FOR centuries the word Laodicean was a reproach; to-day it is beginning
to carry with it a suggestion of nobility. It was Saint John who, in
making the unknown city famous, covered it with obloquy:
“And unto the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write: . . .
“‘I know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou
wert cold or hot.
“‘So, then, because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will
spew thee out of my mouth.’”
Among the moderns who have suggested that to be neither hot nor cold is
to be well, Mr. Thomas Hardy is prominent, as he gave the title of “A
Laodicean” to a novel of which the heroine is attractive. She is a girl
who loves both the old and the new where they are most in conflict.
She liked ruins and she liked restorations. She had half a mind to
marry a picturesque noble, De Stancy, with no brains, no character, and
an atmosphere of old-world romance, and she did marry a hard-headed
modern. At the end of the book, she remarks: “‘We’ll build a new
house beside the ruin, and show the modern spirit forevermore . . . but,
George, I wish—’ And Paula repressed a sigh.
“‘Well?’
“‘I wish my castle was not burned; and I wish you were a De Stancy.’”
At Harvard University, a few years ago, there was started a society
intended to represent the true spirit of the Neo-Laodiceans. It held
that lukewarmness was the most admirable condition obtainable by man.
Moral heat or cold in the heart of any applicant for election was
reason for his rejection. “Nothing in excess” was suggested as a motto,
but the word “but” was thought to be a more subtle suggestion that
something could always be said on either side. In the end no motto was
chosen, because this matter, like all other matters, was not pressed.
For refreshments, lukewarm tea and sweet California wine were served.
Conversation was neither encouraged nor discouraged. Serious argument
was as freely tolerated as genuine trifling. A well-known man in
college, who thought himself worthy of the club, was rejected because
he was believed to be hostile to seriousness. Another was kept out
because, although he said nothing against frivolity, it bored him.
The society had no secrets. The members sought no proselytes, but
gave full answers to all inquiries. The Harvard students smiled and
were interested. The young women at the Harvard Annex tried to laugh,
but thought it wasn’t right. They said the young men were posing. The
most magnanimous said that under the seemingly erroneous spirit was a
really ardent search for truth. The Annex held but one girl who was
ever mentioned for membership, and she was defeated by a close vote on
the ground that, although her Laodiceanism seemed perfect, as she was
a woman it was axiomatic that a thorough knowledge of her would reveal
some ethical prejudice.
The founder of the society, naturally enough, was the most imperfect
member. At one time there was serious thought of accepting his
resignation. Instead of being lukewarm he was alternately hot and
cold, being one of the ablest moral speakers as well as one of the
most inspired jesters at morality. He himself did not know whether
reverence or blasphemy was strongest in him. It was the perfection of
this doubt about himself which induced the club to forgive his unstable
equilibrium.
“Doing is a deadly thing; doing ends in death.” One member was expelled
because he quoted with approval this Antinomian hymn. That statement
is as far from improved Laodiceanism as is the fury for doing things.
Action is well enough if it be within bounds, as is rest. The Laodicean
must see the advantages of all opposites, else he is unworthy of his
name.
In contrast to the founder was the elected head of the society,
the most fully developed specimen, a model of intellectual and
temperamental moderation. He was mild in study, in exercise, in
personal relations. He had more wisdom than most men and more
knowledge, but he had acquired his knowledge, not by effort, but
by putting his attention, when he chose to give attention to the
acquisition of facts, to those of permanent importance. He had never
wasted any strength on hobbies; he had never been enthusiastic. Yet he
had always been interested. He knew nothing that was not worth knowing.
His easy intellectual spirit was combined with æsthetic fineness and
sensuous delicacy. He spent much of his time in the sunshine, amusing
himself with the passing events of the hour. His friends were chosen
for their dispositions, not for their acquirements. He preferred
a small mind, simple and harmonious, to a large one distorted or
turbulent. He spent a few hours of the day in severe study, a few
in strolling in the air, a few in chatting and drinking tea, a few
in reading poetry or other imaginative literature. He was fond of
conversation, but not of dispute. He was loyal to reason and cared
little for reasoning.
Between these two types lay the other five members, Laodiceans of
varying degrees. One was looked upon as of doubtful standing on account
of his temperament, which seemed to belong to the land of Far Niente,
with which we had no desire to be allied. He was lazy, and he kept his
membership only because of his intellectual fairness. His organs were
partial to rest, but his mind was judicial and regretted the defect
of his temperament. As his approval was distributed impartially among
the alert and the sleepy, the faithful and the unbelieving, we let his
ideas atone for his instincts.
The others, who were not especially distinct types, were good average
examples of the species. In addition, we had seven honorary members.
There was a rule that no man in his lifetime could be an honorary
member, but there was one living man so deserving of the honor that we
did all we could within the letter of the rule: we voted that Arthur
James Balfour should acquire a membership immediately upon his death.
He was the only man who received this tribute. Among the dead, Omar
Khayyam was elected, with one dissent, on the ground that the Persian
poet was injudiciously opposed to virtue; and Socrates, Lucretius,
Horace, Goethe, and Molière passed without challenge. Over Lucretia
Borgia, who was proposed by the founder, there was a long fight, with
the same objections that had been made against him. On the plea that
she was as fond of virtue as of vice we admitted her, though with
regret.
Since the second gathering, though two years have passed, the club has
not met, simply because no one has suggested a meeting. This is thought
to be in keeping with its principles. I have gone thus fully into
its history because it is the only organized representation of the
principles of the new sect. These principles, though not yet exactly
defined, are shadowed forth in the belief of these seven youths. They
were confident, at the time, that the true Laodicea would grow in size
and in respect. It could never number many, because by the nature of
its creed it was an intellectual aristocracy; but it would grow slowly
larger as the course of evolution brought the world gradually nearer to
the summit of development. Whether most of us persist in this belief,
I do not know. Nor do I know whether most of us believe still that in
a world where almost everybody is vociferously supporting one side of
every question it is a pleasant thing to sit in the shade, to drink
lukewarm nourishment, and to say sweetly that there is some good on
either side. There may be a better course than this—and there may not.