All Things Considered
outside, you pretend that you understand the inside. As Renan, the
rationalist, could not make any sense out of Christ’s most public acts,
he proceeded to make an ingenious system out of His private thoughts.
As Anatole France, on his own intellectual principle, cannot believe in
what Joan of Arc did, he professes to be her dearest friend, and to
know exactly what she meant. I cannot feel it to be a very rational
manner of writing history; and sooner or later we shall have to find
some more solid way of dealing with those spiritual phenomena with
which all history is as closely spotted and spangled as the sky is with
stars.
Joan of Arc is a wild and wonderful thing enough, but she is much saner
than most of her critics and biographers. We shall not recover the
common sense of Joan until we have recovered her mysticism. Our wars
fail, because they begin with something sensible and obvious—such as
getting to Pretoria by Christmas. But her war succeeded—because it
began with something wild and perfect—the saints delivering France. She
put her idealism in the right place, and her realism also in the right
place: we moderns get both displaced. She put her dreams and her
sentiment into her aims, where they ought to be; she put her
practicality into her practice. In modern Imperial wars, the case is
reversed. Our dreams, our aims are always, we insist, quite practical.
It is our practice that is dreamy.
It is not for us to explain this flaming figure in terms of our tired
and querulous culture. Rather we must try to explain ourselves by the
blaze of such fixed stars. Those who called her a witch hot from hell
were much more sensible than those who depict her as a silly
sentimental maiden prompted by her parish priest. If I have to choose
between the two schools of her scattered enemies, I could take my place
with those subtle clerks who thought her divine mission devilish,
rather than with those rustic aunts and uncles who thought it
impossible.
A DEAD POET
With Francis Thompson we lose the greatest poetic energy since
Browning. His energy was of somewhat the same kind. Browning was
intellectually intricate because he was morally simple. He was too
simple to explain himself; he was too humble to suppose that other
people needed any explanation. But his real energy, and the real energy
of Francis Thompson, was best expressed in the fact that both poets
were at once fond of immensity and also fond of detail. Any common
Imperialist can have large ideas so long as he is not called upon to
have small ideas also. Any common scientific philosopher can have small
ideas so long as he is not called upon to have large ideas as well. But
great poets use the telescope and also the microscope. Great poets are
obscure for two opposite reasons; now, because they are talking about
something too large for any one to understand, and now again because
they are talking about something too small for any one to see. Francis
Thompson possessed both these infinities. He escaped by being too
small, as the microbe escapes; or he escaped by being too large, as the
universe escapes. Any one who knows Francis Thompson’s poetry knows
quite well the truth to which I refer. For the benefit of any person
who does not know it, I may mention two cases taken from memory. I have
not the book by me, so I can only render the poetical passages in a
clumsy paraphrase. But there was one poem of which the image was so
vast that it was literally difficult for a time to take it in; he was
describing the evening earth with its mist and fume and fragrance, and
represented the whole as rolling upwards like a smoke; then suddenly he
called the whole ball of the earth a thurible, and said that some
gigantic spirit swung it slowly before God. That is the case of the
image too large for comprehension. Another instance sticks in my mind
of the image which is too small. In one of his poems, he says that
abyss between the known and the unknown is bridged by “Pontifical
death.” There are about ten historical and theological puns in that one
word. That a priest means a pontiff, that a pontiff means a
bridge-maker, that death is certainly a bridge, that death may turn out
after all to be a reconciling priest, that at least priests and bridges
both attest to the fact that one thing can get separated from another
thing—these ideas, and twenty more, are all actually concentrated in
the word “pontifical.” In Francis Thompson’s poetry, as in the poetry
of the universe, you can work infinitely out and out, but yet
infinitely in and in. These two infinities are the mark of greatness;
and he was a great poet.
Beneath the tide of praise which was obviously due to the dead poet,
there is an evident undercurrent of discussion about him; some charges
of moral weakness were at least important enough to be authoritatively
contradicted in the _Nation_; and, in connection with this and other
things, there has been a continuous stir of comment upon his attraction
to and gradual absorption in Catholic theological ideas. This question
is so important that I think it ought to be considered and understood
even at the present time. It is, of course, true that Francis Thompson
devoted himself more and more to poems not only purely Catholic, but,
one may say, purely ecclesiastical. And it is, moreover, true that (if
things go on as they are going on at present) more and more good poets
will do the same. Poets will tend towards Christian orthodoxy for a
perfectly plain reason; because it is about the simplest and freest
thing now left in the world. On this point it is very necessary to be
clear. When people impute special vices to the Christian Church, they
seem entirely to forget that the world (which is the only other thing
there is) has these vices much more. The Church has been cruel; but the
world has been much more cruel. The Church has plotted; but the world
has plotted much more. The Church has been superstitious; but it has
never been so superstitious as the world is when left to itself.
