 CHAPTER XIII. The Outlawed Parent There is one thing at least of which there is never so much as a whisper inside the public schools, and that is the opinion of the people. The only persons who seem to have nothing to do with the education of the children are the parents. Yet, the English poor have very definite traditions in many ways. They are hidden under embarrassment and irony, and those psychologists who have disentangled them talk of them as very strange, barbaric, and secretive things. But as a matter of fact, the traditions of the poor are mostly simply the traditions of humanity, a thing which many of us have not seen for some time. For instance, working men have a tradition that if one is talking about a vile thing it is better to talk of it in coarse language. One is less likely to be seduced into excusing it. But mankind had this tradition also. Until the Puritans and their children, the Ibsenites, started the opposite idea, that it does not matter what you say as long as you say it with long words and a long face. Or again, the educated classes have tabooed most jesting about personal appearance. But in doing this they taboo not only the humor of the slums, but more than half the healthy literature of the world. They put polite nosebags on the noses of punch and bard-off, stiggens and serenal de Bergerac. Again, the educated classes have adopted a hideous and heathen custom of considering death as too dreadful to talk about and letting it remain a secret for each person, like some private malformation. The poor, on the contrary, make a great gossip and display about bereavement and they are right. They have hold of a truth of psychology which is at the back of all the funeral customs of the children of men. The way to lessen sorrow is to make a lot of it. The way to endure a painful crisis is to insist very much that it is a crisis, to permit people who must feel sad at least to feel important. In this the poor are simply the priests of the universal civilization. And in their stuffy feasts and solemn chattering there is the smell of the baked meats of hamlet and the dust and the echo of the funeral games of patroclus. The things philanthropists barely excuse, or do not excuse in the life of the laboring classes are simply the things we have to excuse in all the greatest monuments of man. It may be that the laborer is as gross as Shakespeare or as guerrillas as Homer, that if he is religious he talks nearly as much about hell as Dante, that if he is worldly he talks nearly as much about drink as Dickens, nor is the poor man without historic support if he thinks less of that ceremonial washing which Christ dismissed, and rather more of that ceremonial drinking which Christ specifically sanctified. The only difference between the poor man of today and the saints and heroes of history is that which in all classes separates the common man who can feel things from the great man who can express them. What he feels is merely the heritage of man. Now nobody expects, of course, that the cab men and coal heavers can be complete instructors of their children any more than the squires and kernels and tea-merchants are complete instructors of their children. There must be an educational specialist in local parenthas. But the master at Harle is in local parenthas. The master in Hoxton is rather contra parentham. The vague politics of the squire, the vague or virtues of the kernel, the soul and spiritual yearnings of a tea-merchant are, in veritable practice, conveyed to the children of these people at the English public schools. But I wish here to ask a very plain and emphatic question. Can anyone alive even pretend to point out in any way in which these special virtues and traditions of the poor are reproduced in the education of the poor? I do not wish the coasters irony to appeal as coarsely in the school as it does in the tap room, but does it appear at all? Is the child taught to sympathize at all with his father's admirable cheerfulness and slaying? I do not expect the pathetic, eager pietas of the mother with her funeral clothes and funeral baked meats to be exactly imitated in the educational system. But has it any influence at all on the educational system? Does any elementary schoolmaster accorded even an instance consideration or respect? I do not expect the schoolmaster to hate hospitals and COS centers so much as the schoolboy's father, but does he hate them at all? Does he sympathize in the least with the poor man's point of honor against official institutions? Is it not quite certain that the ordinary elementary schoolmaster will think it not merely natural but simply conscientious to eradicate all these rugged legends of a laborious people and on principle to preach soap and socialism against beer and liberty? In the lower classes, the schoolmaster does not work for the parent, but against the parent. Modern education means handing down the customs of the minority and rooting out the customs of the majority. Instead of their Christlike charity, their Shakespearean laughter, and their high Homeric reverence for the dead, the poor have imposed on them mere pedantic copies of the prejudices of the remote rich. They must think a bathroom a necessity because to the lucky it is a luxury. They must swing Swedish clubs because their masters are afraid of English cudgels. And they must get over their prejudice against being fed by the parish because aristocrats feel no shame about being fed by the nation. What's wrong with the world by G. K. Chesterton, Part 4, Chapter 14, Folly and Female Education It is the same in the case of girls. I am often solemnly asked what I think of the new ideas about female education, but there are no new ideas about female education. There is not, there never has been, even the vestige of a new idea. All the educational reformers did was to ask what was being done to boys and then go and do it to girls, just as they asked what was being taught to young squires and then taught it to young chimney sweeps. What they call new ideas are very old ideas in the wrong place. Boys play football, why shouldn't girls play football? Boys have school colors, why shouldn't girls have school colors? Boys go in hundreds to day schools, why shouldn't girls go in hundreds to day schools? Boys go to Oxford, why shouldn't girls go to Oxford? In short, boys grow mustaches, why shouldn't girls grow mustaches? That is about their notion of a new idea. There is no brainwork in the thing at all, no root query of what sex