romantic refusal; could say, “No rents shall be raised from this spot; no grain shall grow in this spot; no good shall come of this spot; it shall remain sterile for a sign.” But I am afraid they might answer, like the eminent sociologist in the story, that it was “wiste of spice.”
I wish I could be sure that any English County Council or Parish Council would be bold enough to make such a definitive statement of romantic rejection; to declare, “No rents will be collected from this place; no crops will grow here; nothing good will come from this land; it will stay barren as a sign.” But I’m worried they might respond, like the well-known sociologist in the story, that it was “waste of spice.”
The Strangeness of Luxury
It is an English misfortune that what is called “public spirit” is so often a very private spirit; the legitimate but strictly individual ideals of this or that person who happens to have the power to carry them out. When these private principles are held by very rich people, the result is often the blackest and most repulsive kind of despotism, which is benevolent despotism. Obviously it is the public which ought to have public spirit. But in this country and at this epoch this is exactly what it has not got. We shall have a public washhouse and a public kitchen long before we have a public spirit; in fact, if we had a public spirit we might very probably do without the other things. But if England were properly and naturally governed by the English, one of the first results would probably be this: that our standard of excess or defect in property would be changed from that of the plutocrat to that of the moderately needy man. That is, that while property might be strictly respected, everything that is necessary to a clerk would be felt and considered on quite a different plane from anything which is a very great luxury to a clerk. This sane distinction of sentiment is not instinctive at present, because our standard of life is that of the governing class, which is eternally turning luxuries into necessities as fast as pork is turned into sausages; and which cannot remember the beginning of its needs and cannot get to the end of its novelties.
It’s unfortunate in England that what’s called “public spirit” often turns out to be just a private agenda; the genuine but individual ideals of someone who has the power to enforce them. When these personal beliefs come from very wealthy individuals, the outcome is often the darkest and most off-putting form of tyranny, which is called benevolent despotism. Clearly, the public should embody public spirit. However, in this country and at this time, that’s exactly what it lacks. We’ll have a public washhouse and kitchen long before we develop a public spirit; in fact, if we did have a public spirit, we might not even need those things. But if England were properly and naturally governed by its own people, one of the first changes would probably be this: our standards for excess or deficiency in wealth would shift from the rich person to a person who is moderately in need. That is, while property might be respected, what’s necessary for an employee would be viewed very differently from what is considered a significant luxury for them. This sensible distinction in values isn't natural right now, because our quality of life is based on that of the ruling class, which constantly transforms luxuries into necessities as quickly as pork becomes sausages; and it has forgotten how its needs began and can’t keep up with its endless new wants.
Take, for the sake of argument, the case of the motor. Doubtless the duke now feels it as necessary to have a motor as to have a roof, and in a little while he may feel it equally necessary to have a flying ship. But this does not prove (as the reactionary sceptics always argue) that a motor really is just as necessary as a roof. It only proves that a man can get used to an artificial life: it does not prove that there is no natural life for him to get used to. In the broad bird's-eye view of common sense there abides a huge disproportion between the need for a roof and the need for an aeroplane; and no rush of inventions can ever alter it. The only difference is that things are now judged by the abnormal needs, when they might be judged merely by the normal needs. The best aristocrat sees the situation from an aeroplane. The good citizen, in his loftiest moments, goes no further than seeing it from the roof.
Take, for the sake of argument, the case of the motor. Without a doubt, the duke now thinks it’s as essential to have a motor as it is to have a roof, and soon he may feel it’s just as necessary to own a flying car. But this doesn’t prove (as the reactionary skeptics always claim) that a motor is truly as necessary as a roof. It only shows that a person can adapt to an artificial lifestyle; it doesn’t prove that there’s no natural way of living they could adapt to. From a broader perspective of common sense, there exists a significant imbalance between the need for a roof and the need for an airplane; no surge of new inventions will change that. The only difference now is that things are assessed based on these abnormal needs rather than just the normal ones. The best aristocrat views the situation from an airplane. The good citizen, in their highest moments, sees it only from the roof.
It is not true that luxury is merely relative. It is not true that it is only an expensive novelty which we may afterwards come to think a necessity. Luxury has a firm philosophical meaning; and where there is a real public spirit luxury is generally allowed for, sometimes rebuked, but always recognized instantly. To the healthy soul there is something in the very nature of certain pleasures which warns us that they are exceptions, and that if they become rules they will become very tyrannical rules.
It’s not accurate to say that luxury is just subjective. It’s not just an expensive trend that we later decide is essential. Luxury has a solid philosophical meaning; and where there is true public spirit, luxury is typically acknowledged, sometimes criticized, but always recognized immediately. For a healthy spirit, there’s something inherently telling about certain pleasures that reminds us they are exceptions, and if they become standards, they will turn into very oppressive rules.
Take a harassed seamstress out of the Harrow Road and give her one lightning hour in a motorcar, and she will probably feel it as splendid, but strange, rare, and even terrible. But this is not (as the relativists say) merely because she has never been in a car before. She has never been in the middle of a Somerset cowslip meadow before; but if you put her there she does not think it terrifying or extraordinary, but merely pleasant and free and a little lonely. She does not think the motor monstrous because it is new. She thinks it monstrous because she has eyes in her head; she thinks it monstrous because it is monstrous. That is, her mothers and grandmothers, and the whole race by whose life she lives, have had, as a matter of fact, a roughly recognizable mode of living; sitting in a green field was a part of it; travelling as quick as a cannon ball was not. And we should not look down on the seamstress because she mechanically emits a short sharp scream whenever the motor begins to move. On the contrary, we ought to look up to the seamstress, and regard her cry as a kind of mystic omen or revelation of nature, as the old Goths used to consider the howls emitted by chance females when annoyed. For that ritual yell is really a mark of moral health—of swift response to the stimulations and changes of life. The seamstress is wiser than all the learned ladies, precisely because she can still feel that a motor is a different sort of thing from a meadow. By the accident of her economic imprisonment it is even possible that she may have seen more of the former than the latter. But this has not shaken her cyclopean sagacity as to which is the natural thing and which the artificial. If not for her, at least for humanity as a whole, there is little doubt about which is the more normally attainable. It is considerably cheaper to sit in a meadow and see motors go by than to sit in a motor and see meadows go by.
Take a stressed-out seamstress from Harrow Road and give her an hour in a car, and she will likely find it amazing, but also strange, rare, and even a bit frightening. But this isn’t just because, as the relativists would argue, she’s never been in a car before. She’s never been in the middle of a Somerset cowslip meadow either, but if you place her there, she doesn’t find it scary or unusual—just pleasant, freeing, and a little lonely. She doesn’t see the motor as monstrous just because it’s new. She sees it as monstrous because she has eyes to see; she thinks it’s monstrous because it truly is. Her mothers and grandmothers, and the entire race that shapes her life, have had a recognizable way of living; sitting in a green field was part of that, while traveling as fast as a cannonball was not. We shouldn’t look down on the seamstress for letting out a short, sharp scream whenever the car starts moving. On the contrary, we should admire her and see her scream as a kind of mystical sign or insight into nature, just like the old Goths viewed the howls from women in distress. That cry is actually a sign of moral health—a quick reaction to the changes and challenges of life. The seamstress is wiser than all the educated women because she can still feel that a car is a different experience than a meadow. Due to her economic situation, she might have actually seen more cars than meadows. But that hasn’t shaken her clear understanding of what’s natural and what’s artificial. If not for her, then at least for humanity as a whole, it’s pretty clear which one is more accessible. It’s much cheaper to sit in a meadow and watch cars pass by than it is to sit in a car and watch meadows go by.
To me personally, at least, it would never seem needful to own a motor, any more than to own an avalanche. An avalanche, if you have luck, I am told, is a very swift, successful, and thrilling way of coming down a hill. It is distinctly more stirring, say, than a glacier, which moves an inch in a hundred years. But I do not divide these pleasures either by excitement or convenience, but by the nature of the thing itself. It seems human to have a horse or bicycle, because it seems human to potter about; and men cannot work horses, nor can bicycles work men, enormously far afield of their ordinary haunts and affairs.
To me personally, it would never seem necessary to own a motor, just like it wouldn't seem necessary to own an avalanche. An avalanche, if you're lucky, is said to be a really fast, successful, and thrilling way to go down a hill. It's definitely more exciting than a glacier, which only moves an inch every hundred years. But I don’t categorize these pleasures based on excitement or convenience; I categorize them by the nature of the thing itself. It feels human to have a horse or a bike because it feels human to wander around; and people can't make horses work, nor can bikes take people far from their usual places and activities.
But about motoring there is something magical, like going to the moon; and I say the thing should be kept exceptional and felt as something breathless and bizarre. My ideal hero would own his horse, but would have the moral courage to hire his motor. Fairy tales are the only sound guidebooks to life; I like the Fairy Prince to ride on a white pony out of his father's stables, which are of ivory and gold. But if in the course of his adventures he finds it necessary to travel on a flaming dragon, I think he ought to give the dragon back to the witch at the end of the story. It is a mistake to have dragons about the place.
But there's something magical about driving, like going to the moon; and I think it should be seen as something extraordinary and thrilling. My ideal hero would own his own horse but would have the moral courage to rent a car. Fairy tales are the only real guidebooks to life; I like the Fairy Prince to ride out of his father's stables on a white pony, which are made of ivory and gold. But if during his adventures he needs to travel on a fire-breathing dragon, I believe he should return the dragon to the witch at the end of the story. Having dragons around is a bad idea.
For there is truly an air of something weird about luxury; and it is by this that healthy human nature has always smelt and suspected it. All romances that deal in extreme luxury, from the “Arabian Nights” to the novels of Ouida and Disraeli, have, it may be noted, a singular air of dream and occasionally of nightmare. In such imaginative debauches there is something as occasional as intoxication; if that is still counted occasional. Life in those preposterous palaces would be an agony of dullness; it is clear we are meant to visit them only as in a flying vision. And what is true of the old freaks of wealth, flavour and fierce colour and smell, I would say also of the new freak of wealth, which is speed. I should say to the duke, when I entered his house at the head of an armed mob, “I do not object to your having exceptional pleasures, if you have them exceptionally. I do not mind your enjoying the strange and alien energies of science, if you feel them strange and alien, and not your own. But in condemning you (under the Seventeenth Section of the Eighth Decree of the Republic) to hire a motor-car twice a year at Margate, I am not the enemy of your luxuries, but, rather, the protector of them.”
For there’s definitely something strange about luxury, and that's what healthy human nature has always sensed and suspected. All stories that focus on extreme luxury, from the “Arabian Nights” to the novels of Ouida and Disraeli, have a unique mix of dream and sometimes nightmare. In these extravagant fantasies, there’s something as fleeting as intoxication, if that can still be considered fleeting. Life in those ridiculous palaces would be painfully dull; it’s obvious we’re meant to visit them only like fleeting dreams. And what’s true for the old oddities of wealth, like rich flavors and vibrant colors and smells, I would also say about the new oddity of wealth, which is speed. I would tell the duke, as I entered his house at the head of an armed group, “I don’t mind you having extraordinary pleasures, as long as you experience them in extraordinary ways. I’m okay with you enjoying the strange and foreign powers of science, as long as you find them strange and foreign, and not part of your own life. But when I condemn you (under the Seventeenth Section of the Eighth Decree of the Republic) to rent a motorcar twice a year in Margate, I’m not against your luxuries, but rather, I’m protecting them.”
That is what I should say to the duke. As to what the duke would say to me, that is another matter, and may well be deferred.
That’s what I should say to the duke. As for what the duke would say to me, that’s a different story and can definitely wait.
The Triumph of the Donkey
Doubtless the unsympathetic might state my doctrine that one should not own a motor like a horse, but rather use it like a flying dragon in the simpler form that I will always go motoring in somebody else's car. My favourite modern philosopher (Mr. W. W. Jacobs) describes a similar case of spiritual delicacy misunderstood. I have not the book at hand, but I think that Job Brown was reproaching Bill Chambers for wasteful drunkenness, and Henery Walker spoke up for Bill, and said he scarcely ever had a glass but what somebody else paid for it, and there was “unpleasantness all round then.”
Surely, those who are unsympathetic might say that my belief is that you shouldn't own a car like you would a horse, but instead, you should use it like a flying dragon—simple enough since I always drive someone else’s car. My favorite modern philosopher (Mr. W. W. Jacobs) talks about a similar situation where someone’s sensitivity is misunderstood. I don’t have the book with me, but I believe Job Brown was criticizing Bill Chambers for being wasteful and drunk, while Henery Walker defended Bill, stating he hardly ever bought a drink without someone else paying for it, and it led to “unpleasantness all around.”
Being less sensitive than Bill Chambers (or whoever it was) I will risk this rude perversion of my meaning, and concede that I was in a motor-car yesterday, and the motor-car most certainly was not my own, and the journey, though it contained nothing that is specially unusual on such journeys, had running through it a strain of the grotesque which was at once wholesome and humiliating. The symbol of that influence was that ancient symbol of the humble and humorous—a donkey.
Being less sensitive than Bill Chambers (or whoever it was), I’ll take the chance of this rude distortion of my meaning and admit that I was in a car yesterday, and the car definitely wasn’t mine. The trip, although it had nothing particularly unusual for such journeys, had an undercurrent of the bizarre that was both refreshing and embarrassing. The symbol of that influence was that old representation of the humble and funny—a donkey.
When first I saw the donkey I saw him in the sunlight as the unearthly gargoyle that he is. My friend had met me in his car (I repeat firmly, in his car) at the little painted station in the middle of the warm wet woods and hop-fields of that western country. He proposed to drive me first to his house beyond the village before starting for a longer spin of adventure, and we rattled through those rich green lanes which have in them something singularly analogous to fairy tales: whether the lanes produced the fairies or (as I believe) the fairies produced the lanes. All around in the glimmering hop-yards stood those little hop-kilns like stunted and slanting spires. They look like dwarfish churches—in fact, rather like many modern churches I could mention, churches all of them small and each of them a little crooked. In this elfin atmosphere we swung round a sharp corner and half-way up a steep, white hill, and saw what looked at first like a tall, black monster against the sun. It appeared to be a dark and dreadful woman walking on wheels and waving long ears like a bat's. A second glance told me that she was not the local witch in a state of transition; she was only one of the million tricks of perspective. She stood up in a small wheeled cart drawn by a donkey; the donkey's ears were just set behind her head, and the whole was black against the light.
When I first saw the donkey, it was in the sunlight, looking like the otherworldly gargoyle that it is. My friend picked me up in his car (I want to emphasize, in his car) at the little painted station in the middle of the warm, humid woods and hop fields of that western region. He suggested driving me to his house beyond the village before heading out for a longer adventure, and we rattled down those lush green lanes that feel oddly similar to fairy tales: it’s unclear whether the lanes inspired the fairies or (as I believe) the fairies inspired the lanes. All around, in the shimmering hop fields, stood those little hop kilns, resembling short, slanted spires. They look like tiny churches—in fact, they remind me of many modern churches I could mention, all of them small and slightly crooked. In this whimsical atmosphere, we turned a sharp corner and climbed halfway up a steep, white hill, where we saw what at first appeared to be a tall, black creature against the sun. It looked like a dark, terrifying woman walking on wheels while waving long ears like a bat's. A closer look revealed that she wasn’t a local witch in the midst of transformation; she was just one of those visual tricks. She was standing in a small cart pulled by a donkey; the donkey's ears were just positioned behind her head, creating a dark silhouette against the light.
Perspective is really the comic element in everything. It has a pompous Latin name, but it is incurably Gothic and grotesque. One simple proof of this is that it is always left out of all dignified and decorative art. There is no perspective in the Elgin Marbles, and even the essentially angular angels in mediaeval stained glass almost always (as it says in “Patience”) contrive to look both angular and flat. There is something intrinsically disproportionate and outrageous in the idea of the distant objects dwindling and growing dwarfish, the closer objects swelling enormous and intolerable. There is something frantic in the notion that one's own father by walking a little way can be changed by a blast of magic to a pigmy. There is something farcical in the fancy that Nature keeps one's uncle in an infinite number of sizes, according to where he is to stand. All soldiers in retreat turn into tin soldiers; all bears in rout into toy bears; as if on the ultimate horizon of the world everything was sardonically doomed to stand up laughable and little against heaven.
Perspective is really the funny part of everything. It has a fancy Latin name, but it’s hopelessly Gothic and absurd. One simple proof of this is that it’s always left out of any serious and decorative art. There’s no perspective in the Elgin Marbles, and even the distinctly angular angels in medieval stained glass usually (as mentioned in “Patience”) manage to look both angular and flat. There's something fundamentally disproportionate and outrageous about the idea of distant objects shrinking and becoming tiny while closer objects appear huge and overwhelming. It’s a bit frantic to think that your own father can be magically turned into a little person just by walking a short distance away. There’s something ridiculous about the idea that Nature has your uncle available in countless sizes, depending on where he stands. All retreating soldiers become like toy soldiers; all fleeing bears turn into stuffed bears, as if at the farthest edge of the world, everything is cynically destined to appear laughably small against the sky.
It was for this reason that the old woman and her donkey struck us first when seen from behind as one black grotesque. I afterwards had the chance of seeing the old woman, the cart, and the donkey fairly, in flank and in all their length. I saw the old woman and the donkey PASSANT, as they might have appeared heraldically on the shield of some heroic family. I saw the old woman and the donkey dignified, decorative, and flat, as they might have marched across the Elgin Marbles. Seen thus under an equal light, there was nothing specially ugly about them; the cart was long and sufficiently comfortable; the donkey was stolid and sufficiently respectable; the old woman was lean but sufficiently strong, and even smiling in a sour, rustic manner. But seen from behind they looked like one black monstrous animal; the dark donkey cars seemed like dreadful wings, and the tall dark back of the woman, erect like a tree, seemed to grow taller and taller until one could almost scream.
It was for this reason that the old woman and her donkey struck us first when seen from behind, looking like a single black monster. Later, I had the chance to see the old woman, the cart, and the donkey clearly, from the side and in full view. I saw the old woman and the donkey moving past, as they might have appeared symbolically on the shield of some noble family. I saw the old woman and the donkey looking dignified, decorative, and flat, as if they were marching across the Elgin Marbles. When seen in equal light, there was nothing particularly ugly about them; the cart was long and fairly comfortable; the donkey was solid and quite respectable; the old woman was thin but strong enough, even smiling in a sour, rustic way. But from behind, they looked like one monstrous black creature; the dark donkey ears seemed like frightening wings, and the tall, dark back of the woman, standing upright like a tree, seemed to grow taller and taller until it was almost terrifying.
Then we went by her with a blasting roar like a railway train, and fled far from her over the brow of the hill to my friend's home.
Then we sped past her with a deafening noise like a train and ran far away from her over the hill to my friend's house.
There we paused only for my friend to stock the car with some kind of picnic paraphernalia, and so started again, as it happened, by the way we had come. Thus it fell that we went shattering down that short, sharp hill again before the poor old woman and her donkey had managed to crawl to the top of it; and seeing them under a different light, I saw them very differently. Black against the sun, they had seemed comic; but bright against greenwood and grey cloud, they were not comic but tragic; for there are not a few things that seem fantastic in the twilight, and in the sunlight are sad. I saw that she had a grand, gaunt mask of ancient honour and endurance, and wide eyes sharpened to two shining points, as if looking for that small hope on the horizon of human life. I also saw that her cart contained carrots.
