To say that a man is an idealist is merely to say that he is a man;
but, nevertheless, it might be possible to effect some valid
distinction between one kind of idealist and another. One possible
distinction, for instance, could be effected by saying that humanity is
divided into conscious idealists and unconscious idealists. In a
similar way, humanity is divided into conscious ritualists and
unconscious ritualists. The curious thing is, in that example as in
others, that it is the conscious ritualism which is comparatively
simple, the unconscious ritual which is really heavy and complicated.
The ritual which is comparatively rude and straightforward is the
ritual which people call “ritualistic.” It consists of plain things
like bread and wine and fire, and men falling on their faces. But the
ritual which is really complex, and many coloured, and elaborate, and
needlessly formal, is the ritual which people enact without knowing it.
It consists not of plain things like wine and fire, but of really
peculiar, and local, and exceptional, and ingenious things—things like
door-mats, and door-knockers, and electric bells, and silk hats, and
white ties, and shiny cards, and confetti. The truth is that the modern
man scarcely ever gets back to very old and simple things except when
he is performing some religious mummery. The modern man can hardly get
away from ritual except by entering a ritualistic church. In the case
of these old and mystical formalities we can at least say that the
ritual is not mere ritual; that the symbols employed are in most cases
symbols which belong to a primary human poetry. The most ferocious
opponent of the Christian ceremonials must admit that if Catholicism
had not instituted the bread and wine, somebody else would most
probably have done so. Any one with a poetical instinct will admit that
to the ordinary human instinct bread symbolizes something which cannot
very easily be symbolized otherwise; that wine, to the ordinary human
instinct, symbolizes something which cannot very easily be symbolized
otherwise. But white ties in the evening are ritual, and nothing else
but ritual. No one would pretend that white ties in the evening are
primary and poetical. Nobody would maintain that the ordinary human
instinct would in any age or country tend to symbolize the idea of
evening by a white necktie. Rather, the ordinary human instinct would,
I imagine, tend to symbolize evening by cravats with some of the
colours of the sunset, not white neckties, but tawny or crimson
neckties—neckties of purple or olive, or some darkened gold. Mr. J.
A. Kensit, for example, is under the impression that he is not a
ritualist. But the daily life of Mr. J. A. Kensit, like that of any
ordinary modern man, is, as a matter of fact, one continual and
compressed catalogue of mystical mummery and flummery. To take one
instance out of an inevitable hundred: I imagine that Mr. Kensit takes
off his hat to a lady; and what can be more solemn and absurd,
considered in the abstract, than, symbolizing the existence of the
other sex by taking off a portion of your clothing and waving it in the
air? This, I repeat, is not a natural and primitive symbol, like fire
or food. A man might just as well have to take off his waistcoat to a
lady; and if a man, by the social ritual of his civilization, had to
take off his waistcoat to a lady, every chivalrous and sensible man
would take off his waistcoat to a lady. In short, Mr. Kensit, and
those who agree with him, may think, and quite sincerely think, that
men give too much incense and ceremonial to their adoration of the
other world. But nobody thinks that he can give too much incense and
ceremonial to the adoration of this world. All men, then, are
ritualists, but are either conscious or unconscious ritualists. The
conscious ritualists are generally satisfied with a few very simple and
elementary signs; the unconscious ritualists are not satisfied with
anything short of the whole of human life, being almost insanely
ritualistic. The first is called a ritualist because he invents and
remembers one rite; the other is called an anti-ritualist because he
obeys and forgets a thousand. And a somewhat similar distinction to
this which I have drawn with some unavoidable length, between the
conscious ritualist and the unconscious ritualist, exists between the
conscious idealist and the unconscious idealist. It is idle to inveigh
against cynics and materialists—there are no cynics, there are no
materialists. Every man is idealistic; only it so often happens that
he has the wrong ideal. Every man is incurably sentimental; but,
unfortunately, it is so often a false sentiment. When we talk, for
instance, of some unscrupulous commercial figure, and say that he would
do anything for money, we use quite an inaccurate expression, and we
slander him very much. He would not do anything for money. He would do
some things for money; he would sell his soul for money, for instance;
and, as Mirabeau humorously said, he would be quite wise “to take money
for muck.” He would oppress humanity for money; but then it happens
that humanity and the soul are not things that he believes in; they are
not his ideals. But he has his own dim and delicate ideals; and he
would not violate these for money. He would not drink out of the
soup-tureen, for money. He would not wear his coat-tails in front, for
money. He would not spread a report that he had softening of the
brain, for money. In the actual practice of life we find, in the matter
of ideals, exactly what we have already found in the matter of ritual.
