Whether the human mind can advance or not, is a question too little
discussed, for nothing can be more dangerous than to found our social
philosophy on any theory which is debatable but has not been debated.
But if we assume, for the sake of argument, that there has been in the
past, or will be in the future, such a thing as a growth or improvement
of the human mind itself, there still remains a very sharp objection to
be raised against the modern version of that improvement. The vice of
the modern notion of mental progress is that it is always something
concerned with the breaking of bonds, the effacing of boundaries, the
casting away of dogmas. But if there be such a thing as mental growth,
it must mean the growth into more and more definite convictions, into
more and more dogmas. The human brain is a machine for coming to
conclusions; if it cannot come to conclusions it is rusty. When we hear
of a man too clever to believe, we are hearing of something having
almost the character of a contradiction in terms. It is like hearing of
a nail that was too good to hold down a carpet; or a bolt that was too
strong to keep a door shut. Man can hardly be defined, after the
fashion of Carlyle, as an animal who makes tools; ants and beavers and
many other animals make tools, in the sense that they make an
apparatus. Man can be defined as an animal that makes dogmas. As he
piles doctrine on doctrine and conclusion on conclusion in the
formation of some tremendous scheme of philosophy and religion, he is,
in the only legitimate sense of which the expression is capable,
becoming more and more human. When he drops one doctrine after another
in a refined scepticism, when he declines to tie himself to a system,
when he says that he has outgrown definitions, when he says that he
disbelieves in finality, when, in his own imagination, he sits as God,
holding no form of creed but contemplating all, then he is by that very
process sinking slowly backwards into the vagueness of the vagrant
animals and the unconsciousness of the grass. Trees have no dogmas.
Turnips are singularly broadminded.
If then, I repeat, there is to be mental advance, it must be mental
advance in the construction of a definite philosophy of life. And that
philosophy of life must be right and the other philosophies wrong. Now
of all, or nearly all, the able modern writers whom I have briefly
studied in this book, this is especially and pleasingly true, that they
do each of them have a constructive and affirmative view, and that they
do take it seriously and ask us to take it seriously. There is nothing
merely sceptically progressive about Mr. Rudyard Kipling. There is
nothing in the least broad minded about Mr. Bernard Shaw. The paganism
of Mr. Lowes Dickinson is more grave than any Christianity. Even the
opportunism of Mr. H. G. Wells is more dogmatic than the idealism of
anybody else. Somebody complained, I think, to Matthew Arnold that he
was getting as dogmatic as Carlyle. He replied, “That may be true; but
you overlook an obvious difference. I am dogmatic and right, and
Carlyle is dogmatic and wrong.” The strong humour of the remark ought
not to disguise from us its everlasting seriousness and common sense;
no man ought to write at all, or even to speak at all, unless he thinks
that he is in truth and the other man in error. In similar style, I
hold that I am dogmatic and right, while Mr. Shaw is dogmatic and
wrong. But my main point, at present, is to notice that the chief
among these writers I have discussed do most sanely and courageously
offer themselves as dogmatists, as founders of a system. It may be
true that the thing in Mr. Shaw most interesting to me, is the fact
that Mr. Shaw is wrong. But it is equally true that the thing in Mr.
Shaw most interesting to himself, is the fact that Mr. Shaw is right.
Mr. Shaw may have none with him but himself; but it is not for himself
he cares. It is for the vast and universal church, of which he is the
only member.
The two typical men of genius whom I have mentioned here, and with
whose names I have begun this book, are very symbolic, if only because
they have shown that the fiercest dogmatists can make the best artists.
In the fin de siecle atmosphere every one was crying out that
literature should be free from all causes and all ethical creeds. Art
was to produce only exquisite workmanship, and it was especially the
note of those days to demand brilliant plays and brilliant short
stories. And when they got them, they got them from a couple of
moralists. The best short stories were written by a man trying to
preach Imperialism. The best plays were written by a man trying to
preach Socialism. All the art of all the artists looked tiny and
tedious beside the art which was a by-product of propaganda.