is, of whether it alters this or that, and why, any more than there is any imaginative grip of the humor and heart of the populace in the popular education. There is nothing but plotting, elaborate, elephantine imitation. And just as in the case of elementary teaching, the cases are of a cold and reckless inappropriateness. Even a savage could see that bodily things, at least, which are good for a man, are very likely to be bad for a woman. Yet there is no boys game, however brutal, which these mild lunatics have not promoted among girls. To take a stronger case, they give girls very heavy homework, never reflecting that all girls have homework already in their homes. It is all a part of the same silly subjugation. There must be a hard stick of collar round the neck of a woman because it is already a nuisance round the neck of a man, though a Saxon's surf, if he wore that collar of cardboard, would ask for his collar of brass. It will then be answered, not without a sneer, and what would you prefer? Would you go back to the elegant early Victorian female with ringlets and smelling bottle, doing a little in watercolors, dabbling a little in Italian, playing a little on the harp, writing in vulgar albums and painting on senseless screens? Do you prefer that? To which I answer emphatically yes. I solidly prefer it to the new female education, for this reason, that I can see it an intellectual design, while there is none in the other. I am by no means sure, that even in point of practical fact, that elegant female would not have been much more than a match for most of the inelegant females. I fancy Jane Austen was stronger, sharper, and shrewder than Charlotte Bronte. I am quite certain she was stronger, sharper, and shrewder than George Elliott. She could do one thing neither of them could do. She could coolly and sensibly describe a man. I am not sure that the old great lady, who could only smatter Italian, was not more vigorous than the new great lady, who can only stammer American. Nor am I certain that the bygone duchesses, who were scarcely successful when they painted Mel Rose Abbey, were so much more weak-minded than the modern duchesses, who paint only their faces and are bad at that. But that is not the point. What was the theory? What was the idea in their old, weak watercolors and their shaky Italian? The idea was the same, which in a ruder rank expressed itself in homemade wines and hereditary recipes, and which still, in a thousand unexpected ways, can be found clinging to the women of the poor. It was the idea I urged in the second part of this book, that the world must keep one great amateur lest we all become artists and perish. We must renounce all specialist conquests, that she may conquer all the conquerors, that she may be a queen of life. She must not be a private soldier in it. I do not think the elegant female with her bad Italian was a perfect product any more than I think the slum woman talking gin and funerals is a perfect product, alas. There are few perfect products, but they come from a comprehensible idea, and the new woman comes from nothing and nowhere. It is right to have an ideal. It is right to have the right ideal. And these two have the right ideal. The slum mother with her funerals is the degenerate daughter of Antigone, the obstinate priestess of the household gods. The lady talking bad Italian was the decayed tenth cousin of Portia, the great and golden Italian lady, the renaissance amateur of life. Who could be a barrister because she could be anything? Sunken and neglected in the sea of modern monotony and imitation, the types hold tightly to their original truths. Antigone, ugly, dirty, and often drunken, will still bury her father. The elegant female, vapid and fading away to nothing, still feels faintly the fundamental difference between herself and her husband, that he must be something in the city, that she may be everything in the country. There was a time when you and I and all of us were very close to God, so that even now the color of a pebble or a paint, the smell of a flower or a firework, comes to our hearts with a kind of authority and certainty, as if there were fragments of a unbuttoned message or features of a forgotten face. To pour that fiery simplicity upon the whole of life is the only real aim of education, and closest to the child comes the woman. She understands. To say what she understands is beyond me, save only this, that it is not a solemnity, rather it is a towering levity, an uproarious amateurness of the universe, such as we felt when we were little, and would as soon sing as garden, as soon paint as run. To smatter the tongues of men and angels, to dabble in the dreadful sciences, to juggle with pillars and pyramids, and toss up the planets like balls, that is that inner audacity and indifference, which the human soul, like a conjurer catching oranges, must keep up forever. That is that insanely frivolous thing we call sanity. And the elegant female, drooping her ringlets over her water colors, knew it and acted on it. She was juggling with frantic and flaming suns. She was maintaining the bold equilibrium of inferiorities, which is the most mysterious of superiorities, and perhaps the most unattainable. She was maintaining the prime truth of woman, the universal mother, that if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly. End of Folly and Female Education. The Empire of the Insect This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by David Barnes. What's Wrong with the World? by G.K. Chesterton. Part 5 The Home of Man. Chapter 1 The Empire of the Insect A cultivated, conservative friend of mine once exhibited great distress, because in a gay moment I once called Edmund Burke an atheist. I need scarcely say that the remark lacked something of biographical precision. It was meant to. Burke was certainly not an atheist in his conscious cosmic theory, though he had not a special and flaming faith in God, like Robespierre. Nevertheless, the remark had reference to a truth which it is here relevant to repeat. I mean that in the quarrel over the French Revolution, Burke did stand for the atheistic attitude and mode of argument, as Robespierre stood for the theistic. The Revolution appealed to the idea of an abstract and eternal justice beyond all local custom or convenience. If there are commands of God, then there must be rights of man. Here Burke made his brilliant diversion. He did not attack the Robespierre doctrine, with the old medieval doctrine