There we paused just long enough for my friend to load the car with some picnic stuff, and then we set off again, retracing our route. This meant we went racing down that short, steep hill once more before the poor old woman and her donkey could make it to the top. Seeing them in a new light, I perceived them very differently. Black against the sun, they seemed funny; but bright against the green trees and grey clouds, they were not funny but tragic. There are many things that appear odd in the twilight but are sad in the sunlight. I noticed that she had a striking, weathered face full of ancient dignity and resilience, and wide eyes sharpened into two bright points, as if searching for a flicker of hope on the horizon of human life. I also saw that her cart was filled with carrots.
“Don't you feel, broadly speaking, a beast,” I asked my friend, “when you go so easily and so fast?” For we had crashed by so that the crazy cart must have thrilled in every stick of it.
“Don't you feel, generally speaking, like a beast,” I asked my friend, “when you go so easily and so quickly?” Because we had crashed by so fast that the crazy cart must have jolted in every part of it.
My friend was a good man, and said, “Yes. But I don't think it would do her any good if I went slower.”
My friend was a good guy, and said, “Yeah. But I don't think it would help her if I went any slower.”
“No,” I assented after reflection. “Perhaps the only pleasure we can give to her or any one else is to get out of their sight very soon.”
“No,” I agreed after thinking it over. “Maybe the only real favor we can do for her or anyone else is to get out of their sight as soon as possible.”
My friend availed himself of this advice in no niggard spirit; I felt as if we were fleeing for our lives in throttling fear after some frightful atrocity. In truth, there is only one difference left between the secrecy of the two social classes: the poor hide themselves in darkness and the rich hide themselves in distance. They both hide.
My friend took this advice eagerly; I felt like we were running for our lives in intense fear after some terrible horror. In reality, there’s only one difference between how the two social classes keep secrets: the poor hide themselves in the shadows, and the rich hide themselves far away. They both hide.
As we shot like a lost boat over a cataract down into a whirlpool of white roads far below, I saw afar a black dot crawling like an insect. I looked again: I could hardly believe it. There was the slow old woman, with her slow old donkey, still toiling along the main road. I asked my friend to slacken, but when he said of the car, “She's wanting to go,” I knew it was all up with him. For when you have called a thing female you have yielded to it utterly. We passed the old woman with a shock that must have shaken the earth: if her head did not reel and her heart quail, I know not what they were made of. And when we had fled perilously on in the gathering dark, spurning hamlets behind us, I suddenly called out, “Why, what asses we are! Why, it's She that is brave—she and the donkey. We are safe enough; we are artillery and plate-armour: and she stands up to us with matchwood and a snail! If you had grown old in a quiet valley, and people began firing cannon-balls as big as cabs at you in your seventieth year, wouldn't you jump—and she never moved an eyelid. Oh! we go very fast and very far, no doubt—”
As we shot like a lost boat over a waterfall down into a whirlpool of white roads far below, I spotted a black dot crawling like an insect in the distance. I looked again and could hardly believe it. There was the slow old woman, with her slow old donkey, still trudging along the main road. I asked my friend to slow down, but when he said about the car, “She wants to go,” I knew there was no stopping him. Once you refer to something as female, you've completely given in to it. We passed the old woman with a jolt that must have shaken the ground: if her head didn’t spin and her heart fail her, I don’t know what they’re made of. And as we sped away into the gathering dark, leaving villages behind us, I suddenly shouted, “What fools we are! It’s she who is brave—she and the donkey. We’re safe enough; we’re like artillery and body armor, and she stands up to us with nothing but matchsticks and a snail! If you spent your life in a quiet valley and suddenly cannonballs as big as cars started being fired at you in your seventieth year, wouldn’t you flinch—and she didn’t even blink. Oh! we go very fast and very far, no doubt—”
As I spoke came a curious noise, and my friend, instead of going fast, began to go very slow; then he stopped; then he got out. Then he said, “And I left the Stepney behind.”
As I was talking, a strange noise came up, and my friend, instead of speeding up, started to slow down a lot; then he stopped; then he got out. Then he said, “And I left the Stepney behind.”
The grey moths came out of the wood and the yellow stars came out to crown it, as my friend, with the lucidity of despair, explained to me (on the soundest scientific principles, of course) that nothing would be any good at all. We must sleep the night in the lane, except in the very unlikely event of some one coming by to carry a message to some town. Twice I thought I heard some tiny sound of such approach, and it died away like wind in the trees, and the motorist was already asleep when I heard it renewed and realized. Something certainly was approaching. I ran up the road—and there it was. Yes, It—and She. Thrice had she come, once comic and once tragic and once heroic. And when she came again it was as if in pardon on a pure errand of prosaic pity and relief. I am quite serious. I do not want you to laugh. It is not the first time a donkey has been received seriously, nor one riding a donkey with respect.
The gray moths came out of the woods and the yellow stars appeared to crown it, as my friend, with the clarity of despair, told me (based on solid scientific principles, of course) that nothing would be any good at all. We had to spend the night in the lane, unless by some very unlikely chance someone came by to deliver a message to a town. Twice I thought I heard a faint sound of someone approaching, but it faded away like wind through the trees, and the motorist was already asleep when I heard it again and realized something was definitely coming. I ran up the road—and there it was. Yes, It—and She. She had come three times before, once in a comic situation, once in a tragic moment, and once in a heroic way. And when she came again, it felt like an apology on a simple mission of genuine pity and relief. I'm completely serious. I don't want you to laugh. It's not the first time a donkey has been taken seriously, nor someone riding a donkey with respect.
The Wheel
In a quiet and rustic though fairly famous church in my neighbourhood there is a window supposed to represent an Angel on a Bicycle. It does definitely and indisputably represent a nude youth sitting on a wheel; but there is enough complication in the wheel and sanctity (I suppose) in the youth to warrant this working description. It is a thing of florid Renascence outline, and belongs to the highly pagan period which introduced all sorts of objects into ornament: personally I can believe in the bicycle more than in the angel. Men, they say, are now imitating angels; in their flying-machines, that is: not in any other respect that I have heard of. So perhaps the angel on the bicycle (if he is an angel and if it is a bicycle) was avenging himself by imitating man. If so, he showed that high order of intellect which is attributed to angels in the mediaeval books, though not always (perhaps) in the mediaeval pictures.
In a quiet and somewhat famous church in my neighborhood, there’s a window that’s said to depict an Angel on a Bicycle. It definitely shows a nude young man sitting on a wheel, but the complexity of the wheel and the supposed sanctity of the youth make this description fitting. The design has a flashy Renaissance style and belongs to that very pagan period that incorporated all sorts of objects into decoration. Personally, I find the bicycle more believable than the angel. They say that men are now copying angels with their flying machines, at least that's what I've heard; not in any other way, as far as I know. So maybe the angel on the bicycle (if he really is an angel and it’s actually a bicycle) was getting back at us by mimicking humans. If that’s the case, he demonstrated the high level of intelligence that medieval texts attribute to angels, even if it’s not always evident in medieval art.
For wheels are the mark of a man quite as much as wings are the mark of an angel. Wheels are the things that are as old as mankind and yet are strictly peculiar to man, that are prehistoric but not pre-human.
For wheels symbolize a person just like wings symbolize an angel. Wheels are as ancient as humanity itself, yet they are uniquely human—prehistoric but not pre-human.
A distinguished psychologist, who is well acquainted with physiology, has told me that parts of himself are certainly levers, while other parts are probably pulleys, but that after feeling himself carefully all over, he cannot find a wheel anywhere. The wheel, as a mode of movement, is a purely human thing. On the ancient escutcheon of Adam (which, like much of the rest of his costume, has not yet been discovered) the heraldic emblem was a wheel—passant. As a mode of progress, I say, it is unique. Many modern philosophers, like my friend before mentioned, are ready to find links between man and beast, and to show that man has been in all things the blind slave of his mother earth. Some, of a very different kind, are even eager to show it; especially if it can be twisted to the discredit of religion. But even the most eager scientists have often admitted in my hearing that they would be surprised if some kind of cow approached them moving solemnly on four wheels. Wings, fins, flappers, claws, hoofs, webs, trotters, with all these the fantastic families of the earth come against us and close around us, fluttering and flapping and rustling and galloping and lumbering and thundering; but there is no sound of wheels.
A respected psychologist, who knows a lot about physiology, told me that some parts of himself are definitely like levers, while others seem more like pulleys, but after examining himself thoroughly, he couldn't find a wheel anywhere. The wheel, as a way of moving, is uniquely human. On the ancient shield of Adam (which, like much of the rest of his outfit, hasn’t been found yet), the emblem was a wheel—walking. As a means of progress, I say, it is one-of-a-kind. Many modern philosophers, like my previously mentioned friend, are quick to draw connections between humans and animals, arguing that humans have always been the unwitting servants of Mother Earth. Some, of a very different mindset, are even keen to prove this; especially if it can be bent to undermine religion. Yet even the most enthusiastic scientists have often admitted in my presence that they would be shocked if a kind of cow approached them moving solemnly on four wheels. Wings, fins, flappers, claws, hooves, webs, trotters—all these fantastic families of the earth come at us and surround us, fluttering, flapping, rustling, galloping, lumbering, and thundering; but there is no sound of wheels.
I remember dimly, if, indeed, I remember aright, that in some of those dark prophetic pages of Scripture, that seem of cloudy purple and dusky gold, there is a passage in which the seer beholds a violent dream of wheels. Perhaps this was indeed the symbolic declaration of the spiritual supremacy of man. Whatever the birds may do above or the fishes beneath his ship, man is the only thing to steer; the only thing to be conceived as steering. He may make the birds his friends, if he can. He may make the fishes his gods, if he chooses. But most certainly he will not believe a bird at the masthead; and it is hardly likely that he will even permit a fish at the helm. He is, as Swinburne says, helmsman and chief: he is literally the Man at the Wheel.
I vaguely remember, if I'm remembering correctly, that in some of those dark, prophetic passages of Scripture that look like cloudy purple and dusky gold, there’s a part where the seer has an intense vision of wheels. Maybe this was truly the symbolic statement about the spiritual superiority of man. No matter what the birds do above or the fish below his ship, man is the only one who can steer; the only one who can be imagined as steering. He might make the birds his allies, if he can. He might make the fish his deities, if he wants. But he definitely won't trust a bird at the masthead; and it’s unlikely that he’ll even allow a fish at the helm. He is, as Swinburne puts it, the helmsman and chief: he is literally the Man at the Wheel.
The wheel is an animal that is always standing on its head; only “it does it so rapidly that no philosopher has ever found out which is its head.” Or if the phrase be felt as more exact, it is an animal that is always turning head over heels and progressing by this principle. Some fish, I think, turn head over heels (supposing them, for the sake of argument, to have heels); I have a dog who nearly did it; and I did it once myself when I was very small. It was an accident, and, as delightful novelist, Mr. De Morgan, would say, it never can happen again. Since then no one has accused me of being upside down except mentally: and I rather think that there is something to be said for that; especially as typified by the rotary symbol. A wheel is the sublime paradox; one part of it is always going forward and the other part always going back. Now this, as it happens, is highly similar to the proper condition of any human soul or any political state. Every sane soul or state looks at once backwards and forwards; and even goes backwards to come on.
The wheel is like an animal that’s always standing on its head; it just does it so quickly that no philosopher has figured out which side is really its head. Or to put it more accurately, it’s like an animal that’s always flipping over and moving forward by this principle. Some fish, I think, flip over (assuming they have heels for the sake of argument); I have a dog who almost did it; and I did it once when I was very young. It was an accident, and as the delightful novelist Mr. De Morgan would say, it can never happen again. Since then, no one has accused me of being upside down, except maybe mentally; and I actually think there’s a point to that, especially as represented by the rotary symbol. A wheel is a beautiful paradox; one part of it is always moving forward while the other part is always moving backward. Interestingly, this is quite similar to the right condition of any human soul or any political state. Every sane soul or state looks both backward and forward; and sometimes moves backward in order to move ahead.
For those interested in revolt (as I am) I only say meekly that one cannot have a Revolution without revolving. The wheel, being a logical thing, has reference to what is behind as well as what is before. It has (as every society should have) a part that perpetually leaps helplessly at the sky and a part that perpetually bows down its head into the dust. Why should people be so scornful of us who stand on our heads? Bowing down one's head in the dust is a very good thing, the humble beginning of all happiness. When we have bowed our heads in the dust for a little time the happiness comes; and then (leaving our heads' in the humble and reverent position) we kick up our heels behind in the air. That is the true origin of standing on one's head; and the ultimate defence of paradox. The wheel humbles itself to be exalted; only it does it a little quicker than I do.
For those who are interested in revolution (like I am), I’ll just gently point out that you can’t have a Revolution without some movement. The wheel, being something that makes sense, connects what’s in the past with what’s ahead. It has, as every society should, a part that constantly reaches up towards the sky and a part that lowers its head into the ground. Why should people look down on those of us who are standing on our heads? Bowing your head in the dust is a great thing; it’s the humble start of all happiness. After we’ve bowed our heads in the dust for a while, happiness comes; and then (with our heads still in that humble and respectful position) we kick our heels up in the air. That’s the true source of standing on your head and the ultimate defense of paradox. The wheel humbles itself to be lifted up; it just does it a bit faster than I do.
Five Hundred and Fifty-five
Life is full of a ceaseless shower of small coincidences: too small to be worth mentioning except for a special purpose, often too trifling even to be noticed, any more than we notice one snowflake falling on another. It is this that lends a frightful plausibility to all false doctrines and evil fads. There are always such crowds of accidental arguments for anything. If I said suddenly that historical truth is generally told by red-haired men, I have no doubt that ten minutes' reflection (in which I decline to indulge) would provide me with a handsome list of instances in support of it. I remember a riotous argument about Bacon and Shakespeare in which I offered quite at random to show that Lord Rosebery had written the works of Mr. W. B. Yeats. No sooner had I said the words than a torrent of coincidences rushed upon my mind. I pointed out, for instance, that Mr. Yeats's chief work was “The Secret Rose.” This may easily be paraphrased as “The Quiet or Modest Rose”; and so, of course, as the Primrose. A second after I saw the same suggestion in the combination of “rose” and “bury.” If I had pursued the matter, who knows but I might have been a raving maniac by this time.
Life is full of endless small coincidences: too minor to mention unless there's a specific reason, often too insignificant to even notice, much like we overlook one snowflake falling on another. This gives a disturbing credibility to all false beliefs and harmful trends. There are always plenty of random arguments to support anything. If I suddenly claimed that historical truth is usually told by red-haired men, I'm sure that after ten minutes of thought (which I won’t indulge), I could come up with a solid list of examples to back it up. I remember a lively debate about Bacon and Shakespeare where I randomly suggested that Lord Rosebery had written the works of Mr. W. B. Yeats. No sooner had I said it than a flood of coincidences hit me. I pointed out, for example, that Mr. Yeats's main work was “The Secret Rose.” This can easily be rephrased as “The Quiet or Modest Rose”; and, naturally, like the Primrose. A second later, I noticed the same idea in the combination of “rose” and “bury.” If I had explored this further, who knows, I might have ended up being a raving lunatic by now.
We trip over these trivial repetitions and exactitudes at every turn, only they are too trivial even for conversation. A man named Williams did walk into a strange house and murder a man named Williamson; it sounds like a sort of infanticide. A journalist of my acquaintance did move quite unconsciously from a place called Overstrand to a place called Overroads. When he had made this escape he was very properly pursued by a voting card from Battersea, on which a political agent named Burn asked him to vote for a political candidate named Burns. And when he did so another coincidence happened to him: rather a spiritual than a material coincidence; a mystical thing, a matter of a magic number.
We stumble over these small repetitions and exact details everywhere, but they’re too trivial even for conversation. A guy named Williams did walk into a strange house and kill a guy named Williamson; it sounds almost like a crime against a child. A journalist I know moved quite unknowingly from a place called Overstrand to a place called Overroads. After he pulled off this escape, he was properly pursued by a voting card from Battersea, where a political agent named Burn asked him to vote for a candidate named Burns. And when he did, another coincidence occurred: more spiritual than material; a mystical thing, related to a magic number.
For a sufficient number of reasons, the man I know went up to vote in Battersea in a drifting and even dubious frame of mind. As the train slid through swampy woods and sullen skies there came into his empty mind those idle and yet awful questions which come when the mind is empty. Fools make cosmic systems out of them; knaves make profane poems out of them; men try to crush them like an ugly lust. Religion is only the responsible reinforcement of common courage and common sense. Religion only sets up the normal mood of health against the hundred moods of disease.
For a lot of reasons, the man I know went to vote in Battersea feeling uncertain and even a bit doubtful. As the train moved through murky forests and gray skies, those pointless yet disturbing questions popped into his mind when it was empty. Fools create grand theories from them; tricksters turn them into profane poetry; men try to suppress them like a bad desire. Religion is simply the responsible backing of shared courage and common sense. Religion establishes the usual state of well-being against the many states of illness.
But there is this about such ghastly empty enigmas, that they always have an answer to the obvious answer, the reply offered by daily reason. Suppose a man's children have gone swimming; suppose he is suddenly throttled by the senseless—fear that they are drowned. The obvious answer is, “Only one man in a thousand has his children drowned.” But a deeper voice (deeper, being as deep as hell) answers, “And why should not you—be the thousandth man?” What is true of tragic doubt is true also of trivial doubt. The voter's guardian devil said to him, “If you don't vote to-day you can do fifteen things which will quite certainly do some good somewhere, please a friend, please a child, please a maddened publisher. And what good do you expect to do by voting? You don't think your man will get in by one vote, do you?” To this he knew the answer of common sense, “But if everybody said that, nobody would get in at all.” And then there came that deeper voice from Hades, “But you are not settling what everybody shall do, but what one person on one occasion shall do. If this afternoon you went your way about more solid things, how would it matter and who would ever know?” Yet somehow the voter drove on blindly through the blackening London roads, and found somewhere a tedious polling station and recorded his tiny vote.
But there’s something about these terrible empty mysteries: they always provide an answer to the obvious response, the reply offered by common sense. Imagine a man whose kids have gone swimming; he suddenly gets overwhelmed by the irrational fear that they might have drowned. The obvious response is, “Only one in a thousand children drowns.” But a deeper voice (as deep as the abyss) answers, “And why shouldn’t you be that one in a thousand?” What’s true about serious doubts is also true for minor ones. The voter's inner devil says to him, “If you don’t vote today, you can do fifteen things that will definitely do some good somewhere—make a friend happy, please a child, or satisfy an angry publisher. What good do you think voting will do? Do you really believe your candidate will win by just one vote?” He knew the common sense answer: “But if everyone thought that way, nobody would get elected.” Then, that deeper voice from the depths of despair chimed in, “You’re not deciding what everyone will do; you’re deciding what one person will do on one occasion. If you spent your afternoon on more tangible things, how would it matter, and who would even know?” Yet somehow, the voter continued on, mindlessly navigating the darkening roads of London, and eventually found a dull polling place to cast his tiny vote.
The politician for whom the voter had voted got in by five hundred and fifty-five votes. The voter read this next morning at breakfast, being in a more cheery and expansive mood, and found something very fascinating not merely in the fact of the majority, but even in the form of it. There was something symbolic about the three exact figures; one felt it might be a sort of motto or cipher. In the great book of seals and cloudy symbols there is just such a thundering repetition. Six hundred and sixty-six was the Mark of the Beast. Five hundred and fifty-five is the Mark of the Man; the triumphant tribune and citizen. A number so symmetrical as that really rises out of the region of science into the region of art. It is a pattern, like the egg-and-dart ornament or the Greek key. One might edge a wall-paper or fringe a robe with a recurring decimal. And while the voter luxuriated in this light exactitude of the numbers, a thought crossed his mind and he almost leapt to his feet. “Why, good heavens!” he cried. “I won that election; and it was won by one vote! But for me it would have been the despicable, broken-backed, disjointed, inharmonious figure five hundred and fifty-four. The whole artistic point would have vanished. The Mark of the Man would have disappeared from history. It was I who with a masterful hand seized the chisel and carved the hieroglyph—complete and perfect. I clutched the trembling hand of Destiny when it was about to make a dull square four and forced it to make a nice curly five. Why, but for me the Cosmos would have lost a coincidence!” After this outburst the voter sat down and finished his breakfast.