Now, poets in our epoch will tend towards ecclesiastical religion
strictly because it is just a little more free than anything else.
Take, for instance, the case of symbol and ritualism. All reasonable
men believe in symbol; but some reasonable men do not believe in
ritualism; by which they mean, I imagine, a symbolism too complex,
elaborate, and mechanical. But whenever they talk of ritualism they
always seem to mean the ritualism of the Church. Why should they not
mean the ritual of the world? It is much more ritualistic. The ritual
of the Army, the ritual of the Navy, the ritual of the Law Courts, the
ritual of Parliament are much more ritualistic. The ritual of a
dinner-party is much more ritualistic. Priests may put gold and great
jewels on the chalice; but at least there is only one chalice to put
them on. When you go to a dinner-party they put in front of you five
different chalices, of five weird and heraldic shapes, to symbolise
five different kinds of wine; an insane extension of ritual from which
Mr. Percy Dearmer would fly shrieking. A bishop wears a mitre; but he
is not thought more or less of a bishop according to whether you can
see the very latest curves in his mitre. But a swell is thought more or
less of a swell according to whether you can see the very latest curves
in his hat. There is more _fuss_ about symbols in the world than in the
Church.
And yet (strangely enough) though men fuss more about the worldly
symbols, they mean less by them. It is the mark of religious forms that
they declare something unknown. But it is the mark of worldly forms
that they declare something which is known, and which is known to be
untrue. When the Pope in an Encyclical calls himself your father, it is
a matter of faith or of doubt. But when the Duke of Devonshire in a
letter calls himself yours obediently, you know that he means the
opposite of what he says. Religious forms are, at the worst, fables;
they might be true. Secular forms are falsehoods; they are not true.
Take a more topical case. The German Emperor has more uniforms than the
Pope. But, moreover, the Pope’s vestments all imply a claim to be
something purely mystical and doubtful. Many of the German Emperor’s
uniforms imply a claim to be something which he certainly is not and
which it would be highly disgusting if he were. The Pope may or may not
be the Vicar of Christ. But the Kaiser certainly is not an English
Colonel. If the thing were reality it would be treason. If it is mere
ritual, it is by far the most unreal ritual on earth.
Now, poetical people like Francis Thompson will, as things stand, tend
away from secular society and towards religion for the reason above
described: that there are crowds of symbols in both, but that those of
religion are simpler and mean more. To take an evident type, the Cross
is more poetical than the Union Jack, because it is simpler. The more
simple an idea is, the more it is fertile in variations. Francis
Thompson could have written any number of good poems on the Cross,
because it is a primary symbol. The number of poems which Mr. Rudyard
Kipling could write on the Union Jack is, fortunately, limited, because
the Union Jack is too complex to produce luxuriance. The same principle
applies to any possible number of cases. A poet like Francis Thompson
could deduce perpetually rich and branching meanings out of two plain
facts like bread and wine; with bread and wine he can expand everything
to everywhere. But with a French menu he cannot expand anything; except
perhaps himself. Complicated ideas do not produce any more ideas.
Mongrels do not breed. Religious ritual attracts because there is some
sense in it. Religious imagery, so far from being subtle, is the only
simple thing left for poets. So far from being merely superhuman, it is
the only human thing left for human beings.
CHRISTMAS
There is no more dangerous or disgusting habit than that of celebrating
Christmas before it comes, as I am doing in this article. It is the
very essence of a festival that it breaks upon one brilliantly and
abruptly, that at one moment the great day is not and the next moment
the great day is. Up to a certain specific instant you are feeling
ordinary and sad; for it is only Wednesday. At the next moment your
heart leaps up and your soul and body dance together like lovers; for
in one burst and blaze it has become Thursday. I am assuming (of
course) that you are a worshipper of Thor, and that you celebrate his
day once a week, possibly with human sacrifice. If, on the other hand,
you are a modern Christian Englishman, you hail (of course) with the
same explosion of gaiety the appearance of the English Sunday. But I
say that whatever the day is that is to you festive or symbolic, it is
essential that there should be a quite clear black line between it and
the time going before. And all the old wholesome customs in connection
with Christmas were to the effect that one should not touch or see or
know or speak of something before the actual coming of Christmas Day.
Thus, for instance, children were never given their presents until the
actual coming of the appointed hour. The presents were kept tied up in
brown-paper parcels, out of which an arm of a doll or the leg of a
donkey sometimes accidentally stuck. I wish this principle were adopted
in respect of modern Christmas ceremonies and publications. Especially
it ought to be observed in connection with what are called the
Christmas numbers of magazines. The editors of the magazines bring out
their Christmas numbers so long before the time that the reader is more
likely to be still lamenting for the turkey of last year than to have
seriously settled down to a solid anticipation of the turkey which is