 CHAPTER 9 Thomas Carlisle There are two main moral necessities for the work of a great man. The first is that he should believe in the truth of his message. The second is that he should believe in the acceptability of his message. It was the whole tragedy of Carlisle that he had the first and not the second. The ordinary capital, however, which is made out of Carlisle's alleged gloom, is a very paltry matter. Carlisle had his faults, both as a man and as a writer, but the attempt to explain his gospel in terms of his liver is merely pitiful. If indigestion invariably resulted in a sartor resartus, it would be a vastly more tolerable thing than it is. Diseases do not turn into poems. Even the decadent really writes with the healthy part of his organism. If Carlisle's private faults and literary virtues ran somewhat in the same line, he is only in the situation of every man. For every one of us is surely very difficult to say precisely where our honest opinions end and our personal predilections begin. But to attempt to denounce Carlisle is a mere savage egoist, cannot arise from anything but appear an ability to grasp Carlisle's gospel. Ruskin, says a critic, did all the same, verily believe in God. Carlisle believed only in himself. This is certainly a distinction between the author he has understood and the author he has not understood. Carlisle believed in himself, but he could not have believed in himself more than Ruskin did. They both believed in God because they felt that if everything else fell into rack and ruin, themselves were permanent witnesses to God. Whether they both failed was not in belief in God or in belief in themselves. They failed in belief in other people. It is not enough for a prophet to believe in his message. He must believe in its acceptability. Christ, St. Francis, Bunyan, Wesley, Mr. Gladstone, Walt Whitman, men of indescribable variety were all alike in a certain faculty of treating the average man as their equal. Of trusting his reason and good feeling without fear and without condescension. It was this simplicity of confidence not only in God, but in the image of God that was lacking in Carlisle. But the attempts to discredit Carlisle's religious sentiment must absolutely fall to the ground. The profound security of Carlisle's sense of the unity of the cosmos is like that of a Hebrew prophet, and it has the same expression that it had in the Hebrew prophets, humor. A man must be very full of faith to jest about his divinity. No neo-pagan delicately suggesting a revival of Dionysius. No vague half-converted theosophist groping towards a recognition of Buddha would ever think of cracking jokes on the matter. To the Hebrew prophets their religion was so solid a thing, like a mountain or a mammoth, that the irony of its contact with trivial and fleeting matters struck them like a blow. So it was with Carlisle. His supreme contribution both to philosophy and literature was his sense of the sarcasm of eternity. Other writers had seen the hope of the terror of the heavens. He alone saw the humor of them. Other writers had seen that there could be something elemental and eternal in a song or statue. He alone saw that there could be something elemental and eternal in a joke. No one who ever read it will forget the passage full of dark and agnostic gratification in which he narrates that some court chronicler described Louis XV as falling asleep in the Lord. But for us that he did fall asleep, that curtained in thick night under what keeping we asked not, he at least will never, through unending ages, insult the face of the sun any more. And we go on if not to better forms of beastliness, at least to fresher ones. The supreme value of Carlisle to English literature was that he was the founder of modern irrationalism, a movement fully as important as modern rationalism. A great deal is said in these days about the value or valuelessness of logic. Yet the main, indeed, logic is not a productive tool so much as a weapon of defense. A man building up an intellectual system has to build like Nehemiah, with the sword in one hand and the trowel in the other. The imagination, the constructive quality, is the trowel, and argument is the sword. A wide experience of actual intellectual affairs will lead most people to the conclusion that logic is mainly valuable as a weapon wherewith to exterminate logicians. But though this may be true enough in practice, it scarcely clears up the position of logic in human affairs. Logic is a machine of the mind, and if it is used honestly it ought to bring out an honest conclusion. When people say that you can prove anything by logic, they are not using words in a fair sense. What they mean is that you can prove anything by bad logic. Deep in the mystic ingratitude of the soul of man, there is an extraordinary tendency to use the name for an organ, when what is meant is the abuse or decay of that organ. Thus we speak of a man suffering from nerves, which is about as sensible as talking about a man suffering from ten fingers. We speak of liver in digestion when we mean the failure of liver and the absence of digestion, and in the same manner we speak of the dangers of logic when what we really mean is the danger of fallacy. The real point about the limitation of logic and the partial overthrow of logic by writers like Carlisle is deeper and somewhat different. The fault of the great mass of logicians is not that they bring out a false result, or in other words are not logicians at all. Their fault is that by an inevitable psychological habit they tend to forget that there are two parts of a logical process. The first, the choosing of an assumption, and the second, the arguing upon it, and humanity, if it devotes itself too persistently to the study of sound reasoning, has a certain tendency to lose the faculty of sound assumption. It is astonishing how constantly one may hear from rational and even rationalistic persons such a phrase as, he did not prove the very thing which he started, or the whole of his case rested upon a pure assumption, two peculiarities which may be found by the curious in the works of Euclid. It is astonishing again how constantly one hears rationalists arguing about some deep topic apparently without troubling about the deep assumptions involved, having lost their sense as it were of the real color and character of a man's assumption. For instance, two men will argue about whether patriotism is a good thing and never discover until the end of it, if at all, that the cosmopolitan is basing his whole case upon the idea that man should, if he can, become his God, with equal sympathies and no prejudices, while the nationalist denies any such duty at the very start, and regards man as an animal who has preferences as a bird has feathers, an omission. Thus it was with Carlisle. He startled men by attacking not arguments, but assumptions. He has simply brushed aside all the matters which the man of the nineteenth century held to be incontrovertible and appealed directly to the very different class of matters which they knew to be true. He induced men to study less the truth of their reasoning and more the truth of the assumptions upon which they reasoned. Even where his view was not the highest truth it was always a refreshing and beneficent heresy. He denied every one of the postulates upon which the age of reason based itself. He denied the theory of progress which assumed that we must be better off than the people of the twelfth century. Whether we were better than the people of the twelfth century according to him depended entirely upon whether we chose or deserved to be. He denied every type and species of prop or association or support which threw the responsibility upon civilization or society or anything but the individual conscience. He has often been called a prophet. The real ground of the truths of his phrase is often neglected since the last era of purely religious literature, the era of English puritanism, there has been no writer in whose eyes the soul stood so much alone. Carlisle was, as we have suggested, a mystic, and mysticism was with him as with all its genuine professors, only a transcendent form of common sense. Mysticism and common sense alike consist in a sense of the dominance of certain truths and tendencies which cannot be formally demonstrated or even formally named. Mysticism and common sense are alike appeals to realities that we all know to be real, but which have no place in argument except as postulates. Carlisle's work did consist in breaking through formula old and new to these old and silent and ironical sanities. Philosophers might abolish kings a hundred times over, he maintained. They could not alter the fact that every man and woman does choose a king and repudiate all the pride of citizenship for the exultation of humility. If inequality of this kind was a weakness, it was a weakness bound up with the very strength of the universe. About hero worship, indeed, few critics have done the smallest justice to Carlisle. Misled by those hasty and choleric passages in which he sometimes expressed a preference for mere violence, passages which were a great deal more connected with his temperament than with his philosophy, they have finally imbibed the notion that Carlisle's theory of hero worship was a theory of terrified submission to stern and arrogant men. As a matter of fact, Carlisle is really inhumane about some questions, but he is never inhumane about hero worship. His view is not that human nature is so vulgar and silly a thing, that it must be guided and driven. It is on the contrary that human nature is so chivalrous and fundamentally magnanimous a thing, that even the meanest have it in them to love a leader more than themselves and to prefer loyalty to rebellion. When he speaks of this trait in human nature, Carlisle's tone invariably softens. We feel that for the moment he is kindled with admiration of mankind and almost reaches the verge of Christianity. Whatever else was acid and captious about Carlisle's utterances, his hero worship was not only humane, it was almost optimistic. He admired great men primarily and perhaps correctly, because he thought that they were more human than other men. The evil side of the influence of Carlisle and his religion of hero worship did not consist in the emotional worship of valor and success. That was a part of him, as indeed it is a part of all healthy children. Where Carlisle really did harm was in the fact that he, more than any modern man, is responsible for the increase of that modern habit of what is vulgarly called going the whole hog. In matters of passion and conquest it is a singularly hog-ish hog. This remarkable modern craze for making one's philosophy, religion, politics in temper all of a piece, of seeking, in all incidents, for opportunities to assert and reassert some favorite mental attitude, is a thing which existed comparatively little in other centuries. Passion and horus, Petrarch and Shakespeare, were pessimists when they were melancholy, and optimists when they were happy. But the optimism of today seems obligated to prove that gout and unrequited love make him dance with joy, and the pessimists of today to prove that sunshine and a good supper convulse him with inconsolable anguish. Carlisle was strongly possessed with this mania for spiritual consistency. He wished to take the same view of the wars of the angels and of the paltriest riot at Donnybrook Fair. It was this species of insane logic which led him into his chief errors, never his natural enthusiasm. Let us take an example. Carlisle's