of just divinum, which, like the Robespierre doctrine, was theistic. He attacked it with the modern argument of scientific relativity. In short, the argument of evolution. He suggested that humanity was everywhere moulded by or fitted to its environment and institutions. In fact, that each people practically got not only the tyrant it deserved, but the tyrant it ought to have. I know nothing of the rights of men, he said, but I know something of the rights of Englishmen. There you have the essential atheist. His argument is that we have got some protection by natural accident and growth. And why should we profess to think beyond it, for all the world as if we were the images of God? We are born under a house of lords, as birds under a house of leaves. We live under a monarchy, as niggers live under the tropic sun. It is not their fault if they are slaves, and it is not ours if we are snobs. Thus, long before Darwin struck his great blow at democracy, the essential of the Darwinian argument had been already urged against the French Revolution. Man, said Burke, in effect, must adapt himself to everything, like an animal. He must not try to alter everything like an angel. The last weak cry of the pious, pretty, half-artificial optimism and deism of the eighteenth century came in the voice of Stern, saying, God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. And Burke, the iron evolutionist, essentially answered, No, God tempers the shorn lamb to the wind. It is the lamb that has to adapt himself. That is, he either dies or becomes a particular kind of lamb who likes standing in a draught. The subconscious popular instinct against Darwinism was not a mere offense at the grotesque notion of visiting one's grandfather in a cage in the Regent's Park. Men go in for a drink, practical jokes, and many other grotesque things. They do not much mind making beasts of themselves, and would not much mind having beasts made of their forefathers. The real instinct was much deeper and much more valuable. It was this, that when one once begins to think of man as a shifting and alterable thing, it is always easy for the strong and crafty to twist him into new shapes for all kinds of unnatural purposes. The popular instinct sees in such developments the possibility of backs bode and hunchbacked for their burden, or limbs twisted for their task. It has a very well-grounded guess, that whatever is done swiftly and systematically will mostly be done by a successful class and almost solely in their interests. It has therefore a vision of inhuman hybrids and half-human experiments much in the style of Mr. Wells's Island of Dr. Morro. The rich man may come to breeding a tribe of dwarfs to be his jockeys and a tribe of giants to be his hall-porters. Humans might be born bow-legged and tailors born cross-legged. Perfumers might have long, large noses and a crouching attitude, like hounds of scent. And professional wine-tasters might have the horrible expression of one tasting wine stamped upon their faces as infants. Whatever wild image one employs, it cannot keep pace with the panic of the human fancy when once it supposes that the fixed type called man could be changed. If some millionaire wanted arms, some porter must grow ten arms like an octopus. If he wants legs, some messenger-boy must go with a hundred trotting legs like a centipede. In the distorted mirror of hypothesis, that is of the unknown, men can dimly see such monstrous and evil shapes. Men run all to eye or all to fingers with nothing left but one nostril or one ear. That is the nightmare with which the mere notion of adaptation threatens us. That is the nightmare that is not so very far from the reality. It will be said that not the wildest evolutionist really asks that we should become in any way unhuman or copy any other animal. Pardon me, but that is exactly what not merely the wildest evolutionists urge, but some of the tamest evolutionists too. There has risen high in recent history an important cultus which bids fair to be the religion of the future, which means the religion of those few weak-minded people who live in the future. It is typical of our time that it has to look for its god through a microscope, and our time has marked a definite adoration of the insect. Like most things we call new, of course it is not at all new as an idea. It is only new as an idolatry. Virgil takes bees seriously, but I doubt if he would have kept bees as carefully as he wrote about them. The wise king told the slugard to watch the ant, a charming occupation for a slugard, but in our own time has appeared a very different tone, and more than one great man, as well as numberless intelligent men, have in our time seriously suggested that we should study the insect because we are his inferiors. The old moralists merely took the virtues of man and distributed them quite decoratively and arbitrarily among the animals. The ant was an almost heraldic symbol of industry, as the lion was of courage, or for the matter of that the pelican of charity. But if the medieval's had been convinced that a lion was not courageous, they would have dropped the lion and kept the courage. If the pelican is not charitable, they would say so much the worse for the pelican. The old moralists, I say, permitted the ant to enforce and typify man's morality. They never allowed the ant to upset it. They used the ant for industry, as the lark for punctuality. They looked up at the flapping birds and down at the crawling insects for a homely lesson. But we have lived to see a sect that does not look down at the insects, but looks up at the insects, that asks us essentially to bow down and worship beetles like ancient Egyptians. Maurice Metalingue is a man of unmistakable genius, and genius always carries a magnifying glass. In the terrible crystal of his lens we have seen the bees, not as a little yellow swarm, but rather in golden armies and hierarchies of warriors and queens. The imagination perpetually peers and creeps further down the avenues and vistas in the tubes of science, and one fancies every frantic reversal of proportions. The earwig striding across the echoing plain like an elephant, or the grasshopper coming roaring above our roofs like a vast aeroplane as he leaps from Hartfordshire to Surrey. One seems to enter in a dream, a temple of enormous entomology whose architecture is based on something wilder than arms or backbones, in which the ribbed columns have the half-crawling look of dim and monstrous caterpillars, or