The reason, indeed, is very simple. A man cannot be wise enough to be
a great artist without being wise enough to wish to be a philosopher. A
man cannot have the energy to produce good art without having the
energy to wish to pass beyond it. A small artist is content with art;
a great artist is content with nothing except everything. So we find
that when real forces, good or bad, like Kipling and G. B. S., enter
our arena, they bring with them not only startling and arresting art,
but very startling and arresting dogmas. And they care even more, and
desire us to care even more, about their startling and arresting dogmas
than about their startling and arresting art. Mr. Shaw is a good
dramatist, but what he desires more than anything else to be is a good
politician. Mr. Rudyard Kipling is by divine caprice and natural
genius an unconventional poet; but what he desires more than anything
else to be is a conventional poet. He desires to be the poet of his
people, bone of their bone, and flesh of their flesh, understanding
their origins, celebrating their destiny. He desires to be Poet
Laureate, a most sensible and honourable and public-spirited desire.
Having been given by the gods originality—that is, disagreement with
others—he desires divinely to agree with them. But the most striking
instance of all, more striking, I think, even than either of these, is
the instance of Mr. H. G. Wells. He began in a sort of insane infancy
of pure art. He began by making a new heaven and a new earth, with the
same irresponsible instinct by which men buy a new necktie or
button-hole. He began by trifling with the stars and systems in order
to make ephemeral anecdotes; he killed the universe for a joke. He has
since become more and more serious, and has become, as men inevitably
do when they become more and more serious, more and more parochial. He
was frivolous about the twilight of the gods; but he is serious about
the London omnibus. He was careless in “The Time Machine,” for that
dealt only with the destiny of all things; but he is careful, and even
cautious, in “Mankind in the Making,” for that deals with the day after
to-morrow. He began with the end of the world, and that was easy. Now
he has gone on to the beginning of the world, and that is difficult.
But the main result of all this is the same as in the other cases. The
men who have really been the bold artists, the realistic artists, the
uncompromising artists, are the men who have turned out, after all, to
be writing “with a purpose.” Suppose that any cool and cynical
art-critic, any art-critic fully impressed with the conviction that
artists were greatest when they were most purely artistic, suppose that
a man who professed ably a humane aestheticism, as did Mr. Max
Beerbohm, or a cruel aestheticism, as did Mr. W. E. Henley, had cast
his eye over the whole fictional literature which was recent in the
year 1895, and had been asked to select the three most vigorous and
promising and original artists and artistic works, he would, I think,
most certainly have said that for a fine artistic audacity, for a real
artistic delicacy, or for a whiff of true novelty in art, the things
that stood first were “Soldiers Three,” by a Mr. Rudyard Kipling; “Arms
and the Man,” by a Mr. Bernard Shaw; and “The Time Machine,” by a man
called Wells. And all these men have shown themselves ingrainedly
didactic. You may express the matter if you will by saying that if we
want doctrines we go to the great artists. But it is clear from the
psychology of the matter that this is not the true statement; the true
statement is that when we want any art tolerably brisk and bold we have
to go to the doctrinaires.
In concluding this book, therefore, I would ask, first and foremost,
that men such as these of whom I have spoken should not be insulted by
being taken for artists. No man has any right whatever merely to enjoy
the work of Mr. Bernard Shaw; he might as well enjoy the invasion of
his country by the French. Mr. Shaw writes either to convince or to
enrage us. No man has any business to be a Kiplingite without being a
politician, and an Imperialist politician. If a man is first with us,
it should be because of what is first with him. If a man convinces us
at all, it should be by his convictions. If we hate a poem of Kipling’s
from political passion, we are hating it for the same reason that the
poet loved it; if we dislike him because of his opinions, we are
disliking him for the best of all possible reasons. If a man comes into
Hyde Park to preach it is permissible to hoot him; but it is
discourteous to applaud him as a performing bear. And an artist is only
a performing bear compared with the meanest man who fancies he has
anything to say.
There is, indeed, one class of modern writers and thinkers who cannot
altogether be overlooked in this question, though there is no space
here for a lengthy account of them, which, indeed, to confess the
truth, would consist chiefly of abuse. I mean those who get over all
these abysses and reconcile all these wars by talking about “aspects of
truth,” by saying that the art of Kipling represents one aspect of the
truth, and the art of William Watson another; the art of Mr. Bernard
Shaw one aspect of the truth, and the art of Mr. Cunningham Grahame
another; the art of Mr. H. G. Wells one aspect, and the art of Mr.