defense of slavery is a thoroughly ridiculous thing, weak alike in argument and in moral instinct. The truth is that he only took it up from the passion for applying everywhere his paradoxical defense of aristocracy. He blundered, of course, because he did not see the slavery has nothing in the world to do with aristocracy, that it is indeed almost its opposite. The defense which Carlisle and all its thoughtful defenders have made for aristocracy was that a few persons could more rapidly and firmly decide public affairs in the interests of the people. But slavery is not even supposed to be a government for the good of the governed. It is a possession of the governed avowedly for the good of the governors. Aristocracy uses the strong for the service of the weak. Slavery uses the weak for the service of the strong. It is no derogation to man as a spiritual being, as Carlisle firmly believed he was, that he should be ruled and guided for his own good, like a child for a child who is always ruled and guided we regard as the very type of spiritual existence. But it is a derogation and an absolute contradiction to that human spirituality in which Carlisle believed that a man should be owned like a tool for someone else's good as if he had no personal destiny in the cosmos. We draw attention to this particular error of Carlisle's because we think that it is a curious example of the waste and unclean places into which that remarkable animal, the whole hog, more than once led him. In this respect Carlisle has had unquestionably long and unquestionably bad influence. The whole of that recent political ethic which conceives that if we only go far enough we may finish a thing for once and all, that being strong consists chiefly in being deliberately deaf and blind, owes a great deal of its complete sway to his example. Out of him flows most of the philosophy of Nietzsche, who is in modern times the supreme maniac of this moon-struck consistency. Though Nietzsche and Carlisle were in reality profoundly different, Carlisle being a stiff-necked peasant and Nietzsche a very fragile aristocrat, they were alike in this one quality of which we speak, the strange and pitiful audacity with which they applied their single ethical test to everything in heaven and earth. The disciple of Nietzsche indeed embraces immorality, like an austere and difficult faith. He urges himself to lust and cruelty with the same tremulous enthusiasm with which a Christian urges himself to purity and patience. He struggles, as among struggles, with bestial visions and temptations, with the ancient necessities of honor and justice and compassion. To this madhouse it can hardly be denied, as Carlisle's intellectual courage brought many at last. OF CHAPTER 10 Tolstoy and the Cult of Simplicity The whole world is certainly heading for a great simplicity, not deliberately, but rather inevitably. It is not a mere fashion of false innocence like that of the French aristocrats before the revolution, who built as an altar to pan and who taxed the peasantry for the enormous expenditure which is needed in order to live the simple life of peasants. The simplicity toward which the world is driving is the necessary outcome of all our systems and speculations and of our deep and continuous contemplation of things. For the universe is like everything in it. We have to look at it repeatedly and habitually before we see it. It is only when we have seen it for the hundredth time that we see it for the first time. The more consistently things are contemplated, the more they tend to unify themselves and therefore to simplify themselves. The simplification of anything is always sensational. Thus monotheism is the most sensational of things. It is as if we gazed long at a design full of disconnected objects and, suddenly, with the stunning thrill, they came together into a huge and staring face. Few people will dispute that all the typical movements of our time are upon this road toward simplification. Each system seeks to be more fundamental than the other. Each seeks in the literal sense to undermine the other. In art, for example, the old conception of man, classic as the Apollo Belvedere, has first been attacked by the realist, who asserts that man, as a fact of natural history, is a creature with colorless hair and a freckled face. Then comes the Impressionist, going yet deeper, who asserts that to his physical eye, which alone is certain, man is a creature with purple hair and a gray face. Then comes the Symbolist, and says that to his soul, which alone is certain, man is a creature with green hair and a blue face. And all the great writers of our time represent in one form or another this attempt to establish communication with the elemental, or as it is sometimes more roughly and fallaciously expressed, to return to nature. Some think that the return to nature consists in drinking no wine. Some think that it consists in drinking a great deal more than is good for them. Some think that the return to nature is achieved by beating swords into plowshares. Some think it is achieved by turning plowshares into very ineffectual British war-office bayonets. It is natural, according to the Jingo, for a man to kill other people with gunpowder, and himself with gin. It is natural, according to the humanitarianism revolutionist, to kill other people with dynamite, and himself with vegetarianism. It would be too obviously Philistine a sentiment, perhaps, to suggest that the claim of either of these persons to be obeying the voice of nature is interesting when we consider that they require huge volumes of paradoxical argument to persuade themselves, or anyone else, of the truth of their conclusions. But the giants of our time are undoubtedly alike in that they approach, by very different roads, this conception of the return to simplicity. Ibsen returns to nature by the angular exterior of fact, made or linked by the external tendencies of fable. Whitman returns to nature by seeing how much he can accept. Tolstoy, by seeing how much he can reject. Now this heroic desire to return to nature is, of course, in some respects rather like the heroic desire of a kitten to return to its own tale. A tale is a simple and beautiful object, rhythmic in curve and soothing in texture, but it is certainly one of the minor but characteristic qualities of a tale that it should hang behind. It is impossible to deny that it would, in some degree, lose its character if attached to any other part of the anatomy. Now nature is like a tale in the sense that it is vitally important, if it is to discharge its real duty, that it should always be behind. To imagine that we can see nature, especially our own nature, face to face, is of folly. It is even a blasphemy. It is like the conduct of a cat in some mad fairy tale who should set out on his travels with the firm conviction that he would find his tale growing like a tree in the meadows at the end of the world. And the actual effect of the travels of the philosopher in search of nature when seen from the outside, look very like the gyrations of the tale pursuing kitten, exhibiting much enthusiasm but little dignity, much cry and very little tale. The grandeur of nature is that she is omnipotent and unseen, that she is perhaps ruling us most when we think that she is heeding us least. Thou art a God that hide us thyself, said the Hebrew poet. It may be said with all reverence that it is behind a man's back that the spirit of nature hides. It is this consideration that lends a certain air of utility, even to all the inspired simplicities and thunderous veracities of Tolstoy. We feel that a man cannot make himself simple merely by warring on complexity. We feel indeed in our saner moments that a man cannot make himself simple at all. A self-conscious simplicity may well be far more intrinsically ornate than luxury itself. Indeed, a great deal of the pomp and sumptuousness of the world's history was simple in the truest sense. It was born of an almost babyish receptiveness. It was the work of men who had eyes to wonder, and men who had ears to hear. King Solomon brought forth merchant men, because of his desire, with peacocks, apes, and ivory, from Tarshish unto Tyre. But this proceeding was not a part of the wisdom of Solomon, it was a part of his folly. I had almost said of his innocence. Tolstoy, we feel, would not be content with hurling satire and denunciation at Solomon in all his glory. With fierce and unimpeachable logic he would go a step further. He would spend days and nights in the meadow stripping the shameless crimson coronels off the lilies of the field. The new collection of tales from Tolstoy translated and edited by Mr. R. Nisbet Bain is calculated to draw particular attention to this ethical and aesthetic side of Tolstoy's work. In one sense, and that the deepest sense, the work of Tolstoy is, of course, a genuine and noble appeal to simplicity. The narrow notion that an artist may not teach is pretty well exploded by now. But the truth of the matter is that an artist teaches far more by his mere background and properties, his landscape, his costume, his idiom and technique, all the part of his work in short of which he is probably entirely unconscious, than by the elaborate and pompous moral dicta which he fondly imagines to be his opinions. The real distinction between the ethics of high art and the ethics of manufactured and identic art lies in the simple fact that the bad fable has a moral, while the good fable is a moral. And the real moral of Tolstoy comes out constantly in these stories. The great moral which lies at the heart of all his work, of which he is probably unconscious and of which it is quite likely that he would vehemently disapprove. The curious cold white light of mourning that shines over all the tales. The folklore simplicity with which a man or a woman are spoken of without further identification. The love one might almost say the lust for the qualities of brute materials. The hardness of wood and the softness of mud. The ingrained belief in a certain ancient kindliness sitting beside the very cradle of the race of man. These influences are truly moral. When we put beside them the trumpeting and tearing nonsense of the didactic Tolstoy, screaming for an obscene purity, shouting for an inhuman peace, hacking up human life into small sins with a chopper, sneering at men, women and children out of respect to humanity, combining in one chaos of contradictions an unmanly Puritan and an uncivilized prig. Then indeed we scarcely know whether Tolstoy has vanished. We know not what to do with this small and noisy moralist who is inhabiting one corner of a great and good man. It is difficult in every case to reconcile Tolstoy, the great artist, with Tolstoy, the almost venomous reformer. It is difficult to believe that a man who draws in such noble outlines the dignity of the daily life of humanity regards as evil that divine act of procreation by which that dignity is renewed from age to age. It is difficult to believe that a man who has painted with so frightful and honesty the heart-rending emptiness of the life of the poor can really grudge them every one of their pitiful pleasures from courtship to tobacco. It is difficult to believe that a poet in prose who has so powerfully exhibited the earth-born air of man, the essential kinship of a human being, with the landscape in which he lives, can deny so elemental virtue as that which attaches a man to his own ancestors and his own land. It is difficult to believe that the man who feels so poignantly the detestable insolence