 This is a LibraBox recording. All LibraBox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraBox.org. Heretics by G. K. Chesterton CHAPTER XXII. CONCLUDING REMARKS ON THE IMPORTANCE OF ORTHODOXY Whether the human mind can advance or not is a question too little discussed, for nothing can be more dangerous than to found our social philosophy on any theory which is debatable but has not been debated. But if we assume, for the sake of argument, that there has been in the past or will be in the future such a thing as a growth or improvement of the human mind itself, there still remains a very sharp objection to be raised against the modern version of that improvement. The vice of the modern notion of mental progress is that it is always something concerned with the breaking of bonds, the effacing of boundaries, the casting away of dogmas. But if there be such a thing as mental growth, it must mean the growth into a more and more definite convictions, into more and more dogmas. The human brain is a machine for coming to conclusions. If it cannot come to conclusions, it is rusty. When we hear of a man too clever to believe, we're hearing of something having almost the characteristic of a contradiction in terms. It is like hearing of a nail that was too good to hold down a carpet or a bolt that was too strong to keep a door shut. Man can hardly be defined, after the fashion of Carlisle, as an animal who makes tools, ants and beavers, and many other animals make tools, in the sense that they make an apparatus. Man can be defined as an animal that makes dogmas, as he piles doctrine on doctrine and conclusion on conclusion in the formation of some tremendous scheme of philosophy and religion. He is, in the only legitimate sense of which the expression is capable, becoming more and more human. When he drops one doctrine after another in a refined skepticism, when he declines to tie himself to a system, when he says that he has outgrown definitions, when he says that he disbelieves in finality, when in his own imagination he sits as God, holding no form of creed but contemplating all, then he is by that very process sinking slowly backwards into the vagueness of the vagrant animals and the unconsciousness of the grass. Trees have no dogmas, turnips are singularly broad-minded. If then, I repeat, there is to be a mental advance, it must be a mental advance in the construction of a definite philosophy of life. And that philosophy of life must be right, and the other philosophies wrong. Now of all, or nearly all the able modern writers whom I have briefly studied in this book, this is especially and pleasingly true, that they do each of them have a constructive and affirmative view, and that they do take it seriously and ask us to take it seriously. There is nothing merely skeptically progressive about Mr. Rudyard Kipling. There is nothing in the least broad-minded about Mr. Bernard Shaw. The paganism of Mr. Lowe's Dickinson is more grave than any Christianity. Even the opportunism of Mr. H. G. Wells is more dogmatic than the idealism of anybody else. Somebody complained, I think, to Matthew Arnold, that he was getting as dogmatic as Carlisle. He replied, that may be true, but you're overlooking an obvious difference. I am dogmatic and right, and Carlisle is dogmatic and wrong. The strong humor of the remark ought not to disguise from us its everlasting seriousness and common sense. No man ought to write at all, or even to speak at all, unless he thinks that he is in truth and the other man in error. In similar style I hold that I am dogmatic and right, while Mr. Shaw is dogmatic and wrong. But my main point at present is to notice that the chief among these writers I have discussed do most sanely and courageously offer themselves as dogmatists, as founders of a system. It may be true that the thing in Mr. Shaw most interesting to me is the fact that Mr. Shaw is wrong, but it is equally true that the thing in Mr. Shaw most interesting to himself is the fact that Mr. Shaw is right. Mr. Shaw may have none with him but himself, but it is not for himself he cares. It is for the vast and universal church of which he is the only member. The two typical men of genius whom I have mentioned here, and with whose names I have begun this book, are very symbolic, if only because they have shown that the fiercest dogmatists can make the best artists. In the fin de cycle atmosphere, everyone was crying out that the literature should be free from all causes and all ethical creeds. Art was to produce only exquisite workmanship, and it was especially the note of those days to demand brilliant plays and brilliant short stories, and when they got them, they got them from a couple of moralists. The best short stories were written by a man trying to preach imperialism. The best plays were written by a man trying to preach socialism. All the art of all the artists looked tiny and tedious, beside the art which was a byproduct of propaganda. The reason indeed is very simple. A man cannot be wise enough to be a great artist without being wise enough to wish to be a philosopher. A man cannot have the energy to produce good art without having the