We find that while there is a perfectly genuine danger of fanaticism
from the men who have unworldly ideals, the permanent and urgent danger
of fanaticism is from the men who have worldly ideals.
People who say that an ideal is a dangerous thing, that it deludes and
intoxicates, are perfectly right. But the ideal which intoxicates most
is the least idealistic kind of ideal. The ideal which intoxicates
least is the very ideal ideal; that sobers us suddenly, as all heights
and precipices and great distances do. Granted that it is a great evil
to mistake a cloud for a cape; still, the cloud, which can be most
easily mistaken for a cape, is the cloud that is nearest the earth.
Similarly, we may grant that it may be dangerous to mistake an ideal
for something practical. But we shall still point out that, in this
respect, the most dangerous ideal of all is the ideal which looks a
little practical. It is difficult to attain a high ideal; consequently,
it is almost impossible to persuade ourselves that we have attained it.
But it is easy to attain a low ideal; consequently, it is easier still
to persuade ourselves that we have attained it when we have done
nothing of the kind. To take a random example. It might be called a
high ambition to wish to be an archangel; the man who entertained such
an ideal would very possibly exhibit asceticism, or even frenzy, but
not, I think, delusion. He would not think he was an archangel, and go
about flapping his hands under the impression that they were wings. But
suppose that a sane man had a low ideal; suppose he wished to be a
gentleman. Any one who knows the world knows that in nine weeks he
would have persuaded himself that he was a gentleman; and this being
manifestly not the case, the result will be very real and practical
dislocations and calamities in social life. It is not the wild ideals
which wreck the practical world; it is the tame ideals.
The matter may, perhaps, be illustrated by a parallel from our modern
politics. When men tell us that the old Liberal politicians of the
type of Gladstone cared only for ideals, of course, they are talking
nonsense—they cared for a great many other things, including votes.
And when men tell us that modern politicians of the type of Mr.
Chamberlain or, in another way, Lord Rosebery, care only for votes or
for material interest, then again they are talking nonsense—these men
care for ideals like all other men. But the real distinction which may
be drawn is this, that to the older politician the ideal was an ideal,
and nothing else. To the new politician his dream is not only a good
dream, it is a reality. The old politician would have said, “It would
be a good thing if there were a Republican Federation dominating the
world.” But the modern politician does not say, “It would be a good
thing if there were a British Imperialism dominating the world.” He
says, “It is a good thing that there is a British Imperialism
dominating the world;” whereas clearly there is nothing of the kind.
The old Liberal would say “There ought to be a good Irish government in
Ireland.” But the ordinary modern Unionist does not say, “There ought
to be a good English government in Ireland.” He says, “There is a good
English government in Ireland;” which is absurd. In short, the modern
politicians seem to think that a man becomes practical merely by making
assertions entirely about practical things. Apparently, a delusion does
not matter as long as it is a materialistic delusion. Instinctively
most of us feel that, as a practical matter, even the contrary is true.
I certainly would much rather share my apartments with a gentleman who
thought he was God than with a gentleman who thought he was a
grasshopper. To be continually haunted by practical images and
practical problems, to be constantly thinking of things as actual, as
urgent, as in process of completion—these things do not prove a man to
be practical; these things, indeed, are among the most ordinary signs
of a lunatic. That our modern statesmen are materialistic is nothing
against their being also morbid. Seeing angels in a vision may make a
man a supernaturalist to excess. But merely seeing snakes in delirium
tremens does not make him a naturalist.
