to make mankind happier, by which they mean more comfortable. The answer
is (to put it in a form intelligible to the questioner) that
Christianity increases the wealth of the world by creating new values.
Wealth depends on human valuation. For example, if women were
sufficiently well educated not to care about diamonds, the Kimberley
mines would pay no dividends, and the rents in Park Lane would go down.
The prices of paintings by old masters would decline if millionaires
preferred to collect another kind of scalps to decorate their wigwams.
Bookmakers and company-promoters live on the widespread passion for
acquiring money without working for it. It is hardly possible to
estimate the increase of real wealth, and the stoppage of waste, which
would result from the adoption of a rational, still more of a Christian,
valuation of the good things of life. I have dealt with this subject in
the essay on _The Indictment against Christianity_, and have emphasised
the importance of taking into consideration, in all economic questions,
the _human costs_ of production, the factors which make work pleasant or
irksome, and especially the moral condition of the worker. Good-will
diminishes the toll which labour takes of the labourer; envy and hatred
vastly increase it while they diminish its product. It is, of course,
impossible that the worker should not resent having to devote his life
to making what is useless or mischievous, and to ministering to the
irrational wastefulness of luxury. Christianity, in condemning the
selfish and irresponsible use of money, seeks to remove one of the chief
causes of social bitterness. Senseless extravagance is the best friend
of revolution.
The abuse poured upon 'the old political economy,' as it is called, is
only half deserved. As compared with the insane doctrines now in favour
with the working-man, the old political economy was sound and sensible.
Hard work, thrift, and economy in production are, in truth, as we used
to be told, the only ways to increase the national wealth, and the
contrary practices can only lead to economic ruin. There is not much
fault to find with the old economists so long as they recognised that
their science was an abstract science, which for its own purposes dealt
with an unreal abstraction--the 'economic man.' Every science is obliged
to isolate one aspect of reality in this way. But when political economy
was treated as a philosophy of life it began to be mischievous. A book
on 'the science of the stomach,' without knowledge of physiology or the
working of other organs, would not be of much use. Man has never been a
merely acquisitive being; for example, he is also a fighting and a
praying being. If our dominant motives were changed, the whole
conditions dealt with by political economy would change with them. There
have been civilisations in which the passion for accumulation was
comparatively weak; and notoriously there are many persons in whom it is
wholly absent. Devotion to art, to scientific investigation, and to
religion is strong enough, where it exists, to kill 'the economic man'
in human nature. A civilised nation honours its idealists, and
recognises the immense benefit which they confer on the community by
creating or revealing new and inexhaustible values; in an uncivilised
country they can hardly live. Ruskin and William Morris saw, and
doubtless exaggerated, the danger to which spiritual values were exposed
at the hands of the dominant economism. Our danger now is that neglect
of the simplest economic laws may plunge the nation into such misery
that the people will no longer be willing to support art, science,
learning, and philosophy. A large section of the labour party has the
same standard of values as the hated 'capitalist,' and detests those
whom it calls intellectuals and sky-pilots because they depreciate the
currency which their class, no less than the capitalist, believes to be
the only sound money.
It may be asked whether there is any reason to think that there is now
less regard for the higher, the qualitative values of life, than at
other periods. My opinion is that ever since the time of Rousseau and
his contemporaries, we have been led astray by a will-of-the-wisp akin
to the apocalyptic dreams of the Jews in the last two centuries before
Christ, dreams which also filled the minds of the first generation of
Christians. The Greeks never made the mistake of throwing their ideals
into the future, a practice which, as Dr. Bosanquet has said, 'is the
death of all sane idealism.' The belief in 'a good time coming' is a
Jewish delusion. It nourished the Jews in their amazing obstinacy, and
led to the annihilation of their State which, to the very end, they saw
in their dreams bruising all other nations with a rod of iron, and
breaking them in pieces like a potter's vessel. But, as any idealism is
better than none, the Hebrew race has won remarkable triumphs, though of
a kind which it never desired.