energy to wish to pass beyond it. A small artist is content with art. A great artist is content with nothing except everything. So we find that when real forces good or bad, like Kipling and GBS, enter our arena, they bring with them not only startling and arresting art, but very startling and arresting dogmas. And they care even more and desire us to care even more about their startling and arresting dogmas than about their startling and arresting art. Mr. Shaw is a good dramatist, but what he desires more than anything else is to be a good politician. Mr. Rudyard Kipling is by divine caprice and natural genius an unconventional poet, but what he desires more than anything else is to be a conventional poet. He desires to be the poet of his people, bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh, understanding their origins, celebrating their destiny. He desires to be poet laureate, a most sensible and honorable and public-spirited desire. Having been given by the God's originality, that is, disagreement with others, he desires, divinely, to agree with them. But the most striking instance of all, more striking I think even than either of these, is the instance of Mr. H. G. Wells. He began in a sort of insane infancy of pure art. He began by making a new heaven and a new earth with the same irresponsible instinct by which men buy a new necktie or buttonhole. He began by trifling with the stars and systems in order to make ephemeral anecdotes. He killed the universe for a joke. He has since become more and more serious, and has become, as men inevitably do, when they become more and more serious, more and more parochial. He was frivolous about the twilight of the Gods, but he is serious about the London omnibus. He was careless in the time machine, for that dealt only with the destiny of all things. But he is careful and even cautious in mankind in the making, for that deals with the day after tomorrow. He began with the end of the world, and that was easy. Now he has gone on to the beginning of the world, and that is difficult. But the main result of all this is the same as in the other cases. The men who have really been the bold artists, the realistic artists, the uncompromising artists, are the men who have turned out after all to be writing with a purpose. Suppose that any cool and cynical art critic, any art critic fully impressed with the conviction that artists were greatest when they were most purely artistic. Suppose that a man who professed ably a humane aestheticism, as did Mr. Max Beerbaum, or a cruel aestheticism, as did Mr. W. E. Henley, had cast his eye over the whole fictional literature which was recent in the year 1895, and had been asked to select the three most vigorous and promising and original artists and artistic works. He would, I think, most certainly have said that, for a fine artistic audacity, for a real artistic audacity, or for a whiff of true novelty in art, the things that stood first were soldiers three by a Mr. Rudyard Kipling, arms and the man by a Mr. Bernard Shaw, and the time machine by a man called Wells. And all these men have shown themselves ingrainedly didactic. You may express the matter, if you will, by saying that if we want doctrines, we go to the great artists. But it is clear from the psychology of the matter that this is not the true statement. The true statement is that, when we want any art tolerably brisk and bold, we have to go to the doctrinaires. In concluding this book, therefore, I would ask first and foremost that men such as these of whom I have spoken should not be insulted by being taken for artists. No man has any right, whatever, merely to enjoy the work of Mr. Bernard Shaw. He might as well enjoy the invasion of his country by the French. Mr. Shaw writes either to convince or to enrage us. No man has any business to be a Kiplingite without being a politician and an imperialist politician. If a man is first with us, it should be because of what is first with him. If a man convinces us at all, it should be by his convictions. If we hate a poem of Kiplings from political passion, we are hating it for the same reason that the poet loved it. If we dislike him because of his opinions, we are disliking him for the best of all possible reasons. If a man comes into Hyde Park to preach, it is permissible to hoot him, but it is discourteous to applaud him as a performing bear. And an artist is only a performing bear compared with a meanest man who fancies he has anything to say. There is indeed one class of modern writers and thinkers who cannot altogether be overlooked in this question. Though there is no space here for a lengthy account of them, which indeed, to confess the truth, would consist chiefly of abuse. I mean those who get over all these abysses and reconcile all these wars by talking about aspects of truth. By saying that the art of Kipling represents one aspect of truth and the art of William Watson another, the art of Mr. Bernard Shaw one aspect of the truth and the art of Mr. Cunningham Graham another, the art of Mr. A. G. Wells one aspect and the art of Mr. Coventry Patmore say another. I will only say here that this seems to me an