And when we come actually to examine the main stock notions of our
modern practical politicians, we find that those main stock notions are
mainly delusions. A great many instances might be given of the fact.
We might take, for example, the case of that strange class of notions
which underlie the word “union,” and all the eulogies heaped upon it.
Of course, union is no more a good thing in itself than separation is a
good thing in itself. To have a party in favour of union and a party
in favour of separation is as absurd as to have a party in favour of
going upstairs and a party in favour of going downstairs. The question
is not whether we go up or down stairs, but where we are going to, and
what we are going, for? Union is strength; union is also weakness. It
is a good thing to harness two horses to a cart; but it is not a good
thing to try and turn two hansom cabs into one four-wheeler. Turning
ten nations into one empire may happen to be as feasible as turning ten
shillings into one half-sovereign. Also it may happen to be as
preposterous as turning ten terriers into one mastiff. The question in
all cases is not a question of union or absence of union, but of
identity or absence of identity. Owing to certain historical and moral
causes, two nations may be so united as upon the whole to help each
other. Thus England and Scotland pass their time in paying each other
compliments; but their energies and atmospheres run distinct and
parallel, and consequently do not clash. Scotland continues to be
educated and Calvinistic; England continues to be uneducated and happy.
But owing to certain other Moral and certain other political causes,
two nations may be so united as only to hamper each other; their lines
do clash and do not run parallel. Thus, for instance, England and
Ireland are so united that the Irish can sometimes rule England, but
can never rule Ireland. The educational systems, including the last
Education Act, are here, as in the case of Scotland, a very good test
of the matter. The overwhelming majority of Irishmen believe in a
strict Catholicism; the overwhelming majority of Englishmen believe in
a vague Protestantism. The Irish party in the Parliament of Union is
just large enough to prevent the English education being indefinitely
Protestant, and just small enough to prevent the Irish education being
definitely Catholic. Here we have a state of things which no man in his
senses would ever dream of wishing to continue if he had not been
bewitched by the sentimentalism of the mere word “union.”
This example of union, however, is not the example which I propose to
take of the ingrained futility and deception underlying all the
assumptions of the modern practical politician. I wish to speak
especially of another and much more general delusion. It pervades the
minds and speeches of all the practical men of all parties; and it is a
childish blunder built upon a single false metaphor. I refer to the
universal modern talk about young nations and new nations; about
America being young, about New Zealand being new. The whole thing is a
trick of words. America is not young, New Zealand is not new. It is a
very discussable question whether they are not both much older than
England or Ireland.
Of course we may use the metaphor of youth about America or the
colonies, if we use it strictly as implying only a recent origin. But
if we use it (as we do use it) as implying vigour, or vivacity, or
crudity, or inexperience, or hope, or a long life before them or any of
the romantic attributes of youth, then it is surely as clear as
daylight that we are duped by a stale figure of speech. We can easily
see the matter clearly by applying it to any other institution parallel
to the institution of an independent nationality. If a club called “The
Milk and Soda League” (let us say) was set up yesterday, as I have no
doubt it was, then, of course, “The Milk and Soda League” is a young
club in the sense that it was set up yesterday, but in no other sense.
It may consist entirely of moribund old gentlemen. It may be moribund
itself. We may call it a young club, in the light of the fact that it
was founded yesterday. We may also call it a very old club in the
light of the fact that it will most probably go bankrupt to-morrow. All
this appears very obvious when we put it in this form. Any one who
adopted the young-community delusion with regard to a bank or a
butcher’s shop would be sent to an asylum. But the whole modern
political notion that America and the colonies must be very vigorous
because they are very new, rests upon no better foundation. That
America was founded long after England does not make it even in the
faintest degree more probable that America will not perish a long time
before England. That England existed before her colonies does not make
it any the less likely that she will exist after her colonies. And
when we look at the actual history of the world, we find that great
European nations almost invariably have survived the vitality of their
colonies. When we look at the actual history of the world, we find,
that if there is a thing that is born old and dies young, it is a
colony. The Greek colonies went to pieces long before the Greek
civilization. The Spanish colonies have gone to pieces long before the
nation of Spain—nor does there seem to be any reason to doubt the
possibility or even the probability of the conclusion that the colonial
civilization, which owes its origin to England, will be much briefer
and much less vigorous than the civilization of England itself. The
English nation will still be going the way of all European nations when
the Anglo-Saxon race has gone the way of all fads. Now, of course, the
interesting question is, have we, in the case of America and the
colonies, any real evidence of a moral and intellectual youth as
opposed to the indisputable triviality of a merely chronological youth?