The myth of progress is our form of apocalyptism. In France it began
with sentimentalism, developing normally into homicidal mania. In
England it took the form of a kind of Deuteronomic religion. As a reward
for our national virtues, our population expanded, our exports and
imports went up by leaps and bounds, and our empire received additions
every decade. It was plain that when Christ said 'Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit the earth,' He was thinking of the British
Empire. The whole structure of our social order encouraged the
measurement of everything by quantitative standards. Everyone could
understand that a generation which travels sixty miles an hour must be
five times as civilised as one which only travelled twelve. Thus the
beneficent 'law of progress' was exemplified in that nation which had
best deserved to be its exponent. The myth in question is that there is
a natural law of improvement, manifested by greater complexity of
structure, by increase of wants and the means to satisfy them. A nation
advances in civilisation by increasing in wealth and population, and by
multiplying the accessories and paraphernalia of life.
Belief in this alleged law has vitiated our natural science, our
political science, our history, our philosophy, and even our religion.
Science declared that 'the survival of the fittest' was a law of nature,
though nature has condemned to extinction the majestic animals of the
saurian era, and has carefully preserved the bug, the louse, and the
spirochaeta pallida.
We dined as a rule on each other;
What matter? the toughest survived,
is a fair parody of this doctrine. In political science, by a portentous
snobbery, the actual evolution of European government was assumed to be
in the line of upward progress. Our histories contrasted the benighted
condition of past ages with the high morality and general enlightenment
of the present. In philosophy, the problem of evil was met by the
theory that though the Deity is not omnipotent yet, He is on His way to
become so. He means well, and if we give Him time, He will make a real
success of His creation. Human beings, too, commonly make a very poor
thing of their lives here. But continue their training after they are
dead and they will all come to perfection. We have been living on this
secularised idealism for a hundred and fifty years. It has driven out
the true idealism, of which it is a caricature, and has made the deeper
and higher kind of religious faith abnormally difficult. Even the hope
of immortality has degenerated into a belief in apparitions and voices
from the dead.
Nature knows nothing of this precious law. Her figure is not the
vertical line, nor even the spiral, but the circle--the vicious circle,
according to Samuel Butler. 'Men eat birds, birds eat worms, worms eat
men again.' Some stars are getting hotter, others cooler. Life appears
at a certain temperature and is extinguished at another temperature.
Evolution and involution balance each other and go on concurrently. The
normal condition of every species on this planet is not progress but
stationariness. 'Progress,' so-called, is an incident of adaptation to
new conditions. Bees and ants must have spent millennia in perfecting
their organisation; now that they have reached a stable equilibrium, no
more changes are perceptible. The 'progress' of humanity has consisted
almost entirely in the transformation of the wild man of the woods, not
into _homo sapiens_ but into _homo faber_, man the tool-maker, a process
of which nature expresses her partial disapproval by plaguing us with
diverse diseases and taking away our teeth and claws. It is not certain
that there has been much change in our intellectual and moral endowments
since pithecanthropus dropped the first half of his name. I should be
sorry to have to maintain that the Germans of to-day are morally
superior to the army which defeated Quintilius Varus, or that the modern
Turks are more humane than the hordes of Timour the Tartar. If there is
to be any improvement in human nature itself we must look to the infant
science of eugenics to help us.
It is not easy to say how this myth of progress came to take hold of
the imagination, in the teeth of science and experience. Quinet speaks
of the 'fatalistic optimism' of historians, of which there have
certainly been some strange examples. We can only say that secularism,
like other religions, needs an eschatology, and has produced one. A more
energetic generation than ours looked forward to a gradual extension of
busy industrialism over the whole planet; the present ideal of the
masses seems to be the greatest idleness of the greatest number, or a
Fabian farm-yard of tame fowls, or (in America) an ice-water-drinking
gynæcocracy. But the superstition cannot flourish much longer. The
period of expansion is over, and we must adjust our view of earthly
providence to a state of decline. For no nation can flourish when it is
the ambition of the large majority to put in fourpence and take out
ninepence. The middle-class will be the first victims; then the
privileged aristocracy of labour will exploit the poor. But trade will
take wings and migrate to some other country where labour is good and
comparatively cheap.