evasion, which has not even had the sense to disguise itself ingeniously in words. If we talk of a certain thing being an aspect of truth, it is evident that we claim to know what is truth just as if we talk of the hind leg of a dog. We claim to know what is a dog. Unfortunately, the philosopher who talks about aspects of truth generally also asks what is truth. Frequently even, he denies the existence of truth or says it is inconceivable by human intelligence. How then can he recognize its aspects? I should not like to be an artist who brought an architectural sketch to a builder saying this is the south aspect of Seaview Cottage. Seaview Cottage of course does not exist. I should not even like very much to have to explain under such circumstances that Seaview Cottage might exist but was unthinkable by the human mind. Nor should I like any better to be the bungling and absurd metaphysician who profess to be able to see everywhere the aspects of a truth that is not there. Of course, it is perfectly obvious that there are truths in Kipling, that there are truths in Shaw or Wells, but the degree to which we can perceive them depends strictly upon how far we have a definite concept inside us of what is truth. It is ludicrous to suppose that the more skeptical we are, the more we see good in everything. It is clear that the more we are certain what good is, the more we shall see good in everything. I plead then that we should agree or disagree with these men. I plead that we should agree with them, at least in having an abstract belief. But I know that there are current in the modern world many vague objections to having an abstract belief and I feel that we shall not get any further till we have dealt with some of them. The first objection is easily stated. A common hesitation in our day touching the use of extreme convictions is the sort of notion that extreme convictions, especially upon cosmic matters, have been responsible in the past for the thing which is called bigotry. But a very small amount of direct experience will dissipate this view. In real life, the people who are most bigoted are the people who have no convictions at all. The economist of the Manchester School who disagree with socialism takes socialism seriously. It is the young man in Bond Street who does not know what socialism means, much less whether he agrees with it, who is quite certain that these socialist fellows are making a fuss about nothing. The man who understands the Calvinist philosophy enough to agree with it must understand the Catholic philosophy in order to disagree with it. It is the vague modern who is not at all certain what is right, who is most certain that Dante was wrong. The serious opponent of the Latin Church in history, even in the act of showing that it produced great infamies, must know that it produced great saints. It is the hard-headed stockbroker who knows no history and believes no religion, who is nevertheless perfectly convinced that all these priests are names. The Salvationist at the Marble Arch may be bigoted, but he is not too bigoted to yearn from a common human kinship after the Dandy on Church Parade. But the Dandy on Church Parade is so bigoted that he does not in the least yearn after the Salvationist at the Marble Arch. Bigotry may be roughly defined as the anger of men who have no opinions. It is the resistance offered to definite ideas by that vague bulk of people whose ideas are indefinite to excess. Bigotry may be called the appalling frenzy of the indifferent. This frenzy of the indifferent is, in truth, a terrible thing. It has made all monstrous and widely pervading persecutions. In this degree it was not the people who cared who ever persecuted. The people who cared were not sufficiently numerous. It was the people who did not care who filled the world with fire and oppression. It was the hands of the indifferent that lit the faggots. It was the hands of the indifferent that turned the rack. There have come some persecutions out of the pain of a passionate certainty. But these produce not bigotry but fanaticism, a very different and somewhat admirable thing. Bigotry in the main has always been the pervading omnipotence of those who do not care, crushing out those who care in darkness and blood. There are people, however, who dig somewhat deeper than this into the possible evils of dogma. It is felt by many that strong philosophical conviction, while it does not, as they perceive, produce that sluggish and fundamentally frivolous condition which we call bigotry, does produce a certain concentration, exaggeration, and moral impatience, which we may agree to call fanaticism. They say in brief that ideas are dangerous things. In politics, for example, it is commonly urged against a man like Mr. Belfort or against a man like Mr. John Morley that a wealth of ideas is dangerous. The true doctrine on this point, again, is surely not difficult to state. Ideas are dangerous, but the man to whom they are least dangerous is the man of ideas. He is acquainted with the ideas and moves among them like a lion tamer. Ideas are dangerous, but the man to whom they are most dangerous is the man of no ideas. The