The politician the voter supported won by five hundred and fifty-five votes. The voter read this the next morning at breakfast, feeling more cheerful and expansive, and found something really interesting not just in the fact of the majority, but even in its form. The three exact figures seemed symbolic; it felt like it could be a kind of motto or code. In the grand book of seals and mysterious symbols, there's a similar powerful repetition. Six hundred and sixty-six was the Mark of the Beast. Five hundred and fifty-five is the Mark of the Man; the victorious tribune and citizen. A number that symmetrical really transcends science and enters the world of art. It's a pattern, like the egg-and-dart design or the Greek key. You could edge wallpaper or fringe a robe with a recurring decimal. While the voter reveled in the precise beauty of the numbers, a thought struck him and he nearly jumped to his feet. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "I won that election; it was won by one vote! Without me, it would have been the pathetic, broken, disjointed, awkward number five hundred and fifty-four. The whole artistic essence would have vanished. The Mark of the Man would have disappeared from history. It was I who expertly took the chisel and carved the complete and perfect hieroglyph. I seized the quivering hand of Destiny when it was about to create a dull square four and forced it to become a nice curly five. Without me, the Cosmos would have missed out on a coincidence!" After this outburst, the voter sat down and finished his breakfast.
Ethandune
Perhaps you do not know where Ethandune is. Nor do I; nor does anybody. That is where the somewhat sombre fun begins. I cannot even tell you for certain whether it is the name of a forest or a town or a hill. I can only say that in any case it is of the kind that floats and is unfixed. If it is a forest, it is one of those forests that march with a million legs, like the walking trees that were the doom of Macbeth. If it is a town, it is one of those towns that vanish, like a city of tents. If it is a hill, it is a flying hill, like the mountain to which faith lends wings. Over a vast dim region of England this dark name of Ethandune floats like an eagle doubtful where to swoop and strike, and, indeed, there were birds of prey enough over Ethandune, wherever it was. But now Ethandune itself has grown as dark and drifting as the black drifts of the birds.
Perhaps you don’t know where Ethandune is. Neither do I; neither does anyone else. That’s where the somewhat gloomy fun begins. I can’t even tell you for sure if it’s a forest, a town, or a hill. All I can say is that it’s the kind that floats and is unanchored. If it’s a forest, it’s one of those forests that moves on a million legs, like the walking trees that doomed Macbeth. If it’s a town, it’s one of those towns that disappear, like a city made of tents. If it’s a hill, it’s a flying hill, like the mountain that faith gives wings to. Over a vast, dim region of England, this dark name, Ethandune, hovers like an eagle uncertain where to swoop and attack, and, indeed, there were enough predators over Ethandune, wherever that may be. But now Ethandune itself has become as dark and drifting as the black flights of the birds.
And yet without this word that you cannot fit with a meaning and hardly with a memory, you would be sitting in a very different chair at this moment and looking at a very different tablecloth. As a practical modern phrase I do not commend it; if my private critics and correspondents in whom I delight should happen to address me “G. K. Chesterton, Poste Restante, Ethandune,” I fear their letters would not come to hand. If two hurried commercial travellers should agree to discuss a business matter at Ethandune from 5 to 5.15, I am afraid they would grow old in the district as white-haired wanderers. To put it plainly, Ethandune is anywhere and nowhere in the western hills; it is an English mirage. And yet but for this doubtful thing you would have probably no Daily News on Saturday and certainly no church on Sunday. I do not say that either of these two things is a benefit; but I do say that they are customs, and that you would not possess them except through this mystery. You would not have Christmas puddings, nor (probably) any puddings; you would not have Easter eggs, probably not poached eggs, I strongly suspect not scrambled eggs, and the best historians are decidedly doubtful about curried eggs. To cut a long story short (the longest of all stories), you would not have any civilization, far less any Christian civilization. And if in some moment of gentle curiosity you wish to know why you are the polished sparkling, rounded, and wholly satisfactory citizen which you obviously are, then I can give you no more definite answer geographical or historical; but only toll in your ears the tone of the uncaptured name—Ethandune.
And yet, without this word that you can't quite define and barely remember, you'd be sitting in a very different chair right now, looking at a very different tablecloth. As a practical modern phrase, I wouldn't recommend it; if my private critics and friends, whom I cherish, were to address me as “G. K. Chesterton, Poste Restante, Ethandune,” I fear their letters wouldn't reach me. If two rushed salespeople decided to talk business at Ethandune from 5 to 5:15, I’m afraid they’d end up aging in the area as white-haired wanderers. To put it simply, Ethandune is both anywhere and nowhere in the western hills; it’s an English mirage. And yet, without this uncertain concept, you probably wouldn’t have the Daily News on Saturday, and certainly not church on Sunday. I’m not saying that either of those is necessarily a good thing; I’m just stating that they are traditions, and you wouldn’t have them without this mystery. You wouldn’t have Christmas puddings, and probably not any puddings at all; you wouldn’t have Easter eggs, likely not poached eggs, I really doubt you’d have scrambled eggs, and the best historians are pretty unsure about curried eggs. To make a long story short (the longest story of all), you wouldn’t have any civilization, let alone any Christian civilization. And if, in a moment of gentle curiosity, you want to know why you are the polished, sparkling, rounded, and completely satisfactory person that you clearly are, I can give you no clearer geographical or historical answer; just the ringing sound of that uncaptured name—Ethandune.
I will try to state quite sensibly why it is as important as it is. And yet even that is not easy. If I were to state the mere fact from the history books, numbers of people would think it equally trivial and remote, like some war of the Picts and Scots. The points perhaps might be put in this way. There is a certain spirit in the world which breaks everything off short. There may be magnificence in the smashing; but the thing is smashed. There may be a certain splendour; but the splendour is sterile: it abolishes all future splendours. I mean (to take a working example), York Minster covered with flames might happen to be quite as beautiful as York Minster covered with carvings. But the carvings produce more carvings. The flames produce nothing but a little black heap. When any act has this cul-de-sac quality it matters little whether it is done by a book or a sword, by a clumsy battle-axe or a chemical bomb. The case is the same with ideas. The pessimist may be a proud figure when he curses all the stars; the optimist may be an even prouder figure when he blesses them all. But the real test is not in the energy, but in the effect. When the optimist has said, “All things are interesting,” we are left free; we can be interested as much or as little as we please. But when the pessimist says, “No things are interesting,” it may be a very witty remark: but it is the last witty remark that can be made on the subject. He has burnt his cathedral; he has had his blaze and the rest is ashes. The sceptics, like bees, give their one sting and die. The pessimist must be wrong, because he says the last word.
I’ll try to explain clearly why this is so important. Yet, that’s not easy. If I simply stated the facts from history, many people would find them trivial and distant, like some war between the Picts and the Scots. The points could be made like this: there’s a certain spirit in the world that abruptly cuts everything short. There may be greatness in that destruction; but the result is still destruction. There might be a certain beauty, but it’s a barren beauty: it wipes out all future beauty. For example, York Minster engulfed in flames could appear as beautiful as York Minster adorned with carvings. But the carvings lead to more carvings. The flames create nothing but a small pile of ashes. When any act has this dead-end quality, it hardly matters whether it’s done with a book or a sword, a clumsy axe or a chemical bomb. The same goes for ideas. A pessimist might seem impressive when he curses all the stars; the optimist might seem even more impressive when he blesses them all. But the true measure is not in the passion, but in the outcome. When the optimist says, “Everything is interesting,” we’re left with freedom; we can choose to engage as much or as little as we want. But when the pessimist claims, “Nothing is interesting,” it might be a clever comment, but it’s the final clever comment on the topic. He has burned down his cathedral; he had his fire, and what’s left is ashes. Skeptics, like bees, make their one sting and die. The pessimist must be mistaken because he claims the final word.
Now, this spirit that denies and that destroys had at one period of history a dreadful epoch of military superiority. They did burn York Minster, or at least, places of the same kind. Roughly speaking, from the seventh century to the tenth, a dense tide of darkness, of chaos and brainless cruelty, poured on these islands and on the western coasts of the Continent, which well-nigh cut them off from all the white man's culture for ever. And this is the final human test; that the varied chiefs of that vague age were remembered or forgotten according to how they had resisted this almost cosmic raid. Nobody thought of the modern nonsense about races; everybody thought of the human race and its highest achievements. Arthur was a Celt, and may have been a fabulous Celt; but he was a fable on the right side. Charlemagne may have been a Gaul or a Goth, but he was not a barbarian; he fought for the tradition against the barbarians, the nihilists. And for this reason also, for this reason, in the last resort, only, we call the saddest and in some ways the least successful of the Wessex kings by the title of Alfred the Great. Alfred was defeated by the barbarians again and again, he defeated the barbarians again and again; but his victories were almost as vain as his defeats. Fortunately he did not believe in the Time Spirit or the Trend of Things or any such modern rubbish, and therefore kept pegging away. But while his failures and his fruitless successes have names still in use (such as Wilton, Basing, and Ashdown), that last epic battle which really broke the barbarian has remained without a modern place or name. Except that it was near Chippenham, where the Danes gave up their swords and were baptized, no one can pick out certainly the place where you and I were saved from being savages for ever.
Now, this spirit that denies and destroys had a terrible period in history marked by military dominance. They did burn York Minster, or at least places like it. Generally speaking, from the seventh to the tenth century, a thick wave of darkness, chaos, and mindless cruelty swept across these islands and the western coasts of the continent, nearly cutting them off from all the white man's culture forever. This is the ultimate human test; the various leaders of that vague era were remembered or forgotten based on how they resisted this almost cosmic invasion. No one thought about modern nonsense regarding races; everyone thought about humanity and its greatest achievements. Arthur was a Celt and may have been a legendary Celt; but he was a legend on the right side. Charlemagne may have been a Gaul or a Goth, but he was not a barbarian; he fought for tradition against the barbarians, the nihilists. And for this reason, ultimately, we refer to the saddest and in some ways the least successful of the Wessex kings as Alfred the Great. Alfred was defeated by the barbarians time and time again, yet he also defeated them repeatedly; but his victories were almost as meaningless as his defeats. Fortunately, he did not believe in the Time Spirit or the Trend of Things or any such modern nonsense, and so he kept persevering. However, while his failures and his fruitless victories still have names today (like Wilton, Basing, and Ashdown), that last epic battle which really crushed the barbarians has no modern place or name. Except for the fact that it was near Chippenham, where the Danes laid down their swords and were baptized, no one can pinpoint the exact place where you and I were saved from being savages forever.
But the other day under a wild sunset and moonrise I passed the place which is best reputed as Ethandune, a high, grim upland, partly bare and partly shaggy; like that savage and sacred spot in those great imaginative lines about the demon lover and the waning moon. The darkness, the red wreck of sunset, the yellow and lurid moon, the long fantastic shadows, actually created that sense of monstrous incident which is the dramatic side of landscape. The bare grey slopes seemed to rush downhill like routed hosts; the dark clouds drove across like riven banners; and the moon was like a golden dragon, like the Golden Dragon of Wessex.
But the other day, under a wild sunset and moonrise, I passed the place known as Ethandune. It’s a high, grim upland, partly bare and partly overgrown, reminiscent of that wild and sacred spot in those powerful imaginative lines about the demon lover and the fading moon. The darkness, the red remnants of sunset, the yellow and eerie moon, and the long, fantastical shadows all created a feeling of something monstrous happening, which is the dramatic aspect of the landscape. The bare grey slopes seemed to rush downhill like defeated armies; the dark clouds swept across like torn banners; and the moon was like a golden dragon, like the Golden Dragon of Wessex.
As we crossed a tilt of the torn heath I saw suddenly between myself and the moon a black shapeless pile higher than a house. The atmosphere was so intense that I really thought of a pile of dead Danes, with some phantom conqueror on the top of it. Fortunately I was crossing these wastes with a friend who knew more history than I; and he told me that this was a barrow older than Alfred, older than the Romans, older perhaps than the Britons; and no man knew whether it was a wall or a trophy or a tomb. Ethandune is still a drifting name; but it gave me a queer emotion to think that, sword in hand, as the Danes poured with the torrents of their blood down to Chippenham, the great king may have lifted up his head and looked at that oppressive shape, suggestive of something and yet suggestive of nothing; may have looked at it as we did, and understood it as little as we.
As we crossed a slope of the rough heath, I suddenly saw a black, shapeless mound between me and the moon, taller than a house. The atmosphere was so heavy that I actually thought it was a pile of dead Danes, with some ghostly conqueror on top. Luckily, I was with a friend who knew more history than I did, and he told me this was a barrow older than Alfred, older than the Romans, maybe even older than the Britons; and no one knew if it was a wall, a trophy, or a tomb. Ethandune is still a vague name; but it gave me a strange feeling to think that, sword in hand, as the Danes poured their blood down to Chippenham, the great king might have raised his head and looked at that looming shape, which suggested something yet explained nothing; he might have looked at it like we did, and understood it just as little as we did.
The Flat Freak
Some time ago a Sub-Tropical Dinner was given by some South African millionaire. I forget his name; and so, very likely, does he. The humour of this was so subtle and haunting that it has been imitated by another millionaire, who has given a North Pole Dinner in a grand hotel, on which he managed to spend gigantic sums of money. I do not know how he did it; perhaps they had silver for snow and great sapphires for lumps of ice. Anyhow, it seems to have cost rather more to bring the Pole to London than to take Peary to the Pole. All this, one would say, does not concern us. We do not want to go to the Pole—or to the hotel. I, for one, cannot imagine which would be the more dreary and disgusting—the real North Pole or the sham one. But as a mere matter of psychology (that merry pastime) there is a question that is not unentertaining.
Some time ago, a wealthy South African hosted a Sub-Tropical Dinner. I can't remember his name, and he probably can’t either. The humor was so subtle and lingering that it inspired another millionaire to host a North Pole Dinner at a fancy hotel, where he managed to spend an enormous amount of money. I have no idea how he pulled it off; maybe they used silver for snow and big sapphires for chunks of ice. Anyway, it seems it cost quite a bit more to bring the North Pole to London than it did for Peary to actually go to the North Pole. One might say this doesn’t concern us. We don't want to go to the North Pole—or the hotel. Personally, I can't decide which would be more miserable and off-putting—the real North Pole or the fake one. But as a simple matter of psychology (that entertaining pastime), there's a question here that's not without interest.
Why is it that all this scheme of ice and snow leaves us cold? Why is it that you and I feel that we would (on the whole) rather spend the evening with two or three stable boys in a pot-house than take part in that pallid and Arctic joke? Why does the modern millionaire's jest—bore a man to death with the mere thought of it? That it does bore a man to death I take for granted, and shall do so until somebody writes to me in cold ink and tells me that he really thinks it funny.
Why does this whole scene of ice and snow leave us feeling indifferent? Why do you and I honestly feel that we’d rather spend the evening with a couple of stable hands in a pub than be part of that lifeless and frigid joke? Why does the modern millionaire's joke—just thinking about it—bore a person to death? I assume it genuinely bores someone to death, and I’ll continue to think so until someone writes to me in plain ink and tells me they actually find it funny.
Now, it is not a sufficient explanation to say that the joke is silly. All jokes are silly; that is what they are for. If you ask some sincere and elemental person, a woman, for instance, what she thinks of a good sentence from Dickens, she will say that it is “too silly.” When Mr. Weller, senior, assured Mr. Weller, junior, that “circumvented” was “a more tenderer word” than “circumscribed,” the remark was at least as silly as it was sublime. It is vain, then, to object to “senseless jokes.” The very definition of a joke is that it need have no sense; except that one wild and supernatural sense which we call the sense of humour. Humour is meant, in a literal sense, to make game of man; that is, to dethrone him from his official dignity and hunt him like game. It is meant to remind us human beings that we have things about us as ungainly and ludicrous as the nose of the elephant or the neck of the giraffe. If laughter does not touch a sort of fundamental folly, it does not do its duty in bringing us back to an enormous and original simplicity. Nothing has been worse than the modern notion that a clever man can make a joke without taking part in it; without sharing in the general absurdity that such a situation creates. It is unpardonable conceit not to laugh at your own jokes. Joking is undignified; that is why it is so good for one's soul. Do not fancy you can be a detached wit and avoid being a buffoon; you cannot. If you are the Court Jester you must be the Court Fool.
Now, saying that the joke is silly doesn’t really explain it. All jokes are silly; that's their purpose. If you ask a straightforward person, like a woman, what she thinks of a good line from Dickens, she might call it “too silly.” When Mr. Weller, senior, told Mr. Weller, junior, that “circumvented” was “a more tenderer word” than “circumscribed,” the comment was just as silly as it was profound. So, it's pointless to complain about “senseless jokes.” The essence of a joke is that it doesn’t need to make sense, except for that wild and supernatural sense we call a sense of humor. Humor is meant, quite literally, to poke fun at humanity; that is, to strip us of our official dignity and treat us like targets. It's meant to remind us that we human beings have features as clumsy and ridiculous as an elephant's nose or a giraffe's neck. If laughter doesn’t touch on some basic foolishness, it fails to fulfill its role in bringing us back to a raw, original simplicity. Nothing has been worse than the modern idea that a clever person can joke without being involved in it; without being part of the absurdity that such a situation brings. It’s arrogant not to laugh at your own jokes. Joking is undignified, which is exactly why it’s good for your soul. Don’t think you can be a detached wit without being seen as a fool; you can’t. If you're the Court Jester, you have to be the Court Fool.
Whatever it is, therefore, that wearies us in these wealthy jokes (like the North Pole Dinner) it is not merely that men make fools of themselves. When Dickens described Mr. Chuckster, Dickens was, strictly speaking, making a fool of himself; for he was making a fool out of himself. And every kind of real lark, from acting a charade to making a pun, does consist in restraining one's nine hundred and ninety-nine serious selves and letting the fool loose. The dullness of the millionaire joke is much deeper. It is not silly at all; it is solely stupid. It does not consist of ingenuity limited, but merely of inanity expanded. There is considerable difference between a wit making a fool of himself and a fool making a wit of himself.
Whatever it is that tires us in these rich jokes (like the North Pole Dinner), it’s not just that people make fools of themselves. When Dickens portrayed Mr. Chuckster, he was, technically speaking, making a fool of himself; because he actually was. And every type of genuine fun, from acting out a charade to making a pun, involves holding back one’s many serious sides and letting the fool out. The dullness of the millionaire joke runs much deeper. It’s not silly at all; it’s simply stupid. It doesn’t come from limited cleverness, but just from expanded emptiness. There’s a significant difference between a witty person making a fool of themselves and a fool trying to be witty.
