It is a very curious thing to reflect how often an old platitude or
axiom retains its vitality, long after the conditions which gave it
birth have altered, and it no longer represents a truth. It would
not matter if such platitudes only lived on dustily in vapid and
ill-furnished minds, like the vases of milky-green opaque glass
decorated with golden stars, that were the joy of Early Victorian
chimney-pieces, and now hold spills in the second-best spare bedroom.
But like the psalmist's enemies, platitudes live and are mighty. They
remain, and, alas! they have the force of arguments in the minds
of sturdy unreflective men, who describe themselves as plain,
straightforward people, and whose opinions carry weight in a community
whose feelings are swayed by the statements of successful men rather
than by the conclusions of reasonable men.
One of these pernicious platitudes is the statement that every one ought
to know something about everything and everything about something. It
has a speciously epigrammatic air about it, dazzling enough to persuade
the common-sense person that it is an intellectual judgment.
As a matter of fact, under present conditions, it represents an
impossible and even undesirable ideal. A man who tried to know something
about everything would end in knowing very little about anything; and
the most exhaustive programme that could be laid down for the most
erudite of savants nowadays would be that he should know anything about
anything, while the most resolute of specialists must be content with
knowing something about something.
A well-informed friend told me, the other day, the name and date of
a man who, he said, could be described as the last person who knew
practically everything at his date that was worth knowing. I have
forgotten both the name and the date and the friend who told me, but I
believe that the learned man in question was a cardinal in the sixteenth
century. At the present time, the problem of the accumulation of
knowledge and the multiplication of books is a very serious one indeed.
It is, however, morbid to allow it to trouble the mind. Like all
insoluble problems, it will settle itself in a way so obvious that the
people who solve it will wonder that any one could ever have doubted
what the solution would be, just as the problem of the depletion of the
world's stock of coal will no doubt be solved in some perfectly simple
fashion.
The dictum in question is generally quoted as an educational formula in
favour of giving every one what is called a sound general education.
And it is probably one of the contributory causes which account for the
present chaos of curricula. All subjects are held to be so important,
and each subject is thought by its professors to be so peculiarly
adapted for educational stimulus, that a resolute selection of subjects,
which is the only remedy, is not attempted; and accordingly the victim
of educational theories is in the predicament of the man described by
Dr. Johnson who could not make up his mind which leg of his breeches
he would put his foot into first. Meanwhile, said the Doctor, with a
directness of speech which requires to be palliated, the process of
investiture is suspended.
But the practical result of the dilemma is the rise of specialism. The
savant is dead and the specialist rules. It is interesting to try to
trace the effect of this revolution upon our national culture.
Now, I have no desire whatever to take up the cudgels against the
specialists: they are a harmless and necessary race, so long as they are
aware of their limitations. But the tyranny of an oligarchy is the
worst kind of tyranny, because it means the triumph of an average over
individuals, whereas the worst that can be said of a despotism is that
it is the triumph of an individual over an average. The tyranny of the
specialistic oligarchy is making itself felt to-day, and I should like
to fortify the revolutionary spirit of liberty, whose boast it is
to detest tyranny in all its forms, whether it is the tyranny of an
enlightened despot, or the tyranny of a virtuous oligarchy, or the
tyranny of an intelligent democracy.
The first evil which results from the rule of the specialist is the
destruction of the AMATEUR. So real a fact is the tyranny of the
specialist that the very word "amateur," which means a leisurely lover
of fine things, is beginning to be distorted into meaning an inefficient
performer. As an instance of its correct and idiomatic use, I often
think of the delightful landlord whom Stevenson encountered somewhere,
and upon whom he pressed some Burgundy which he had with him. The
generous host courteously refused a second glass, saying, "You see I
am an amateur of these things, and I am capable of leaving you
not sufficient." Now, I shall concern myself here principally with
literature, because, in England at all events, literature plays the
largest part in general culture. It may be said that we owe some of the
best literature we have to amateurs. To contrast a few names, taken at
random, Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope, Dr. Johnson, De Quincey, Tennyson,
and Carlyle were professionals, it is true; but, on the other hand,
Milton, Gray, Boswell, Walter Scott, Charles Lamb, Shelley, Browning,
and Ruskin were amateurs. It is not a question of how much a man writes
or publishes, it is a question of the spirit in which a man writes.