man of no ideas will find the first idea, fly to his head, like wine to the head of a teetotaler. It is a common error, I think, among the radical idealists of my own party and period to suggest that financiers and businessmen are a danger to the empire because they are so sordid and so materialistic. The truth is that financiers and businessmen are a danger to the empire because they can be sentimental about any sentiment and idealistic about any ideal. Any ideal that they find lying about, just as a boy who has not known much of women, is apt too easily to take a woman for the woman. So these practical men, unaccustomed to causes, are always inclined to think that if a thing is proved to be ideal, it is proved to be the ideal. Many, for example, avowedly followed Cecil Rhodes because he had a vision. It might as well have followed him because he had a nose. A man without some kind of dream of perfection is quite as much of a monstrosity as a nose-less man. People say of such a figure, and almost feverish whispers, he knows his own mind, which is exactly like saying in equally feverish whispers, he blows his own nose. Human nature simply cannot subsist without a hope and aim of some kind. As the saints of the Old Testament truly said, when there is no vision, the people perish it. But it is precisely because an ideal is necessary to man that the man without ideals is in permanent danger of fanaticism. There is nothing which is so likely to leave a man open to the sudden and irresistible inroad of an unbalanced vision as the cultivation of business habits. All of us know angular businessmen who think that the earth is flat, or that Mr. Kruger was at the head of a great military despotism, or that Men are grim enivores, or that Bacon wrote Shakespeare. Religious and philosophical beliefs are, indeed, as dangerous as fire, and nothing can take from them that beauty of danger. But there is only one way of really guarding ourselves against the excessive danger of them, and that is to be steeped in philosophy and soaked in religion. Briefly, then, we dismiss the two opposite dangers of bigotry and fanaticism. Bigotry which is too great a vagueness, and fanaticism which is a too great concentration. We say that the cure for the bigot is belief. We say the cure for the idealist is ideas. To know the best theories of existence and to choose the best from them, that is to the best of our own strong conditions, appears to us the proper way to be neither bigot nor fanatic, but something more firm than a bigot, and more terrible than a fanatic, a man with a definite opinion. But that definite opinion must, in this view, begin with basic matters and human thought, and these days must not be dismissed as irrelevant, as religion, for instances too often in our days, dismissed as irrelevant. Even if we think religion insoluble, we cannot think it irrelevant. Even if we ourselves have no view of the ultimate verities, we must feel that wherever such a view exists in a man, it must be more important than anything else in him. The instant that thing ceases to be the unknowable, it becomes the indispensable. There can be no doubt, I think, that the idea does exist in our time, that there is something narrow or irrelevant or even mean about attacking a man's religion or arguing from it in matters of politics or ethics. There can be quite as little doubt that such an accusation of narrowness is in itself almost grotesquely narrow. To take an example from comparatively current events, we all know that it was not uncommon for a man to be considered a scarecrow of bigotry and obscurantism because he distrusted the Japanese or lamented the rise of the Japanese on the ground that the Japanese were pagans. Nobody would think that there was anything antiquated or fanatical about distrusting a people because of some difference between them and us in practical or political machinery. Nobody would think it is bigoted to save a people, I distrust their influence because they are protectionists. No one would think it narrow to say I lament their rise because they are socialists or Manchester individualists or strong believers in militarism and conscription. A difference of opinion about the nature of parliaments matters very much. But a difference of opinion about the nature of sin does not matter at all. A difference of opinion about the object of taxation matters very much. But a difference of opinion about the object of human existence does not matter at all. We have a right to distrust a man who is in a different kind of municipality, but we have no right to distrust a man who is in a different kind of cosmos. This sort of enlightenment is surely about the most unenlightened that it is possible to imagine. To recur to the phrase which I employed earlier, this is Tantamanta saying that everything is important with the exception of everything. Religion is exactly the thing which cannot be left out because it includes everything. The most absent minded person cannot well pack his Gladstone bag and leave out the bag. We have a general deal of existence whether we like it or not. It alters, or to speak more accurately, it creates and involves