The true explanation, I fancy, may be stated thus. We can all remember it in the case of the really inspiriting parties and fooleries of our youth. The only real fun is to have limited materials and a good idea. This explains the perennial popularity of impromptu private theatricals. These fascinate because they give such a scope for invention and variety with the most domestic restriction of machinery. A tea-cosy may have to do for an Admiral's cocked hat; it all depends on whether the amateur actor can swear like an Admiral. A hearth-rug may have to do for a bear's fur; it all depends on whether the wearer is a polished and versatile man of the world and can grunt like a bear. A clergyman's hat (to my own private and certain knowledge) can be punched and thumped into the exact shape of a policeman's helmet; it all depends on the clergyman. I mean it depends on his permission; his imprimatur; his nihil obstat. Clergymen can be policemen; rugs can rage like wild animals; tea-cosies can smell of the sea; if only there is at the back of them all one bright and amusing idea. What is really funny about Christmas charades in any average home is that there is a contrast between commonplace resources and one comic idea. What is deadly dull about the millionaire-banquets is that there is a contrast between colossal resources and no idea.
The real explanation, I think, can be summed up like this. We all remember the truly exciting parties and silly things from our youth. The best fun comes from having limited resources and a great idea. This is why impromptu private shows are always popular. They captivate us because they allow for so much creativity and variety with the simplest setup. A tea cozy might have to stand in for an Admiral's hat; it all comes down to whether the amateur actor can talk like an Admiral. A hearth rug might serve as a bear's fur; it all depends on whether the person wearing it can act like a bear. A clergyman's hat (of which I can personally attest) can be shaped into a policeman's helmet; it all depends on the clergyman. I mean it relies on his permission; his approval; his affirmation. Clergymen can play policemen; rugs can act like wild animals; tea cozies can evoke the sea; as long as there's a single bright and fun idea behind it all. What’s really amusing about Christmas charades in any typical home is that there’s a contrast between everyday resources and one funny idea. What’s incredibly boring about millionaire banquets is that there’s a contrast between vast resources and no idea.
That is the abyss of inanity in such feasts—it may be literally called a yawning abyss. The abyss is the vast chasm between the money power employed and the thing it is employed on. To make a big joke out of a broomstick, a barrow and an old hat—that is great. But to make a small joke out of mountains of emeralds and tons of gold—surely that is humiliating! The North Pole is not a very good joke to start with. An icicle hanging on one's nose is a simple sort of humour in any case. If a set of spontaneous mummers got the effect cleverly with cut crystals from the early Victorian chandelier there might really be something suddenly funny in it. But what should we say of hanging diamonds on a hundred human noses merely to make that precious joke about icicles?
That’s the ridiculous emptiness of these celebrations—it can literally be called a yawning chasm. The chasm is the huge gap between the money spent and what it’s spent on. Making a big joke out of a broomstick, a wheelbarrow, and an old hat—that’s brilliant. But making a small joke out of mountains of emeralds and tons of gold—now that’s just embarrassing! The North Pole isn’t a very funny starting point. An icicle hanging from someone’s nose is pretty basic humor regardless. If a group of spontaneous performers cleverly used cut crystals from an old Victorian chandelier, there might actually be something unexpectedly funny about it. But what do we make of draping diamonds on a hundred people’s noses just to make that precious joke about icicles?
What can be more abject than the union of elaborate and recherche arrangements with an old and obvious point? The clown with the red-hot poker and the string of sausages is all very well in his way. But think of a string of pate de foie gras sausages at a guinea a piece! Think of a red-hot poker cut out of a single ruby! Imagine such fantasticalities of expense with such a tameness and staleness of design.
What could be more pathetic than the combination of complicated and fancy arrangements with a tired and obvious idea? The clown with the red-hot poker and the string of sausages is entertaining in his own right. But consider a string of foie gras sausages costing a guinea each! Picture a red-hot poker made from a single ruby! Just imagine such outrageous expenses paired with such dullness and lack of originality in design.
We may even admit the practical joke if it is domestic and simple. We may concede that apple-pie beds and butter-slides are sometimes useful things for the education of pompous persons living the Higher Life. But imagine a man making a butter-slide and telling everybody it was made with the most expensive butter. Picture an apple-pie bed of purple and cloth of gold. It is not hard to see that such schemes would lead simultaneously to a double boredom; weariness of the costly and complex method and of the meagre and trivial thought. This is the true analysis, I think of that chill of tedium that strikes to the soul of any intelligent man when he hears of such elephantine pranks. That is why we feel that Freak Dinners would not even be freakish. That is why we feel that expensive Arctic feasts would probably be a frost.
We might even accept a practical joke if it's simple and down-to-earth. We could agree that things like apple-pie beds and butter-slides can sometimes help teach pompous people living the high life. But picture a guy making a butter-slide and bragging that it’s made with the fanciest butter. Imagine an apple-pie bed decked out in purple and gold fabric. It's easy to see that these kinds of ideas would simultaneously lead to double boredom; tired of the expensive and complicated approach and frustrated with the shallow and trivial concept. This, I believe, is the real reason behind that chill of tedium that hits any intelligent person when they hear about such clumsy pranks. That's why we think Freak Dinners wouldn’t even be all that unusual. That's why we believe that pricey Arctic feasts would likely fall flat.
If it be said that such things do no harm, I hasten, in one sense, at least, to agree. Far from it; they do good. They do good in the most vital matter of modern times; for they prove and print in huge letters the truth which our society must learn or perish. They prove that wealth in society as now constituted does not tend to get into the hands of the thrifty or the capable, but actually tends to get into the hands of wastrels and imbeciles. And it proves that the wealthy class of to-day is quite as ignorant about how to enjoy itself as about how to rule other people. That it cannot make its government govern or its education educate we may take as a trifling weakness of oligarchy; but pleasure we do look to see in such a class; and it has surely come to its decrepitude when it cannot make its pleasures please.
If someone says that these things don't cause any harm, I’m quick to agree, at least in one way. Not at all; they actually do good. They do good in the most important issue of modern times; they highlight and emphasize the truth that our society must understand or face destruction. They show that wealth in today’s society doesn’t tend to end up in the hands of the hardworking or the capable, but actually goes to those who waste it and those who lack common sense. It also shows that the wealthy class today is just as clueless about how to enjoy itself as it is about how to govern others. While we might view its inability to make its government function or its education system educate as a minor flaw of an oligarchy, we do expect to see it find pleasure; and it has surely reached a sorry state when it can't even find joy in its own pleasures.
The Garden of the Sea
One sometimes hears from persons of the chillier type of culture the remark that plain country people do not appreciate the beauty of the country. This is an error rooted in the intellectual pride of mediocrity; and is one of the many examples of a truth in the idea that extremes meet. Thus, to appreciate the virtues of the mob one must either be on a level with it (as I am) or be really high up, like the saints. It is roughly the same with aesthetics; slang and rude dialect can be relished by a really literary taste, but not by a merely bookish taste. And when these cultivated cranks say that rustics do not talk of Nature in an appreciative way, they really mean that they do not talk in a bookish way. They do not talk bookishly about clouds or stones, or pigs or slugs, or horses or anything you please. They talk piggishly about pigs; and sluggishly, I suppose, about slugs; and are refreshingly horsy about horses. They speak in a stony way of stones; they speak in a cloudy way of clouds; and this is surely the right way. And if by any chance a simple intelligent person from the country comes in contact with any aspect of Nature unfamiliar and arresting, such a person's comment is always worth remark. It is sometimes an epigram, and at worst it is never a quotation.
One sometimes hears from people with a colder attitude towards culture the comment that regular country folks don't appreciate the beauty of nature. This is a mistake born from the intellectual pride of mediocrity; it's one of many examples of the truth that opposites meet. To understand the value of the masses, you must either be on their level (like I am) or truly elevated, like the saints. The same goes for aesthetics; someone with a genuine literary taste can enjoy slang and rough dialect, but someone who is just book-smart cannot. When these cultured critics say that rural people don’t talk about nature appreciatively, they really mean they don’t speak in a scholarly way. They don’t discuss clouds or stones, or pigs or slugs, or horses or anything else in an academic manner. They talk about pigs in a down-to-earth way; sluggishly, I suppose, about slugs; and enthusiastically about horses. They refer to stones in a straightforward way; they describe clouds in a clear way; and this is definitely the right approach. And if by chance a simple yet intelligent person from the country encounters any unfamiliar and striking aspect of nature, their response is always worth noting. Sometimes it's a clever remark, and at worst, it’s never a cliché.
Consider, for instance, what wastes of wordy imitation and ambiguity the ordinary educated person in the big towns could pour out on the subject of the sea. A country girl I know in the county of Buckingham had never seen the sea in her life until the other day. When she was asked what she thought of it she said it was like cauliflowers. Now that is a piece of pure literature—vivid, entirely independent and original, and perfectly true. I had always been haunted with an analogous kinship which I could never locate; cabbages always remind me of the sea and the sea always reminds me of cabbages. It is partly, perhaps, the veined mingling of violet and green, as in the sea a purple that is almost dark red may mix with a green that is almost yellow, and still be the blue sea as a whole. But it is more the grand curves of the cabbage that curl over cavernously like waves, and it is partly again that dreamy repetition, as of a pattern, that made two great poets, Eschylus and Shakespeare, use a word like “multitudinous” of the ocean. But just where my fancy halted the Buckinghamshire young woman rushed (so to speak) to my imaginative rescue. Cauliflowers are twenty times better than cabbages, for they show the wave breaking as well as curling, and the efflorescence of the branching foam, blind bubbling, and opaque. Moreover, the strong lines of life are suggested; the arches of the rushing waves have all the rigid energy of green stalks, as if the whole sea were one great green plant with one immense white flower rooted in the abyss.
Consider, for example, the kind of pointless, confusing talk the average educated person in big cities could come up with about the sea. A country girl I know from Buckingham had never seen the ocean until recently. When asked what she thought of it, she said it was like cauliflowers. That’s a perfect example of genuine literature—vivid, completely independent and original, and absolutely true. I’ve always felt a strange connection I couldn’t quite explain; cabbages remind me of the sea, and the sea reminds me of cabbages. It’s likely because of the way violet and green mix together; in the sea, a purple that’s almost dark red can blend with a green that’s nearly yellow, yet still create the blue sea as a whole. But it’s also the sweeping curves of cabbage that resemble waves curling over, and partly that repetitive pattern made great poets like Aeschylus and Shakespeare describe the ocean as “multitudinous.” Just when my imagination hit a wall, that young woman from Buckinghamshire jumped in (so to speak) to save me. Cauliflowers are much better than cabbages because they represent both the wave breaking and curling, along with the flowering foam, blind bubbling, and opacity. Plus, they suggest the strong lines of life; the arches of the crashing waves have all the rigid energy of green stalks, as if the entire sea were one massive green plant with an enormous white flower rooted in the depths.
Now, a large number of delicate and superior persons would refuse to see the force in that kitchen garden comparison, because it is not connected with any of the ordinary maritime sentiments as stated in books and songs. The aesthetic amateur would say that he knew what large and philosophical thoughts he ought to have by the boundless deep. He would say that he was not a greengrocer who would think first of greens. To which I should reply, like Hamlet, apropos of a parallel profession, “I would you were so honest a man.” The mention of “Hamlet” reminds me, by the way, that besides the girl who had never seen the sea, I knew a girl who had never seen a stage-play. She was taken to “Hamlet,” and she said it was very sad. There is another case of going to the primordial point which is overlaid by learning and secondary impressions. We are so used to thinking of “Hamlet” as a problem that we sometimes quite forget that it is a tragedy, just as we are so used to thinking of the sea as vast and vague, that we scarcely notice when it is white and green.
Now, a lot of sensitive and sophisticated people would refuse to see the strength in that kitchen garden comparison, because it doesn't connect with any typical maritime feelings expressed in books and songs. The art enthusiast would say that he knows what deep and philosophical thoughts he should have about the endless ocean. He would claim that he isn’t a greengrocer who thinks first about vegetables. To which I would respond, like Hamlet, in reference to a similar profession, "I wish you were such an honest man." Speaking of “Hamlet,” it reminds me that besides the girl who had never seen the ocean, I knew another girl who had never seen a play. She went to see “Hamlet,” and she said it was very sad. This is another example of reverting to the basic point, which is covered by education and secondhand impressions. We’re so accustomed to viewing “Hamlet” as a puzzle that we sometimes completely forget it’s a tragedy, just as we’re so used to seeing the sea as vast and unclear that we hardly notice when it’s white and green.
But there is another quarrel involved in which the young gentleman of culture comes into violent collision with the young lady of the cauliflowers. The first essential of the merely bookish view of the sea is that it is boundless, and gives a sentiment of infinity. Now it is quite certain, I think, that the cauliflower simile was partly created by exactly the opposite impression, the impression of boundary and of barrier. The girl thought of it as a field of vegetables, even as a yard of vegetables. The girl was right. The ocean only suggests infinity when you cannot see it; a sea mist may seem endless, but not a sea. So far from being vague and vanishing, the sea is the one hard straight line in Nature. It is the one plain limit; the only thing that God has made that really looks like a wall. Compared to the sea, not only sun and cloud are chaotic and doubtful, but solid mountains and standing forests may be said to melt and fade and flee in the presence of that lonely iron line. The old naval phrase, that the seas are England's bulwarks, is not a frigid and artificial metaphor; it came into the head of some genuine sea-dog, when he was genuinely looking at the sea. For the edge of the sea is like the edge of a sword; it is sharp, military, and decisive; it really looks like a bolt or bar, and not like a mere expansion. It hangs in heaven, grey, or green, or blue, changing in colour, but changeless in form, behind all the slippery contours of the land and all the savage softness of the forests, like the scales of God held even. It hangs, a perpetual reminder of that divine reason and justice which abides behind all compromises and all legitimate variety; the one straight line; the limit of the intellect; the dark and ultimate dogma of the world.
But there’s another argument going on where the cultured young man clashes hard with the young woman who thinks of it in terms of vegetables. The key part of a purely bookish view of the sea is that it feels endless, giving a sense of infinity. However, I believe the cauliflower metaphor was partly inspired by the exact opposite feeling—the feeling of limits and barriers. The girl saw it as a garden of vegetables, even as a patch of veggies. She was right. The ocean only seems infinite when you can’t see it; sea mist might appear endless, but not the sea itself. Far from being vague and fleeting, the sea is the one solid, straight line in nature. It’s the one clear boundary; it’s the only thing God created that truly resembles a wall. Compared to the sea, not only are the sun and clouds chaotic and uncertain, but even solid mountains and standing forests seem to melt away in the presence of that lonely iron line. The old naval saying that the seas are England's defenses isn't a cold and artificial metaphor; it came from the mind of a real sailor when he was truly looking at the sea. The edge of the sea is like the edge of a sword; it’s sharp, military, and decisive; it actually looks like a barrier, not just an expansion. It hangs in the sky, grey, green, or blue, shifting in color but unchanging in shape, behind all the slippery shapes of the land and all the wild softness of the forests, like the scales of God holding even. It stands as a constant reminder of that divine reason and justice that underpins all compromises and all legitimate variety; the one straight line; the limit of the intellect; the dark and ultimate principle of the world.
The Sentimentalist
“Sentimentalism is the most broken reed on which righteousness can lean”; these were, I think, the exact words of a distinguished American visitor at the Guildhall, and may Heaven forgive me if I do him a wrong. It was spoken in illustration of the folly of supporting Egyptian and other Oriental nationalism, and it has tempted me to some reflections on the first word of the sentence.
“Sentimentalism is the most unreliable support for righteousness”; these were, I believe, the exact words of a notable American guest at the Guildhall, and may Heaven forgive me if I misrepresent him. It was said to highlight the foolishness of backing Egyptian and other Oriental nationalism, and it has led me to some thoughts on the first word of the sentence.
The Sentimentalist, roughly speaking, is the man who wants to eat his cake and have it. He has no sense of honour about ideas; he will not see that one must pay for an idea as for anything else. He will not see that any worthy idea, like any honest woman, can only be won on its own terms, and with its logical chain of loyalty. One idea attracts him; another idea really inspires him; a third idea flatters him; a fourth idea pays him. He will have them all at once in one wild intellectual harem, no matter how much they quarrel and contradict each other. The Sentimentalist is a philosophic profligate, who tries to capture every mental beauty without reference to its rival beauties; who will not even be off with the old love before he is on with the new. Thus if a man were to say, “I love this woman, but I may some day find my affinity in some other woman,” he would be a Sentimentalist. He would be saying, “I will eat my wedding-cake and keep it.” Or if a man should say, “I am a Republican, believing in the equality of citizens; but when the Government has given me my peerage I can do infinite good as a kind landlord and a wise legislator”; then that man would be a Sentimentalist. He would be trying to keep at the same time the classic austerity of equality and also the vulgar excitement of an aristocrat. Or if a man should say, “I am in favour of religious equality; but I must preserve the Protestant Succession,” he would be a Sentimentalist of a grosser and more improbable kind.
The Sentimentalist, in simple terms, is someone who wants to enjoy their cake and still keep it. They have no sense of integrity when it comes to ideas; they refuse to recognize that you have to earn an idea just like anything else. They don’t understand that any valuable idea, like any respectable person, can only be obtained on its own conditions, and with a clear commitment. One idea catches their attention; another genuinely motivates them; a third flatters them; a fourth benefits them. They want them all at once in a chaotic intellectual harem, regardless of how much they may clash and contradict each other. The Sentimentalist is a philosophical hedonist, trying to embrace every intellectual beauty without considering its competing beauties; they won’t even let go of an old love before jumping into a new one. So, if a guy were to say, “I love this woman, but I might eventually find my connection with another woman,” he would be a Sentimentalist. He would be saying, “I want to eat my wedding cake and keep it too.” Or if someone were to claim, “I’m a Republican, believing in the equality of citizens; but once the Government grants me a title, I can do so much good as a kind landlord and wise legislator,” then that person would be a Sentimentalist. They would be trying to hold on to both the traditional principles of equality and the flashy thrill of being an aristocrat. Or if a person were to say, “I support religious equality; but I must maintain the Protestant Succession,” they would be a Sentimentalist of a more blatant and unlikely kind.
This is the essence of the Sentimentalist: that he seeks to enjoy every idea without its sequence, and every pleasure without its consequence.
This is the essence of the Sentimentalist: that he seeks to enjoy every idea without its order, and every pleasure without its consequences.
Now it would really be hard to find a worse case of this inconsequent sentimentalism than the theory of the British Empire advanced by Mr. Roosevelt himself in his attack on Sentimentalists. For the Imperial theory, the Roosevelt and Kipling theory, of our relation to Eastern races is simply one of eating the Oriental cake (I suppose a Sultana Cake) and at the same time leaving it alone.
Now it would be really difficult to find a worse example of this inconsistent sentimentalism than the British Empire theory promoted by Mr. Roosevelt himself in his criticism of sentimentalists. The imperial theory, the one held by Roosevelt and Kipling, regarding our relationship with Eastern races is simply about indulging in the Oriental cake (I guess a Sultana Cake) while also trying to ignore it.
Now there are two sane attitudes of a European statesman towards Eastern peoples, and there are only two.
Now there are two rational attitudes a European statesman can have towards Eastern peoples, and there are only two.
First, he may simply say that the less we have to do with them the better; that whether they are lower than us or higher they are so catastrophically different that the more we go our way and they go theirs the better for all parties concerned. I will confess to some tenderness for this view. There is much to be said for letting that calm immemorial life of slave and sultan, temple and palm tree flow on as it has always flowed. The best reason of all, the reason that affects me most finally, is that if we left the rest of the world alone we might have some time for attending to our own affairs, which are urgent to the point of excruciation. All history points to this; that intensive cultivation in the long run triumphs over the widest extensive cultivation; or, in other words, that making one's own field superior is far more effective than reducing other people's fields to inferiority. If you cultivate your own garden and grow a specially large cabbage, people will probably come to see it. Whereas the life of one selling small cabbages round the whole district is often forlorn.