of oppression would not actually, if he had the chance, lay the oppressor flat with his fist. All however arises from the search after a false simplicity. The aim of being, if I may so express it, more natural than it is natural to be. It would not only be more human, it would be more humble of us to be content, to be complex. The truest kinship with humanity would lie in doing as humanity has always done, accepting with a sportsman-like relish the estate to which we are called, the star of our happiness and the fortunes of the land of our birth. The work of Tolstoy has another and more special significance. It represents the reassertion of a certain awful common sense, which characterizes the most extreme utterances of Christ. It is true that we cannot turn the cheek to the smiter. It is true that we cannot give our cloak to the robber. Civilization is too complicated, too inglorious, too emotional. The robber would brag and we should blush. In other words, the robber, and we are alike, sentimentalists. The command of Christ is impossible, but it is not insane. It is rather sanity preached to a planet of lunatics. If the whole world was suddenly stricken with a sense of humor, it would find itself mechanically fulfilling the Sermon on the Mount. It is not the plain facts of the world which stand in the way of that consummation, but its passions of vanity and self-advertisement and morbid sensibility. It is true that we cannot turn the cheek to the smiter, and the soul and sufficient reason is that we have not the pluck. Tolstoy and his followers have shown that they have the pluck, and even if we think they are mistaken, by this sign they conquer. The theory has the strength of an utterly consistent thing. It represents that doctrine of mildness and non-resistance which is the last and most audacious of all the forms of resistance to every existing authority. It is the great strike of the Quakers, which is more formidable than the many Sanguinary revolutions. If human beings could only succeed in achieving a real passive resistance, they would be stronger with the appalling strength of inanimate things. They would be calm with the maddening calm of oak or iron, which conquers without vengeance and are conquered without humiliation. The theory of Christian duty enunciated by them is that we should never conquer by force, but always if we can conquer by persuasion. In their mythology St. George did not conquer the dragon. He tied a pink ribbon round its neck and gave it a saucer of milk. According to them a course of consistent kindness to Nero would have turned him into something only faintly represented by Alfred the Great. In fact, the policy recommended by this school for dealing with the divine stupidity and divine fury of this world is accurately summed up in the celebrated verse of Mr. Edward Lear. There was an old man who said, How shall I flee from this terrible cow? I will sit on a stile and continue to smile till I soften the heart of this cow. Their confidence in human nature is really honorable and magnificent. It takes the form of refusing to believe the overwhelming majority of mankind, even when they set out to explain their own motives. But although most of us would, in all probability, tend at first sight to consider this new sect of Christians as little less outrageous than some brawling and absurd sect in the Reformation. Yet we should fall into a singular error in doing so. The Christianity of Tolstoy is, when we come to consider it, one of the most thrilling and dramatic incidents in our modern civilization. It represents a tribute to the Christian religion, more sensational than the breaking of seals or the falling of stars. On the point of view of a rationalist, the whole world is rendered almost irrational by the single phenomenon of Christian socialism. It turns the scientific universe topsy-turvy and makes it essentially possible that the key of all social evolution may be found in the dusty casket of some discredited creed. It cannot be amiss to consider this phenomena as it really is. The religion of Christ has, like many true things, been disproved an extraordinary number of times. It was disproved by the Neoplatonist philosophers at the very moment when it was first starting forth upon its startling and universal career. It was disproved again by many of the skeptics of the Renaissance, only a few years before its second and supremely striking embodiment. The religion of Puritanism was about to triumph over many kings and civilized many continents. We all agree that these schools of negation were only interludes in its history, but we all believe naturally and inevitably that the negation of our own day is really breaking up of the theological cosmos, an Armageddon, a Ragnorak, a Twilight of the Gods. The man of the nineteenth century, like a schoolboy of sixteen, believes that his doubt and depression are symbols of the end of the world. In our day the great irreligionists who did nothing but dethrone God and drive angels before them have been outstripped, outdistance, and made to look orthodox and humdrum. A new race of skeptics has found something infinitely more exciting to do than nailing down the lids upon a million coffins and the body upon a single cross. They have disputed not only the elementary creeds but the elementary laws of mankind, property, patriotism, civil obedience. They have arraigned civilization as openly as the materialists have arraigned theology. They have damned all the philosophers even lower than they have damned all the saints. Thousands of modern men move quietly and conventionally among their fellows while holding views of national limitation or landed property that would have made Voltaire shudder like a nun listening to blasphemies. And the last and wildest phase of this Saturnalia of skepticism, the school that goes furthest among thousands who go so far, the school that denies the school that goes farthest among thousands who go so far, the school that denies the more validity of those ideals of courage or obedience which are recognized even among pirates, this school bases itself upon the literal words of Christ like Dr. Watts or M. Moody and Sanky. Never in the whole history of the world was such a tremendous tribute paid to the vitality of an ancient creed. Compared with this it would be a small thing if the Red Sea were cloven asunder, or the sun did stand still at midday. We are faced with the phenomena that a set of revolutionists who used contempt for all the ideals of family and nation would evoke horror in a thieves' kitchen, who can rid themselves of those elementary instincts of the man and the gentleman, which cling to the very bones of our civilization, cannot rid themselves of the influence of two or three remote oriental anecdotes written in corrupt Greek. The fact when realized has about it something stunning and hypnotic. The most convinced rationalist is in its presence, suddenly stricken with a strange and ancient vision, sees the immense skeptical cosmogenese of this age as dreams going the way of a thousand forgotten heresies, and believes for a moment that the dark sayings handed down through eighteen centuries may indeed contain in themselves the revolutions of which we have only begun to dream. This value which we have above suggested unquestionably belongs to the Tolstoyans, who may roughly be described as the New Quakers. With their strange optimism and their almost appalling logical courage they offer a tribute to Christianity which no orthodoxies could offer. It cannot but be remarkable to watch a revolution in which both the rulers and the rebels march under the same symbol. But the actual theory of non-resistance itself, with all its kindred theories, is not, I think, characterized by that intellectual obviousness and necessity which its supporters claim for it. A pamphlet before us shows an extraordinary number of statements about the New Testament, of which the accuracy is by no means so striking as the confidence. To begin with we must protest against a habit of quoting and paraphrasing at the same time. When a man is discussing what Jesus meant, let him state first of all what he said, not what the man thinks he would have said if he had expressed himself more clearly. Here is an instance of a question and answer. How did our master himself sum up the law in a few words? Answer. Be merciful, be perfect, even as your father. Your father in the spirit world is merciful, is perfect. There is nothing in this perhaps which Christ might not have said except the abominable metaphysical modernism of the spirit world. But to say that it is recorded that he did say it is like saying it is recorded that he preferred palm priests to sycamores. It is a simple and unadulterated untruth. The author should know that these words have meant a thousand things to a thousand people, and if more ancient sects had to paraphrase them as cheerfully as he would never have had the text upon which he founds his theory. In a pamphlet in which the plain printed words cannot be left alone, it is not surprising if there are misstatements upon larger matters. Here is a statement clearly and philosophically laid down which we can only content ourselves with flatly denying. The fifth rule of our Lord is that we should take special pains to cultivate the same kind of regard for people of foreign countries and for those generally who do not belong to us or even have an antipathy to us, which we already entertain towards our own people and those who are in sympathy with us. I should very much like to know where in the whole of the New Testament the author finds this violent unnatural and immoral proposition. Christ did not have the same kind of regard for one person as for another. We are specifically told that there were certain persons whom he specially loved. It is almost improbable that he thought of other nations as he thought of his own. The sight of his national city moved him to tears, and the highest compliment he paid was, behold, an Israelite indeed. The author has simply confused two entirely distinct things. Christ commanded us to have love for all men, but even if we had equal love for all men, to speak of having the same love for all men is merely bewildering nonsense. If we love a man at all, the impression he produces on us must be vitally different to the impression produced by another man whom we love. To speak of having the same kind of regard for both his about as sensible as asking a man whether he prefers chrysanthemums or billiards. Christ did not love humanity. He never said he loved humanity. He loved men. Neither he nor anyone else can love humanity. It is like loving a gigantic centipede. And the reason that the Tolstoyans can even endure to think of an equally distributed affection is that their love of humanity is a logical love, a love into which they are coerced by their own theories, a love which would be an insult to a Tomcat. But the greatest error of all lies in the mere act of cutting up the teaching of the New Testament into five rules. It precisely and ingeniously misses the most dominant characteristic of the teaching, its absolute spontaneity. The abyss between Christ and all his modern interpreters is that we have no record that he ever wrote a word, except with his finger in the sand. The whole is the history of one continuous and sublime conversation. Thousands of rules have been deduced from it before these Tolstoyan rules were made, and thousands will be deduced afterwards. It was not for any pompous proclamation. It was not for any elaborate output of