heretics-第20章

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high…flown　argument。　　A　speaker　who；　as　he　made　his　points；



pulled　buttons　off　his　waistcoat；　won　thousands　of　votes　for　his　side。〃



Or；　〃Sound　common　sense　tells　better　in　America　than　high…flown　argument。



Thus　Senator　Budge；　who　threw　his　false　teeth　in　the　air　every　time



he　made　an　epigram；　won　the　solid　approval　of　American　working…men。〃



Or　again；　〃The　sound　common　sense　of　a　gentleman　from　Earlswood；



who　stuck　straws　in　his　hair　during　the　progress　of　his　speech；



assured　the　victory　of　Mr。　Roosevelt。〃







There　are　many　other　elements　in　this　article　on　which　I　should



love　to　linger。　　But　the　matter　which　I　wish　to　point　out　is　that



in　that　sentence　is　perfectly　revealed　the　whole　truth　of　what



our　Chamberlainites；　hustlers；　bustlers；　Empire…builders；　and　strong；



silent　men；　really　mean　by　〃commonsense。〃　　They　mean　knocking；



with　deafening　noise　and　dramatic　effect；　meaningless　bits



of　iron　into　a　useless　bit　of　wood。　　A　man　goes　on　to　an　American



platform　and　behaves　like　a　mountebank　fool　with　a　board　and



a　hammer；　well；　I　do　not　blame　him；　I　might　even　admire　him。



He　may　be　a　dashing　and　quite　decent　strategist。　　He　may　be　a　fine



romantic　actor；　like　Burke　flinging　the　dagger　on　the　floor。



He　may　even　（for　all　I　know）　be　a　sublime　mystic；　profoundly　impressed



with　the　ancient　meaning　of　the　divine　trade　of　the　Carpenter；



and　offering　to　the　people　a　parable　in　the　form　of　a　ceremony。



All　I　wish　to　indicate　is　the　abyss　of　mental　confusion　in



which　such　wild　ritualism　can　be　called　〃sound　common　sense。〃



And　it　is　in　that　abyss　of　mental　confusion；　and　in　that　alone；



that　the　new　Imperialism　lives　and　moves　and　has　its　being。



The　whole　glory　and　greatness　of　Mr。　Chamberlain　consists　in　this：



that　if　a　man　hits　the　right　nail　on　the　head　nobody　cares　where　he　hits



it　to　or　what　it　does。　　They　care　about　the　noise　of　the　hammer；　not　about



the　silent　drip　of　the　nail。　　Before　and　throughout　the　African　war；



Mr。　Chamberlain　was　always　knocking　in　nails；　with　ringing　decisiveness。



But　when　we　ask；　〃But　what　have　these　nails　held　together？



Where　is　your　carpentry？　　Where　are　your　contented　Outlanders？



Where　is　your　free　South　Africa？　　Where　is　your　British　prestige？



What　have　your　nails　done？〃　then　what　answer　is　there？



We　must　go　back　（with　an　affectionate　sigh）　to　our　Pearson



for　the　answer　to　the　question　of　what　the　nails　have　done：



〃The　speaker　who　hammered　nails　into　a　board　won　thousands　of　votes。〃







Now　the　whole　of　this　passage　is　admirably　characteristic　of　the　new



journalism　which　Mr。　Pearson　represents；　the　new　journalism　which　has



just　purchased　the　Standard。　　To　take　one　instance　out　of　hundreds；



the　incomparable　man　with　the　board　and　nails　is　described　in　the　Pearson's



article　as　calling　out　（as　he　smote　the　symbolic　nail）；　〃Lie　number　one。



Nailed　to　the　Mast！　　Nailed　to　the　Mast！〃　　In　the　whole　office　there



was　apparently　no　compositor　or　office…boy　to　point　out　that　we



speak　of　lies　being　nailed　to　the　counter；　and　not　to　the　mast。



Nobody　in　the　office　knew　that　Pearson's　Magazine　was　falling



into　a　stale　Irish　bull；　which　must　be　as　old　as　St。　Patrick。



This　is　the　real　and　essential　tragedy　of　the　sale　of　the　Standard。



It　is　not　merely　that　journalism　is　victorious　over　literature。



It　is　that　bad　journalism　is　victorious　over　good　journalism。







It　is　not　that　one　article　which　we　consider　costly　and　beautiful　is　being



ousted　by　another　kind　of　article　which　we　consider　common　or　unclean。



It　is　that　of　the　same　article　a　worse　quality　is　preferred　to　a　better。



If　you　like　popular　journalism　（as　I　do）；　you　will　know　that　Pearson's



Magazine　is　poor　and　weak　popular　journalism。　　You　will　know　it