First, he might simply say that the less contact we have with them, the better; that whether they are below us or above us, they are so incredibly different that it’s best for everyone involved if we stick to our own paths. I have to admit, I feel some affection for this perspective. There’s a lot to be said for letting that peaceful, timeless existence of slaves and sultans, temples and palm trees continue as it always has. The strongest reason for me, the one that resonates the most, is that if we left the rest of the world alone, we could focus on our own issues, which are urgent to the point of pain. All of history supports this idea; intensive cultivation eventually wins out over extensive cultivation; in other words, improving our own field is far more effective than making someone else’s field less successful. If you tend to your own garden and grow a particularly large cabbage, people will likely come to check it out. On the other hand, the life of someone selling small cabbages all over the area is often pretty bleak.
Now, the Imperial Pioneer is essentially a commercial traveller; and a commercial traveller is essentially a person who goes to see people because they don't want to see him. As long as empires go about urging their ideas on others, I always have a notion that the ideas are no good. If they were really so splendid, they would make the country preaching them a wonder of the world. That is the true ideal; a great nation ought not to be a hammer, but a magnet. Men went to the mediaeval Sorbonne because it was worth going to. Men went to old Japan because only there could they find the unique and exquisite old Japanese art. Nobody will ever go to modern Japan (nobody worth bothering about, I mean), because modern Japan has made the huge mistake of going to the other people: becoming a common empire. The mountain has condescended to Mahomet; and henceforth Mahomet will whistle for it when he wants it.
Now, the Imperial Pioneer is basically a sales representative; and a sales representative is really someone who visits people because they don't want to see him. As long as empires are out there pushing their ideas on others, I have a feeling that those ideas aren't that great. If they were truly amazing, the country promoting them would be a wonder of the world. That's the real goal; a great nation shouldn't be a hammer, but a magnet. People went to the medieval Sorbonne because it was worth visiting. People went to old Japan because that was the only place to find the unique and exquisite traditional Japanese art. No one will ever go to modern Japan (at least no one worth noticing), because modern Japan has made the big mistake of reaching out to others: becoming a typical empire. The mountain has lowered itself to meet Mahomet; and from now on, Mahomet will have to call for it when he needs it.
That is my political theory: that we should make England worth copying instead of telling everybody to copy her.
That’s my political theory: we should make England worth imitating instead of just telling everyone to imitate her.
But it is not the only possible theory. There is another view of our relations to such places as Egypt and India which is entirely tenable. It may be said, “We Europeans are the heirs of the Roman Empire; when all is said we have the largest freedom, the most exact science, the most solid romance. We have a deep though undefined obligation to give as we have received from God; because the tribes of men are truly thirsting for these things as for water. All men really want clear laws: we can give clear laws. All men really want hygiene: we can give hygiene. We are not merely imposing Western ideas. We are simply fulfilling human ideas—for the first time.”
But it’s not the only possible theory. There’s another perspective on our relationship with places like Egypt and India that is completely valid. It could be said, “We Europeans are the heirs of the Roman Empire; when you break it down, we have the greatest freedom, the most precise science, and the strongest romance. We have a deep, though vague, duty to give what we have received from God, because people truly desire these things as if they were thirsty for water. Everyone genuinely wants clear laws: we can provide clear laws. Everyone truly wants hygiene: we can provide hygiene. We’re not just imposing Western ideas. We’re simply fulfilling universal human ideas—for the first time.”
On this line, I think, it is possible to justify the forts of Africa and the railroads of Asia; but on this line we must go much further. If it is our duty to give our best, there can be no doubt about what is our best. The greatest thing our Europe has made is the Citizen: the idea of the average man, free and full of honour, voluntarily invoking on his own sin the just vengeance of his city. All else we have done is mere machinery for that: railways exist only to carry the Citizen; forts only to defend him; electricity only to light him, medicine only to heal him. Popularism, the idea of the people alive and patiently feeding history, that we cannot give; for it exists everywhere, East and West. But democracy, the idea of the people fighting and governing—that is the only thing we have to give.
On this topic, I believe it’s possible to justify the forts in Africa and the railroads in Asia, but we need to go much deeper. If it’s our duty to give our best, there’s no question about what that is. The greatest thing Europe has created is the Citizen: the concept of the average person, free and honorable, willingly accepting the just consequences of their actions from their community. Everything else we’ve done is just a means to that end: railways exist to transport the Citizen; forts exist to protect him; electricity exists to illuminate him; medicine exists to heal him. We can’t provide popularism, the idea of the people living and patiently shaping history, because that exists everywhere, both East and West. But democracy, the idea of the people fighting and governing—that's the only thing we have to offer.
Those are the two roads. But between them weakly wavers the Sentimentalist—that is, the Imperialist of the Roosevelt school. He wants to have it both ways, to have the splendours of success without the perils. Europe may enslave Asia, because it is flattering: but Europe must not free Asia, because that is responsible. It tickles his Imperial taste that Hindoos should have European hats: it is too dangerous if they have European heads. He cannot leave Asia Asiatic: yet he dare not contemplate Asia as European. Therefore he proposes to have in Egypt railway signals, but not flags; despatch boxes, but not ballot boxes.
Those are the two paths. But in between them hesitates the Sentimentalist—that is, the Imperialist of the Roosevelt style. He wants to enjoy the benefits of success without the risks. Europe can dominate Asia, because it feels good: but Europe must not liberate Asia, because that would be serious. It pleases his Imperial taste that Indians should wear European hats; it’s too risky if they think like Europeans. He can’t leave Asia as it is, yet he’s afraid to see Asia as European. So, he suggests having railway signals in Egypt, but no flags; mailboxes, but no ballot boxes.
In short, the Sentimentalist decides to spread the body of Europe without the soul.
In short, the Sentimentalist chooses to divide Europe physically but without any emotional connection.
The White Horses
It is within my experience, which is very brief and occasional in this matter, that it is not really at all easy to talk in a motor-car. This is fortunate; first, because, as a whole, it prevents me from motoring; and second because, at any given moment, it prevents me from talking. The difficulty is not wholly due to the physical conditions, though these are distinctly unconversational. FitzGerald's Omar, being a pessimist, was probably rich, and being a lazy fellow, was almost certainly a motorist. If any doubt could exist on the point, it is enough to say that, in speaking of the foolish profits, Omar has defined the difficulties of colloquial motoring with a precision which cannot be accidental. “Their words to wind are scattered; and their mouths are stopped with dust.” From this follows not (as many of the cut-and-dried philosophers would say) a savage silence and mutual hostility, but rather one of those rich silences that make the mass and bulk of all friendship; the silence of men rowing the same boat or fighting in the same battle-line.
In my limited experience with this, I’ve found that it’s really not easy to have a conversation in a car. This is a good thing; first, because it generally keeps me from driving, and second, because it stops me from talking at any given moment. The challenge isn’t just about the physical conditions, although those definitely don’t help. FitzGerald's Omar, being a pessimist, was probably wealthy, and being a lazy guy, he was definitely a car owner. If there were any doubt about this, it’s enough to say that when he refers to foolish profits, Omar perfectly captures the challenges of having a conversation while driving: “Their words to wind are scattered; and their mouths are stopped with dust.” This leads not, as many rigid philosophers would suggest, to a savage silence and mutual hostility, but rather to one of those deep silences that form the foundation of all friendship; the silence of men rowing the same boat or fighting on the same battlefield.
It happened that the other day I hired a motor-car, because I wanted to visit in very rapid succession the battle-places and hiding-places of Alfred the Great; and for a thing of this sort a motor is really appropriate. It is not by any means the best way of seeing the beauty of the country; you see beauty better by walking, and best of all by sitting still. But it is a good method in any enterprise that involves a parody of the military or governmental quality—anything which needs to know quickly the whole contour of a county or the rough, relative position of men and towns. On such a journey, like jagged lightning, I sat from morning till night by the side of the chauffeur; and we scarcely exchanged a word to the hour. But by the time the yellow stars came out in the villages and the white stars in the skies, I think I understood his character; and I fear he understood mine.
The other day, I rented a car because I wanted to quickly visit the battlefields and hiding spots of Alfred the Great. For something like this, a car is definitely the right choice. It’s not the best way to appreciate the beauty of the countryside; walking allows you to see it better, and sitting still is the best of all. But it's a good method for any mission that involves a mock military or government aspect—anything that requires a quick understanding of the overall layout of a region or the rough, relative locations of people and towns. Throughout that journey, like a flash of lightning, I sat beside the driver from morning until night, and we barely exchanged a word. But by the time the yellow stars appeared in the villages and the white stars shone in the sky, I think I understood his character; and I fear he understood mine.
He was a Cheshire man with a sour, patient, and humorous face; he was modest, though a north countryman, and genial, though an expert. He spoke (when he spoke at all) with a strong northland accent; and he evidently was new to the beautiful south country, as was clear both from his approval and his complaints. But though he came from the north he was agricultural and not commercial in origin; he looked at the land rather than the towns, even if he looked at it with a somewhat more sharp and utilitarian eye. His first remark for some hours was uttered when we were crossing the more coarse and desolate heights of Salisbury Plain. He remarked that he had always thought that Salisbury Plain was a plain. This alone showed that he was new to the vicinity. But he also said, with a critical frown, “A lot of this land ought to be good land enough. Why don't they use it?” He was then silent for some more hours.
He was a guy from Cheshire with a grumpy, patient, and funny face; he was modest, even though he was from the North, and friendly, even though he was an expert. When he did speak, he had a strong northern accent; it was obvious he was new to the beautiful southern countryside, as shown by both his praise and his complaints. However, despite coming from the North, his background was agricultural rather than commercial; he focused more on the land than on the towns, even if he viewed it with a sharper, more practical perspective. His first comment after several hours came while we were crossing the rougher and emptier hills of Salisbury Plain. He said he always thought Salisbury Plain was just a flat area. This alone showed he was unfamiliar with the area. But he also added, with a critical expression, “A lot of this land should be good land. Why aren’t they using it?” Then he fell silent for a few more hours.
At an abrupt angle of the slopes that lead down from what is called (with no little humour) Salisbury Plain, I saw suddenly, as by accident, something I was looking for—that is, something I did not expect to see. We are all supposed to be trying to walk into heaven; but we should be uncommonly astonished if we suddenly walked into it. As I was leaving Salisbury Plain (to put it roughly) I lifted up my eyes and saw the White Horse of Britain.
At a sharp angle on the slopes descending from what is humorously called Salisbury Plain, I suddenly spotted something I had been looking for—something I didn’t expect to see. We’re all meant to be heading toward heaven; but we’d be incredibly surprised if we just walked right into it. As I was leaving Salisbury Plain (to put it simply), I looked up and saw the White Horse of Britain.
One or two truly fine poets of the Tory and Protestant type, such as Swinburne and Mr. Rudyard Kipling, have eulogized England under the image of white horses, meaning the white-maned breakers of the Channel. This is right and natural enough. The true philosophical Tory goes back to ancient things because he thinks they will be anarchic things. It would startle him very much to be told that there are white horses of artifice in England that may be older than those wild white horses of the elements. Yet it is truly so. Nobody knows how old are those strange green and white hieroglyphics, those straggling quadrupeds of chalk, that stand out on the sides of so many of the Southern Downs. They are possibly older than Saxon and older than Roman times. They may well be older than British, older than any recorded times. They may go back, for all we know, to the first faint seeds of human life on this planet. Men may have picked a horse out of the grass long before they scratched a horse on a vase or pot, or messed and massed any horse out of clay. This may be the oldest human art—before building or graving. And if so, it may have first happened in another geological age, before the sea burst through the narrow Straits of Dover. The White Horse may have begun in Berkshire when there were no white horses at Folkestone or Newhaven. That rude but evident white outline that I saw across the valley may have been begun when Britain was not an island. We forget that there are many places where art is older than nature.
One or two truly great poets of the Tory and Protestant kind, like Swinburne and Mr. Rudyard Kipling, have praised England using the image of white horses, referring to the white-maned waves of the Channel. This makes perfect sense. The true philosophical Tory looks back to ancient times because they believe those times will be chaotic. They would be very surprised to learn that there are artificial white horses in England that may be older than those wild white horses of nature. But it’s true. No one really knows how old those strange green and white symbols are, those sprawling chalk figures of horses that appear on the hills of the Southern Downs. They might be older than Saxon or even Roman times. They could be older than the British, older than any recorded history. They might even trace back to the earliest hints of human life on this planet. People may have picked a horse out of the grass long before they carved a horse on a vase or shaped one out of clay. This could be the oldest human art—before building or engraving. And if that’s the case, it may have started in a different geological era, before the sea broke through the narrow Straits of Dover. The White Horse might have originated in Berkshire when there were no white horses at Folkestone or Newhaven. That simple but clear white outline that I saw across the valley might have begun when Britain wasn’t even an island. We often forget that in many places, art is older than nature.
We took a long detour through somewhat easier roads, till we came to a breach or chasm in the valley, from which we saw our friend the White Horse once more. At least, we thought it was our friend the White Horse; but after a little inquiry we discovered to our astonishment that it was another friend and another horse. Along the leaning flanks of the same fair valley there was (it seemed) another white horse; as rude and as clean, as ancient and as modern, as the first. This, at least, I thought must be the aboriginal White Horse of Alfred, which I had always heard associated with his name. And yet before we had driven into Wantage and seen King Alfred's quaint grey statue in the sun, we had seen yet a third white horse. And the third white horse was so hopelessly unlike a horse that we were sure that it was genuine. The final and original white horse, the white horse of the White Horse Vale, has that big, babyish quality that truly belongs to our remotest ancestors. It really has the prehistoric, preposterous quality of Zulu or New Zealand native drawings. This at least was surely made by our fathers when they were barely men; long before they were civilized men.
We took a long detour through some easier roads until we reached a gap in the valley, where we spotted our friend the White Horse once again. At least, we thought it was our friend the White Horse, but after asking around, we were surprised to find it was another friend and another horse. Along the sloping sides of the same beautiful valley, there seemed to be another white horse; just as rough and clean, just as ancient and modern, as the first. I thought this must be the original White Horse of Alfred, which I had always heard linked to his name. Yet, before we drove into Wantage and saw King Alfred's unique grey statue in the sunlight, we encountered a third white horse. And the third white horse looked so completely unlike a horse that we were convinced it was the real deal. The final and original white horse, the one in the White Horse Vale, has that big, innocent quality that truly belongs to our earliest ancestors. It really possesses the prehistoric, bizarre quality of Zulu or New Zealand native art. This was definitely created by our forefathers when they were still young; long before they became civilized.
But why was it made? Why did barbarians take so much trouble to make a horse nearly as big as a hamlet; a horse who could bear no hunter, who could drag no load? What was this titanic, sub-conscious instinct for spoiling a beautiful green slope with a very ugly white quadruped? What (for the matter of that) is this whole hazardous fancy of humanity ruling the earth, which may have begun with white horses, which may by no means end with twenty horse-power cars? As I rolled away out of that country, I was still cloudily considering how ordinary men ever came to want to make such strange chalk horses, when my chauffeur startled me by speaking for the first time for nearly two hours. He suddenly let go one of the handles and pointed at a gross green bulk of down that happened to swell above us. “That would be a good place,” he said.
But why was it created? Why did people go through so much effort to make a horse that was almost as big as a small village; a horse that couldn't carry a rider, and couldn't haul anything? What was this enormous, subconscious urge to ruin a beautiful green slope with an ugly white horse figure? What, for that matter, is this entire risky idea of humans dominating the earth, which may have started with white horses and might not end with twenty horsepower cars? As I drove away from that area, I was still vaguely pondering how regular people ever got the idea to create such odd chalk horses when my driver surprised me by speaking for the first time in nearly two hours. He suddenly let go of one of the handles and pointed at a large green hill that was rising above us. “That would be a good spot,” he said.
Naturally I referred to his last speech of some hours before; and supposed he meant that it would be promising for agriculture. As a fact, it was quite unpromising; and this made me suddenly understand the quiet ardour in his eye. All of a sudden I saw what he really meant. He really meant that this would be a splendid place to pick out another white horse. He knew no more than I did why it was done; but he was in some unthinkable prehistoric tradition, because he wanted to do it. He became so acute in sensibility that he could not bear to pass any broad breezy hill of grass on which there was not a white horse. He could hardly keep his hands off the hills. He could hardly leave any of the living grass alone.
Naturally, I thought about his last speech from a few hours ago and assumed he meant it would be good for farming. In reality, it was far from promising; and that made me suddenly realize the quiet passion in his eyes. Out of nowhere, I understood what he really meant. He meant that this would be a perfect place to choose another white horse. He didn't know any more than I did why it was done, but he was caught up in some unimaginable ancient tradition because he wanted to do it. He became so sensitive that he couldn’t stand passing by any wide, breezy hill of grass that didn’t have a white horse. He could hardly keep his hands off the hills. He could hardly leave any of the living grass untouched.
Then I left off wondering why the primitive man made so many white horses. I left off troubling in what sense the ordinary eternal man had sought to scar or deface the hills. I was content to know that he did want it; for I had seen him wanting it.
Then I stopped wondering why primitive man made so many white horses. I stopped being puzzled about how the ordinary, eternal man had tried to mark or damage the hills. I was just glad to know that he wanted it; because I had seen him wanting it.
The Long Bow
I find myself still sitting in front of the last book by Mr. H. G. Wells, I say stunned with admiration, my family says sleepy with fatigue. I still feel vaguely all the things in Mr. Wells's book which I agree with; and I still feel vividly the one thing that I deny. I deny that biology can destroy the sense of truth, which alone can even desire biology. No truth which I find can deny that I am seeking the truth. My mind cannot find anything which denies my mind... But what is all this? This is no sort of talk for a genial essay. Let us change the subject; let us have a romance or a fable or a fairy tale.
I’m still sitting here in front of the latest book by H. G. Wells, amazed and in awe, while my family thinks I’m just tired and drowsy. I still have a faint sense of all the things in Mr. Wells’s book that I agree with, and I acutely feel the one thing I reject. I believe that biology cannot destroy the sense of truth, which is the only thing that can even desire biology. No truth I find can deny that I’m pursuing the truth. My mind can’t find anything that contradicts my mind... But what’s all this? This isn’t the kind of talk for a friendly essay. Let’s change the topic; let’s have a romance or a fable or a fairy tale.
Come, let us tell each other stories. There was once a king who was very fond of listening to stories, like the king in the Arabian Nights. The only difference was that, unlike that cynical Oriental, this king believed all the stories that he heard. It is hardly necessary to add that he lived in England. His face had not the swarthy secrecy of the tyrant of the thousand tales; on the contrary, his eyes were as big and innocent as two blue moons; and when his yellow beard turned totally white he seemed to be growing younger. Above him hung still his heavy sword and horn, to remind men that he had been a tall hunter and warrior in his time: indeed, with that rusted sword he had wrecked armies. But he was one of those who will never know the world, even when they conquer it. Besides his love of this old Chaucerian pastime of the telling of tales, he was, like many old English kings, specially interested in the art of the bow. He gathered round him great archers of the stature of Ulysses and Robin Hood, and to four of these he gave the whole government of his kingdom. They did not mind governing his kingdom; but they were sometimes a little bored with the necessity of telling him stories. None of their stories were true; but the king believed all of them, and this became very depressing. They created the most preposterous romances; and could not get the credit of creating them. Their true ambition was sent empty away. They were praised as archers; but they desired to be praised as poets. They were trusted as men, but they would rather have been admired as literary men.