printed volumes. It was for a few splendid and idle words that the cross was set up on Calvary, and the earth gaped, and the sun was darkened at noonday. CHAPTER XI. SAVANAROLLA SAVANAROLLA is a man whom we shall probably never understand until we know what horror may lie at the heart of civilization. This we shall not know until we are civilized. It may be hoped in one sense that we may never understand SAVANAROLLA. The great deliverers of men have, for the most part, saved them from calamities which we all recognize as evil, from calamities which are the ancient enemies of humanity. The great law-givers saved us from anarchy, the great physicians saved us from pestilence, the great reformers saved us from starvation. But there is a huge and bottomless evil compared with which all these are fleabytes, the most desolating curse that can fall upon men or nations, and it has no name except we call it satisfaction. SAVANAROLLA did not save men from anarchy, but from order, not from pestilence, but from paralysis, not from starvation, but from luxury. Men like SAVANAROLLA are the witnesses to the tremendous psychological fact at the back of all our brains, but for which no name has ever been found, that ease is the worst enemy of happiness and civilization potentially the end of man. For I fancy that SAVANAROLLA's thrilling challenge to the luxury of his day went far deeper than the mere question of sin. The modern rationalistic admirers of SAVANAROLLA from George Eliot downwards dwell truly enough upon that sound ethical justification of SAVANAROLLA's anger upon the hideous and extravagant character of the crimes which polluted the palaces of the Renaissance. But they need not be so anxious to show that SAVANAROLLA was no ascetic, that he merely picked out the black specks of wickedness with the priggish enlightenment of a member of an ethical society. Finally he did hate the civilization of his time and not merely its sins, and that is precisely where he was infinitely more profound than a modern moralist. He saw that the actual crimes were not only evils that stolen jewels and poisoned wine and obscene pictures were merely the symptoms, that the disease was the complete dependence upon jewels and wine and pictures. This is the thing constantly forgotten in judging of aesthetics and puritans at all times. A denunciation of harmless sports did not always mean an ignorant hatred of what no one but a narrow moralist would call harmful. Sometimes it meant, sometimes it meant an exceedingly enlightened hatred of what no one but a narrow moralist would call harmless. Aesthetics are sometimes more advanced than the average man, as well as less. Such at least was the hatred in the heart of SAVANAROLLA. He was making war against no trivial human sins but against godless and thankless quiescence, against getting used to happiness, the mystic sin by which all creation fell. He was preaching that severity, which is the sign manual of youth and hope. He was preaching that alertness, that clean agility and vigilance, which is as necessary to gain pleasure as to gain holiness, as indesensible in a lover as in a monk. A critic has truly pointed out that SAVANAROLLA could not have been fundamentally anti-aesthetic, since he had such friends as Michael Angelo, but Acheli, Lucia Della, and Luca Della Robia. The fact is that this purification and austerity are even more necessary for the appreciation of life and laughter than for anything else. To let no bird fly past unnoticed, to spell patiently the stones and weeds, to have the mind of a storehouse of sunset requires a discipline and pleasure and an education in gratitude. The civilization which surrounded SAVANAROLLA on every side was a civilization which had already taken the wrong turn, the turn that leads to endless inventions and no discoveries, in which new things grow old with confounding rapidity, but in which no old things ever grow new. The monstrosity of the crimes of the Renaissance was not a mark of imagination, it was a mark as all monstrosity is of the loss of imagination. It is only when a man has really ceased to see a horse as it is that he invents a centaur, only when he can no longer be surprised at an ox that he worships the devil. Diablory is the stimulant of the jaded fancy, it is the dram-drinking of the artist. SAVANAROLLA addressed himself to the hardest of all earthly tasks, that of making men turn back and wonder at the simplicities they had learned to ignore. It is strange that the most unpopular of all doctrines is the doctrine which declares the common life divine. Democracy of which SAVANAROLLA was so fiery and exponent is the hardest of Gospels. There is nothing that so terrifies men as the decree that they are all kings. Christianity and the Savanarola's mind identical with democracy is the hardest of Gospels. There is nothing that so strikes men with fear as the saying that they are all the sons of God. SAVANAROLLA and his Republic fell. The drug of despotism was administered to the people and they forgot what they had been. There are some at present day who have so strange of respect for art and letters and for mere men of genius that they conceive the reign of the Medici to be an improvement on that of the great Florentine Republican. It is such men as these and their civilization that we have at the present day to fear. We are surrounded on many sides by the same symptoms as those which awoke the unquenchable wrath of Savanarola, a hedonism that is more sick of happiness than an invalid is sick of pain, an art sense that seeks the assistance of crime since it has exhausted nature. In many modern works we find veiled and horrible hints of a truly renaissance sense of the beauty of blood, the poetry of murder. The bankrupt and depraved imagination does not see that a living man is far more dramatic than a dead one. Along with this, as in the time of the Medici, goes the falling back into the arms of despotism, the hunger for the strong man, which is unknown among strong men. The masterful hero is worshipped as he is worshipped by the readers of the Beau Bell novelettes, and for the same reason, a profound sense of personal weakness. That tendency to devolve our duties descends on us, which is the soul of slavery, alike whether for its menial tasks it employs serfs or emperors. Against all this, the great clerical Republican stands in everlasting protest, preferring his failure to his rival's success. The issue is still between him and Lorenzo, between the responsibilities of liberty and the license of slavery, between the perils of truth and the security of silence, between the pleasure of toil and the toil of pleasure. The supporters of Lorenzo the Magnificent are assuredly among us, men for whom even nations and empires only exist to satisfy the moment, men to whom the last hot hour of summer is better than a sharp and wintery spring. They have an art, a literature, a political philosophy, which are all alike valued for their immediate effect upon the taste, not for what they promise of the destiny of the spirit. Their statuettes and sonnets are rounded and perfect while Macbeth is in comparison a fragment, and the Moses of Michelangelo a hint. Their campaigns and battles are always called triumphant, while Caesar and Cromwell wept for many humiliations. And the end of it all is the hell of no resistance, the hell of an unfathomable softness, until the whole nature recoils into madness, and the chamber of civilization is no longer merely a cushioned apartment, but a padded cell. This last and worst of human miseries, Savonarola saw a far off, and bent his whole gigantic energies to turning the chariot down to another course. Few men understood his object. Some called him a madman, some a charlatan, some an enemy of human joy. They would not even have understood if he had told him, if he had said that he was saving them from a calamity of contentment which should be the end of joys and sorrows alike. But there are those today who feel the same silent danger, and who bend themselves to the same silent resistance. They also are supposed to be contending for some trivial political scruple. Mr. Mhardy says in Defending Savonarola that the number of fine works of art destroyed in the burning of the vanities has been much exaggerated. I confess that I hope the pile contains stacks of incomparable masterpieces if the sacrifice made that one real moment more real. Of one thing I am sure, that Savonarola's friend Michelangelo would have piled all his own statues one on top of the other and burnt them to ashes if only he had been certain that the glow transfiguring the sky was the dawn of a younger and wiser world. CHAPTER XII. THE POSITION OF SIR WALTER SCOT. Walter Scott is a writer who should just now be reemerging into his own high place in letters. For unquestionably the recent though now dwindling schools of severely technical and aesthetic criticism have been unfavorable to him. He was a chaotic and unequal writer, and if there is one thing in which artists have improved since his time it is inconsistency and equality. It would perhaps be unkind to inquire whether the level of the modern man of letters, as compared with Scott, is due to the absence of valleys or the absence of mountains. But in any case we have learned in our day to arrange our literary effects carefully, and the only point in which we fall short of Scott is in the incidental misfortune that we have nothing particular to arrange. It is said that Scott is neglected by modern readers, if so the matter could be more appropriately described by saying that modern readers are neglected by providence. The ground of this neglect, and so far as it exists, must be found, I suppose, in the general sentiment that, like the beard of Polonius, he is too long. Yet it is surely a peculiar thing that in literature alone a house should be despised because it is too large, or a host impugned because he is too generous. If romance be really a pleasure, it is difficult to understand the modern readers' consuming desire to get it over, and if it be not a pleasure it is difficult to understand his desire to have it at all. Mere size it seems to me cannot be a fault. The fault must lie in some disproportion. If some of Scott's stories are dull and dilatory, it is not because they are giants but because they are hunchbacks or cripples. Scott was very far indeed from being a perfect writer, but I do not think that it can be shown that the large and elaborate plan on which his stories are built was by any means an imperfection. He arranged his endless prefaces and his colossal introductions just as an architect plans great gates and long approaches to a really large house. He did not share the latter-day desire to get quickly through a story. He enjoyed narrative as a sensation. He did not wish to swallow a story like a pill that should do him good afterwards. He desired to taste it like a glass of port, that it might do him good at the time. The reader sits late at his banquets. His characters have that air of immortality which belongs to those of Dumas and Dickens. We should not be surprised to meet them in any number of sequels. Scott in his heart of hearts probably would have liked to write an endless story without either beginnings or clothes. Walter Scott is a great and therefore mysterious man. He will never be understood until romance is understood, and that will be only when time, man, and eternity are understood. To say that Scott had more than any other man that ever lived, a sense of the romantic, seems in these days a slight and superficial