The dethronement of a fetish may give a sounder faith its chance. In the
time of decay and disintegration which lies before us, more persons will
seek consolation where it can be found. 'Happiness and unhappiness,'
says Spinoza, 'depend on the nature of the object which we love. When a
thing is not loved, no quarrels will arise concerning it, no sadness
will be felt if it perishes, no envy if it is possessed by another; no
fear, no hatred, no disturbance of the mind. All these things arise from
the love of the perishable. But love for a thing eternal and infinite
feeds the mind wholly with joy, and is itself untainted with any
sadness; wherefore it is greatly to be desired and sought for with our
whole strength.' It is well known that these noble words were not only
sincere, but the expression of the working faith of the philosopher; and
we may hope that many who are doomed to suffer hardship and spoliation
in the evil days that are coming will find the same path to a happiness
which cannot be taken from them. Spinoza's words, of course, do not
point only to religious exercises and meditation. The spiritual world
includes art and science in all their branches, when these are studied
with a genuine devotion to the Good, the True, and the Beautiful for
their own sakes. We shall need 'a remnant' to save Europe from relapsing
into barbarism; for the new forces are almost wholly cut off from the
precious traditions which link our civilisation with the great eras of
the past. The possibility of another dark age is not remote; but there
must be enough who value our best traditions to preserve them till the
next spring-time of civilisation. We must take long views, and think of
our great-grandchildren.
It is tempting to dream of a new Renaissance, under which the life of
reason will at last be the life of mankind. Though there is little sign
of improvement in human nature, a favourable conjunction of
circumstances may bring about a civilisation very much better than ours
to-day. For a time, at any rate, war may be practically abolished, and
the military qualities may find another and a less pernicious outlet.
'Sport,' as Santayana says, 'is a liberal form of war stripped of its
compulsions and malignity; a rational art and the expression of a
civilised instinct.' The art of living may be taken in hand seriously.
Some of the ingenuity which has lately been lavished on engines of
destruction may be devoted to improvements in our houses, which should
be easily and cheaply put together and able to be carried about in
sections; on labour-saving devices which would make servants
unnecessary; and on international campaigns against diseases, some of
the worst of which could be extinguished for ever by twenty years of
concerted effort. A scientific civilisation is not impossible, though we
are not likely to live to see it. And, if science and humanism can work
together, it will be a great age for mankind. Such hopes as these must
be allowed to float before our minds: they are not unreasonable, and
they will help us to get through the twentieth century, which is not
likely to be a pleasant time to live in.
Some writers, like Mr. H.G. Wells, recognising the danger which
threatens civilisation, have suggested the formation of a society for
mutual encouragement in the higher life. Mr. Wells developed this idea
in his 'Modern Utopia.' He contemplated a brotherhood, like the
Japanese Samurai, living by a Rule, a kind of lay monastic order, who
should endeavour to live in a perfectly rational and wholesome manner,
so as to be the nucleus of whatever was best in the society of the time.
The scheme is interesting to a Platonist, because of its resemblance to
the Order of Guardians in the 'Republic.' A very good case may be made
out for having an ascetic Order of moral and physical aristocrats, and
entrusting them with the government of the country. Plato forbade his
guardians to own wealth, and thus secured an uncorrupt administration,
one of the rarest and best of virtues in a government. But political
events are not moving in this direction at present; and the question for
us is whether those who believe in science and humanism should attempt
to form a society, not to rule the country, but to protect themselves
and the ideas which they wish to preserve. But I agree with Mr. Wells'
second thoughts, that the time is not ripe for such a scheme.[7]
Christianity, 'the greatest new beginning in the world's history,'
appeared, as he says, in an age of disintegration, and 'we are in a
synthetic rather than a disintegrating phase.... _Only a very vast and
terrible war-explosion can, I think, change this state of affairs.'_ The
vast explosion has occurred, and the stage of disintegration, which Mr.
Wells ought perhaps to have seen approaching even eleven years ago, has
clearly begun. But it will have to go further before the need of such a
society is felt. The time may come when the educated classes, and those
who desire freedom to live as they think right, will find themselves
oppressed, not only in their home-life by the tyranny of the
trade-unions, but in their souls by the pulpy and mawkish emotionalism
of herd-morality. Then a league for mutual protection may be formed. If
such a society ever comes into being, the following principles are, I
think, necessary for its success. First, it must be on a religious
basis, since religion has a cohesive force greater than any other bond.