Walter Scott became a professional in the last years of his life, and
for the noblest of reasons; but he also became a bad writer. A good pair
to contrast are Southey and Coleridge. They began as amateurs. Southey
became a professional writer, and his sun set in the mists of valuable
information. Coleridge, as an amateur, enriched the language with a
few priceless poems, and then got involved in the morass of dialectical
metaphysics. The point is whether a man writes simply because he cannot
help it, or whether he writes to make an income. The latter motive does
not by any means prevent his doing first-rate artistic work--indeed,
there are certain persons who seem to have required the stimulus of
necessity to make them break through an initial indolence of nature.
When Johnson found fault with Gray for having times of the year when
he wrote more easily, from the vernal to the autumnal equinox, he added
that a man could write at any time if he set himself doggedly to
it. True, no doubt! But to write doggedly is not to court favourable
conditions for artistic work. It may be a finer sight for a moralist to
see a man performing an appointed task heavily and faithfully, with grim
tenacity, than it is to see an artist in a frenzy of delight dashing
down an overpowering impression of beauty; but what has always hampered
the British appreciation of literature is that we cannot disentangle the
moral element from it: we are interested in morals, not in art, and we
require a dash of optimistic piety in all writing that we propose to
enjoy.
The real question is whether, if a man sets himself doggedly to work,
the appetite comes with eating, and whether the caged bird begins to
flutter its wings and to send out the song that it learnt in the green
heart of the wood. When Byron said that easy writing made damned hard
reading, he meant that careless conception and hasty workmanship tend
to blur the pattern and the colour of work. The fault of the amateur is
that he can make the coat, but he cannot be bothered to make it fit. But
it is not by any means true that hard writing makes easy reading. The
spirit of the amateur is the spirit of the lover, who trembles at the
thought that the delicate creature he loves may learn to love him in
return, if he can but praise her worthily. The professional spirit is
the spirit in which a man carefully and courteously woos an elderly
spinster for the sake of her comfortable fortune. The amateur has an
irresponsible joy in his work; he is like the golfer who dreams
of mighty drives, and practises "putting" on his back lawn: the
professional writer gives his solid hours to his work in a conscientious
spirit, and is glad in hours of freedom to put the tiresome business
away. Yet neither the amateur nor the professional can hope to capture
the spirit of art by joy or faithfulness. It is a kind of divine
felicity, when all is said and done, the kindly gift of God.
Now into this free wild world of art and literature and music comes
the specialist and pegs out his claim, fencing out the amateur, who is
essentially a rambler, from a hundred eligible situations. In literature
this is particularly the case: the amateur is told by the historian that
he must not intrude upon history; that history is a science, and not
a province of literature; that the time has not come to draw any
conclusions or to summarise any tendencies; that picturesque narrative
is an offence against the spirit of Truth; that no one is as black or as
white as he is painted; and that to trifle with history is to commit a
sin compounded of the sin of Ananias and Simon Magus. The amateur runs
off, his hands over his ears, and henceforth hardly dares even to
read history, to say nothing of writing it. Perhaps I draw too harsh
a picture, but the truth is that I did, as a very young man, with no
training except that provided by a sketchy knowledge of the classics,
once attempt to write an historical biography. I shudder to think of
my method and equipment; I skipped the dull parts, I left all tiresome
documents unread. It was a sad farrago of enthusiasm and levity and
heady writing. But Jove's thunder rolled and the bolt fell. A just
man, whom I have never quite forgiven, to tell the truth, told me with
unnecessary rigour and acrimony that I had made a pitiable exhibition
of myself. But I have thanked God ever since, for I turned to literature
pure and simple.