tribute. The whole modern theory arises from one fundamental mistake, an idea that romance is in some way a plaything with life, a figment, a conventionality, a thing upon the outside. No genuine criticism of romance will ever arise until we have grasped the fact that romance lies not upon the outside of life, but absolutely in the center of it. Center of every man's existence is a dream. Death, disease, insanity are merely material accidents like a toothache or a twisted ankle. That these brutal forces always besiege and often capture the citadel does not prove that they are the citadel. The most of the realist, applying what the reviewers call his scalpel, is that he cuts into the heart of life, but he makes a very shallow incision if he only reaches as deep as habits and calamities and sins. Deeper than all these lies a man's vision of himself as swaggering and sentimental as a penny novelette. The literature of candor unearths innumerable weaknesses and elements of lawlessness which is called romance. It perceives superficial habits like murder and dypsomania, but it does not perceive the deepest of sins, the sin of vanity. Vanity which is the mother of all daydreams and adventures, the one sin that is not shared with any boon companion or whispered to any priest. In estimating, therefore, the ground of Scott's preeminence in romance we must absolutely rid ourselves of the notion that romance or adventure are merely materialistic things involved in the tangle of a plot or the multiplicity of drawn swords. We must remember that it is, like tragedy or farce, a state of the soul, and that for some dark and elemental reason which we can never understand, this state of the soul is evoked in us by the sight of certain places or the contemplation of certain human crises, by a stream rushing under a heavy and covered wooden bridge, or by a man plunging a knife or sword into a tough timber. In the selection of these situations which catch the spirit of romance as in a net, Scott has never been equaled nor even approached. His finest scenes affect us like fragments of a hilarious they have the same quality which is often possessed by those nocturnal comedies, that of seeming more human than our waking life even while they are less possible. Sir Arthur Warder, with his daughter, and the old beggar crouching in a cranny of the cliff as night falls, and the tide closes round them, are actually in the coldest and bitterest of practical situations. Yet the whole incident has a quality that can only be called boyish. It is warmed with all the colors of an incredible sunset. Rob Roy, trapped in the toll booth and confronted with Bailey Nicole Jarvie, draws no sword, leaps from no window, affects none of the dazzling external acts upon which contemporary romance depends. Yet that plain and humorous dialogue is full of the essential philosophy of romance, which is an almost equal betting upon man and destiny. Perhaps the most profoundly thrilling of all Scott's situation is that in which the family of Colonel Manoring are waiting for the carriage which may or may not arrive by night to bring an unknown man into a princely possession. Yet almost the whole of that thrilling scene consists of a ridiculous conversation about food and flirtation between a frivolous old lawyer and a fashionable girl. We can say nothing about what makes these scenes except the windbloweth weareth listeth, and that here the windblows straw. It is in this quality of what may be called spiritual adventurousness that Scott stands at so different an elevation to the whole of the contemporary crop of romances who have followed the leadership of Dumas. There has indeed been a great and inspiring revival of romance in our time, but it is partly frustrated in almost every case by this rooted conception that romance consists in the vast multiplication of incidents and the violent acceleration of narrative. The heroes of Mr. Stanley Wayman scarcely ever have their swords out of their hands. The deeper presence of romance is far better felt when the sword is at the hip, ready for innumerable adventures too terrible to be pictured. The Stanley Wayman hero has scarcely time to eat his supper except in the act of leaping from a window, or whilst his other hand is employed in lunging with a rapier. In Scott's heroes, on the other hand, there is no characteristic so typical or so worthy of humor as their disposition to linger over their meals. The conviviality of the clerks of Kotmanhurst or of Mr. Pleidel, and the thoroughly solid things they are described as eating, is one of the most perfect of Scott's poetic touches. In short, Mr. Stanley Wayman is filled with the conviction that the sole essence of romance is to move with insatiable rapidity from incident to incident. In the truer romance of Scott, there is more of the sentiment of, oh, still delay, thou art so fair, more of a certain patriarchal enjoyment of things, as they are, of the sword by the side of the wine-cup in the hand. Romance indeed does not consist, by any means, so much in experiencing adventures, as in being ready for them. How little the actual boy cares for incidents, in comparison to tools and weapons, may be tested by the fact that the most popular story of adventure is concerned with a man who lived for years on a desert island with two guns and a sword, which he never had to use on an enemy. Closely connected with this is one of the charges most commonly brought against Scott, particularly in his own day, the charge of a fanciful and monotonous insistence upon the details of armor and costume. The critic in the Edinburgh Review said indignantly that he could tolerate a somewhat detailed description of the apparel of Marmian, but when it came to an equally detailed account of the apparel of his pages and yeoman, the mind could bear it no longer. The only thing to be said about that critic is that he had never been a little boy. He foolishly imagined that Scott valued the plume and dagger of Marmian for Marmian's sake, not being himself a romantic he could not understand that Scott valued the plume because it was a plume and the dagger because it was a dagger. Like a child he loved weapons with a manual materialistic love as one loves the softness of fur or the coolness of marble. One of the profound philosophical truths which are almost confined to infants is this love of things, not for their use or origin but for their own inherent characteristics. The child's love of the toughness of wood, the wetness of water, the magnificent soapiness of soap. So it was with Scott, who had so much of the child in him. Human beings were perhaps the principal characters of his stories, but they were certainly not the only characters. A battleaxe was a person of importance, a castle had a character and ways of its own. A church bell had a word to say in the matter. Like a true child he almost ignored the distinction between the animate and inanimate. A two-handed sword might be carried only by a menial intercession, but it was something important and measurably fascinating. It was a two-handed sword. There is one quality which is supreme and continuous in Scott, which is little appreciated at present. One of the values we have really lost in recent fiction is the value of eloquence. The modern literary artist is compounded of almost every man except the orator. Yet Shakespeare and Scott are certainly alike in this, that they could both, if literature had failed, have earned their living as professional demagogues. The feudal heroes in the Waverly novels retort upon each other with a passionate dignity, haughty and yet singularly human, which can hardly be paralleled in political eloquence except in Julius Caesar. With a certain fiery impartiality which stirs the blood, Scott distributes his noble orations equally among saints and villains. He may deny a villain every virtue or a triumph, but he cannot endure to deny him a telling word. He will ruin a man, but he will not silence him. In truth, one of Scott's most splendid traits is his difficulty or rather incapacity for despising any of his characters. He did not scorn the most revolting miscreant as the realist of today commonly scorns his own hero, though his soul may be in rags every man of Scott can speak like a king. This quality, as I have said, is sadly to seek in the fiction of the passing hour. The realist would, of course, repudiate the bare idea of putting a bold and brilliant tongue in every man's head, but even where the moment of the story naturally demands eloquence, the eloquence seems frozen in the tap. Take any contemporary work of fiction and turn to the scene where the young socialist announces the millionaire and then compare the stilted sociological lecture given by that self-sacrificing bore with the surging joy of words in Rob Roy's declaration of himself or Ethel Stain's Defiance of Debracy. That ancient sea of human passion upon which high words and great phrases are the resplendent foam is just now at a low ebb. We have even gone in the length of congratulating ourselves because we can see the mud and the monsters at the bottom. In politics there is not a single man whose position is due to eloquence in the first degree. Its place is taken by repartee and rejoinders, purely intellectual, like those of an omnibus conductor. In discussing questions like the farm burning in South Africa, no critic of the war uses his material as Burke or Gratton, perhaps exaggeratively, would have used it. The speaker is content with the facts and exposition of facts. In another age he might have risen and hurled that great song and prose, perfect as prose, and yet rising into a chant which Meg Merleys hurled at Elanguon, the ruler of Britain. Ride your ways, lad of Elanguon, ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram. This day have ye quenched seven smoking hearths. See if the fire of your ain parlor burns the blither for that. Ye have riven the thack of seven cutter houses. Look if your ain roof tree stands the faster for that. Ye may stable your strikes in the shillings of Darenclu. See that the hare does not couch on the hearth and stain of Elanguon. Ride your ways, Godfrey Bertram. The reason is, of course, that these men are afraid of bombast, and Scott was not. A man will not reach eloquence if he is afraid of bombast, just as a man will not jump ahead if he is afraid of a ditch. As the object of all eloquence is to find the least common denominator of men's souls, to fall just within the natural comprehension, it cannot obviously have any chance with a literary ambition which aims at falling just outside it. It is quite right to invent subtle analysis and detach criticisms, but it is unreasonable to expect them to be punctuated with roars of popular applause. It is possible to conceive of a mob shouting any central and simple sentiment good or bad, but it is impossible to think of a mob shouting a distinction in terms. In the matter of eloquence the whole question is one of the immediate effect of greatness, such as is produced even by fine bombast. It is absurd to call it merely superficial. Here there is no question of superficiality. We might as well call a stone that strikes us between the eyes, merely superficial. The very word superficial is founded on a fundamental mistake about life, the idea that second thoughts are best. The superficial impression of the world is by far the deepest. What we really feel naturally and casually about the look of skies and trees and the face of friends, that and that alone will almost certainly remain our vital philosophy to our dying