as　certainly　as　you　know　bad　butter。　　You　will　know　as　certainly



that　it　is　poor　popular　journalism　as　you　know　that　the　Strand；



in　the　great　days　of　Sherlock　Holmes；　was　good　popular　journalism。



Mr。　Pearson　has　been　a　monument　of　this　enormous　banality。



About　everything　he　says　and　does　there　is　something　infinitely



weak…minded。　He　clamours　for　home　trades　and　employs　foreign



ones　to　print　his　paper。　　When　this　glaring　fact　is　pointed　out；



he　does　not　say　that　the　thing　was　an　oversight；　like　a　sane　man。



He　cuts　it　off　with　scissors；　like　a　child　of　three。　　His　very　cunning



is　infantile。　　And　like　a　child　of　three；　he　does　not　cut　it　quite　off。



In　all　human　records　I　doubt　if　there　is　such　an　example　of　a　profound



simplicity　in　deception。　　This　is　the　sort　of　intelligence　which　now



sits　in　the　seat　of　the　sane　and　honourable　old　Tory　journalism。



If　it　were　really　the　triumph　of　the　tropical　exuberance　of　the



Yankee　press；　it　would　be　vulgar；　but　still　tropical。　　But　it　is　not。



We　are　delivered　over　to　the　bramble；　and　from　the　meanest　of



the　shrubs　comes　the　fire　upon　the　cedars　of　Lebanon。







The　only　question　now　is　how　much　longer　the　fiction　will　endure



that　journalists　of　this　order　represent　public　opinion。



It　may　be　doubted　whether　any　honest　and　serious　Tariff　Reformer



would　for　a　moment　maintain　that　there　was　any　majority



for　Tariff　Reform　in　the　country　comparable　to　the　ludicrous



preponderance　which　money　has　given　it　among　the　great　dailies。



The　only　inference　is　that　for　purposes　of　real　public　opinion



the　press　is　now　a　mere　plutocratic　oligarchy。　　Doubtless　the



public　buys　the　wares　of　these　men；　for　one　reason　or　another。



But　there　is　no　more　reason　to　suppose　that　the　public　admires



their　politics　than　that　the　public　admires　the　delicate　philosophy



of　Mr。　Crosse　or　the　darker　and　sterner　creed　of　Mr。　Blackwell。



If　these　men　are　merely　tradesmen；　there　is　nothing　to　say　except



that　there　are　plenty　like　them　in　the　Battersea　Park　Road；



and　many　much　better。　　But　if　they　make　any　sort　of　attempt



to　be　politicians；　we　can　only　point　out　to　them　that　they　are　not



as　yet　even　good　journalists。















IX。　　The　Moods　of　Mr。　George　Moore











Mr。　George　Moore　began　his　literary　career　by　writing　his



personal　confessions；　nor　is　there　any　harm　in　this　if　he　had



not　continued　them　for　the　remainder　of　his　life。　　He　is　a　man



of　genuinely　forcible　mind　and　of　great　command　over　a　kind



of　rhetorical　and　fugitive　conviction　which　excites　and　pleases。



He　is　in　a　perpetual　state　of　temporary　honesty。　　He　has　admired



all　the　most　admirable　modern　eccentrics　until　they　could　stand



it　no　longer。　　Everything　he　writes；　it　is　to　be　fully　admitted；



has　a　genuine　mental　power。　　His　account　of　his　reason　for



leaving　the　Roman　Catholic　Church　is　possibly　the　most　admirable



tribute　to　that　communion　which　has　been　written　of　late　years。



For　the　fact　of　the　matter　is；　that　the　weakness　which　has　rendered



barren　the　many　brilliancies　of　Mr。　Moore　is　actually　that　weakness



which　the　Roman　Catholic　Church　is　at　its　best　in　combating。



Mr。　Moore　hates　Catholicism　because　it　breaks　up　the　house



of　looking…glasses　in　which　he　lives。　　Mr。　Moore　does　not　dislike



so　much　being　asked　to　believe　in　the　spiritual　existence



of　miracles　or　sacraments；　but　he　does　fundamentally　dislike



being　asked　to　believe　in　the　actual　existence　of　other　people。



Like　his　master　Pater　and　all　the　aesthetes；　his　real　quarrel　with



life　is　that　it　is　not　a　dream　that　can　be　moulded　by　the　dreamer。



It　is　not　the　dogma　of　the　reality　of　the　other　world　that　troubles　him；



but　the　dogma　of　the　reality　of　this　world。







The　truth　is　that　the　tradition　of　Christianity　（which　is　still　the　only



coherent　ethic　of　Europe）　rests　on