Come on, let’s share some stories. There was once a king who really loved listening to stories, just like the king in the Arabian Nights. The only difference was that, unlike that jaded Eastern ruler, this king believed every story he heard. It’s not really necessary to mention that he lived in England. His face didn’t have the dark, mysterious look of the tyrant from a thousand tales; instead, his eyes were as big and innocent as two blue moons, and when his yellow beard turned completely white, he looked younger. Above him hung his heavy sword and horn, reminders that he had once been a tall hunter and warrior: indeed, he had used that rusted sword to destroy armies. But he was one of those people who would never truly understand the world, even with all his victories. In addition to his love for the old Chaucerian pastime of storytelling, he was, like many old English kings, particularly interested in archery. He gathered around him great archers like Ulysses and Robin Hood, and he gave the full responsibility of governing his kingdom to four of them. They didn’t mind running his kingdom, but they sometimes found it a bit dull to constantly tell him stories. None of their tales were true, but the king believed all of them, and that became quite disheartening. They spun the most ridiculous romances but couldn’t get credit for creating them. Their true ambition went unrecognized. They were praised for their archery skills, but they longed to be admired as poets. They were trusted as men, but they would have preferred to be appreciated as literary figures.
At last, in an hour of desperation, they formed themselves into a club or conspiracy with the object of inventing some story which even the king could not swallow. They called it The League of the Long Bow; thus attaching themselves by a double bond to their motherland of England, which has been steadily celebrated since the Norman Conquest for its heroic archery and for the extraordinary credulity of its people.
At last, in a moment of desperation, they came together to create a club or a conspiracy aimed at coming up with a tale that even the king wouldn't believe. They named it The League of the Long Bow; thus forming a strong connection to their homeland of England, which has been renowned since the Norman Conquest for its heroic archery and the remarkable gullibility of its people.
At last it seemed to the four archers that their hour had come. The king commonly sat in a green curtained chamber, which opened by four doors, and was surmounted by four turrets. Summoning his champions to him on an April evening, he sent out each of them by a separate door, telling him to return at morning with the tale of his journey. Every champion bowed low, and, girding on great armour as for awful adventures, retired to some part of the garden to think of a lie. They did not want to think of a lie which would deceive the king; any lie would do that. They wanted to think of a lie so outrageous that it would not deceive him, and that was a serious matter.
At last, it seemed to the four archers that their moment had arrived. The king typically sat in a green-curtained room with four doors, topped by four towers. On an April evening, he called his champions to him and sent each of them out through a different door, instructing them to return in the morning with a story about their journey. Each champion bowed deeply and, donning heavy armor for what could be tough adventures, retreated to a secluded part of the garden to come up with a story. They didn’t want a story that would simply fool the king; any story could do that. They aimed to create a tale so wild that it wouldn't trick him, and that was no small task.
The first archer who returned was a dark, quiet, clever fellow, very dexterous in small matters of mechanics. He was more interested in the science of the bow than in the sport of it. Also he would only shoot at a mark, for he thought it cruel to kill beasts and birds, and atrocious to kill men. When he left the king he had gone out into the wood and tried all sorts of tiresome experiments about the bending of branches and the impact of arrows; when even he found it tiresome he returned to the house of the four turrets and narrated his adventure. “Well,” said the king, “what have you been shooting?” “Arrows,” answered the archer. “So I suppose,” said the king smiling; “but I mean, I mean what wild things have you shot?” “I have shot nothing but arrows,” answered the bowman obstinately. “When I went out on to the plain I saw in a crescent the black army of the Tartars, the terrible archers whose bows are of bended steel, and their bolts as big as javelins. They spied me afar off, and the shower of their arrows shut out the sun and made a rattling roof above me. You know, I think it wrong to kill a bird, or worm, or even a Tartar. But such is the precision and rapidity of perfect science that, with my own arrows, I split every arrow as it came against me. I struck every flying shaft as if it were a flying bird. Therefore, Sire, I may say truly, that I shot nothing but arrows.” The king said, “I know how clever you engineers are with your fingers.” The archer said, “Oh,” and went out.
The first archer who came back was a quiet, clever guy who was really skilled with small mechanics. He cared more about the science of archery than the sport itself. He only aimed at targets because he thought it was cruel to kill animals and outrageous to kill people. After leaving the king, he went into the woods and tried all kinds of tedious experiments on how branches bend and how arrows hit. Even he found it boring after a while, so he went back to the four-turret house and shared his story. “Well,” the king said, “what did you shoot?” “Arrows,” the archer replied. “I figured as much,” the king said with a smile; “but what exciting things did you shoot at?” “I shot nothing but arrows,” the bowman insisted. “When I stepped out onto the plain, I saw the crescent-shaped black army of the Tartars, the feared archers whose bows are made of bent steel, and their arrows were as big as javelins. They spotted me from a distance, and a shower of arrows blocked the sun, creating a rattling roof above me. You see, I think it’s wrong to kill a bird, a worm, or even a Tartar. But the precision and speed of perfect science allowed me to split every arrow that came at me with my own arrows. I hit every flying shaft as if it were a flying bird. So, Sire, I can honestly say that I shot nothing but arrows.” The king said, “I know how skilled you engineers are with your hands.” The archer replied, “Oh,” and walked out.
The second archer, who had curly hair and was pale, poetical, and rather effeminate, had merely gone out into the garden and stared at the moon. When the moon had become too wide, blank, and watery, even for his own wide, blank, and watery eyes, he came in again. And when the king said “What have you been shooting?” he answered with great volubility, “I have shot a man; not a man from Tartary, not a man from Europe, Asia, Africa, or America; not a man on this earth at all. I have shot the Man in the Moon.” “Shot the Man in the Moon?” repeated the king with something like a mild surprise. “It is easy to prove it,” said the archer with hysterical haste. “Examine the moon through this particularly powerful telescope, and you will no longer find any traces of a man there.” The king glued his big blue idiotic eye to the telescope for about ten minutes, and then said, “You are right: as you have often pointed out, scientific truth can only be tested by the senses. I believe you.” And the second archer went out, and being of a more emotional temperament burst into tears.
The second archer, who had curly hair and was pale, artistic, and somewhat effeminate, had simply gone out to the garden and gazed at the moon. When the moon became too large, blank, and watery, even for his own wide, blank, and watery eyes, he came back inside. When the king asked, “What have you been shooting?” he replied excitedly, “I shot a man; not a man from Tartary, not a man from Europe, Asia, Africa, or America; not a man on this earth at all. I shot the Man in the Moon.” “Shot the Man in the Moon?” the king echoed, sounding mildly surprised. “It’s easy to prove,” said the archer, speaking quickly. “Look at the moon through this really powerful telescope, and you won’t find any traces of a man there.” The king pressed his big blue clueless eye to the telescope for about ten minutes, then said, “You’re right: as you’ve often mentioned, scientific truth can only be verified by the senses. I believe you.” The second archer went outside, and being more emotional, he burst into tears.
The third archer was a savage, brooding sort of man with tangled hair and dreamy eyes, and he came in without any preface, saying, “I have lost all my arrows. They have turned into birds.” Then as he saw that they all stared at him, he said “Well, you know everything changes on the earth; mud turns into marigolds, eggs turn into chickens; one can even breed dogs into quite different shapes. Well, I shot my arrows at the awful eagles that clash their wings round the Himalayas; great golden eagles as big as elephants, which snap the tall trees by perching on them. My arrows fled so far over mountain and valley that they turned slowly into fowls in their flight. See here,” and he threw down a dead bird and laid an arrow beside it. “Can't you see they are the same structure. The straight shaft is the backbone; the sharp point is the beak; the feather is the rudimentary plumage. It is merely modification and evolution.” After a silence the king nodded gravely and said, “Yes; of course everything is evolution.” At this the third archer suddenly and violently left the room, and was heard in some distant part of the building making extraordinary noises either of sorrow or of mirth.
The third archer was a wild, brooding guy with messy hair and dreamy eyes. He walked in without any introduction and said, “I’ve lost all my arrows. They’ve turned into birds.” As everyone stared at him, he added, “Well, you know everything changes on Earth; mud turns into marigolds, eggs turn into chickens; you can even breed dogs into totally different shapes. So, I shot my arrows at the terrible eagles that flap their wings around the Himalayas; huge golden eagles as big as elephants, which break tall trees just by perching on them. My arrows flew so far over mountains and valleys that they slowly turned into birds in flight. Look here,” and he tossed down a dead bird and placed an arrow next to it. “Can’t you see they have the same structure? The straight shaft is the backbone; the sharp point is the beak; the feather is the basic plumage. It’s just modification and evolution.” After a moment of silence, the king nodded seriously and said, “Yes; of course, everything is evolution.” At this, the third archer suddenly stormed out of the room and was heard making strange noises somewhere else in the building, either out of sadness or laughter.
The fourth archer was a stunted man with a face as dead as wood, but with wicked little eyes close together, and very much alive. His comrades dissuaded him from going in because they said that they had soared up into the seventh heaven of living lies, and that there was literally nothing which the old man would not believe. The face of the little archer became a little more wooden as he forced his way in, and when he was inside he looked round with blinking bewilderment. “Ha, the last,” said the king heartily, “welcome back again!” There was a long pause, and then the stunted archer said, “What do you mean by 'again'? I have never been here before.” The king stared for a few seconds, and said, “I sent you out from this room with the four doors last night.” After another pause the little man slowly shook his head. “I never saw you before,” he said simply; “you never sent me out from anywhere. I only saw your four turrets in the distance, and strayed in here by accident. I was born in an island in the Greek Archipelago; I am by profession an auctioneer, and my name is Punk.” The king sat on his throne for seven long instants like a statue; and then there awoke in his mild and ancient eyes an awful thing; the complete conviction of untruth. Every one has felt it who has found a child obstinately false. He rose to his height and took down the heavy sword above him, plucked it out naked, and then spoke. “I will believe your mad tales about the exact machinery of arrows; for that is science. I will believe your mad tales about traces of life in the moon; for that is science. I will believe your mad tales about jellyfish turning into gentlemen, and everything turning into anything; for that is science. But I will not believe you when you tell me what I know to be untrue. I will not believe you when you say that you did not all set forth under my authority and out of my house. The other three may conceivably have told the truth; but this last man has certainly lied. Therefore I will kill him.” And with that the old and gentle king ran at the man with uplifted sword; but he was arrested by the roar of happy laughter, which told the world that there is, after all, something which an Englishman will not swallow.
The fourth archer was a short man with a lifeless face, but he had wicked little eyes that were very much alive. His friends tried to stop him from going in, claiming they had gone up to the seventh heaven of living lies, and that there was nothing the old man wouldn’t believe. The little archer’s expression became even more wooden as he forced his way in, and once inside, he looked around, blinking in confusion. “Ha, the last,” the king said warmly, “welcome back!” There was a long pause, and then the short archer replied, “What do you mean by 'again'? I've never been here before.” The king stared at him for a few seconds and then said, “I sent you out from this room with the four doors last night.” After another pause, the little man slowly shook his head. “I’ve never seen you before,” he simply replied; “you never sent me out from anywhere. I only saw your four turrets in the distance and wandered in here by accident. I was born on an island in the Greek Archipelago; I’m an auctioneer, and my name is Punk.” The king sat on his throne for seven long seconds like a statue; then a terrible realization appeared in his gentle, ancient eyes—the complete certainty of being lied to. Everyone has felt this when they encounter a child who is stubbornly dishonest. He rose to his full height, took down the heavy sword above him, drew it out, and then spoke. “I will believe your crazy stories about the exact mechanism of arrows; that’s science. I will believe your crazy claims about signs of life on the moon; that’s science. I will believe your wild tales about jellyfish becoming gentlemen, and everything transforming into anything; that’s science. But I won’t believe you when you say something I know is a lie. I won’t believe you when you claim you didn’t set forth under my authority and leave from my house. The other three might have told the truth, but this last man has certainly lied. Therefore, I will kill him.” With that, the old and gentle king lunged at the man with his sword raised, but he was stopped by the sound of joyful laughter, which reminded everyone that there is, after all, something an Englishman won’t tolerate.
The Modern Scrooge
Mr. Vernon-Smith, of Trinity, and the Social Settlement, Tooting, author of “A Higher London” and “The Boyg System at Work,” came to the conclusion, after looking through his select and even severe library, that Dickens's “Christmas Carol” was a very suitable thing to be read to charwomen. Had they been men they would have been forcibly subjected to Browning's “Christmas Eve” with exposition, but chivalry spared the charwomen, and Dickens was funny, and could do no harm. His fellow worker Wimpole would read things like “Three Men in a Boat” to the poor; but Vernon-Smith regarded this as a sacrifice of principle, or (what was the same thing to him) of dignity. He would not encourage them in their vulgarity; they should have nothing from him that was not literature. Still Dickens was literature after all; not literature of a high order, of course, not thoughtful or purposeful literature, but literature quite fitted for charwomen on Christmas Eve.
Mr. Vernon-Smith, from Trinity and the Social Settlement in Tooting, and author of “A Higher London” and “The Boyg System at Work,” concluded that after reviewing his carefully chosen but strict library, Dickens's “Christmas Carol” was perfect for charwomen to hear. If they had been men, he would have made them go through Browning's “Christmas Eve” with analysis, but out of chivalry, he spared the charwomen since Dickens was entertaining and harmless. His colleague Wimpole would read works like “Three Men in a Boat” to the underprivileged, but Vernon-Smith saw that as compromising his principles, or, to him, his dignity. He didn't want to encourage their coarseness; they should not receive anything from him that wasn't literature. Still, Dickens was literature, after all; not high-level literature, certainly, nor thoughtful or purposeful literature, but literature well-suited for charwomen on Christmas Eve.
He did not, however, let them absorb Dickens without due antidotes of warning and criticism. He explained that Dickens was not a writer of the first rank, since he lacked the high seriousness of Matthew Arnold. He also feared that they would find the characters of Dickens terribly exaggerated. But they did not, possibly because they were meeting them every day. For among the poor there are still exaggerated characters; they do not go to the Universities to be universified. He told the charwomen, with progressive brightness, that a mad wicked old miser like Scrooge would be really quite impossible now; but as each of the charwomen had an uncle or a grandfather or a father-in-law who was exactly like Scrooge, his cheerfulness was not shared. Indeed, the lecture as a whole lacked something of his firm and elastic touch, and towards the end he found himself rambling, and in a sort of abstraction, talking to them as if they were his fellows. He caught himself saying quite mystically that a spiritual plane (by which he meant his plane) always looked to those on the sensual or Dickens plane, not merely austere, but desolate. He said, quoting Bernard Shaw, that we could all go to heaven just as we can all go to a classical concert, but if we did it would bore us. Realizing that he was taking his flock far out of their depth, he ended somewhat hurriedly, and was soon receiving that generous applause which is a part of the profound ceremonialism of the working classes. As he made his way to the door three people stopped him, and he answered them heartily enough, but with an air of hurry which he would not have dreamed of showing to people of his own class. One was a little schoolmistress who told him with a sort of feverish meekness that she was troubled because an Ethical Lecturer had said that Dickens was not really Progressive; but she thought he was Progressive; and surely he was Progressive. Of what being Progressive was she had no more notion than a whale. The second person implored him for a subscription to some soup kitchen or cheap meal; and his refined features sharpened; for this, like literature, was a matter of principle with him. “Quite the wrong method,” he said, shaking his head and pushing past. “Nothing any good but the Boyg system.” The third stranger, who was male, caught him on the step as he came out into the snow and starlight; and asked him point blank for money. It was a part of Vernon-Smith's principles that all such persons are prosperous impostors; and like a true mystic he held to his principles in defiance of his five senses, which told him that the night was freezing and the man very thin and weak. “If you come to the Settlement between four and five on Friday week,” he said, “inquiries will be made.” The man stepped back into the snow with a not ungraceful gesture as of apology; he had frosty silver hair, and his lean face, though in shadow, seemed to wear something like a smile. As Vernon-Smith stepped briskly into the street, the man stooped down as if to do up his bootlace. He was, however, guiltless of any such dandyism; and as the young philanthropist stood pulling on his gloves with some particularity, a heavy snowball was suddenly smashed into his face. He was blind for a black instant; then as some of the snow fell, saw faintly, as in a dim mirror of ice or dreamy crystal, the lean man bowing with the elegance of a dancing master, and saying amiably, “A Christmas box.” When he had quite cleared his face of snow the man had vanished.
He didn’t let them take in Dickens without some necessary warnings and critiques. He pointed out that Dickens wasn’t a top-tier writer since he lacked the seriousness of Matthew Arnold. He worried they might find Dickens' characters extremely exaggerated. But they didn’t, probably because they encountered those types of people every day. Among the poor, exaggerated characters still exist; they don’t go to universities to become more refined. He told the cleaning ladies, with growing brightness, that a mad, stingy old miser like Scrooge would be impossible today; however, since each of the women had an uncle, grandfather, or father-in-law just like Scrooge, his cheerfulness wasn’t shared. Overall, the lecture lacked his usual strong and flexible touch, and towards the end, he found himself drifting off, talking to them as if they were his peers. He caught himself saying, quite mystically, that a higher spiritual plane (which he meant was his own) often looked to those on the more earthly or Dickensian level, not just austere but desolate. He quoted Bernard Shaw, saying that we could all go to heaven just like we can attend a classical concert, but if we did, we’d be bored. Realizing he was taking his audience far beyond their comfort zone, he wrapped up quickly and soon received the generous applause that is customary among the working class. As he made his way to the door, three people stopped him. He replied warmly but with a hurried demeanor that he wouldn’t have shown to people from his own class. One was a little schoolteacher who told him, with a sort of nervous meekness, that she was worried because an Ethical Lecturer had claimed that Dickens wasn’t truly Progressive; but she believed he was Progressive, and surely he was Progressive. She had no more idea of what being Progressive meant than a whale. The second person begged him for a donation to some soup kitchen or cheap meal, and his refined features sharpened; this, like literature, was a matter of principle for him. “Totally the wrong approach,” he said, shaking his head and moving past. “Nothing works except the Boyg system.” The third stranger, a man, stopped him at the step as he stepped out into the snow and starlight, asking him for money. Vernon-Smith believed that all such people were prosperous con artists, and like a true mystic, he stuck to his principles despite his senses telling him that the night was freezing and the man looked very thin and weak. “If you come to the Settlement between four and five next Friday,” he said, “we’ll look into it.” The man stepped back into the snow with a sort of graceful gesture of apology; he had frosty silver hair, and his lean face, though shrouded in shadow, seemed to carry a smile. As Vernon-Smith briskly walked into the street, the man bent down as if to tie his shoelace. However, he wasn’t engaged in any such dandyism; and as the young philanthropist stood putting on his gloves with particular care, a heavy snowball suddenly hit him in the face. He was blind for a moment; then, as some of the snow settled, he faintly saw, as in a dim mirror of ice or dreamy crystal, the lean man bowing with the grace of a dance teacher, saying cheerfully, “A Christmas gift.” Once he had cleared the snow off his face, the man had vanished.
For three burning minutes Cyril Vernon-Smith was nearer to the people and more their brother than he had been in his whole high-stepping pedantic existence; for if he did not love a poor man, he hated one. And you never really regard a labourer as your equal until you can quarrel with him. “Dirty cad!” he muttered. “Filthy fool! Mucking with snow like a beastly baby! When will they be civilized? Why, the very state of the street is a disgrace and a temptation to such tomfools. Why isn't all this snow cleared away and the street made decent?”
