XX CONCLUDING REMARKS ON THE IMPORTANCE OF ORTHODOXY

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 broad-minded.

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 byproduct 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 be 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 bad 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.