day. Scott's bombast therefore will always be stirring to anyone who approaches it, as he should approach all literature as a little child. We could easily excuse the contemporary critic for not admiring melodrama and adventure stories and Punch and Judy, if he would admit that it was a slight deficiency in his artistic sensibilities. Beyond all question it marks a lack of literary instinct to be unable to simplify one's mind at the first signal of an advance of romance. You do me wrongs, said Brian D. Boyd-Glebert to Rebecca. Many a law, many a commandment, have I broken, but my word never. Die, cries Belfour of Burley to the villain in old mortality. Die hoping nothing, believing nothing. And fearing nothing, replies the other. This is the old and honorable fine art of bragging as it was practiced by the great worthies of antiquity. The man who cannot appreciate it goes along with the man who cannot appreciate B. Forcleritor again with children or a brass band. They are afraid of making fools of themselves and are unaware that transformation has already been triumphantly affected. Scott is separated then from much of the later conception of fiction by this quality of eloquence. The whole is the best and finest work of the modern novelist, such as the work of Mr. Henry James, is primarily concerned with that delicate and fascinating speech which burrows deeper and deeper like a mole. But we have wholly forgotten that speech which mounts higher and higher like a wave, and falls in a crashing peroration. Perhaps the most thoroughly brilliant and typical man of this decade is Mr. Bernard Shaw. In his admirable play of Candida it is clearly a part of the character of the socialist clergyman that he should be eloquent. But he is not eloquent because the whole G.B.S. condition of mind renders impossible that poetic simplicity which eloquence requires. Scott takes his heroes and villains seriously, which is after all the way that heroes and villains take themselves, especially villains. It is the custom to call these old romantic poses artificial. The word artificial is the last and silliest evasion of criticism. There never was anything in the world that was really artificial. It had some motive or ideal behind it, and generally a much better one than we think. Of the faults of Scott as an artist it is not very necessary to speak, for faults are generally and easily pointed out. While there is yet no adequate valuation of the varieties and contrasts of virtue. We have compiled the complete botanical classification of the weeds in the poetical garden, but the flowers still flourish neglected and nameless. It is true, for example, that Scott had an incomparably stiff and pedantic way of dealing with his heroines. He made a lively girl of eighteen refuse an offer in the language of Dr. Johnson. To him as to most men of his time, woman was not an individual, but an institution, a toast that was drunk some time after that of Church and King, but it is far better to consider the difference rather as a special merit in that he stood for all those clean and bracing shocks of incident which are untouched by passion or weakness for a certain breezy bachelorhood which is almost essential to the literature of the adventure. With all his faults and all his triumphs he stands for the great mass of natural manliness which must be absorbed into art unless art is to be a mere luxury and freak. An appreciation of Scott might be made almost a test of decadence. If ever we lose touch with this one most reckless and effective writer, it will be a proof to us that we have erected round ourselves a false cosmos, a world of lying and horrible perfection, leaving outside of it Walter Scott and that strange old world which is as confused and as indefensible and as inspiring and as healthy as he. End of CHAPTER XII. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varied Types by G. K. Chesterton CHAPTER XIII. Brett Hart. There are more than nine hundred and ninety-nine excellent reasons which we could all have for admiring the work of Brett Hart. But one supreme reason stands, not in a certain general superiority to them all, a reason which may be stated in three propositions united in a common conclusion. First that he was a genuine American. Second that he was a genuine humorist. And third that he was not an American humorist. Brett Hart had his own peculiar humor, but it had nothing in particular to do with American humor. American humor has its own peculiar excellence, but it has nothing in particular to do with Brett Hart. American humor is purely exaggerative. Brett Hart's humor was sympathetic and analytical. In order to fully understand this it is necessary to realize, genuinely and thoroughly, that there is such a thing as an international difference in humor. If we take the crudest joke in the world, the joke let us say of a man sitting down on his hat, we shall yet find that all nations would differ in their way of treating it humorously, and that if American humor treated it at all it would be in a purely American manner. For example, there was a case of an orator in the House of Commons who, after denouncing all the public abuses he could think of, did sit down on his hat. An Irishman immediately rose, full of the whole wealth of Irish humor, and said, Should I be an orator, sir, in congratulating the honorable gentleman, on the fact that when he sat down on his hat his head was not in it? Here is a glorious example of Irish humor. The bull, not unconscious, not entirely conscious, but rather an idea so absurd that even the utterer of it can hardly realize how abysmally absurd it is, but every other nation would have treated the idea in a manner slightly different. The Frenchman's humor would have been logical. He would have said, The orator denounces modern abuses and destroys to himself the top hat, behold a good example. But the Scotchman's humor would have said, I am not so certain, but it would have probably dealt with the serious advisability of making such speeches on top of someone else's hat. But American humor on such a general theme would be the humor of exaggeration. The American humorists would say that the English politicians so often sat down on their hats that the noise of the House of Commons was one crackle of silk. He would say that when an important orator rose to speak in the House of Commons, long rows of hatters waited outside the House with notebooks to take down orders from the participants in the debate. He would say that the whole hat trade of London was disorganized by the news that a clever remark had been made by a young MP on the subject of the imports of Jamaica. In short, American humor, neither unfathomably absurd like the Irish nor transfiguringly lucid and appropriate like the French, nor sharp and sensible and full of realities of life like the Scotch, is simply the humor of imagination. It consists in piling towers on towers and mountains on mountains, of heaping a joke up to the stars and extending it to the end of the world. With this distinctively American humor, Bret Hart had little or nothing in common. The wild, sky-breaking humor of America has its fine qualities, but it must, in the nature of things, be deficient in two qualities, not only of supreme importance to life and letters, but of supreme importance to humor—reverence and sympathy. And these two qualities were knit into the closest texture of Bret Hart's humor. Everyone who has read and enjoyed Mark Twain as he ought to be read and enjoyed will remember a very funny and irreverent story about an organist who was asked to play appropriate music to an address upon the parable of the prodigal son, and who proceeded to play with great spirit will all get blind drunk when Johnny comes marching home. The best way of distinguishing Bret Hart from the rest of American humor is to say that if Bret Hart had described that scene, it would in some subtle way have combined a sense of the absurdity of the incident with some sense of the sublimity and pathos of the theme. You would have felt that the organist's tune was funny, but not that the prodigal son was funny. But America is under a kind of despotism of humor. Everyone is afraid of humor, the meanest of human nightmares. Bret Hart had, to express the matter briefly, but more or less essentially, the power of laughing not only at things, but also with them. America has laughed at things magnificently, with gargantuan reverberations of laughter, but she has not even begun to learn the richer lesson of laughing with them. The supreme proof of the fact that Bret Hart had the instinct of reverence may be found in the fact that he was a really great paradist. This may have the appearance of being a paradox, but as in the case of many other paradoxes, it is not so important whether it is a paradox as whether it is not obviously true. Mere derision, mere contempt, never produced nor could produce parody. A man who simply despises Pateruski for having long hair is not necessarily fitted to give an admirable imitation of his particular touch on the piano. If a man wishes to parody Pateruski's style of execution, he must emphatically go through one process. First he must admire it and even reverence it. Bret Hart had a real power of imitating great authors, as in his parodies on Dumas, on Victor Hugo, on Charlotte Bronte. This means, and can only mean, that he had perceived the real beauty, the real ambition of Dumas and Victor Hugo and Charlotte Bronte. To take an example, Bret Hart has in his imitation of Hugo a passage like this. Monsieur Madeleine was, if possible, better than Monsieur Marielle, but Monsieur Marielle was an angel. Monsieur Madeleine was a good man. I do not know whether Victor Hugo ever used this antithesis, but I am certain that he would have used it and thanked his stars if he had thought of it. This is real parody, inseparable from admiration. It is the same in the parody of Dumas, which is arranged on the system of Aramis killed three of them, Porthos III, Athos III. You cannot write that kind of thing unless you have first exalted in the arithmetical ingenuity of the plots of Dumas. It is the same in the parody of Charlotte Bronte, which opens with a dream of a storm-beaten cliff containing jewels and pelicans. Bret Hart could not have written it unless he had really understood the triumph of the Brontes, the triumph of asserting that great mysteries lie under the surface of the most sullen life and that the most real part of a man is in his dreams. This kind of parody is forever removed from the purview of ordinary American humor. Can anyone imagine Mark Twain, that admirable author, writing even a tolerable imitation of authors so intellectually individual as Hugo or Charlotte Bronte? Mark Twain would yield to the spirit of contempt which destroys parody. All those who hate authors fail to satirize them, for they always accuse them of the wrong faults. The enemies of Thackeray call him a worldling, instead of what he was, a man too ready to believe in the goodness of the unworldly. The enemies of Meredith called his gospel too subtle, instead of what it is, a gospel if anything too robust. And it is this vulgar misunderstanding which we find in most parodies, which we find in all American parody, but which we never find in the parodies of Bret Hart. The skies they were ashen and sober. The streets they were dirty and drear. It was the dark month of October, in that most immemorial year. Like the skies I was perfectly sober, but my thoughts they were palsied and seer. Yes, my thoughts were decidedly queer. This could