The name has been bestowed on me by several Christian gentlemen as a
reproach, but to my ears it has a quaint and not unpleasing sound.
Infidel! "The notorious infidel editor of the _Clarion_" is the form
used by one True Believer. The words recurred to my mind suddenly, while
I was taking my favourite black pipe for a walk along "the pleasant
Strand," and I felt a smile glimmer within as I repeated them.
Which is worse, to be a Demagogue or an Infidel? I am both. For while
many professed Christians contrive to serve both God and Mammon, the
depravity of my nature seems to forbid my serving either.
It was a mild day in mid-August, not cold for the time of year. I had
been laid up for a few days, and my back was unpropitious, and I was
tired. But I felt very happy, for so bad a man, since the sunshine was
clear and genial, and my pipe went as easily as a dream.
Besides, one's fellow-creatures are so amusing: especially in the
Strand. I had seen a proud and gorgeously upholstered lady lolling
languidly in a motor car, and looking extremely pleased with
herself--not without reason; and I had met two successful men of great
presence, who reminded me somehow of "Porkin and Snob"; and I had
noticed a droll little bundle of a baby, in a fawn-coloured woollen
suit, with a belt slipped almost to her knees, and sweet round eyes as
purple as pansies, who was hunting a rolling apple amongst "the
wild mob's million feet"; and I had seen a worried-looking matron,
frantically waving her umbrella to the driver of an omnibus, endanger
the silk hat of Porkin and disturb the complacency of Snob; and I felt
glad.
It was at that moment that there popped into my head the full style and
title I had earned. "Notorious Infidel Editor of the _Clarion_!" These
be brave words, indeed. For a moment they almost flattered me into the
belief that I had become a member of the higher criminal classes: a bold
bad man, like Guy Fawkes, or Kruger, or R. B. Cuninghame Graham.
"You ought," I said to myself, "to dress the part. You ought to have an
S.D.P. sombrero, a slow wise Fabian smile, and the mysterious trousers
of a Soho conspirator."
But at the instant I caught a sight of my counterfeit presentment in a
shop window, and veiled my haughty crest. _That_ a notorious Infidel!
Behold a dumpy, comfortable British _paterfamilias_ in a light flannel
suit and a faded sun hat. No; it will not do. Not a bit like Mephisto:
much more like the Miller of the Dee.
Indeed, I am not an irreligious man, really; I am rather a religious
man; and this is not an irreligious, but rather a religious, book.
Such thoughts should make men humble. After all, may not even John Burns
be human; may not Mr. Chamberlain himself have a heart that can feel for
another?
Gentle reader, that was a wise as well as a charitable man who taught us
there is honour among thieves; although, having never been a member of
Parliament himself, he must have spoken from hearsay.
"For all that, Robert, you're a notorious Infidel." I paused--just
opposite the Tivoli--and gazed moodily up and down the Strand.
As I have remarked elsewhere, I like the Strand. It is a very human
place. But I own that the Strand lacks dignity and beauty, and that
amongst its varied odours the odour of sanctity is scarce perceptible.
There are no trees in the Strand. The thoroughfare should be wider.
The architecture is, for the most part, banal. For a chief street in a
Christian capital, the Strand is not eloquent of high national ideals.
There are derelict churches in the Strand, and dingy blatant taverns,
and strident signs and hoardings; and there are slums hard by.
There are thieves in the Strand, and prowling vagrants, and gaunt
hawkers, and touts, and gamblers, and loitering failures, with tragic
eyes and wilted garments; and prostitutes plying for hire.
And east and west, and north and south of the Strand, there is London.
Is there a man amongst all London's millions brave enough to tell the
naked truth about the vice and crime, the misery and meanness, the
hypocrisies and shames of the great, rich, heathen city? Were such a man
to arise amongst us and voice the awful truth, what would his reception
be? How would he fare at the hands of the Press, and the Public--and the
Church?
As London is, so is England. This is a Christian country. What would
Christ think of Park Lane, and the slums, and the hooligans? What would
He think of the Stock Exchange, and the music hall, and the racecourse?
What would he think of our national ideals? What would He think of the
House of Peers, and the Bench of Bishops, and the Yellow Press?
Pausing again, over against Exeter Hall, I mentally apostrophise the
Christian British people. "Ladies and Gentlemen," I say, "you are
Christian in name, but I discern little of Christ in your ideals, your
institutions, or your daily lives. You are a mercenary, self-indulgent,
frivolous, boastful, blood-guilty mob of heathen. I like you very much,
but that is what you are. And it is you--_you_ who call men 'Infidels.'
You ridiculous creatures, what do you mean by it?"
If to praise Christ in words, and deny Him in deeds, be Christianity,
then London is a Christian city, and England is a Christian nation. For
it is very evident that our common English ideals are anti-Christian,
and that our commercial, foreign and social affairs are run on
anti-Christian lines.
Renan says, in his _Life of Jesus_, that "were Jesus to return amongst
us He would recognise as His disciples, not those who imagine they can
compress Him into a few catechismal phrases, but those who labour to
carry on His work."
My Christian friends, I am a Socialist, and as such believe in, and work
for, universal freedom, and universal brotherhood, and universal peace.