For three intense minutes, Cyril Vernon-Smith felt closer to the people and more like one of them than he ever had in his entire pompous and pedantic life; if he didn’t love a poor man, he certainly despised one. You never really see a laborer as your equal until you can argue with him. “Dirty jerk!” he muttered. “Filthy idiot! Playing with snow like a silly baby! When will they ever be civilized? The state of the street is a mess and a temptation for these fools. Why hasn’t all this snow been cleared away and the street made decent?”
To the eye of efficiency, there was, indeed, something to complain of in the condition of the road. Snow was banked up on both sides in white walls and towards the other and darker end of the street even rose into a chaos of low colourless hills. By the time he reached them he was nearly knee deep, and was in a far from philanthropic frame of mind. The solitude of the little streets was as strange as their white obstruction, and before he had ploughed his way much further he was convinced that he had taken a wrong turning, and fallen upon some formless suburb unvisited before. There was no light in any of the low, dark houses; no light in anything but the blank emphatic snow. He was modern and morbid; hellish isolation hit and held him suddenly; anything human would have relieved the strain, if it had been only the leap of a garotter. Then the tender human touch came indeed; for another snowball struck him, and made a star on his back. He turned with fierce joy, and ran after a boy escaping; ran with dizzy and violent speed, he knew not for how long. He wanted the boy; he did not know whether he loved or hated him. He wanted humanity; he did not know whether he loved or hated it.
To the eye of efficiency, there was definitely something to complain about regarding the state of the road. Snow was piled up on both sides in white walls and towards the darker end of the street, it even formed a chaotic landscape of low, colorless hills. By the time he reached them, he was nearly knee-deep in it and in a far from charitable mood. The solitude of the little streets felt as odd as their white obstruction, and before he had pushed his way much further, he was convinced that he had taken a wrong turn and stumbled into some nameless suburb he had never seen before. There was no light in any of the low, dark houses; the only brightness came from the stark, glaring snow. He felt modern and gloomy; sudden, hellish isolation hit him hard; anything human would have eased the tension, even the leap of a mugger would have been welcome. Then the soft touch of humanity did come; another snowball hit him, leaving a mark on his back. He turned with fierce joy and chased after a boy who was running away; he ran with dizzying, frantic speed, he wasn't sure how long. He wanted the boy; he didn’t know if he loved or hated him. He craved humanity; he didn’t know if he loved or hated it.
As he ran he realized that the landscape around him was changing in shape though not in colour. The houses seemed to dwindle and disappear in hills of snow as if buried; the snow seemed to rise in tattered outlines of crag and cliff and crest, but he thought nothing of all these impossibilities until the boy turned to bay. When he did he saw the child was queerly beautiful, with gold red hair, and a face as serious as complete happiness. And when he spoke to the boy his own question surprised him, for he said for the first time in his life, “What am I doing here?” And the little boy, with very grave eyes, answered, “I suppose you are dead.”
As he ran, he noticed that the scenery around him was changing shape but not color. The houses seemed to shrink and vanish into snow-covered hills as if they were buried; the snow rose in ragged outlines of rocks and cliffs, but he didn't think much about these strange occurrences until the boy stopped suddenly. When he did, he saw that the child was oddly beautiful, with reddish-gold hair and a face as serious as true happiness. When he spoke to the boy, he was surprised by his own question, as he asked for the first time in his life, “What am I doing here?” And the little boy, with very serious eyes, replied, “I guess you are dead.”
He had (also for the first time) a doubt of his spiritual destiny. He looked round on a towering landscape of frozen peaks and plains, and said, “Is this hell?” And as the child stared, but did not answer, he knew it was heaven.
He had (for the first time) doubts about his spiritual destiny. He looked around at a towering landscape of frozen peaks and plains and said, “Is this hell?” And as the child stared but didn’t respond, he realized it was heaven.
All over that colossal country, white as the world round the Pole, little boys were playing, rolling each other down dreadful slopes, crushing each other under falling cliffs; for heaven is a place where one can fight for ever without hurting. Smith suddenly remembered how happy he had been as a child, rolling about on the safe sandhills around Conway.
All across that massive country, white like the world around the North Pole, little boys were playing, tumbling each other down steep slopes, burying each other under falling cliffs; because heaven is a place where you can fight forever without getting hurt. Smith suddenly recalled how happy he had been as a child, rolling around on the safe sand dunes near Conway.
Right above Smith's head, higher than the cross of St. Paul's, but curving over him like the hanging blossom of a harebell, was a cavernous crag of snow. A hundred feet below him, like a landscape seen from a balloon, lay snowy flats as white and as far away. He saw a little boy stagger, with many catastrophic slides, to that toppling peak; and seizing another little boy by the leg, send him flying away down to the distant silver plains. There he sank and vanished in the snow as if in the sea; but coming up again like a diver rushed madly up the steep once more, rolling before him a great gathering snowball, gigantic at last, which he hurled back at the mountain crest, and brought both the boy and the mountain down in one avalanche to the level of the vale. The other boy also sank like a stone, and also rose again like a bird, but Smith had no leisure to concern himself with this. For the collapse of that celestial crest had left him standing solitary in the sky on a peak like a church spire.
Right above Smith's head, higher than the cross of St. Paul's, but curving over him like a blooming harebell, was a huge mass of snow. A hundred feet below him, like a landscape viewed from a hot air balloon, lay snowy plains as white and as distant. He watched a little boy stumble, tumbling down in various misadventures, toward that leaning peak; then grab another little boy by the leg and send him flying down to the far-off silver flats. There, he sunk and disappeared in the snow like someone drowning at sea; but then he emerged again like a diver, rushing back up the steep slope, rolling a huge snowball that grew bigger and bigger, which he launched back at the mountain top, causing both the boy and the mountain to tumble down in one avalanche to the valley below. The other boy also sank like a stone and rose again like a bird, but Smith didn't have time to think about that. The collapse of that celestial peak had left him standing alone in the sky on a tip like a church steeple.
He could see the tiny figures of the boys in the valley below, and he knew by their attitudes that they were eagerly telling him to jump. Then for the first time he knew the nature of faith, as he had just known the fierce nature of charity. Or rather for the second time, for he remembered one moment when he had known faith before. It was n when his father had taught him to swim, and he had believed he could float on water not only against reason, but (what is so much harder) against instinct. Then he had trusted water; now he must trust air.
He could see the small figures of the boys in the valley below, and he realized from their expressions that they were eagerly encouraging him to jump. For the first time, he understood the essence of faith, just as he had recently understood the intense nature of charity. Actually, it was the second time he felt this way; he remembered a moment when he had known faith before—when his father had taught him to swim, and he had believed he could float on water, not just against logic, but (which is much more difficult) against his instincts. Then he had trusted the water; now he had to trust the air.
He jumped. He went through air and then through snow with the same blinding swiftness. But as he buried himself in solid snow like a bullet he seemed to learn a million things and to learn them all too fast. He knew that the whole world is a snowball, and that all the stars are snowballs. He knew that no man will be fit for heaven till he loves solid whiteness as a little boy loves a ball of snow.
He jumped. He soared through the air and then plunged into the snow with the same dazzling speed. But as he buried himself in the solid snow like a bullet, he felt like he was learning a million things all at once. He realized that the whole world is like a snowball, and that all the stars are snowballs too. He understood that no one is truly ready for heaven until they love the pure white of snow the way a little boy loves a snowball.
He sank and sank and sank... and then, as usually happens in such cases, woke up, with a start—in the street. True, he was taken up for a common drunk, but (if you properly appreciate his conversion) you will realize that he did not mind; since the crime of drunkenness is infinitely less than that of spiritual pride, of which he had really been guilty.
He kept sinking and sinking... and then, as usually happens in these situations, he suddenly woke up—in the street. True, people thought he was just a common drunk, but (if you really get his change) you'll see that he didn’t care; because the crime of being drunk is way less serious than the spiritual pride he had actually been guilty of.
The High Plains
By high plains I do not mean table-lands; table-lands do not interest one very much. They seem to involve the bore of a climb without the pleasure of a peak. Also they arc vaguely associated with Asia and those enormous armies that eat up everything like locusts, as did the army of Xerxes; with emperors from nowhere spreading their battalions everywhere; with the white elephants and the painted horses, the dark engines and the dreadful mounted bowmen of the moving empires of the East, with all that evil insolence in short that rolled into Europe in the youth of Nero, and after having been battered about and abandoned by one Christian nation after another, turned up in England with Disraeli and was christened (or rather paganed) Imperialism.
By "high plains," I don't mean flatlands; flatlands don't really excite anyone. They seem like a hassle to climb without the reward of reaching a peak. Plus, they somehow remind me of Asia and those massive armies that devour everything in their path, like Xerxes' army; of emperors from nowhere spreading their forces everywhere; of white elephants and painted horses, dark engines, and terrifying mounted archers from the moving empires of the East, with all that arrogant evil that came into Europe during Nero's youth, and after being tossed around and rejected by one Christian nation after another, showed up in England with Disraeli and got the name (or rather the misnomer) Imperialism.
Also (it may be necessary to explain) I do not mean “high planes” such as the Theosophists and the Higher Thought Centres talk about. They spell theirs differently; but I will not have theirs in any spelling. They, I know, are always expounding how this or that person is on a lower plane, while they (the speakers) are on a higher plane: sometimes they will almost tell you what plane, as “5994” or “Plane F, sub-plane 304.” I do not mean this sort of height either. My religion says nothing about such planes except that all men are on one plane and that by no means a high one. There are saints indeed in my religion: but a saint only means a man who really knows he is a sinner.
Also (it might be necessary to clarify) I don't mean "higher planes" like the Theosophists and the Higher Thought Centers talk about. They spell it differently, but I won't accept their version. I know they often explain how this or that person is on a lower plane while they (the speakers) claim to be on a higher plane: sometimes they even specify which plane, like "5994" or "Plane F, sub-plane 304." I don't mean that kind of height either. My belief system says nothing about such planes except that everyone is on the same level, and it’s definitely not a high one. There are indeed saints in my belief system: but a saint just means someone who truly understands that he is a sinner.
Why then should I talk of the plains as high? I do it for a rather singular reason, which I will illustrate by a parallel. When I was at school learning all the Greek I have ever forgotten, I was puzzled by the phrase OINON MELAN that is “black wine,” which continually occurred. I asked what it meant, and many most interesting and convincing answers were given. It was pointed out that we know little of the actual liquid drunk by the Greeks; that the analogy of modern Greek wines may suggest that it was dark and sticky, perhaps a sort of syrup always taken with water; that archaic language about colour is always a little dubious, as where Homer speaks of the “wine-dark sea” and so on. I was very properly satisfied, and never thought of the matter again; until one day, having a decanter of claret in front of me, I happened to look at it. I then perceived that they called wine black because it is black. Very thin, diluted, or held-up abruptly against a flame, red wine is red; but seen in body in most normal shades and semi-lights red wine is black, and therefore was called so.
Why should I refer to the plains as high? I do it for a rather unique reason, which I'll explain with a comparison. When I was in school, learning all the Greek I've since forgotten, I was puzzled by the phrase OINON MELAN, meaning "black wine," which kept coming up. I asked what it meant, and I received many interesting and convincing explanations. It was pointed out that we know very little about the actual beverage consumed by the Greeks; that modern Greek wines might suggest it was dark and thick, perhaps a syrup that was always mixed with water; and that old descriptions of color are often a bit questionable, like when Homer talks about the “wine-dark sea” and so on. I was perfectly satisfied and didn’t think about it again, until one day, while I had a decanter of claret in front of me, I happened to look at it. I then realized that they called wine black because it is actually black. When thin, diluted, or held up quickly against a light, red wine looks red; but in most normal lighting and shades, red wine appears black, which is why it was called that.
On the same principles I call the plains high because the plains always are high; they are always as high as we are. We talk of climbing a mountain crest and looking down at the plain; but the phrase is an illusion of our arrogance. It is impossible even to look down at the plain. For the plain itself rises as we rise. It is not merely true that the higher we climb the wider and wider is spread out below us the wealth of the world; it is not merely that the devil or some other respectable guide for tourists takes us to the top of an exceeding high mountain and shows us all the kingdoms of the earth. It is more than that, in our real feeling of it. It is that in a sense the whole world rises with us roaring, and accompanies us to the crest like some clanging chorus of eagles. The plains rise higher and higher like swift grey walls piled up against invisible invaders. And however high a peak you climb, the plain is still as high as the peak.
On the same principles, I call the plains high because the plains are always elevated; they are always as high as we are. We talk about climbing a mountain peak and looking down at the plain, but that idea is an illusion born from our arrogance. It’s impossible to truly look down at the plain. For the plain itself rises as we do. It's not just that the higher we climb, the more the world's riches spread out beneath us; it’s not only that a guide—or even the devil—takes us to a towering mountain and shows us all the kingdoms of the earth. It’s deeper than that, in how we genuinely feel it. In a sense, the whole world rises with us, roaring, and follows us to the peak like a clanging chorus of eagles. The plains rise higher and higher like swift grey walls stacked up against unseen invaders. And no matter how high a peak you climb, the plain is still as high as the peak.
The mountain tops are only noble because from them we are privileged to behold the plains. So the only value in any man being superior is that he may have a superior admiration for the level and the common. If there is any profit in a place craggy and precipitous it is only because from the vale it is not easy to see all the beauty of the vale; because when actually in the flats one cannot see their sublime and satisfying flatness. If there is any value in being educated or eminent (which is doubtful enough) it is only because the best instructed man may feel most swiftly and certainly the splendour of the ignorant and the simple: the full magnificence of that mighty human army in the plains. The general goes up to the hill to look at his soldiers, not to look down at his soldiers. He withdraws himself not because his regiment is too small to be touched, but because it is too mighty to be seen. The chief climbs with submission and goes higher with great humility; since in order to take a bird's eye view of everything, he must become small and distant like a bird.
The mountain tops are only impressive because they allow us to see the plains below. So, the only reason someone might be considered superior is that they can appreciate the ordinary and the common more deeply. If there's any benefit to a rough and steep place, it's because when you're in the valley, it's hard to see all the beauty down there; when you're actually on the flat ground, you miss the awe-inspiring beauty of that flatness. If being educated or prominent has any value (which is questionable), it's only because a well-informed person can quickly and clearly recognize the brilliance of those who are uninformed and simple: the entire amazing human community in the plains. A general goes up to the hill to observe his soldiers, not to look down on them. He removes himself not because his troop is too small to matter, but because it is too formidable to view. The leader ascends with humility, climbing higher with great modesty; to truly see everything from above, he must make himself small and distant like a bird.
The most marvellous of those mystical cavaliers who wrote intricate and exquisite verse in England in the seventeenth century, I mean Henry Vaughan, put the matter in one line, intrinsically immortal and practically forgotten—
The most amazing of those mystical knights who wrote complex and beautiful poetry in England during the seventeenth century, referring to Henry Vaughan, summed it up in one line that is timeless yet largely overlooked—
“Oh holy hope and high humility.”
“Oh holy hope and great humility.”
That adjective “high” is not only one of the sudden and stunning inspirations of literature; it is also one of the greatest and gravest definitions of moral science. However far aloft a man may go, he is still looking up, not only at God (which is obvious), but in a manner at men also: seeing more and more all that is towering and mysterious in the dignity and destiny of the lonely house of Adam. I wrote some part of these rambling remarks on a high ridge of rock and turf overlooking a stretch of the central counties; the rise was slight enough in reality, but the immediate ascent had been so steep and sudden that one could not avoid the fancy that on reaching the summit one would look down at the stars. But one did not look down at the stars, but rather up at the cities; seeing as high in heaven the palace town of Alfred like a lit sunset cloud, and away in the void spaces, like a planet in eclipse, Salisbury. So, it may be hoped, until we die you and I will always look up rather than down at the labours and the habitations of our race; we will lift up our eyes to the valleys from whence cometh our help. For from every special eminence and beyond every sublime landmark, it is good for our souls to see only vaster and vaster visions of that dizzy and divine level; and to behold from our crumbling turrets the tall plains of equality.
That adjective “high” isn’t just one of the sudden and striking inspirations in literature; it’s also one of the most significant and serious definitions in moral science. No matter how high someone may go, they’re always looking up, not only at God (which is obvious), but in a way at other people too: recognizing more and more the grandeur and mystery in the dignity and fate of humanity. I wrote part of these wandering thoughts on a high ridge of rock and grass overlooking a stretch of the central counties; the rise was actually quite gentle, but the immediate climb had been so steep and abrupt that it felt like reaching the top would allow one to gaze down at the stars. But instead, one looked up at the cities; seeing the palace town of Alfred glowing like a sunset cloud in the sky, and in the distant void, like a planet in eclipse, Salisbury. So, let’s hope that until we die, you and I will always look up rather than down at the work and lives of our people; we will lift our eyes to the valleys where our help comes from. Because from every special height and beyond every majestic landmark, it’s good for our souls to envision only broader and broader views of that dizzying and divine level; and to see from our crumbling towers the broad plains of equality.
The Chorus
One of the most marked instances of the decline of true popular sympathy is the gradual disappearance in our time of the habit of singing in chorus. Even when it is done nowadays it is done tentatively and sometimes inaudibly; apparently upon some preposterous principle (which I have never clearly grasped) that singing is an art. In the new aristocracy of the drawing-room a lady is actually asked whether she sings. In the old democracy of the dinner table a man was simply told to sing, and he had to do it. I like the atmosphere of those old banquets. I like to think of my ancestors, middle-aged or venerable gentlemen, all sitting round a table and explaining that they would never forget old days or friends with a rumpty-iddity-iddity, or letting it be known that they would die for England's glory with their tooral ooral, etc. Even the vices of that society (which 'sometimes, I fear, rendered the narrative portions of the song almost as cryptic and inarticulate as the chorus) were displayed with a more human softening than the same vices in the saloon bars of our own time. I greatly prefer Mr. Richard Swiveller to Mr. Stanley Ortheris. I prefer the man who exceeded in rosy wine in order that the wing of friendship might never moult a feather to the man who exceeds quite as much in whiskies and sodas, but declares all the time that he's for number one, and that you don't catch him paying for other men's drinks. The old men of pleasure (with their tooral ooral) got at least some social and communal virtue out of pleasure. The new men of pleasure (without the slightest vestige of a tooral ooral) are simply hermits of irreligion instead of religion, anchorites of atheism, and they might as well be drugging themselves with hashish or opium in a wilderness.
One of the most noticeable signs of the decline of genuine popular connection is the gradual fading away of the habit of singing together. Even when it happens today, it’s often hesitant and sometimes barely audible; seemingly based on some absurd idea (which I’ve never quite understood) that singing is an art. In today’s high-society gatherings, a woman is actually asked if she sings. Back in the day at dinner tables, a man was just told to sing, and he had to comply. I miss the vibe of those old banquets. I like to imagine my ancestors, middle-aged or older gentlemen, all gathered around a table, expressing that they would never forget the good old days or friends with a lively tune, or making it known they would die for England's glory with their cheerful songs. Even the flaws of that society (which, I fear, sometimes made the narrative parts of the songs as cryptic and unintelligible as the choruses) were presented with more human warmth than the same flaws in today’s bar culture. I much prefer Mr. Richard Swiveller to Mr. Stanley Ortheris. I prefer the man who enjoyed a bit too much wine to ensure the spirit of friendship stayed alive to the one who drinks too much whiskey and soda but insists he only looks out for himself and won’t be paying for anyone else's drinks. The old pleasure seekers (with their cheerful tunes) at least found some social and communal goodness in their enjoyment. The new pleasure seekers (without a hint of a cheerful song) are just solitary men of irreligion instead of faith, lonely in their atheism, and they might as well be getting high on hashish or opium in the wilderness.