Coventry Patmore (say) another. I will only say here that this seems to
me an evasion which has not even had the sense to disguise itself
ingeniously in words. If we talk of a certain thing being an aspect of
truth, it is evident that we claim to know what is truth; just as, if
we talk of the hind leg of a dog, we claim to know what is a dog.
Unfortunately, the philosopher who talks about aspects of truth
generally also asks, “What is truth?” Frequently even he denies the
existence of truth, or says it is inconceivable by the human
intelligence. How, then, can he recognize its aspects? I should not
like to be an artist who brought an architectural sketch to a builder,
saying, “This is the south aspect of Sea-View Cottage. Sea-View
Cottage, of course, does not exist.” I should not even like very much
to have to explain, under such circumstances, that Sea-View Cottage
might exist, but was unthinkable by the human mind. Nor should I like
any better to be the bungling and absurd metaphysician who professed to
be able to see everywhere the aspects of a truth that is not there. Of
course, it is perfectly obvious that there are truths in Kipling, that
there are truths in Shaw or Wells. But the degree to which we can
perceive them depends strictly upon how far we have a definite
conception inside us of what is truth. It is ludicrous to suppose that
the more sceptical we are the more we see good in everything. It is
clear that the more we are certain what good is, the more we shall see
good in everything.
I plead, then, that we should agree or disagree with these men. I
plead that we should agree with them at least in having an abstract
belief. But I know that there are current in the modern world many
vague objections to having an abstract belief, and I feel that we shall
not get any further until we have dealt with some of them. The first
objection is easily stated.
A common hesitation in our day touching the use of extreme convictions
is a sort of notion that extreme convictions specially upon cosmic
matters, have been responsible in the past for the thing which is
called bigotry. But a very small amount of direct experience will
dissipate this view. In real life the people who are most bigoted are
the people who have no convictions at all. The economists of the
Manchester school who disagree with Socialism take Socialism seriously.
It is the young man in Bond Street, who does not know what socialism
means much less whether he agrees with it, who is quite certain that
these socialist fellows are making a fuss about nothing. The man who
understands the Calvinist philosophy enough to agree with it must
understand the Catholic philosophy in order to disagree with it. It is
the vague modern who is not at all certain what is right who is most
certain that Dante was wrong. The serious opponent of the Latin Church
in history, even in the act of showing that it produced great infamies,
must know that it produced great saints. It is the hard-headed
stockbroker, who knows no history and believes no religion, who is,
nevertheless, perfectly convinced that all these priests are knaves.
The Salvationist at the Marble Arch may be bigoted, but he is not too
bigoted to yearn from a common human kinship after the dandy on church
parade. But the dandy on church parade is so bigoted that he does not
in the least yearn after the Salvationist at the Marble Arch. Bigotry
may be roughly defined as the anger of men who have no opinions. It is
the resistance offered to definite ideas by that vague bulk of people
whose ideas are indefinite to excess. Bigotry may be called the
appalling frenzy of the indifferent. This frenzy of the indifferent is
in truth a terrible thing; it has made all monstrous and widely
pervading persecutions. In this degree it was not the people who cared
who ever persecuted; the people who cared were not sufficiently
numerous. It was the people who did not care who filled the world with
fire and oppression. It was the hands of the indifferent that lit the
faggots; it was the hands of the indifferent that turned the rack.
There have come some persecutions out of the pain of a passionate
certainty; but these produced, not bigotry, but fanaticism—a very
different and a somewhat admirable thing. Bigotry in the main has
always been the pervading omnipotence of those who do not care crushing
out those who care in darkness and blood.
There are people, however, who dig somewhat deeper than this into the
possible evils of dogma. It is felt by many that strong philosophical
conviction, while it does not (as they perceive) produce that sluggish
and fundamentally frivolous condition which we call bigotry, does
produce a certain concentration, exaggeration, and moral impatience,
which we may agree to call fanaticism. They say, in brief, that ideas
are dangerous things. In politics, for example, it is commonly urged
against a man like Mr. Balfour, or against a man like Mr. John Morley,
that a wealth of ideas is dangerous. The true doctrine on this point,
again, is surely not very difficult to state. Ideas are dangerous, but
the man to whom they are least dangerous is the man of ideas. He is
acquainted with ideas, and moves among them like a lion-tamer. Ideas
are dangerous, but the man to whom they are most dangerous is the man
of no ideas. The man of no ideas will find the first idea fly to his
head like wine to the head of a teetotaller. It is a common error, I
think, among the Radical idealists of my own party and period to
suggest that financiers and business men are a danger to the empire
because they are so sordid or so materialistic. The truth is that
financiers and business men are a danger to the empire because they can
be sentimental about any sentiment, and idealistic about any ideal, any
ideal that they find lying about. Just as a boy who has not known much
of women is apt too easily to take a woman for the woman, so these
practical men, unaccustomed to causes, are always inclined to think
that if a thing is proved to be an ideal it is proved to be the ideal.