Consciously or unconsciously, we know that we have no such evidence,
and consciously or unconsciously, therefore, we proceed to make it up.
Of this pure and placid invention, a good example, for instance, can be
found in a recent poem of Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s. Speaking of the
English people and the South African War Mr. Kipling says that “we
fawned on the younger nations for the men that could shoot and ride.”
Some people considered this sentence insulting. All that I am
concerned with at present is the evident fact that it is not true. The
colonies provided very useful volunteer troops, but they did not
provide the best troops, nor achieve the most successful exploits. The
best work in the war on the English side was done, as might have been
expected, by the best English regiments. The men who could shoot and
ride were not the enthusiastic corn merchants from Melbourne, any more
than they were the enthusiastic clerks from Cheapside. The men who
could shoot and ride were the men who had been taught to shoot and ride
in the discipline of the standing army of a great European power. Of
course, the colonials are as brave and athletic as any other average
white men. Of course, they acquitted themselves with reasonable credit.
All I have here to indicate is that, for the purposes of this theory of
the new nation, it is necessary to maintain that the colonial forces
were more useful or more heroic than the gunners at Colenso or the
Fighting Fifth. And of this contention there is not, and never has
been, one stick or straw of evidence.
A similar attempt is made, and with even less success, to represent the
literature of the colonies as something fresh and vigorous and
important. The imperialist magazines are constantly springing upon us
some genius from Queensland or Canada, through whom we are expected to
smell the odours of the bush or the prairie. As a matter of fact, any
one who is even slightly interested in literature as such (and I, for
one, confess that I am only slightly interested in literature as such),
will freely admit that the stories of these geniuses smell of nothing
but printer’s ink, and that not of first-rate quality. By a great
effort of Imperial imagination the generous English people reads into
these works a force and a novelty. But the force and the novelty are
not in the new writers; the force and the novelty are in the ancient
heart of the English. Anybody who studies them impartially will know
that the first-rate writers of the colonies are not even particularly
novel in their note and atmosphere, are not only not producing a new
kind of good literature, but are not even in any particular sense
producing a new kind of bad literature. The first-rate writers of the
new countries are really almost exactly like the second-rate writers of
the old countries. Of course they do feel the mystery of the
wilderness, the mystery of the bush, for all simple and honest men feel
this in Melbourne, or Margate, or South St. Pancras. But when they
write most sincerely and most successfully, it is not with a background
of the mystery of the bush, but with a background, expressed or
assumed, of our own romantic cockney civilization. What really moves
their souls with a kindly terror is not the mystery of the wilderness,
but the Mystery of a Hansom Cab.
Of course there are some exceptions to this generalization. The one
really arresting exception is Olive Schreiner, and she is quite as
certainly an exception that proves the rule. Olive Schreiner is a
fierce, brilliant, and realistic novelist; but she is all this
precisely because she is not English at all. Her tribal kinship is with
the country of Teniers and Maarten Maartens—that is, with a country of
realists. Her literary kinship is with the pessimistic fiction of the
continent; with the novelists whose very pity is cruel. Olive
Schreiner is the one English colonial who is not conventional, for the
simple reason that South Africa is the one English colony which is not
English, and probably never will be. And, of course, there are
individual exceptions in a minor way. I remember in particular some
Australian tales by Mr. McIlwain which were really able and effective,
and which, for that reason, I suppose, are not presented to the public
with blasts of a trumpet. But my general contention if put before any
one with a love of letters, will not be disputed if it is understood.
