I
_THE "HUMOROUS STAGE"_
I am not adventuring on the dangerous paths of dramatic criticism.
When I write of the "humorous stage," I am using the phrase as
Wordsworth used it, to signify a scene where new characters are
suddenly assumed, and the old as suddenly discarded.
Long ago, Matthew Arnold, poking fun at the clamours of Secularism,
asked in mockery, "Why is not Mr. Bradlaugh a Dean?" To-day I read,
in a perfectly serious manifesto forwarded to me by a friendly
correspondant, this searching question: "Why is not the Archbishop
of Canterbury Censor of Plays?" It really is a great conception;
and, if adopted in practice, might facilitate the solution of some
perplexing problems. If any lover of the ancient ways should demur
on the ground of incongruity, I reply that this objection might
hold good in normal times, but that just now the "humorous stage"
of public life so abounds in incongruities that one more or less
would make no perceptible difference. Everyone is playing a part for
which, three years ago, we should have thought him or her totally
unqualified. Old habits, old prepossessions--even in some cases old
principles--are cast aside with a levity which even Wordsworth's
young actor could not have surpassed. We all are saying and doing
things of which we should have thought ourselves incapable; and
even our surprise at ourselves, great as it is, is less than our
surprise at our friends.
To begin at the top. I have long held the present Prime Minister in
high admiration. I can never forget--nor allow others to forget--that
he fought for the cause of Justice and Freedom in South Africa
almost single-handed, and at the risk of his life. An orator, a
patriot, a lover of justice, a hater of privilege, I knew him to
be. I did not see in him the makings of a Dictator directing the
destinies of an Empire at war, and in his spare moments appointing
Successors to the Apostles within the precincts of an Established
Church. Certainly of Mr. Lloyd George, if of no one else, it is
true that
"The little actor cons another part,"
and I heartily wish him success in it. But it is true of everyone,
and true in every corner of the stage. Let me strike into the medley
at random. The anti-feminists, where are they? They have changed
their garb and their "lines" so thoroughly that it is difficult
for even a practised eye to recognize them in their new parts.
Lord Curzon is a member of a Cabinet which established the women's
vote, and such stalwarts as Mr. Asquith and Lord Harcourt welcome
with effusion the enfranchisement of the victorious suffragette.
And what of the Pacificists? Where are they? Some, I know, are
in prison, but, if it had not been for the rapid change of parts
which the war has brought, they would have had a good many more
fellow-captives than they have. The writer of this article was,
from his first entrance into public affairs, a Pacificist to the
backbone. He believed that war was the greatest of preventible
evils, and that no war which had occurred in his lifetime had been
justified by the laws of right and wrong. To-day that Pacificist is
heart and soul with his countrymen in their struggle; and, having
lived to see England engaged in a righteous war, he has changed
his motto from "Rub lightly" to "Mak sicker."
Not less remarkable is the transformation of the liberty-lovers
(among whom also the present writer has always reckoned himself).
Four years ago we were eagerly and rightly on the alert to detect
the slightest attempt by Ministers or bureaucrats or public bodies
to invade our glorious privilege of doing and saying exactly what
we like. To-day the pressure of the war has turned us into the
willing subjects of a despotism. We tumble over each other in our
haste to throwaway the liberties which we used to consider vital
to our being; and some of us have been not merely the victims, but
the active agents, of an administrative system which we believe
to be necessary for the safety of the State.
But is there not a remnant? Have all the lovers of Liberty changed
their garb and conned new parts? Not all. A remnant there is, and
it is to be found in the House of Lords. This is perhaps the most
astonishing feature of the "humorous stage"; and if, among superlatives,
a super-superlative is possible, I reserve that epithet for the fact
that the most vigorous champion of personal freedom in the House
of Lords has been an ecclesiastical lawyer. From Lord Stowell to
Lord Parmoor is indeed a far cry. Who could have dreamt that, even
amid the upheaval of a world, a spokesman of liberty and conscience
would emerge from the iron-bound precincts of the Consistory Court
and the Vicar-General's Office?
Bishops again--not even these most securely placed of all British
officials can escape the tendency to change which pervades the
whole stage of public life. The Bishop of Winchester, whom all
good Progressives used to denounce as a dark conspirator against
the rights of conscience; the Bishop of Oxford, whom we were taught
to regard as a Hildebrand and a Torquemada rolled into one--these
admirable prelates emerge from the safe seclusion of Castle and
Palace to rebuke the persecution of the Conscientious Objector,
even when his objection is "nearly intolerable."
That the Press should have had its share in this general readjustment
of parts was only natural; but even in what is natural there may be
points of special interest. There is a weekly journal of high repute
which has earned a secure place in the regard of serious-minded
people by its lifelong sobriety, moderation, and respect for the
prunes and prisms. When this staid old print, this steady-going
supporter of all established institutions, bursts out in a furious
attack on the man who has to bear the chief responsibility of the
war, I can only rub my eyes in amazement. If a sheep had suddenly
gone mad, and begun to bark and bite, the transformation could
not have been more astonishing.
But I reserve my most striking illustration of the "humorous stage"
for the last. Fifteen years ago it was the fashion to point at Lord
Hugh Cecil as a belated upholder of exploded superstitions; as
an "ecclesiastical layman" (the phrase was meant to be sarcastic)
who lived in a realm of speculative theology, out of touch with
all practical life; as a zealot, a bigot, a would-be persecutor;
an interesting survival of the Middle Age; a monk who had strayed
into politics. To-day we salute him as the one Member of Parliament
who has had the courage to affirm the supremacy of the moral law,
and to assert the imperious claim which Christianity makes on the
whole of man's being.