the dome is a starry spider hung horribly in the void. There is one of the modern works of engineering that gives one something of this nameless fear of the exaggerations of the underworld, and that is the curious curved architecture of the underground railway, commonly called the topony tube. Those squat archways without any upright line or pillar look as if they had been tunnelled by huge worms who have never learned to lift their heads. It is the very underground palace of the serpent, the spirit of changing shape and color that is the enemy of man. But it is not merely by such strange aesthetic suggestions that writers like MetaLink have influenced us in the matter. There is also an ethical side to the business. The upshot of Mr. MetaLink's book on bees is an admiration, one might also say an envy, of their collective spirituality, of the fact that they live only for something which he calls the soul of the hive, and this admiration for the communal morality of insects is expressed in many other modern writers in various quarters and shapes. In Mr. Benjamin Kidd's theory of living only for the evolutionary future of our race, and in the great interest of some socialists in ants, which they generally prefer to bees, I suppose, because they are not so brightly colored. Not least among the hundred evidences of this vague insectulatory are the floods of flattery poured by modern people on that energetic nation of the Far East, of which it has been said that patriotism is its only religion, or in other words that it lives only for the soul of the hive. When at long intervals of the centuries Christendom grows weak, morbid or skeptical, and mysterious Asia begins to move against us her dim populations and to pour them westward like a dark movement of matter, in such cases it has been very common to compare the invasion to a plague of lice or incessant armies of locusts. The Eastern armies were indeed like insects, in their blind, busy destructiveness, in their black nihilism of personal outlook, in their hateful indifference to individual life and love, and in their base belief in mere numbers, in their pessimistic courage and their atheistic patriotism, the riders and raiders of the East are indeed like all the creeping things of the earth. But never before, I think, have Christians called a Turk a locust and meant it as a compliment. Now for the first time we worship as well as fear, and trace with adoration that enormous form advancing vast and vague out of Asia, faintly discernible amid the mystic clouds of winged creatures hung over the wasted lands, thronging the skies like thunder and discolouring the skies like rain, Beelzebub, the lord of flies. In resisting this horrible theory of the soul of the hive, we of Christendom stand not for ourselves but for all humanity, for the essential and distinctive human idea that one good and happy man is an end in itself, that a soul is worth saving. Nay, for those who like such biological fancies it might well be said that we stand as chiefs and champions of a whole section of nature, princes of the house whose cognizance is the backbone, standing for the milk of the individual mother and the courage of the wandering cub, representing the pathetic chivalry of the dog, the humour and perversity of cats, the affection of the tranquil horse, the loneliness of the lion. It is more to the point however to urge that this mere glorification of society as it is in the social insects is a transformation and a dissolution in one of the outlines which have been specially the symbols of man. In the cloud and confusion of the flies and bees is growing fainter and fainter and is finally disappearing, the idea of the human family, the hive has become larger than the house, the bees are destroying their captors, what the locusts hath left, the caterpillar hath eaten, and the little house in garden of our friend Jones is in a bad way. End of The Empire of the Insect The fallacy of the umbrella stand. This is a LibriVox recording. Our LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ray. What's Wrong with the World? by G. K. Chesterton. Part 5 Chapter 2 The Fallacy of the Umbrella Stand When Lord Morley said that the House of Lords must be either mended or ended, he used a phrase which has caused some confusion because it might seem to suggest that mending and ending are somewhat similar things. I wish especially to insist on the fact that mending and ending are opposite things. You mend a thing because you like it. You end a thing because you don't. To mend is to strengthen. I, for instance, disbelieve in oligarchy. So I would no more mend the House of Lords than I would mend a thumbscrew. On the other hand, I do believe in the family. Therefore, I would mend the family as I would mend a chair, and I will never deny for a moment that the modern family is a chair that wants mending. But here comes in the essential point about the mass of modern advanced sociologists. Here are two institutions that have always been fundamental with mankind, the family and the state. Anarchists believe, disbelieve in both. It is quite unfair to say that socialists believe in the state, but do not believe in the family. Thousands of socialists believe more in the family than any Tory. But it is true to say that while anarchists would end both, socialists are especially engaged in mending, that is strengthening and renewing the state. And they are not specially engaged in strengthening and renewing the family. They are not doing anything to define the functions of father, mother, and child as such. They are not tightening the machine up again. They're not blackening in again the fading lines of the old drawing. With the state they are doing this. They are sharpening its machinery. They are blackening in its black dogmatic lines. They are making mere government in every way stronger and in some ways harsher than before. While they leave the home in ruins, they restore the hive, especially the stings. Indeed, some schemes of labour and poor law reform recently advanced by distinguished socialists amount to little more than putting the larger number of people in the despotic power of Mr Bumble. Apparently progress means being moved on by the police. The point it is my purpose to urge might perhaps be suggested thus, that socialists and most social reformers of their colour are vividly conscious of the line between the kind of things that belong to the state and the kind of things that belong to mere chaos or uncoercible