only be written by a genuine admirer of Edgar Allen Poe, who permitted himself for a moment to see the fun of the thing. Parody might indeed be defined as the worshipper's half-holiday. The same general characteristic of sympathy amounting to reverence marks Bret Hart's humor in his better-known class of works, The Short Stories. He does not make his characters absurd in order to make them contemptible. It might almost be said that he makes them absurd in order to make them dignified. For example, the greatest creation of Bret Hart, greater even than Colonel Starbottle, and how terrible it is to speak of anyone greater than Colonel Starbottle, is that unutterable being who goes by the name of Yuba Bill. He is, of course, the coach-driver in the Bret Hart district. Some ingenious person, whose remarks I read the other day, had compared him on this ground with old Mr. Weller. It would be difficult to find a comparison indicating a more completely futile instinct for literature. Tony Weller and Yuba Bill were both coach-drivers, and this fact establishes the resemblance just about as much as the fact that Jobson and Rob Roy and George Warrington and Penn Dennis were both lawyers, or that Antonio and Mr. Pickwick were both merchants, or that Sir Gallowhead and Sir Willoughby Patton were both knights. Tony Weller is a magnificent grotesque. He is a gargoyle, and his mouth, like the mouths of so many gargoyles, is always open. He is garellous, exuberant, flowery, preposterously sociable. He holds that great creed of the convivial, the creed which is at the back of so much that is greatest in Dickens, the creed that eternity begins at ten o'clock at night, and that knights last forever. But Yuba Bill is a figure of a widely different character. He is not convivial. It might almost be said that he is too great ever to be sociable. A circle of quiescence and solitude, such as that which might ring a saint or a hermit, rings this majestic and profound humorist. These jokes do not flow upon him like those of Mr. Weller, sparkling, continual and deliberate, like the play of fountain in a pleasure garden. They fall suddenly, and capriciously like a crash of avalanches from a great mountain. Tony Weller has the noisy humor of London. Yuba Bill has the silent humor of the earth. One of the worst of the disadvantages of the rich and random fertility of Bret Hart is the fact that it is very difficult to trace or recover all the stories that he has written. I have not within reach at the moment the story in which the character of Yuba Bill is exhibited in its most solemn grandeur. But I remember that it concerned a ride on the San Francisco stage coach, a difficulty arising from storm and darkness, and an intelligent young man who suggested to Yuba Bill that a certain manner of driving the coach in a certain direction might minimize the dangers of the journey. A profound silence followed the intelligent young man's suggestion, and then, I quote from memory, Yuba Bill observed at last. Are you setting any value on that remark? The young man professed not to fully comprehend him, and Yuba Bill continued reflectively, because there's a comic paper and Frisco pays for them things, and I've seen worse in it. To be rebuked thus is like being rebuked by the pyramids or by the starry heavens. There is about Yuba Bill this era of pugnacious calm a stepping back to get his distance for a shattering blow, which is like that of Dr. Johnson at his best. And the effect is inexpressively increased by the background and the whole picture which Bret Hart paints so powerfully. The stormy skies, the somber gorge, the rocking and spinning coach, and high above the feverish passengers the huge dark form of Yuba Bill, a silent mountain of humor. Another unrecovered and possibly irrecoverable fragment about Yuba Bill I recall in a story about his visiting a lad who had once been his protégé in the Wild West, and who had since become a distinguished literary man in Boston. Yuba Bill visits him and on finding him in evening dress lifts up his voice in a superb lamentation over the tragedy of finding his old friend at last a hotel waiter. Then vindictively pursuing the satire he calls fiercely to his young friend, Hi, Hellfontes, bring me a patty de foie gras, damey. These are the things that make us love the imminent Bill. He is one of those who achieve the noblest and most difficult of all the triumphs of fictitious character, the triumph of giving us the impression of having a great deal more in him than appears between the two boards of the story. Smaller characters give us the impression that the author has told the whole truth about them. Greater characters give the impression that the author has given of them not the truth, but merely a few hints and samples. In some mysterious way we seem to feel that even if Shakespeare was wrong about false staff, false staff existed and was real, that even if Dickens was wrong about Maccabre, Maccabre existed and was real. So we feel there is in the great salty of Yuba Bill's humor as good fish as ever came out of it. The fleeting jest which Yuba Bill throws to the coach passengers only give us the opportunity of fancying and deducing the vast mass of jests which Yuba Bill shares with his creator. Bret Hart had to deal with countries and communities of an almost unexampled laxity, a laxity passing the laxity of savages, the laxity of civilized men grown savage. He dealt with life which we in a venerable and historic society may find it somewhat difficult to realize. He was the life of an entirely new people, a people who having no certain past could have no certain future. The strangest of all the sardonic jests that history has ever played may be found in this fact, that there is a city which is of all cities the most typical of innovation and dissipation, and a certain almost splendid vulgarity, and that this city bears the name in a quaint old European language of the most perfect exponent of the simplicity and holiness of the Christian tradition. The city is called San Francisco. San Francisco, the capital of Bret Hart Country, is a city typifying novelty in a manner in which it is typified by few modern localities. San Francisco has in all probability its cathedrals, but it may well be that its cathedrals are less old and less traditional than many of our hotels. If its inhabitants built a temple to the most primal and forgotten god of whose worship we can find a trace, that temple would still be a modern thing, compared with many taverns in Suffolk round which there lingers a faint tradition of Mr. Pickwick. And everything in that new gold country was new, even to the individual inhabitants. Good, bad, and indifferent, heroes and dastards, they were all men from nowhere. Most of us have come across the practical problem of London landlady's, the problem of the doubtful foreign gentleman in a street to respectable English people. Those who have done so can form some idea of what it would be to live in a street full of doubtful foreign gentlemen, in a parish in a city in a nation composed entirely of doubtful foreign gentlemen. Old California, at the time of the first rush after gold, was actually this paradox of the nation of foreigners. It was a republic of incognitos. No one knew who anyone else was, and only the more ill-mannered and uneasy even desired to know. In such a country as this, gentlemen took more trouble to conceal their gentility than thieves living in South Kensington would take to conceal their black guardism. In such a country every one is an equal, because every one is a stranger. In such a country it is not strange if men in moral matters feel something of the irresponsibility of a dream. To plan plans which are continually miscarrying against men who are continually disappearing by the assistance of you-know-not-whom, to crush you-know-not-whom. This must be demoralizing life for any man. It must be beyond description demoralizing for those who have been trained in no lofty or orderly scheme of right. Small blame to them indeed if they become callous and supercilious and cynical, and the great glory and the achievement of Bret Hart consists in this, that he realized that they do not become callous, supercilious and cynical, but that they do become sentimental and romantic and profoundly affectionate. He discovered the intense sensibility of the primitive man. To him we owe the realization of the fact that while modern barbarians of genius like Mr. Henley and in his weaker moments Mr. Rudyard Kipling delight in describing the coarseness and crude cynicism and fierce humor of the unlettered classes. The unlettered classes are in reality highly sentimental and religious, and not in the least like the creations of Mr. Henley and Mr. Kipling. Bret Hart tells the truths about the wildest, the grossest, the most rapacious of all the districts of the earth. The truth that, while it is very rare indeed in the world to find a thoroughly good man, it is rarer still, rare to the point of monstrosity, to find a man who does not either desire to be one, or imagine that he is one already. CHAPTER XIV Elfred the Great The celebrations in connection with the millinery of King Elfred struck a note of sympathy in the midst of much that was unsympathetic. Because altogether apart from any peculiar historical opinions, all men feel the sanctifying character of that which is at once strong and remote. The ancient thing is always the most homely, and the distant thing the most near. The only possible peacemaker is a dead man. Ever since, by the sublime religious story, a dead man only could reconcile heaven and earth. In a certain sense we always feel the past ages as human and our own age as strangely and even weirdly dehumanized. In our own time the details overpower us. Men's badges and buttons seem to grow larger and larger in a horrible dream. To study humanity in the present is like studying a mountain with a magnifying glass. To study it in the past is like studying it through a telescope. For this reason England, like every other great and historic nation, has sought its typical hero in remote and ill-recorded times. The personal and moral greatness of Elfred is indeed beyond question. It does not depend any more than the greatness of any other human hero upon the accuracy of any or all the stories that are told about him. Elfred may not have done one of the things which are reported of him, but it is immeasurably easier to do every one of those things than to be the man of whom such things are reported falsely. Fable is, generally speaking, far more accurate than fact. For Fable describes a man as he was to his own age, fact describes him as he is to a handful of inconsiderable antiquarians many centuries after. Whether Elfred watched the cakes for the neat herds' wife, whether he sang songs in the Danish camp, is of no interest to anyone except those who set out to prove under considerable disadvantages that they are genealogically descended from him. But the man is better pictured in these stories than in any number of modern realistic trivialities about his favorite breakfast and his favorite musical composer. Fable is more historical than fact because fact tells us about one man and Fable tells us about a million men. If we read of a man who could make green grass red and turn the sun into the moon, we may not believe these particular details about him, but we learn something infinitely more important than such trivialities, the fact that men could look into his face and believe it possible. The glory and greatness of Elfred, therefore, is