The religious basis will be a blend of Christian Platonism and Christian
Stoicism, since it must be founded on that faith in absolute spiritual
values which is common to Christianity and Platonism, with that sturdy
defiance of tyranny and popular folly which was the strength of
Stoicism. Next, it must not be affiliated to any religious organisation;
otherwise it will certainly be exploited in denominational interests.
Thirdly, it must include some purely disciplinary asceticism, such as
abstinence from alcohol and tobacco for men, and from costly dresses and
jewellery for women. This is necessary, because it is more important to
keep out the half-hearted than to increase the number of members.
Fourthly, it must prescribe a simple life of duty and discipline, since
frugality will be a condition of enjoying self-respect and freedom.
Fifthly, it will enjoin the choice of an open-air life in the country,
where possible. A whole group of French writers, such as Proudhon,
Delacroix, Leconte de Lisle, Flaubert, Leblond, and Faguet agree in
attributing our social _malaise_ to life in great towns. The lower
death-rates of country districts are a hint from nature that they are
right. Sixthly, every member must pledge himself to give his best work.
As Dr. Jacks says, 'Producers of good articles respect each other;
producers of bad despise each other and hate their work.' It may be
necessary for those who recognise the right of the labourer to preserve
his self-respect, to combine in order to satisfy each other's needs in
resistance to the trade-unions. Seventhly, there must be provision for
community-life, like that of the old monasteries, for both sexes. The
members of the society should be encouraged to spend some part of their
lives in these institutions, without retiring from the world altogether.
Temporary 'retreats' might be of great value. Intellectual work,
including scientific research, could be carried on under very favourable
conditions in these lay monasteries and convents, which should contain
good libraries and laboratories. Lastly, a distinctive dress, not merely
a badge, would probably be essential for members of both sexes.
This last provision tempts me to add that the Government would do well
to appoint at once a Royal Commission, or, rather, two Commissions, to
decide on a compulsory national uniform for both sexes. Experts should
recommend the most comfortable, becoming, and economical dress that
could be devised, with considerable variety for the different trades and
professions. Such a law would do more for social equality than any
readjustment of taxation. It has been often noticed that every man looks
a gentleman in khaki; and it is to be feared that many war brides have
suffered a painful surprise on seeing their husbands for the first time
in civilian garb. There need be no suggestion of militarism about the
new costume; but a man's calling might be recorded, like the name of his
regiment, on his shoulder-straps, and the absence of such a badge would
be regarded as a disgrace, whether the subject was a tramp or one of the
idle rich. This suggestion may seem trivial, or even ludicrous; and I
may be reminded of my dislike of meddling legislation; but the
importance of the philosophy of clothes has not diminished since 'Sartor
Resartus.' Clerical dignitaries might be trusted to vote for this
mitigation of their lot.
Some may wonder why I have not expressed a hope that the guardianship of
our intellectual and spiritual birthright may pass into the hands of the
National Church. I heartily wish that I could cherish this hope. But
organised religion has been a failure ever since the first concordat
between Church and State under Constantine the Great. The Church of
England in its corporate capacity has never seemed to respect anything
but organised force. In the sixteenth century it proclaimed Henry VIII
the Supreme Head of the Church; in the seventeenth century it
passionately upheld the 'right divine of kings to govern wrong'; in the
eighteenth and nineteenth it was the obsequious supporter of the
squirearchy and plutocracy; and now it grovels before the working-man,
and supports every scheme of plundering the minority. In fact, we must
distinguish sharply between ecclesiasticism, theology, and religion. The
future of ecclesiasticism is a political question. In the opinion of
some good judges, the acute nationalism now dominant in Europe will
quickly pass away, and a duel will supervene between the 'Black
International' and the 'Red.' Catholicism, it is supposed, will shelter
all who dread revolution and all who value traditional civilisation; its
unrivalled organisation will make it the one possible centre of
resistance to anarchy and barbarism, and the conflict will go on till
one side or the other is overthrown. This prediction, which opens a
truly appalling prospect for civilisation, might be less terrible if the
Church were to open its arms to a new Renaissance, and become once more,
as in the beginning of the modern period, the home of learning and the
patroness of the arts. But we must not overlook the new and growing
power of science; and science can no more make terms with Catholic
ecclesiasticism than with the Revolution. The Jacobins guillotined
Lavoisier, 'having no need of chemists'; but the Church burnt Bruno and
imprisoned Galileo. Science, too strong to be victimised again, may come
between the two enemies of civilisation, the Bolshevik and the
Ultramontane; it is, I think, our best hope.