Many, for example, avowedly followed Cecil Rhodes because he had a
vision. They might as well have followed him because he had a nose; a
man without some kind of dream of perfection is quite as much of a
monstrosity as a noseless man. People say of such a figure, in almost
feverish whispers, “He knows his own mind,” which is exactly like
saying in equally feverish whispers, “He blows his own nose.” Human
nature simply cannot subsist without a hope and aim of some kind; as
the sanity of the Old Testament truly said, where there is no vision
the people perisheth. But it is precisely because an ideal is
necessary to man that the man without ideals is in permanent danger of
fanaticism. There is nothing which is so likely to leave a man open to
the sudden and irresistible inroad of an unbalanced vision as the
cultivation of business habits. All of us know angular business men who
think that the earth is flat, or that Mr. Kruger was at the head of a
great military despotism, or that men are graminivorous, or that Bacon
wrote Shakespeare. Religious and philosophical beliefs are, indeed, as
dangerous as fire, and nothing can take from them that beauty of
danger. But there is only one way of really guarding ourselves against
the excessive danger of them, and that is to be steeped in philosophy
and soaked in religion.
Briefly, then, we dismiss the two opposite dangers of bigotry and
fanaticism, bigotry which is a too great vagueness and fanaticism which
is a too great concentration. We say that the cure for the bigot is
belief; we say that the cure for the idealist is ideas. To know the
best theories of existence and to choose the best from them (that is,
to the best of our own strong conviction) appears to us the proper way
to be neither bigot nor fanatic, but something more firm than a bigot
and more terrible than a fanatic, a man with a definite opinion. But
that definite opinion must in this view begin with the basic matters of
human thought, and these must not be dismissed as irrelevant, as
religion, for instance, is too often in our days dismissed as
irrelevant. Even if we think religion insoluble, we cannot think it
irrelevant. Even if we ourselves have no view of the ultimate verities,
we must feel that wherever such a view exists in a man it must be more
important than anything else in him. The instant that the thing ceases
to be the unknowable, it becomes the indispensable. There can be no
doubt, I think, that the idea does exist in our time that there is
something narrow or irrelevant or even mean about attacking a man’s
religion, or arguing from it in matters of politics or ethics. There
can be quite as little doubt that such an accusation of narrowness is
itself almost grotesquely narrow. To take an example from comparatively
current events: we all know that it was not uncommon for a man to be
considered a scarecrow of bigotry and obscurantism because he
distrusted the Japanese, or lamented the rise of the Japanese, on the
ground that the Japanese were Pagans. Nobody would think that there
was anything antiquated or fanatical about distrusting a people because
of some difference between them and us in practice or political
machinery. Nobody would think it bigoted to say of a people, “I
distrust their influence because they are Protectionists.” No one
would think it narrow to say, “I lament their rise because they are
Socialists, or Manchester Individualists, or strong believers in
militarism and conscription.” A difference of opinion about the nature
of Parliaments matters very much; but a difference of opinion about the
nature of sin does not matter at all. A difference of opinion about
the object of taxation matters very much; but a difference of opinion
about the object of human existence does not matter at all. We have a
right to distrust a man who is in a different kind of municipality; but
we have no right to mistrust a man who is in a different kind of
cosmos. This sort of enlightenment is surely about the most
unenlightened that it is possible to imagine. To recur to the phrase
which I employed earlier, this is tantamount to saying that everything
is important with the exception of everything. Religion is exactly the
thing which cannot be left out—because it includes everything. The
most absent-minded person cannot well pack his Gladstone-bag and leave
out the bag. We have a general view of existence, whether we like it or
not; it alters or, to speak more accurately, it creates and involves
everything we say or do, whether we like it or not. If we regard the
Cosmos as a dream, we regard the Fiscal Question as a dream. If we
regard the Cosmos as a joke, we regard St. Paul’s Cathedral as a joke.