like that of all the heroes of the mornings of the world, set far beyond the chance of that strange and sudden dethronement which may arise from the unsealing of a manuscript or the turning over of a stone. Men may have told lies when they said he first entrapped the Danes with his song and then overcame them with his armies. But we know very well that it is not of us that such lies are told. There may be myths clustering about each of our personalities, local, sagamen, and chroniclers, have very likely circulated the story that we are addicted to drink or that we ferociously ill use our wives. They do not commonly lie to the effect that we have shed our blood to save all the inhabitants of the street. A story grows easily, but a heroic story is not a very easy thing to evoke. Wherever that exists, we may be pretty certain that we are in the presence of a dark but powerful historic personality. We are in the presence of a thousand lies all pointing with their fantastic fingers to one undiscovered truth. Upon this ground alone every encouragement is due to the cult of Alfred. Every nation requires to have behind it some historic personality, the validity of which is proved as the validity of a gun is proved by its long range. It is wonderful and splendid that we treasure not the truth, but the very gossip about a man who died a thousand years ago. He may say to him, as Mr. Rostan says to the Austrian Prince, French quotation omitted, To have a man so simple and so honorable, to represent us and the darkness of primeval history, binds all the intervening centuries together, and molifies all their monstrosities. It makes all history more comforting and intelligible. It makes the desolate temple of the ages as human as an impaler. And whether it comes through reliable facts or through more reliable falsehoods, the personality of Alfred has its own unmistakable color and stature. Lord Roseberry uttered a profound truth when he said that personality was peculiarly English. The great magnificence of the English character is expressed in the word service. There is perhaps no nation so vitally theoretical as the English, no nation in which the strong men have so consistently preferred the instrumental to the despotic attitude, the pleasures of the loyal to the pleasures of the royal position. We have had tyrants like Edward I and Queen Elizabeth. But even our tyrants have had the worried and responsible air of stewards of a great estate. Our typical hero was such a man as the Duke of Wellington, who had every kind of traditional and external arrogance, but at the back of all that, the strange humility which made it physically possible for him, without a gleam of humor or discomfort, to go on his knees to a preposterous bounder like George IV. Across the infinite wastes of time and through all the mists of legend, we still feel the presence in Alfred of this strange and unconscious self-effacement. Under the fullest estimate of our misdeeds, we can still say that our very despots have been less self-assertive than many popular patriots. As we consider these things, we grow more and more impatient of any modern tendencies toward the enthronement of a more self-conscious and theatrical ideal. Lord Roseberry called up before our imaginations the picture of what Alfred would have thought of the vast modern developments of his nation. Its immense fleet, its widespread empire, its enormous contribution to the mechanical civilization of the world. It cannot be anything but profitable to conceive Alfred is full of astonishment and admiration at these things. It cannot be anything but good for us that we should realize that, to the childlike eyes of a great man of old time, our inventions and appliances would have not the vulgarity and ugliness that we see in them. To Alfred a steamboat would be a new and sensational sea dragon and the penny postage a miracle achieved by the despotism of a namey god. But when we have realized all this there is something more to be said in connection with Lord Roseberry's vision. What would King Alfred have said if he had been asked to expend the money which he devoted to the health and education of his people upon a struggle with some race of Visigoths or Parthians inhabiting a small section of a distant continent? What would he have said if he had known that the science of letters which he taught to England would eventually be used not to spread truth but to drug the people with political assurances as imbecile in themselves as the assurance that fire does not burn and water does not drown? What would he have said if the same people who, in obedience to that ideal of service and sanity of which he was the example, had borne every privation in order to defeat Napoleon, should come at last to find no better compliment to one of their heroes than to call him the Napoleon of South Africa? What would he have said if that nation for which he had inaugurated a long line of incomparable man of principle should forget all its traditions and coquette with the immemorial mysticism of the man of destiny? Let us follow these things by all means if we find them good and can see nothing better. But to pretend that Alfred would have admired them is like pretending that St. Dominic would have seen eye to eye with Mr. Bradlaw, or that Fra Angelico would have reveled in the posters of Mr. Aubrey Beardsley. Let us follow them if we will, but let us take honestly all the disadvantages of our change. In the wildest moment of triumph let us feel the shadow upon our glories of the shame of the great king. Meditation of thoughts from Matterlink is a very creditable and also very useful compilation. Many modern critics object to the hacking and hewing of a consistent writer which is necessary for this kind of work. But upon more serious consideration the view is not altogether adequate. Matterlink is a very great man. And in the long run this process of mutilation has happened to all great men. It was the mark of a great patriot to be drawn and quartered, and his head set on one spike in one city and his left leg on another spike in another city. It was the mark of a saint that even these fragments began to work miracles. So it has been with all very great men of the world. However careless, however bachi may be the version of Matterlink, or of any one else given in such a selection as this, it is assuredly far less careless and far less bachi than the version, the parody, the wild misrepresentation of Matterlink, which future ages will hear and distant critics be called upon to consider. No one can feel any reasonable doubt that we have heard about Christ and Socrates and Buddha and St. Francis, a mere chaos of excerpts, a mere book of quotations. But from those fragmentary epigrams we can deduce greatness as clearly as we can deduce Venus from the torso of Venus, or Hercules' Expeed Herculum. If we knew nothing else about the founder of Christianity, for example, beyond the fact that a religious teacher lived in a remote country, and in the course of his peregrinations and proclamations consistently called himself the son of man, we should know by that alone that he was a man of almost immeasurable greatness. If future ages happened to record nothing else about Socrates except that he owned his title to be the wisest of men, because he knew that he knew nothing, they would be able to deduce from the height and energy of his civilization the glory that was Greece. The credit of such random compilations as that which ESS and Mr. George Allen have just effected is quite secure. It is the pure, pedantic, literal editions, the complete works of this author or that author which are forgotten. It is such books as this that have revolutionized the destiny of the world. Great things like Christianity or Platonism have never been founded upon consistent editions. All of them have been founded upon scrapbooks. The position of Materlink in modern life is a thing too obvious to be easily determined in words. It is perhaps best expressed by saying that it is the great glorification of the inside of things at the expense of the outside. There is one great evil in modern life for which nobody has found even approximately a tolerable description. I can only invent a word and call it remotism. It is the tendency to think first of things which, as a matter of fact, lie far away from the actual center of human experience. Thus people say all our knowledge of life begins with the Omibia. It is false. Our knowledge of life begins with ourselves. Thus they say that the British Empire is glorious and at the very word empire they think at once of Australia and New Zealand and Canada and polar bears and parrots and kangaroos. It never occurs to any one of them to think of the Surrey Hills. The one real struggle in modern life is the struggle between the man like Materlink who sees the inside as the truth and the man like Zola who sees the outside as the truth. A hundred cases might be given. We may take for the sake of argument the case of what is called falling in love. The sincere realist, the man who believes in a certain finality in physical science says, you may, if you like, describe this thing as a divine and sacred and incredible vision. That is your sentimental theory about it. But what it is, is an animal and sexual instinct designed for certain natural purposes. The man on the other side, the idealist, replies with quite equal confidence, that this is the very reverse of the truth. I put it as it has always struck me, he replies. Not at all. You may, if you like, describe this thing as an animal and sexual instinct designed for certain natural purposes. That is your philosophical or zoological theory about it. What it is, beyond all doubt of any kind, is a divine and sacred and incredible vision. The fact that it is an animal necessity only comes to the naturalistic philosopher after looking abroad, studying its origins and results, constructing an explanation of its existence, more or less natural and conclusive. The fact that it is a spiritual triumph comes to the first errand boy who happens to feel it. If a lad of seventeen falls in love and is struck dead by a handsome cab an hour afterwards, he has known the thing as it is, a spiritual ecstasy. He has never come to trouble about the thing as it may be, a physical destiny. If anyone says that falling in love is an animal thing, the answer is very simple. The only way of testing the matter is to ask those who are experiencing it, and none of those would admit for a moment that it was an animal thing. Major links' appearance in Europe means primarily this subjective intensity. By this the materialism is not overthrown. Materialism is undermined. He brings not something which is more poetic than realism, not something which is more spiritual than realism, not something which is more right than realism, but something which is more real than realism. He discovers the one indestructible thing. This material world, on which such vast systems have been superimposed, this may mean anything. It may be a dream. It may be a joke. It may be a trap or temptation. It may be a charade. It may be the beatific vision. The only thing of which we are certain is this human soul. This human soul finds itself alone in a terrible world, afraid of the grass. It has brought forth poetry and religion in order to explain matters it will bring them forth again. It matters not one atom how often the lulls of materialism and skepticism occur. They are always broken by the reappearance of a fanatic. They have come in our time. They have been broken by Materlink.