I am conscious that I have spoken with too little sympathy in one or two
of these essays about the Ritualist party. I was more afraid of it a few
years ago than I am now. The Oxford movement began as a late wave of the
Romantic movement, with wistful eyes bent upon the past. But
Romanticism, which dotes on ruins, shrinks from real restoration.
Medievalism is attractive only when seen from a short distance. So the
movement is ceasing to be either medieval or Catholic or Anglican; it is
becoming definitely Latin. But a Latin Church in England which disowns
the Pope is an absurdity. Many of the shrewder High Churchmen are, as I
have said in this volume, throwing themselves into political agitation
and intrigue, for which Catholics always have a great aptitude; but this
involves them in another inconsistency. For Catholicism is essentially
hierarchical and undemocratic, though it keeps a 'career open to the
talents.' The spirit of Catholicism breathes in the Third Canto of the
'Paradiso,' where Dante asks the soul of a friend whom he finds in the
lowest circle of Paradise, whether he does not desire to go higher. The
friend replies: 'Brother, the force of charity quiets our will, making
us wish only for what we have and thirst for nothing more. If we
desired to be in a sublimer sphere, our desires would be discordant with
the will of Him who here allots us our diverse stations.... The manner
in which we are ranged from step to step in this kingdom pleases the
whole kingdom, as it does the King who gives us the power to will as He
wills.' Accordingly, these ecclesiastical votaries of democracy cut a
strange figure when they seek to legislate for the Church. The High
Church scheme (defeated the other day by a small majority) for drawing
up a constitution for the Church, consisted in disfranchising the large
majority of the electorate and reserving the initiative and veto for the
House of Lords (the Bishops). In fact, the constitution which our
Catholic democrats would like best for the Church closely resembles that
of Great Britain before the first Reform Bill. In the same way the
ritualistic clergy, while professing a superstitious reverence for the
episcopal office, make a point of flouting the authority of their own
bishop. The movement, in my opinion, is beginning to break up, and Rome
will be the chief gainer. But many of its leaders have been among the
glories of the Church of England, and I could never speak of them with
disrespect.
Catholicism, whether Roman or Anglican, stands to lose heavily by the
decay of institutionalism as an article of faith. It is becoming
impossible for those who mix at all with their fellow-men to believe
that the grace of God is distributed denominationally. The Christian
virtues, so far as we can see, flower impartially in the souls of
Catholic and Protestant, of Churchman and Schismatic, of Orthodox and
Heretic. And the test, 'by their fruits ye shall know them,' cannot be
openly rejected by any Christian. But fanatical institutionalism has
been the driving force of Catholicism as a power in the world, from the
very first. The Church has lived by its monopolies and conquered by its
intolerance. The war has given a further impetus to the fall of this
belief, which, with its dogma, _Extra ecclesiam nulla salus_, was
tottering before the crisis came.
The prospects of Christian theology are very difficult to estimate; and
I am so convinced myself of the superiority of the Catholic theology
based on Neoplatonism, that I cannot view the matter with impartial
detachment. We all tend to predict the triumph of our own opinions. But
miracles must, I am convinced, be relegated to the sphere of pious
opinion. It is not likely, perhaps, that the progress of science will
increase the difficulty of believing them; but it can never again be
possible to make the truths of religion depend on physical portents
having taken place as recorded. The Christian revelation can stand
without them, and the rulers of the Church will soon have to recognise
that in very many minds it does stand without them.