nature. They may force children to go to school before the sun rises, but they will not try to force the sun to rise. They will not, like canute, banish the sea but only the sea bathers. But inside the outline of the state their lines are confused and entities melt into each other. They have no firm instinctive sense of one thing being in its nature private and another public, of one thing being necessarily bond and another free. That is why piece by piece and quite silently personal liberty is being stolen from Englishman, as personal land has been silently stolen ever since the 16th century. I can only put it sufficiently curtly in a careless simile. A socialist means a man who thinks a walking stick, like an umbrella, because they both go into the umbrella stand. Yet they are as different as a battle axe and a boot jack. The essential idea of an umbrella is breath and protection. The essential idea of a stick is slenderness and partly attack. The stick is the sword. The umbrella is the shield. But it is a shield against another and more nameless enemy, the hostile but anonymous universe. More properly, therefore, the umbrella is the roof. It is a kind of collapsible house. But the vital difference goes far deeper than this. It branches off into two kingdoms of man's mind, with a chasm between. For the point is this, that the umbrella is a shield against an enemy so actual as to be a mere nuisance, whereas the stick is a sword against enemies so entirely imaginary as to be a pure pleasure. The stick is not merely a sword, but a court sword. It is a thing of purely ceremonial swagger. One cannot express the emotion in any way except by saying that a man feels more like a man with a stick in his hand, just as he feels more like a man with a sword at his side. But nobody ever had any swelling sentiments about an umbrella. It is a convenience like a door scraper. An umbrella is a necessary evil. A walking stick is a quite unnecessary good. This, I fancy, is a real explanation of the perpetual losing of umbrellas. One does not hear of people losing walking sticks. For a walking stick is a pleasure, a piece of real personal property. It is minced even when it is not needed. When my right hand forgets a stick, may it forget its scunning. But anybody may forget an umbrella, as anybody might forget a shed that he has stood up in out of the rain. Anybody can forget a necessary thing. If I might pursue the figure of speech, I might briefly say that the whole collectivist error consists in saying that because two men can share an umbrella, therefore two men can share a walking stick. Umbrellas might possibly be replaced by some kind of common awnings covering certain streets from particular showers. But there is nothing but nonsense in the notion of swinging a communal stick. It is as if one spoke of twirling a communal mustache. It will be said that this is a frank fantasia and that known sociologists suggest such follies. Pardon me if they do. I will give a precise parallel to the case of confusion of sticks and umbrellas, a parallel from a perpetually reiterated suggestion of reform. At least 60 socialists out of 100, when they have spoken of common laundries, will go on at once to speak of government kitchens. This is just as mechanical and unintelligence as the fanciful case I have quoted. Sticks and umbrellas are both stiff rods that go into halls in a stand in the hall. Kitchens and wash houses are both large rooms full of heat and damp and steam. But the sole and function of the two things are utterly opposite. There is only one way of washing a shirt. That is, there is only one right way. There is no taste and fancy in tattered shirts. Nobody says, Tompkins likes five holes in his shirt, but I must say, give me the good old four old holes. Nobody says, this washerwoman rips up the left leg of my pajamas. Now, if there is one thing I insist on, is the right leg ripped up. The ideal washing is simply to send a thing back washed. But it is by no means true that the ideal cooking is simply to send a thing back cooked. Cooking is an art. It has in it personality and even perversity. For the definition of an art is that which must be personal and may be perverse. I know a man, not otherwise dainty, who cannot touch common sausages unless they are almost burned to a call. He wants the sausages fried to rags, yet he does not insist on his shirts being boiled to rags. I do not say that such points of culinary delicacy are of high importance. I do not say that the communal ideal must give way to them. What I say is that communal ideal is not conscious of their existence and therefore goes wrong from the very start, mixing a holy public thing with a highly individual one. Perhaps we ought to accept communal kitchens in a social crisis, just as we should accept communal cats meet in a siege. But the cultured socialist, quite at his ease by no means in a siege, talks about communal kitchens as if they were the same kind of thing as communal laundries. This shows at the start that he misunderstands human nature. It is as different as three men singing the same chorus from three men playing three tunes on the same piano. End of The Fallacy of the Umbrella Stand. Recording by Ray of rarity.com r-a-e-r-i-t-y dot com. From Hong Kong, April 2009. The dreadful duty of gudge. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. What's Wrong with the World by G.K. Chesterton. Part 5. The Home of Man. Chapter 3. The Dreadful Duty of Gudge. In the quarrel earlier alluded to between the energetic progressive and the obstinate conservative, or to talk a tenderer language between Hudge and Gudge, the state of cross purposes is at the present moment acute. The Tory says he wants to preserve family life in Cindertown. The Socialist, very reasonably, points out to him that in Cindertown at present, there isn't any family life to preserve. But Hudge, the Socialist in his turn, is highly vague and mysterious about whether he would preserve the family life if there were any, or whether he will try to restore it where it has disappeared. It is all very confusing. The Tory sometimes talks as if he wanted to tighten the domestic bonds that do not exist. The Socialist as if he wanted to loosen the bonds that do not bind anybody. The question we all want to ask of both of them is the original, ideal question. Do you want to keep the family at all? If Hudge, the Socialist, does want the family, he must be prepared for the natural restraints, distinctions, and divisions of labour