Then, too, it is the same with art-criticism; here the amateur again,
who, poor fool, is on the look-out for what is beautiful, is told that
he must not meddle with art unless he does it seriously, which
means that he must devote himself mainly to the study of inferior
masterpieces, and schools, and tendencies. In literature it is the same;
he must not devote himself to reading and loving great books, he must
disentangle influences; he must discern the historical importance of
writers, worthless in themselves, who form important links. In theology
and in philosophy it is much the same: he must not read the Bible and
say what he feels about it; he must unravel Rabbinical and Talmudic
tendencies; he must acquaint himself with the heretical leanings of a
certain era, and the shadow cast upon the page by apocryphal tradition.
In philosophy he is still worse off, because he must plumb the depths of
metaphysical jargon and master the criticism of methods.
Now, this is in a degree both right and necessary, because the blind
must not attempt to lead the blind; but it is treating the whole thing
in too strictly scientific a spirit for all that. The misery of it is
that the work of the specialist in all these regions tends to set a
hedge about the law; it tends to accumulate and perpetuate a vast amount
of inferior work. The result of it is, in literature, for instance,
that an immense amount of second-rate and third-rate books go on being
reprinted; and instead of the principle of selection being applied to
great authors, and their inferior writings being allowed to lapse into
oblivion, they go on being re-issued, not because they have any
direct value for the human spirit, but because they have a scientific
importance from the point of view of development. Yet for the ordinary
human being it is far more important that he should read great
masterpieces in a spirit of lively and enthusiastic sympathy than
that he should wade into them through a mass of archaeological and
philological detail. As a boy I used to have to prepare, on occasions,
a play of Shakespeare for a holiday task. I have regarded certain plays
with a kind of horror ever since, because one ended by learning up the
introduction, which concerned itself with the origin of the play, and
the notes which illustrated the meaning of such words as "kerns and
gallowglasses," and left the action and the poetry and the emotion
of the play to take care of themselves. This was due partly to the
blighting influence of examination-papers set by men of sterile,
conscientious brains, but partly to the terrible value set by British
minds upon correct information. The truth really is that if one begins
by caring for a work of art, one also cares to understand the medium
through which it is conveyed; but if one begins by studying the medium
first, one is apt to end by loathing the masterpiece, because of the
dusty apparatus that it seems liable to collect about itself.
The result of the influence of the specialist upon literature is that
the amateur, hustled from any region where the historical and scientific
method can be applied, turns his attention to the field of pure
imagination, where he cannot be interfered with. And this, I believe, is
one of the reasons why belles-lettres in the more precise sense tend to
be deserted in favour of fiction. Sympathetic and imaginative criticism
is so apt to be stamped upon by the erudite, who cry out so lamentably
over errors and minute slips, that the novel seems to be the only safe
vantage-ground in which the amateur may disport himself.