It is not the truth that the colonial civilization as a whole is giving
us, or shows any signs of giving us, a literature which will startle
and renovate our own. It may be a very good thing for us to have an
affectionate illusion in the matter; that is quite another affair. The
colonies may have given England a new emotion; I only say that they
have not given the world a new book.
Touching these English colonies, I do not wish to be misunderstood. I
do not say of them or of America that they have not a future, or that
they will not be great nations. I merely deny the whole established
modern expression about them. I deny that they are “destined” to a
future. I deny that they are “destined” to be great nations. I deny
(of course) that any human thing is destined to be anything. All the
absurd physical metaphors, such as youth and age, living and dying,
are, when applied to nations, but pseudo-scientific attempts to conceal
from men the awful liberty of their lonely souls.
In the case of America, indeed, a warning to this effect is instant and
essential. America, of course, like every other human thing, can in
spiritual sense live or die as much as it chooses. But at the present
moment the matter which America has very seriously to consider is not
how near it is to its birth and beginning, but how near it may be to
its end. It is only a verbal question whether the American
civilization is young; it may become a very practical and urgent
question whether it is dying. When once we have cast aside, as we
inevitably have after a moment’s thought, the fanciful physical
metaphor involved in the word “youth,” what serious evidence have we
that America is a fresh force and not a stale one? It has a great many
people, like China; it has a great deal of money, like defeated
Carthage or dying Venice. It is full of bustle and excitability, like
Athens after its ruin, and all the Greek cities in their decline. It
is fond of new things; but the old are always fond of new things.
Young men read chronicles, but old men read newspapers. It admires
strength and good looks; it admires a big and barbaric beauty in its
women, for instance; but so did Rome when the Goth was at the gates.
All these are things quite compatible with fundamental tedium and
decay. There are three main shapes or symbols in which a nation can
show itself essentially glad and great—by the heroic in government, by
the heroic in arms, and by the heroic in art. Beyond government, which
is, as it were, the very shape and body of a nation, the most
significant thing about any citizen is his artistic attitude towards a
holiday and his moral attitude towards a fight—that is, his way of
accepting life and his way of accepting death.
Subjected to these eternal tests, America does not appear by any means
as particularly fresh or untouched. She appears with all the weakness
and weariness of modern England or of any other Western power. In her
politics she has broken up exactly as England has broken up, into a
bewildering opportunism and insincerity. In the matter of war and the
national attitude towards war, her resemblance to England is even more
manifest and melancholy. It may be said with rough accuracy that there
are three stages in the life of a strong people. First, it is a small
power, and fights small powers. Then it is a great power, and fights
great powers. Then it is a great power, and fights small powers, but
pretends that they are great powers, in order to rekindle the ashes of
its ancient emotion and vanity. After that, the next step is to become
a small power itself. England exhibited this symptom of decadence very
badly in the war with the Transvaal; but America exhibited it worse in
the war with Spain. There was exhibited more sharply and absurdly than
anywhere else the ironic contrast between the very careless choice of a
strong line and the very careful choice of a weak enemy. America added
to all her other late Roman or Byzantine elements the element of the
Caracallan triumph, the triumph over nobody.
But when we come to the last test of nationality, the test of art and
letters, the case is almost terrible. The English colonies have
produced no great artists; and that fact may prove that they are still
full of silent possibilities and reserve force. But America has
produced great artists. And that fact most certainly proves that she
is full of a fine futility and the end of all things. Whatever the
American men of genius are, they are not young gods making a young
world. Is the art of Whistler a brave, barbaric art, happy and
headlong? Does Mr. Henry James infect us with the spirit of a
schoolboy? No; the colonies have not spoken, and they are safe. Their
silence may be the silence of the unborn. But out of America has come
a sweet and startling cry, as unmistakable as the cry of a dying man.