in the family. He must brace himself up to bear the idea of the woman having a preference for the private house, and a man for the public house. He must manage to endure somehow the idea of a woman being womanly, which does not mean soft and yielding, but handy, thrifty, rather hard, and very humorous. He must confront without a quiver the notion of a child who shall be childish, that is, full of energy, but without an idea of independence, fundamentally as eager for authority as for information and butterscotch. If a man, a woman, and a child live together any more in free and sovereign households, these ancient relations will recur. And Hudge must put up with it. He can only avoid it by destroying the family, driving both sexes into sexless hives and hordes, and bringing up all children as a children of the state, like Oliver Twist. But if these stern words must be addressed to Hudge, neither shall Gudge escape a somewhat severe admonition. For the plain truth to be told pretty sharply to the Tory is this, that if he wants the family to remain, if he wants to be strong enough to resist the rending forces of our essentially savage commoners, he must make some very big sacrifices and try to equalize property. The overwhelming mass of the English people at this particular instant are simply too poor to be domestic. They are as domestic as they can manage. They are much more domestic than the governing class. But they cannot get what good there was originally meant to be in this institution, simply because they have not got enough money. The man ought to stand for a certain magnanimity, quite lawfully expressed in throwing money away. But if under given circumstances he can only do it by throwing the week's food away, then he is not magnanimous, but mean. The woman ought to stand for a certain wisdom, which is well expressed in valuing things rightly, in guarding money sensibly. But how is she to guard money, if there is no money to guard? The child ought to look on his mother as a fountain of natural fun and poetry. But how can he, unless the fountain, like other fountains, is allowed to play? What chance have any of these ancient arts and functions in a house so hideously topsy-turvy? A house where the woman is out working and the man isn't. And the child is forced by law to think his schoolmaster's requirements more important than his mother's. No, Gouch and his friends in the House of Lords and the Carleton Club must make up their minds on this matter, and that very quickly. If they are content to have England turned into a beehive and an anthill, decorated here and there with a few faded butterflies playing at an old game called domesticity in the intervals of the divorce court, then let them have their empire of incest. They will find plenty of socialists who will give it to them. But if they want a domestic England, they must shell out, as the phrase goes, to a vastly greater extent than any radical politician has yet dared to suggest. They must endure burdens much heavier than the budget, and strokes much deadlier than the death duties. For the thing to be done is nothing more nor less than the distribution of the great fortunes in the greatest states. We can now only avoid socialism by a change as vast as socialism. If we are to save property, we must distribute property almost as sternly and sweepingly as did the French Revolution. If we are to preserve the family, we must revolutionize the nation. And of the dreadful duty of Gudge, recorded by Craig Campbell in Appleton, Wisconsin in 2009. A last instance. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Now, as this book is drawing to a close, I will whisper in the reader's ear a horrible suspicion that has sometimes haunted me—the suspicion that Hudge and Gudge are secretly in partnership—that the quarrel they keep up in public is very much of a put-up job, and that the way in which they perpetually play into each other's hands is not an everlasting coincidence. Gudge, the plutocrat, wants an anarchic industrialism. Hudge, the idealist, provides him with lyric praises of anarchy. Gudge wants women workers because they are cheaper. Hudge calls the woman's work freedom to live her own life. Gudge wants steady and obedient workmen. Hudge preaches teetotalism. To workmen, not to Gudge. Gudge wants a tame and timid population who will never take arms against tyranny. Hudge proves from Tolstoy that nobody must take arms against anything. Gudge is naturally a healthy and well-washed gentleman. Hudge earnestly preaches the perfection of Gudge's washing to people who can't practice it. Above all, Gudge rules by a coarse and cruel system of sacking and sweating and bisexual toil, which is totally inconsistent with the free family and which is bound to destroy it. Therefore, Hudge, stretching out his arms to the universe with a prophetic smile, tells us that the family is something that we shall soon gloriously outgrow. I do not know whether the partnership of Hudge and Gudge is conscious or unconscious. I only know that between them they still keep the common man homeless. I only know I still meet Jones walking the streets in the grey twilight, looking sadly at the poles and barriers and low red goblin lanterns, which still guard the house, which is nonetheless his, because he has never been in it. End of A Last Instance Conclusion This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jeannie. What's Wrong with the World? by G.K. Chesterton Part 5 Chapter 5 Conclusion Here it may be said my book ends just where it ought to begin. I have said that the strong centres of modern English property must swiftly or slowly be broken up if even the idea of property is to remain among Englishmen. There are two ways in which it could be done. A cold administration by quite detached officials, which is called collectivism, or a personal distribution so as to produce what is called peasant proprietorship. I think the latter solution, the finer and more fully human, because it makes each man, as somebody blamed somebody for saying of the Pope, a sort of small god. A man on his own turf tastes eternity, or in other words, will give ten minutes more work than is required. But I believe I am justified in shutting the door on this vista of argument instead of opening it, for this book is not designed to prove the case for peasant proprietorship, but to prove the case against modern sages who turn reform to a routine. The whole of this book has been a rambling and elaborate urging of one purely