But if the specialist is to the amateur what the hawk is to the dove,
let us go further, and in a spirit of love, like Mr. Chadband, inquire
what is the effect of specialism on the mind of the specialist. I
have had the opportunity of meeting many specialists, and I say
unhesitatingly that the effect largely depends upon the natural
temperament of the individual. As a general rule, the great specialist
is a wise, kindly, humble, delightful man. He perceives that though he
has spent his whole life upon a subject or a fraction of a subject, he
knows hardly anything about it compared to what there is to know. The
track of knowledge glimmers far ahead of him, rising and falling like a
road over solitary downs. He knows that it will not be given to him to
advance very far upon the path, and he half envies those who shall come
after, to whom many things that are dark mysteries to himself will be
clear and plain. But he sees, too, how the dim avenues of knowledge
reach out in every direction, interlacing and combining, and when he
contrasts the tiny powers of the most subtle brain with all the wide
range of law--for the knowledge which is to be, not invented, but
simply discovered, is all assuredly there, secret and complex as it
seems--there is but little room for complacency or pride. Indeed,
I think that a great savant, as a rule, feels that instead of being
separated by his store of knowledge, as by a wide space that he has
crossed, from smaller minds, he is brought closer to the ignorant by the
presence of the vast unknown. Instead of feeling that he has soared like
a rocket away from the ground, he thinks of himself rather as a flower
might think whose head was an inch or two higher than a great company
of similar flowers; he has perhaps a wider view; he sees the bounding
hedgerow, the distant line of hills, whereas the humbler flower sees
little but a forest of stems and blooms, with the light falling dimly
between. And a great savant, too, is far more ready to credit other
people with a wider knowledge than they possess. It is the lesser kind
of savant, the man of one book, of one province, of one period, who is
inclined to think that he is differentiated from the crowd. The great
man is far too much preoccupied with real progress to waste time and
energy in showing up the mistakes of others. It is the lesser kind of
savant, jealous of his own reputation, anxious to show his superiority,
who loves to censure and deride the feebler brother. If one ever sees a
relentless and pitiless review of a book--an exposure, as it is called,
by one specialist of another's work--one may be fairly certain that the
critic is a minute kind of person. Again, the great specialist is never
anxious to obtrude his subject; he is rather anxious to hear what is
going on in other regions of mental activity, regions which he would
like to explore but cannot. It is the lesser light that desires to
dazzle and bewilder his company, to tyrannise, to show off. It is the
most difficult thing to get a great savant to talk about his subject,
though, if he is kind and patient, will answer unintelligent questions,
and help a feeble mind along, it is one of the most delightful things
in the world. I seized the opportunity some little while ago, on finding
myself sitting next to a great physicist, of asking him a series of
fumbling questions on the subject of modern theories of matter; for an
hour I stumbled like a child, supported by a strong hand, in a dim and
unfamiliar world, among the mysterious essences of things. I should like
to try to reproduce it here, but I have no doubt I should reproduce it
all wrong. Still, it was deeply inspiring to look out into chaos, to
hear the rush and motion of atoms, moving in vast vortices, to learn
that inside the hardest and most impenetrable of substances there was
probably a feverish intensity of inner motion. I do not know that I
acquired any precise knowledge, but I drank deep draughts of wonder
and awe. The great man, with his amused and weary smile, was infinitely
gentle, and left me, I will say, far more conscious of the beauty and
the holiness of knowledge. I said something to him about the sense of
power that such knowledge must give. "Ah!" he said, "much of what I have
told you is not proved, it is only suspected. We are very much in the
dark about these things yet. Probably if a physicist of a hundred years
hence could overhear me, he would be amazed to think that a sensible man
could make such puerile statements. Power--no, it is not that! It rather
makes one realise one's feebleness in being so uncertain about things
that are absolutely certain and precise in themselves, if we could
but see the truth. It is much more like the apostle who said, 'Lord, I
believe; help Thou my unbelief.' The thing one wonders at is the courage
of the men who dare to think they KNOW."
In one region I own that I dread and dislike the tyranny of the
specialist, and that is the region of metaphysical and religious
speculation. People who indulge themselves in this form of speculation
are apt to be told by theologians and metaphysicians that they ought
to acquaint themselves with the trend of theological and metaphysical
criticism. It seems to me like telling people that they must not ascend
mountains unless they are accompanied by guides, and have studied the
history of previous ascents. "Yes," the professional says, "that is just
what I mean; it is mere foolhardiness to attempt these arduous places
unless you know exactly what you are about."