everything we say or do whether we like it or not. If we regard the cosmos as a dream, we regard the fiscal question as a dream. If we regard the cosmos as a joke, we regard St. Paul's Cathedral as a joke. If everything is bad, then we must believe if it is possible that dear is bad. If everything be good, we are forced to the rather fantastic conclusion that scientific philanthropy is good. Every man in the street must hold a metaphysical system and hold it firmly. The possibility is that he may have held it so firmly and so long as to have forgotten all about its existence. This latter situation is certainly possible. In fact, it is the situation of the whole modern world. The modern world is filled with men who hold dogmas so strongly that they do not even know that they are dogmas. It may be said even that the modern world as a corporate body holds certain dogmas so strongly that it does not know they are dogmas. It may be thought dogmatic for instance in some circles, accounted progressive, to assume the perfection or improvement of man in another world. But it is not thought dogmatic to assume the perfection or improvement of man in this world. Though that idea of progress is quite as untrue as the idea of immorality. And from a rationalistic point of view, quite as improbable, progress happens to be one of our dogmas and a dogma means a thing which is not thought dogmatic. Or again we see nothing dogmatic in the inspiring but certainly most startling theory of physical science that we should collect facts for the sake of facts, even though they seem as useless as sticks and straws. This is a great and suggestive idea and its utility may if you will be proving itself, but its utility is in the abstract, quite as disputable as the utility of that calling on oracles or consulting shrines which is also said to prove itself. Thus because we are not in a civilization which believes strongly in oracles or sacred places, we see the full frenzy of those who kill themselves to find the simple cure of Christ. But being in a civilization which does not believe in this dogma of fact for facts sake, we do not see the full frenzy of those who kill themselves to find the North Pole. I am not speaking of a tenable ultimate utility which is true both of the crusades and the polar explorations. I mean merely that we do see the superficial and aesthetic singularity, the startling quality about the idea of men crossing a continent with armies to conquer the place where a man died. But we do not see the aesthetic singularity and startling quality of men dying in agonies to find a place where no man can live. A place only interesting because it is supposed to be the meeting place of some lines that do not exist. Let us then go upon a long journey and enter on a dreadful search. Let us at least dig and seek till we have discovered our own opinions. The dogmas we really hold are far more fantastic and perhaps far more beautiful than we think. In the course of these essays I fear that I have spoken from time to time of rationalists and rationalism. And that in a disparaging sense, being full of that kindliness which should come at the end of everything, even of a book, I apologize to the rationalists even for calling them rationalists. There are no rationalists. We all believe fairy tales and live in them. Some with a sumptuous literary turn believe in the existence of the lady clothed with the sun. Some with a more rustic Galvish instinct like Mr. McCabe believe merely in the impossible sun itself. Some hold the undemonstrable dogma of the existence of God. Some the equally undemonstrable dogma of the existence of the man next door. Truths turn into dogmas the instant they are disputed. Thus every man who utters a doubt defines a religion. And the scepticism of our time does not really destroy the beliefs, rather it creates them. Gives them their limits in their plain and defiant shape. We who are liberals once held liberalism lightly as a truism. Now it has been disputed and we hold it fiercely as a faith. We who believe in patriotism once thought patriotism to be reasonable and thought little more about it. Now we know it to be unreasonable and know it to be right. We who are Christians never knew the great philosophic common sense which inheres in that mystery until the anti-Christian writers pointed it out to us. The great march of mental destruction will go on. Everything will be denied. Everything will become a creed. It is reasonable position to deny the stones in the street. It will be a religious dogma to a circle. It is a rational thesis that we are all in a dream. It will be a mystical sanity to say that we are all awake. Fires will be kindled to testify that two and two make four. Swords will be drawn to prove that leaves are green in summer. We shall be left defending not only the incredible virtues and sanities of human life, but something more incredible still. This huge, impossible universe which stares us in the face. We shall fight for visible prodigies as if they were invisible. We shall look on the impossible grass and the skies with a strange courage. We shall be of those who have seen and yet have believed.