But the chorus of the old songs had another use besides this obvious one of asserting the popular element in the arts. The chorus of a song, even of a comic song, has the same purpose as the chorus in a Greek tragedy. It reconciles men to the gods. It connects this one particular tale with the cosmos and the philosophy of common things, Thus we constantly find in the old ballads, especially the pathetic ballads, some refrain about the grass growing green, or the birds singing, or the woods being merry in spring. These are windows opened in the house of tragedy; momentary glimpses of larger and quieter scenes, of more ancient and enduring landscapes. Many of the country songs describing crime and death have refrains of a startling joviality like cock crow, just as if the whole company were coming in with a shout of protest against so sombre a view of existence. There is a long and gruesome ballad called “The Berkshire Tragedy,” about a murder committed by a jealous sister, for the consummation of which a wicked miller is hanged, and the chorus (which should come in a kind of burst) runs:
But the chorus of the old songs had another purpose besides just highlighting the popular aspect of the arts. The chorus of a song, even a funny one, serves the same role as the chorus in a Greek tragedy. It helps people find peace with the gods. It ties this specific story to the universe and the deeper truths of everyday life. This is why we often see in old ballads, especially the sad ones, some refrain about the grass growing green, or the birds singing, or the woods being cheerful in spring. These are like windows opened in the house of tragedy; brief glimpses into larger and calmer scenes, into older and more lasting landscapes. Many country songs that talk about crime and death have refrains that are surprisingly cheerful, like a rooster crowing, as if the whole group is entering with a shout of defiance against such a gloomy view of life. There’s a long and grisly ballad called “The Berkshire Tragedy,” which tells the story of a murder committed by a jealous sister, resulting in the hanging of a wicked miller, and the chorus (which should come in with a burst) goes:
“And I'll be true to my love If my love'll be true to me.”
“And I’ll be loyal to my love If my love is loyal to me.”
The very reasonable arrangement here suggested is introduced, I think, as a kind of throw back to the normal, a reminder that even “The Berkshire Tragedy” does not fill the whole of Berkshire. The poor young lady is drowned, and the wicked miller (to whom we may have been affectionately attached) is hanged; but still a ruby kindles in the vine, and many a garden by the water blows. Not that Omar's type of hedonistic resignation is at all the same as the breezy impatience of the Berkshire refrain; but they are alike in so far as they gaze out beyond the particular complication to more open plains of peace. The chorus of the ballad looks past the drowning maiden and the miller's gibbet, and sees the lanes full of lovers.
The reasonable arrangement suggested here seems to be a nod to normalcy, reminding us that even “The Berkshire Tragedy” doesn’t cover the whole of Berkshire. The unfortunate young woman is drowned, and the evil miller (to whom we may have grown fond) is hanged; yet still, a ruby grows on the vine, and many gardens by the water bloom. While Omar's hedonistic acceptance isn't the same as the carefree impatience of the Berkshire refrain, they are similar in that both look beyond specific troubles toward broader areas of peace. The chorus of the ballad moves past the drowning maiden and the miller's gallows, seeing the lanes filled with lovers.
This use of the chorus to humanize and dilute a dark story is strongly opposed to the modern view of art. Modern art has to be what is called “intense.” It is not easy to define being intense; but, roughly speaking, it means saying only one thing at a time, and saying it wrong. Modern tragic writers have to write short stories; if they wrote long stories (as the man said of philosophy) cheerfulness would creep in. Such stories are like stings; brief, but purely painful. And doubtless they bore some resemblance to some lives lived under our successful scientific civilization; lives which tend in any case to be painful, and in many cases to be brief. But when the artistic people passed beyond the poignant anecdote and began to write long books full of poignancy, then the reading public began to rebel and to demand the recall of romance. The long books about the black poverty of cities became quite insupportable. The Berkshire tragedy had a chorus; but the London tragedy has no chorus. Therefore people welcomed the return of adventurous novels about alien places and times, the trenchant and swordlike stories of Stevenson. But I am not narrowly on the side of the romantics. I think that glimpses of the gloom of our civilization ought to be recorded. I think that the bewilderments of the solitary and sceptical soul ought to be preserved, if it be only for the pity (yes, and the admiration) of a happier time. But I wish that there were some way in which the chorus could enter. I wish that at the end of each chapter of stiff agony or insane terror the choir of humanity could come in with a crash of music and tell both the reader and the author that this is not the whole of human experience. Let them go on recording hard scenes or hideous questions, but let there be a jolly refrain.
This use of the chorus to make a dark story more relatable goes against the modern view of art. Modern art is expected to be “intense.” It’s hard to define what being intense really means, but generally, it means focusing on one thing at a time and getting it wrong. Modern tragic writers need to create short stories; if they wrote long ones (as someone said about philosophy), happiness would sneak in. Those stories are like stings—brief but purely painful. They likely reflect lives lived in our advanced scientific society, which are often painful and, in many cases, short. But when artists moved beyond sharp anecdotes and started writing long, poignant novels, readers began to push back and asked for the return of romance. The lengthy books about urban poverty became unbearable. The tragedy of Berkshire had a chorus; however, the tragedy of London doesn’t. So, people welcomed back adventurous novels set in different places and times, like the sharp and swordlike stories of Stevenson. But I don’t solely side with the romantics. I believe the darker aspects of our civilization should be documented. I think the confusion of the lonely and skeptical spirit should be preserved, if only to evoke pity (and yes, admiration) for a happier time. But I wish there was a way for the chorus to return. I wish that at the end of each chapter filled with stiff agony or insane terror, humanity's choir could burst in with a wave of music and remind both the reader and the author that this isn’t the entirety of human experience. Let them continue recording harsh scenes or ugly questions, but let there be a cheerful refrain.
Thus we might read: “As Honoria laid down the volume of Ibsen and went wearily to her window, she realized that life must be to her not only harsher, but colder than it was to the comfortable and the weak. With her tooral ooral, etc.;” or, again: “The young curate smiled grimly as he listened to his great-grandmother's last words. He knew only too well that since Phogg's discovery of the hereditary hairiness of goats religion stood on a very different basis from that which it had occupied in his childhood. With his rumpty-iddity, rumpty-iddity;” and so on. Or we might read: “Uriel Maybloom stared gloomily down at his sandals, as he realized for the first time how senseless and anti-social are all ties between man and woman; how each must go his or her way without any attempt to arrest the head-long separation of their souls.” And then would come in one deafening chorus of everlasting humanity “But I'll be true to my love, if my love'll be true to me.”
Thus we might read: “As Honoria put down the Ibsen book and wearily went to her window, she realized that life was not only harsher but colder for her than it was for the comfortable and the weak. With her tooral ooral, etc.;” or, again: “The young curate smiled grimly as he listened to his great-grandmother's last words. He knew all too well that since Phogg's discovery of the hereditary hairiness of goats, religion stood on a very different foundation than it had in his childhood. With his rumpty-iddity, rumpty-iddity;” and so on. Or we might read: “Uriel Maybloom stared gloomily at his sandals, realizing for the first time how senseless and anti-social all ties between man and woman are; how each must go their own way without trying to stop the rapid separation of their souls.” And then would come one deafening chorus of everlasting humanity: “But I'll be true to my love, if my love'll be true to me.”
In the records of the first majestic and yet fantastic developments of the foundation of St. Francis of Assisi is an account of a certain Blessed Brother Giles. I have forgotten most of it, but I remember one fact: that certain students of theology came to ask him whether he believed in free will, and, if so, how he could reconcile it with necessity. On hearing the question St. Francis's follower reflected a little while and then seized a fiddle and began capering and dancing about the garden, playing a wild tune and generally expressing a violent and invigorating indifference. The tune is not recorded, but it is the eternal chorus of mankind, that modifies all the arts and mocks all the individualisms, like the laughter and thunder of some distant sea.
In the records of the first impressive and yet incredible developments of the foundation of St. Francis of Assisi, there's a story about a certain Blessed Brother Giles. I’ve forgotten most of it, but one detail sticks with me: some theology students came to ask him if he believed in free will and, if so, how he could reconcile it with necessity. When he heard the question, St. Francis's follower thought for a moment, then grabbed a fiddle and started dancing around the garden, playing a lively tune and generally showing a fierce and refreshing indifference. The tune isn’t recorded, but it’s the timeless anthem of humanity that shapes all the arts and mocks all individual expressions, like the laughter and roar of a distant sea.
A Romance of the Marshes
In books as a whole marshes are described as desolate and colourless, great fields of clay or sedge, vast horizons of drab or grey. But this, like many other literary associations, is a piece of poetical injustice. Monotony has nothing to do with a place; monotony, either in its sensation or its infliction, is simply the quality of a person. There are no dreary sights; there are only dreary sightseers. It is a matter of taste, that is of personality, whether marshes are monotonous; but it is a matter of fact and science that they are not monochrome. The tops of high mountains (I am told) are all white; the depths of primeval caverns (I am also told) are all dark. The sea will be grey or blue for weeks together; and the desert, I have been led to believe, is the colour of sand. The North Pole (if we found it) would be white with cracks of blue; and Endless Space (if we went there) would, I suppose, be black with white spots. If any of these were counted of a monotonous colour I could well understand it; but on the contrary, they are always spoken of as if they had the gorgeous and chaotic colours of a cosmic kaleidoscope. Now exactly where you can find colours like those of a tulip garden or a stained-glass window, is in those sunken and sodden lands which are always called dreary. Of course the great tulip gardens did arise in Holland; which is simply one immense marsh. There is nothing in Europe so truly tropical as marshes. Also, now I come to think of it, there are few places so agreeably marshy as tropics. At any rate swamp and fenlands in England are always especially rich in gay grasses or gorgeous fungoids; and seem sometimes as glorious as a transformation scene; but also as unsubstantial. In these splendid scenes it is always very easy to put your foot through the scenery. You may sink up to your armpits; but you will sink up to your armpits in flowers. I do not deny that I myself am of a sort that sinks—except in the matter of spirits. I saw in the west counties recently a swampy field of great richness and promise. If I had stepped on it I have no doubt at all that I should have vanished; that aeons hence the complete fossil of a fat Fleet Street journalist would be found in that compressed clay. I only claim that it would be found in some attitude of energy, or even of joy. But the last point is the most important of all, for as I imagined myself sinking up to the neck in what looked like a solid green field, I suddenly remembered that this very thing must have happened to certain interesting pirates quite a thousand years ago.
In general, books portray marshes as bleak and dull, vast expanses of clay or grass, with endless horizons of brown or gray. But this is, like many other literary views, a form of poetic injustice. Monotony isn’t about a place; it’s simply a trait of a person. There aren’t any dreary sights; just dreary spectators. Whether marshes feel monotonous is a matter of personal taste, but fact and science show they are not colorless. The tops of high mountains (so I’ve heard) are all white; the depths of ancient caves (also what I’ve heard) are completely dark. The sea can appear gray or blue for long stretches; and the desert, I believe, is the color of sand. The North Pole (if it exists) would be white with blue cracks; and Endless Space (if we got there) would likely be black with white spots. If any of these were seen as having a monotonous color, I could understand it; however, they’re often described as if they were bursting with the vibrant, chaotic colors of a cosmic kaleidoscope. The colors of a tulip garden or a stained-glass window can actually be found in those sunken, soggy lands that people always call dreary. Of course, the famous tulip gardens did originate in Holland, which is basically one massive marsh. There’s nothing in Europe as truly tropical as marshes. Also, now that I think of it, there are few places as pleasantly marshy as tropical regions. Anyway, swamps and fens in England are usually rich in vibrant grasses or stunning fungi, and sometimes seem as magnificent as a transformation scene, but also as insubstantial. In these glorious scenes, it’s always easy to step right into the scenery. You might sink up to your armpits, but you’ll sink in flowers. I won’t deny that I’m the type who sinks—except when it comes to my spirits. I recently saw a swampy field in the west counties that was incredibly rich and promising. If I had stepped on it, I have no doubt I would have disappeared; that ages from now, the complete fossil of a chubby Fleet Street journalist would be found in that compacted clay. I only claim it would be discovered in some dynamic or even joyful position. But that's the most important point, because as I imagined myself sinking neck-deep in what seemed like a solid green field, I suddenly remembered that this very thing must have happened to some intriguing pirates about a thousand years ago.
For, as it happened, the flat fenland in which I so nearly sunk was the fenland round the Island of Athelney, which is now an island in the fields and no longer in the waters. But on the abrupt hillock a stone still stands to say that this was that embattled islet in the Parrett where King Alfred held his last fort against the foreign invaders, in that war that nearly washed us as far from civilization as the Solomon Islands. Here he defended the island called Athelney as he afterwards did his best to defend the island called England. For the hero always defends an island, a thing beleaguered and surrounded, like the Troy of Hector. And the highest and largest humanitarian can only rise to defending the tiny island called the earth.
For, as it turned out, the flat marshland where I almost got stuck was the marshland around the Island of Athelney, which is now just a patch of land in the fields and no longer surrounded by water. But on the steep little hill, a stone still stands to mark that this was the fortified island in the Parrett where King Alfred defended his last stronghold against foreign invaders in that war that nearly pushed us as far away from civilization as the Solomon Islands. Here he defended the island called Athelney, just as he later tried to protect the island called England. A hero always stands up for an island, something under siege and surrounded, like the Troy of Hector. And the greatest humanitarian can only rise to defend the tiny island we call Earth.
One approaches the island of Athelney along a low long road like an interminable white string stretched across the flats, and lined with those dwarfish trees that are elvish in their very dullness. At one point of the journey (I cannot conceive why) one is arrested by a toll gate at which one has to pay threepence. Perhaps it is a distorted tradition of those dark ages. Perhaps Alfred, with the superior science of comparative civilization, had calculated the economics of Denmark down to a halfpenny. Perhaps a Dane sometimes came with twopence, sometimes even with twopence-halfpenny, after the sack of many cities even with twopence three farthings; but never with threepence. Whether or no it was a permanent barrier to the barbarians it was only a temporary barrier to me. I discovered three large and complete coppers in various parts of my person, and I passed on along that strangely monotonous and strangely fascinating path. It is not merely fanciful to feel that the place expresses itself appropriately as the place where the great Christian King hid himself from the heathen. Though a marshland is always open it is still curiously secret. Fens, like deserts, are large things very apt to be mislaid. These flats feared to be overlooked in a double sense; the small trees crouched and the whole plain seemed lying on its face, as men do when shells burst. The little path ran fearlessly forward; but it seemed to run on all fours. Everything in that strange countryside seemed to be lying low, as if to avoid the incessant and rattling rain of the Danish arrows. There were indeed hills of no inconsiderable height quite within call; but those pools and flats of the old Parrett seemed to separate themselves like a central and secret sea; and in the midst of them stood up the rock of Athelney as isolate as it was to Alfred. And all across this recumbent and almost crawling country there ran the glory of the low wet lands; grass lustrous and living like the plumage of some universal bird; the flowers as gorgeous as bonfires and the weeds more beautiful than the flowers. One stooped to stroke the grass, as if the earth were all one kind beast that could feel.
One approaches the island of Athelney along a long, low road that looks like an endless white string stretched across the flats, lined with those small trees that are oddly dull. At one point during the journey (I can't figure out why), you’re stopped by a toll gate where you have to pay threepence. Maybe it’s a twisted remnant from those dark ages. Perhaps Alfred, knowing better about the economies of different places, had calculated the costs for the Danes down to a halfpenny. Maybe a Dane would sometimes arrive with twopence, sometimes even with twopence-and-a-half, after raiding many cities, even with twopence plus three farthings; but never with threepence. Whether or not it was a permanent barrier for the barbarians, it was only a temporary one for me. I found three large coins in various pockets and continued along that oddly monotonous yet fascinating path. It doesn’t just feel fanciful to think that this place fittingly symbolizes where the great Christian King hid from the heathen. Although a marsh is always open, it still feels surprisingly secretive. Fens, like deserts, are expansive and can easily be overlooked. These flats seemed to shrink away, in both a physical and figurative way; the small trees hunched down, and the entire plain appeared to be lying flat, like people do when shells explode. The little path moved confidently ahead; but it seemed to crawl on all fours. Everything in that peculiar countryside felt like it was lying low, as if to dodge the constant barrage of Danish arrows. Though there were indeed hills of considerable height nearby, those pools and flats of the old Parrett seemed to stand alone like a hidden, central sea; and in the middle of them rose the rock of Athelney, isolated just like Alfred was. And across this low-lying and almost crawling landscape spread the beauty of the wet lowlands; grass vibrant and alive like the feathers of a universal bird; flowers as bright as bonfires, and the weeds even prettier than the flowers. One would bend down to touch the grass, as if the earth were a single living creature that could feel.
Why does no decent person write an historical novel about Alfred and his fort in Athelney, in the marshes of the Parrett? Not a very historical novel. Not about his Truth-telling (please) or his founding the British Empire, or the British Navy, or the Navy League, or whichever it was he founded. Not about the Treaty of Wedmore and whether it ought (as an eminent historian says) to be called the Pact of Chippenham. But an aboriginal romance for boys about the bare, bald, beatific fact that a great hero held his fort in an island in a river. An island is fine enough, in all conscience or piratic unconscientiousness, but an island in a river sounds like the beginning of the greatest adventure story on earth. “Robinson Crusoe” is really a great tale, but think of Robinson Crusoe's feelings if he could have actually seen England and Spain from his inaccessible isle! “Treasure Island” is a spirit of genius: but what treasure could an island contain to compare with Alfred? And then consider the further elements of juvenile romance in an island that was more of an island than it looked. Athelney was masked with marshes; many a heavy harnessed Viking may have started bounding across a meadow only to find himself submerged in a sea. I feel the full fictitious splendour spreading round me; I see glimpses of a great romance that will never be written. I see a sudden shaft quivering in one of the short trees. I see a red-haired man wading madly among the tall gold flowers of the marsh, leaping onward and lurching lower. I see another shaft stand quivering in his throat. I cannot see any more, because, as I have delicately suggested, I am a heavy man. This mysterious marshland does not sustain me, and I sink into its depths with a bubbling groan.
Why doesn’t anyone decent write a historical novel about Alfred and his fort in Athelney, in the marshes of the Parrett? Not a very historical novel. Not about his truth-telling (please) or his founding the British Empire, the British Navy, or the Navy League, or whatever it was he founded. Not about the Treaty of Wedmore and whether it should (as a renowned historian claims) be called the Pact of Chippenham. But a unique adventure for boys about the simple, amazing fact that a great hero defended his fort on an island in a river. An island is perfectly fine, whether one is being sensible or a bit rebellious, but an island in a river sounds like the start of the greatest adventure story ever. “Robinson Crusoe” is a fantastic tale, but imagine how Robinson Crusoe would feel if he could actually see England and Spain from his isolated island! “Treasure Island” is genius: but what treasure could an island hold that compares to Alfred? And then think about the additional elements of youthful adventure in an island that was more than it seemed. Athelney was covered in marshes; many a heavily armored Viking may have charged across a meadow only to find himself sinking into a swamp. I can feel the full fictional grandeur spreading around me; I see hints of a great romance that will never be written. I see a quick arrow quivering in one of the small trees. I see a red-haired man frantically wading through the tall golden flowers of the marsh, leaping forward and stumbling lower. I see another arrow stand quivering in his throat. I can't see anymore, because, as I've gently hinted, I’m a heavy man. This mysterious marshland doesn't hold me up, and I sink into its depths with a bubbling groan.
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