To that I reply that no one is bound to go up hills, but that every
one who reflects at all is confronted by religious and philosophical
problems. We all have to live, and we are all more or less experts in
life. When one considers the infinite importance to every human spirit
of these problems, and when one further considers how very little
theologians and philosophers have ever effected in the direction of
enlightening us as to the object of life, the problem of pain and evil,
the preservation of identity after death, the question of necessity and
free-will, surely, to attempt to silence people on these matters because
they have not had a technical training is nothing more than an attempt
wilfully to suppress evidence on these points? The only way in which it
may be possible to arrive at the solution of these things is to know
how they appeal to and affect normal minds. I would rather hear the
experience of a life-long sufferer on the problem of pain, or of a
faithful lover on the mystery of love, or of a poet on the influence of
natural beauty, or of an unselfish and humble saint on the question of
faith in the unseen, than the evidence of the most subtle theologian or
metaphysician in the world. Many of us, if we are specialists in nothing
else, are specialists in life; we have arrived at a point of view; some
particular aspect of things has come home to us with a special force;
and what really enriches the hope and faith of the world is the
experience of candid and sincere persons. The specialist has often
had no time or opportunity to observe life; all he has observed is the
thought of other secluded persons, persons whose view has been both
narrow and conventional, because they have not had the opportunity of
correcting their traditional preconceptions by life itself.
I call, with all the earnestness that I can muster, upon all
intelligent, observant, speculative people, who have felt the problems
of life weigh heavily upon them, not to be dismayed by the disapproval
of technical students, but to come forward and tell us what conclusions
they have formed. The work of the trained specialist is essentially, in
religion and philosophy, a negative work. He can show us how erroneous
beliefs, which coloured the minds of men at certain ages and eras,
grew up. He can show us what can be disregarded, as being only the
conventional belief of the time; he can indicate, for instance, how a
false conception of supernatural interference with natural law grew up
in an age when, for want of trained knowledge, facts seemed fortuitous
occurrences which were really conditioned by natural laws. The poet
and the idealist make and cast abroad the great vital ideas, which the
specialist picks up and analyses. But we must not stop at analysis; we
want positive progress as well. We want people to tell us, candidly and
simply, how their own soul grew, how it cast off conventional beliefs,
how it justified itself in being hopeful or the reverse. There never was
a time when more freedom of thought and expression was conceded to the
individual. A man is no longer socially banned for being heretical,
schismatic, or liberal-minded. I want people to say frankly what real
part spiritual agencies or religious ideas have played in their lives,
whether such agencies and ideas have modified their conduct, or have
been modified by their inclinations and habits. I long to know a
thousand things about my fellow-men--how they bear pain, how they
confront the prospect of death, the hopes by which they live, the fears
that overshadow them, the stuff of their lives, the influence of their
emotions. It has long been thought, and it is still thought by many
narrow precisians, indelicate and egotistical to do this. And the result
is that we can find in books all the things that do not matter, while
the thoughts that are of deep and vital interest are withheld.
Such books as Montaigne's Essays, Rousseau's Confessions, Mrs. Carlyle's
Letters, Mrs. Oliphant's Memoirs, the Autobiography of B. R. Haydon, to
name but a few books that come into my mind, are the sort of books that
I crave for, because they are books in which one sees right into the
heart and soul of another. Men can confess to a book what they cannot
confess to a friend. Why should it be necessary to veil this essence
of humanity in the dreary melodrama, the trite incident of a novel or
a play? Things in life do not happen as they happen in novels or plays.
Oliver Twist, in real life, does not get accidentally adopted by his
grandfather's oldest friend, and commit his sole burglary in the
house of his aunt. We do not want life to be transplanted into trim
garden-plots; we want to see it at home, as it grows in all its native
wildness, on the one hand; and to know the idea, the theory, the
principle that underlie it on the other. How few of us there are who
MAKE our lives into anything! We accept our limitations, we drift with
them, while we indignantly assert the freedom of the will. The best
sermon in the world is to hear of one who has struggled with life, bent
or trained it to his will, plucked or rejected its fruit, but all upon
some principle. It matters little what we do; it matters enormously how
we do it. Considering how much has been said, and sung, and written, and
recorded, and prated, and imagined, it is strange to think how little
is ever told us directly about life; we see it in glimpses and flashes,
through half-open doors, or as one sees it from a train gliding into
a great town, and looks into back windows and yards sheltered from the
street. We philosophise, most of us, about anything but life; and one
of the reasons why published sermons have such vast sales is because,
however clumsily and conventionally, it is with life that they try to
deal.