ethical fact, and if by any chance it should happen that there is still some who do not quite see what that point is, I will end with one plain parable, which is none the worse for being also a fact. A little while ago certain doctors and other persons permitted by modern law to dictate to their shabbier fellow citizens, set out an order that all little girls should have their hair cut short. I mean of course all little girls whose parents were poor. Many very unhealthy habits are common among rich little girls, but it will be long before any doctors interfere forcibly with them. Now the case for this particular interference was this, that the poor are pressed down from above into such stinking and suffocating under worlds of squalor that poor people must not be allowed to have hair, because in their case it must mean lice in their hair. Therefore the doctors proposed to abolish the hair. It never seems to have occurred to them to abolish the lice, yet it could be done. As is common in most modern discussions, the unmentionable thing is the pivot of the whole discussion. It is obvious to any Christian man, that is to any man with a free soul, that any coercion applied to a cabman's daughter ought, if possible, to be applied to a cabinet minister's daughter. I will not ask why the doctors do not, as a matter of fact, apply their rule to a cabinet minister's daughter. I will not ask because I know. They do not because they dare not. But what is the excuse they would urge? What is the plausible argument they would use for thus cutting and clipping poor children and not rich? Their argument would be that the disease is more likely to be in the hair of poor people than of rich. And why? Because the poor people are forced, against all the instincts of the highly domestic working classes, to crowd together in close rooms under a wildly inefficient system of public instruction. And because in one out of forty children there may be a fence. And why? Because the poor man is so ground down by the great rents of the great ground landlords that his wife often has to work as well as he. Therefore she has no time to look after the children. Therefore one in forty of them is dirty. Because the working man has these two persons on top of him, the landlord sitting literally on his stomach, and the schoolmaster sitting literally on his head, the working man must allow his little girl's hair first to be neglected from poverty, next to be poisoned by promiscuity, and lastly to be abolished by hygiene. He perhaps was proud of his little girl's hair, but he does not count. Upon this simple principle, or rather precedent, the sociological doctor drives gaily ahead. When a crappulous tyranny crushes men down into the dirt so that their very hair is dirty, the scientific course is clear. It would be long and laborious to cut off the heads of the tyrants. It is easier to cut off the hair of the slaves. In the same way, if it should ever happen that poor children screaming with toothache disturbed any schoolmaster or artistic gentleman, it would be easy to pull out all the teeth of the poor. If their nails were disgustingly dirty, their nails could be plucked out. If their noses were indecently blown, their noses could be cut off. The appearance of our humbler fellow citizen could be quite strikingly simplified before we had done with him. But all this is not a bit wilder than the brute fact that a doctor can walk into the house of a free man whose daughter's hair may be as clean as spring flowers and order him to cut it off. It never seems to strike these people that the lesson of lice in the slums is the wrongness of slums, not the wrongness of hair. Hair is, to say the least of it, a rooted thing. Its enemy, like the other insects and Oriental armies of whom we have spoken, sweep upon us but seldom. In truth it is only by eternal institutions like hair that we can test passing institutions like empires. If a house is so built as to knock a man's head off when he enters it, it is built wrong. The mob can never rebel unless it is conservative, at least enough to have conserved some reasons for rebelling. It is the most awful thought in all our anarchy that most of the ancient blows struck for freedom would not be struck at all today because of the obscuration of the clean, popular customs from which they came. The insult that brought down the hammer of Wat Tyler might now be called a medical examination. That which Virginia's loathed and avenged as foul slavery might now be praised as free love. The cruel taunt of Foulon, let them eat grass, might now be represented as the dying cry of an idealistic vegetarian. Those great scissors of science that would snip off the curls of the poor little school children are ceaselessly snapping closer and closer to cut off all the corners and fringes of the arts and honors of the poor. Soon they will be twisting necks to suit clean collars and hacking feet to fit new boots. It never seems to strike them that the body is more than raiment, that the Sabbath was made for man, that all institutions shall be judged and damned by whether they have fitted the normal flesh and spirit. It is the test of political sanity to keep your head. It is the test of artistic sanity to keep your hair on. Now the whole parable and purpose of these last pages, and indeed of all these pages, is this. To assert that we must instantly begin all over again and begin at the other end. I begin with a little girl's hair. That, I know, is a good thing at any rate. Whatever else is evil, the pride of a good mother in the beauty of her daughter is good. It is one of those adamantine tendernesses which are the touchstones of every age and race. If other things are against it, other things must go down. If landlords and laws and sciences are against it, landlords and laws and sciences must go down. With the red hair of one she-urchin in the gutter, I will set fire to all modern civilization. Because a girl should have long hair, she should have clean hair. Because she should have clean hair, she should not have an unclean home. Because she should not have an unclean home, she should have a free and leisured mother. Because she should have a free mother, she should not have a notorious landlord. Because there should not be in a serious landlord, there should be a redistribution of property. Because there should be a redistribution of property, there shall be a revolution. That little urchin with the gold-red hair, whom I have just watched totalling past my