If everything is bad, then we must believe (if it be possible) that
beer is bad; if everything be good, we are forced to the rather
fantastic conclusion that scientific philanthropy is good. Every man
in the street must hold a metaphysical system, and hold it firmly. The
possibility is that he may have held it so firmly and so long as to
have forgotten all about its existence.
This latter situation is certainly possible; in fact, it is the
situation of the whole modern world. The modern world is filled with
men who hold dogmas so strongly that they do not even know that they
are dogmas. It may be said even that the modern world, as a corporate
body, holds certain dogmas so strongly that it does not know that they
are dogmas. It may be thought “dogmatic,” for instance, in some
circles accounted progressive, to assume the perfection or improvement
of man in another world. But it is not thought “dogmatic” to assume
the perfection or improvement of man in this world; though that idea of
progress is quite as unproved as the idea of immortality, and from a
rationalistic point of view quite as improbable. Progress happens to be
one of our dogmas, and a dogma means a thing which is not thought
dogmatic. Or, again, we see nothing “dogmatic” in the inspiring, but
certainly most startling, theory of physical science, that we should
collect facts for the sake of facts, even though they seem as useless
as sticks and straws. This is a great and suggestive idea, and its
utility may, if you will, be proving itself, but its utility is, in the
abstract, quite as disputable as the utility of that calling on oracles
or consulting shrines which is also said to prove itself. Thus, because
we are not in a civilization which believes strongly in oracles or
sacred places, we see the full frenzy of those who killed themselves to
find the sepulchre of Christ. But being in a civilization which does
believe in this dogma of fact for facts’ sake, we do not see the full
frenzy of those who kill themselves to find the North Pole. I am not
speaking of a tenable ultimate utility which is true both of the
Crusades and the polar explorations. I mean merely that we do see the
superficial and aesthetic singularity, the startling quality, about the
idea of men crossing a continent with armies to conquer the place where
a man died. But we do not see the aesthetic singularity and startling
quality of men dying in agonies to find a place where no man can
live—a place only interesting because it is supposed to be the
meeting-place of some lines that do not exist.
Let us, then, go upon a long journey and enter on a dreadful search.
Let us, at least, dig and seek till we have discovered our own
opinions. The dogmas we really hold are far more fantastic, and,
perhaps, far more beautiful than we think. In the course of these
essays I fear that I have spoken from time to time of rationalists and
rationalism, and that in a disparaging sense. Being full of that
kindliness which should come at the end of everything, even of a book,
I apologize to the rationalists even for calling them rationalists.
There are no rationalists. We all believe fairy-tales, and live in
them. Some, with a sumptuous literary turn, believe in the existence of
the lady clothed with the sun. Some, with a more rustic, elvish
instinct, like Mr. McCabe, believe merely in the impossible sun itself.
Some hold the undemonstrable dogma of the existence of God; some the
equally undemonstrable dogma of the existence of the man next door.
Truths turn into dogmas the instant that they are disputed. Thus every
man who utters a doubt defines a religion. And the scepticism of our
time does not really destroy the beliefs, rather it creates them; gives
them their limits and their plain and defiant shape. We who are
Liberals once held Liberalism lightly as a truism. Now it has been
disputed, and we hold it fiercely as a faith. We who believe in
patriotism once thought patriotism to be reasonable, and thought little
more about it. Now we know it to be unreasonable, and know it to be
right. We who are Christians never knew the great philosophic common
sense which inheres in that mystery until the anti-Christian writers
pointed it out to us. The great march of mental destruction will go
on. Everything will be denied. Everything will become a creed. It is
a reasonable position to deny the stones in the street; it will be a
religious dogma to assert them. It is a rational thesis that we are
all in a dream; it will be a mystical sanity to say that we are all
awake. Fires will be kindled to testify that two and two make four.
Swords will be drawn to prove that leaves are green in summer. We shall
be left defending, not only the incredible virtues and sanities of
human life, but something more incredible still, this huge impossible
universe which stares us in the face. We shall fight for visible
prodigies as if they were invisible. We shall look on the impossible
grass and the skies with a strange courage. We shall be of those who
have seen and yet have believed.