This kind of specialising is not recognised as a technical form of it at
all, and yet how far nearer and closer and more urgent it is for us than
any other kind. I have a hope that we are at the beginning of an era of
plain-speaking in these matters. Too often, with the literary standard
of decorum which prevails, such self-revelations are brushed aside as
morbid, introspective, egotistical. They are no more so than any other
kind of investigation, for all investigation is conditioned by the
personality of the investigator. All that is needed is that an observer
of life should be perfectly candid and sincere, that he should not
speak in a spirit of vanity or self-glorification, that he should try to
disentangle what are the real motives that make him act or refrain from
acting.
As an instance of what I mean by confession of the frankest order,
dealing in this case not only with literature but also with morality,
let me take the sorrowful words which Ruskin wrote in his Praeterita, as
a wearied and saddened man, when there was no longer any need for him
to pretend anything, or to involve any of his own thoughts or beliefs in
any sort of disguise. He took up Shakespeare at Macugnaga, in 1840, and
he asks why the loveliest of Shakespeare's plays should be "all mixed
and encumbered with languid and common work--to one's best hope
spurious certainly, so far as original, idle and disgraceful--and all
so inextricably and mysteriously that the writer himself is not only
unknowable, but inconceivable; and his wisdom so useless, that at this
time of being and speaking, among active and purposeful Englishmen,
I know not one who shows a trace of ever having felt a passion of
Shakespeare's, or learnt a lesson from him."
That is of course the sad cry of one who is interested in life
primarily, and in art only so far as it can minister to life. It may be
strained and exaggerated, but how far more vital a saying than to
expand in voluble and vapid enthusiasm over the insight and nobleness
of Shakespeare, if one has not really felt one's life modified by that
mysterious mind!
Of course such self-revelation as I speak of will necessarily fall into
the hands of unquiet, dissatisfied, melancholy people. If life is a
common-place and pleasant sort of business, there is nothing particular
to say or to think about it. But for all those--and they are many--who
feel that life misses, by some blind, inevitable movement, being the
gracious and beautiful thing it seems framed to be, how can such as
these hold their peace? And how, except by facing it all, and looking
patiently and bravely at it, can we find a remedy for its sore
sicknesses? That method has been used, and used with success in every
other kind of investigation, and we must investigate life too, even
if it turns out to be all a kind of Mendelism, moved and swayed by
absolutely fixed laws, which take no account of what we sorrowfully
desire.
Let us, then, gather up our threads a little. Let us first confront the
fact that, under present conditions, in the face of the mass of records
and books and accumulated traditions, arts and sciences must make
progress little by little, line by line, in skilled technical hands.
Fine achievement in every region becomes more difficult every day,
because there is so much that is finished and perfected behind us; and
if the conditions of our lives call us to some strictly limited path,
let us advance wisely and humbly, step by step, without pride or vanity.
But let us not forget, in the face of the frigidities of knowledge,
that if they are the mechanism of life, emotion and hope and love and
admiration are the steam. Knowledge is only valuable in so far as it
makes the force of life effective and vigorous. And thus if we have
breasted the strange current of life, or even if we have been ourselves
overpowered and swept away by it, let us try, in whatever region we
have the power, to let that experience have some value for ourselves
and others. If we can say it or write it, so much the better. There
are thousands of people moving through the world who are wearied and
bewildered, and who are looking out for any message of hope and joy that
may give them courage to struggle on; but if we cannot do that, we can
at least live life temperately and cheerfully and sincerely: if we have
bungled, if we have slipped, we can do something to help others not to
go light-heartedly down the miry path; we can raise them up if they
have fallen, we can cleanse the stains, or we can at least give them the
comfort of feeling that they are not sadly and insupportably alone.