house, she shall not be lopped and lame and altered. Her hair shall not be cut short like a convict's. No, all the kingdoms of the earth shall be hacked about and mutilated to suit her. She is the human and sacred image. All around her the social fabric shall sway and split and fall. The pillars of society shall be shaken, and the roofs of ages come rushing down, and not one hair of her head shall be harmed. End of conclusion. Recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alana Jordan. What's Wrong with the World? by G.K. Chesterton Three notes. One. On female suffrage. Not wishing to overload this long essay with too many parentheses, apart from its thesis of progress and precedent, I append here three notes on points of detail that may possibly be misunderstood. The first refers to the female controversy. It may seem to many that I dismiss too curtly the contention that all women should have votes, even if most women do not desire them. It is constantly said in this connection that males have received the vote, the agricultural labours, for instance, when only a minority of them were in favour of it. Mr. Galsworthy, one of the few fine-fighting intellects of our time, has talked this language in the nation. Now, broadly, I have only to answer here, as everywhere in this book, that history is not a toboggan slide, but a road to be reconsidered and even retraced. If we really forced general elections upon free labourers who definitely disliked general elections, then it was a thoroughly undemocratic thing to do. If we are Democrats, we ought to undo it. We want the will of the people, not the votes of the people, and to give a man a vote against his will is to make voting more valuable than the democracy it declares. But this analogy is false for a plain and particular reason. Many voteless women regard a vote as unwomanly. Nobody says that most voteless men regard a vote as unmanly. Nobody says that any voteless men regarded it as unmanly. Not in the stillest hamlet or the most stagnant fen could you find a yokel or a tramp who thought he'd lost his sexual dignity by being part of a political mob. If he did not care about a vote, it was solely because he did not know about a vote. He did not understand the word any better than bimetalism. His opposition, if it existed, was merely negative. His indifference to a vote was really indifference. But the female sentiment against the franchise whatever its size is positive, it is not negative, it is by no means indifferent. Such women, as are opposed to the change, regard it, rightly or wrongly, as infeminine. That is, as insulting certain affirmative traditions to which they are attached. You may think such a view prejudiced, but I violently deny that any Democrat has a right to override such prejudices, if they are popular and positive. Thus he would not have a right to make millions of Muslims vote with a cross if they had a prejudice in favor of voting with a crescent. Unless this is admitted, democracy is a farce we need scarcely keep up. If it is admitted, the suffragists have not merely to awaken and indifferent, but to convert a hostile majority. Two, on cleanliness and education. On rereading my protest, which I honestly think much needed against our heathen idolatry of mere ablution, I see that it may possibly be misread. I hasten to say that I think washing a most important thing to be taught both to rich and poor. I do not attack the positive but the relative position of soap. Let it be insisted on even as much as now, but let other things be insisted on much more. I am even ready to admit that cleanliness is next to godliness, but the moderns will not even admit godliness to be next to cleanliness. In their talk about Thomas Beckett and such saints and heroes, they make soap more important than soul. They reject godliness whenever it is not cleanliness. If we resent this about remote saints and heroes, we should resent it more about the many saints and heroes of the slums, whose unclean hands cleanse the world. Dirt is evil chiefly as evidence of sloth, but the fact remains that the classes that wash most are those that work least. Concerning these, the practical course is simple. Soap should be urged on them and advertised as what it is, a luxury. With regard to the poor, also the practical course is not hard to harmonize with our thesis. If we want to give poor people soap, we must set out deliberately to give them luxuries. If we will not make them rich enough to be clean, then emphatically we must do what we did with the saints. We must reverence them for being dirty. I have not dealt with any details touching distributed ownership or its possibility in England for the reasons stated in the text. This book deals with what is wrong, wrong in our root of argument and effort. This wrong is, I say, that we will go forward because we dare not go back. Thus, the socialist says that property is already concentrated into trusts and stores. The only hope is to concentrate it further in the state. I say the only hope is to unconcentrate it. That is, to repent and return, the only step forward is the step backward. But in connection with this distribution I have laid myself open to another potential mistake. In speaking of a sweeping redistribution, I speak of decision in the aim, not necessarily of abruptness in the means. It is not all too late to restore an approximately rational state of English possessions without any mere confiscation. A policy of buying out landlordism steadily adopted in England, as it has already been adopted in Ireland, notably in Mr. Wintham's Wise and Fruitful Act, would in a very short time release the lower end of the seesaw and make the whole plank swing more level. The objection to this course is not at all what it would not do, only that it will not be done. If we leave things as they are, there will almost certainly be a crash of confiscation. If we hesitate, we shall soon have to hurry. But if we start doing it quickly, we have still time to do it slowly. This point, however, is not essential to my book. All I have to urge between these two boards is that I dislike the big, whitely shop, and that I dislike socialism, because it will, according to socialists, be so like that shop. It is its fulfillment, not its reversal. I do not object to socialism because it will revolutionize our commerce, but because it will leave it so horribly the same. End of Three Notes Recording by Lana Jordan, St. Louis, Missouri End of What's Wrong with the World