[Extract from Chesterton's Book "Heretics" (1907)]

On Mr. McCabe and a Divine Frivolity

A critic once remonstrated with me saying, with an air of

indignant reasonableness, "If you must make jokes, at least you need

not make them on such serious subjects." I replied with a natural

simplicity and wonder, "About what other subjects can one make

jokes except serious subjects?" It is quite useless to talk

about profane jesting. All jesting is in its nature profane,

in the sense that it must be the sudden realization that something

which thinks itself solemn is not so very solemn after all.

If a joke is not a joke about religion or morals, it is a joke about

police-magistrates or scientific professors or undergraduates dressed

up as Queen Victoria. And people joke about the police-magistrate

more than they joke about the Pope, not because the police-magistrate

is a more frivolous subject, but, on the contrary, because the

police-magistrate is a more serious subject than the Pope.

The Bishop of Rome has no jurisdiction in this realm of England;

whereas the police-magistrate may bring his solemnity to bear quite

suddenly upon us. Men make jokes about old scientific professors,

even more than they make them about bishops--not because science

is lighter than religion, but because science is always by its

nature more solemn and austere than religion. It is not I;

it is not even a particular class of journalists or jesters

who make jokes about the matters which are of most awful import;

it is the whole human race. If there is one thing more than another

which any one will admit who has the smallest knowledge of the world,

it is that men are always speaking gravely and earnestly and with

the utmost possible care about the things that are not important,

but always talking frivolously about the things that are.

Men talk for hours with the faces of a college of cardinals about

things like golf, or tobacco, or waistcoats, or party politics.

But all the most grave and dreadful things in the world are the oldest

jokes in the world--being married; being hanged.

One gentleman, however, Mr. McCabe, has in this matter made

to me something that almost amounts to a personal appeal;

and as he happens to be a man for whose sincerity and intellectual

virtue I have a high respect, I do not feel inclined to let it

pass without some attempt to satisfy my critic in the matter.

Mr. McCabe devotes a considerable part of the last essay in

the collection called "Christianity and Rationalism on Trial"

to an objection, not to my thesis, but to my method, and a very

friendly and dignified appeal to me to alter it. I am much inclined

to defend myself in this matter out of mere respect for Mr. McCabe,

and still more so out of mere respect for the truth which is, I think,

in danger by his error, not only in this question, but in others.

In order that there may be no injustice done in the matter,

I will quote Mr. McCabe himself. "But before I follow Mr. Chesterton

in some detail I would make a general observation on his method.

He is as serious as I am in his ultimate purpose, and I respect

him for that. He knows, as I do, that humanity stands at a solemn

parting of the ways. Towards some unknown goal it presses through

the ages, impelled by an overmastering desire of happiness.

To-day it hesitates, lightheartedly enough, but every serious

thinker knows how momentous the decision may be. It is, apparently,

deserting the path of religion and entering upon the path of secularism.

Will it lose itself in quagmires of sensuality down this new path,

and pant and toil through years of civic and industrial anarchy,

only to learn it had lost the road, and must return to religion?

Or will it find that at last it is leaving the mists and the quagmires

behind it; that it is ascending the slope of the hill so long dimly

discerned ahead, and making straight for the long-sought Utopia?

This is the drama of our time, and every man and every woman

should understand it.

"Mr. Chesterton understands it. Further, he gives us

credit for understanding it. He has nothing of that paltry

meanness or strange density of so many of his colleagues,

who put us down as aimless iconoclasts or moral anarchists.

He admits that we are waging a thankless war for what we

take to be Truth and Progress. He is doing the same.

But why, in the name of all that is reasonable, should we,

when we are agreed on the momentousness of the issue either way,

forthwith desert serious methods of conducting the controversy?

Why, when the vital need of our time is to induce men

and women to collect their thoughts occasionally, and be men

and women--nay, to remember that they are really gods that hold

the destinies of humanity on their knees--why should we think

that this kaleidoscopic play of phrases is inopportune?

The ballets of the Alhambra, and the fireworks of the Crystal Palace,

and Mr. Chesterton's Daily News articles, have their place in life.

But how a serious social student can think of curing the

thoughtlessness of our generation by strained paradoxes; of giving

people a sane grasp of social problems by literary sleight-of-hand;

of settling important questions by a reckless shower of

rocket-metaphors and inaccurate `facts,' and the substitution

of imagination for judgment, I cannot see."

I quote this passage with a particular pleasure, because Mr. McCabe

certainly cannot put too strongly the degree to which I give him

and his school credit for their complete sincerity and responsibility

of philosophical attitude. I am quite certain that they mean every

word they say. I also mean every word I say. But why is it that

Mr. McCabe has some sort of mysterious hesitation about admitting

that I mean every word I say; why is it that he is not quite as certain

of my mental responsibility as I am of his mental responsibility?

If we attempt to answer the question directly and well, we shall,

I think, have come to the root of the matter by the shortest cut.

Mr. McCabe thinks that I am not serious but only funny,

because Mr. McCabe thinks that funny is the opposite of serious.

Funny is the opposite of not funny, and of nothing else.

The question of whether a man expresses himself in a grotesque

or laughable phraseology, or in a stately and restrained phraseology,

is not a question of motive or of moral state, it is a question

of instinctive language and self-expression. Whether a man chooses

to tell the truth in long sentences or short jokes is a problem

analogous to whether he chooses to tell the truth in French or German.

Whether a man preaches his gospel grotesquely or gravely is merely

like the question of whether he preaches it in prose or verse.

The question of whether Swift was funny in his irony is quite another sort

of question to the question of whether Swift was serious in his pessimism.

Surely even Mr. McCabe would not maintain that the more funny

"Gulliver" is in its method the less it can be sincere in its object.

The truth is, as I have said, that in this sense the two qualities

of fun and seriousness have nothing whatever to do with each other,

they are no more comparable than black and triangular.

Mr. Bernard Shaw is funny and sincere. Mr. George Robey is

funny and not sincere. Mr. McCabe is sincere and not funny.

The average Cabinet Minister is not sincere and not funny.

In short, Mr. McCabe is under the influence of a primary fallacy

which I have found very common m men of the clerical type.

Numbers of clergymen have from time to time reproached me for

making jokes about religion; and they have almost always invoked

the authority of that very sensible commandment which says,

"Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain."

Of course, I pointed out that I was not in any conceivable sense

taking the name in vain. To take a thing and make a joke out of it

is not to take it in vain. It is, on the contrary, to take it

and use it for an uncommonly good object. To use a thing in vain

means to use it without use. But a joke may be exceedingly useful;

it may contain the whole earthly sense, not to mention the whole

heavenly sense, of a situation. And those who find in the Bible

the commandment can find in the Bible any number of the jokes.

In the same book in which God's name is fenced from being taken in vain,

God himself overwhelms Job with a torrent of terrible levities.

The same book which says that God's name must not be taken vainly,

talks easily and carelessly about God laughing and God winking.

Evidently it is not here that we have to look for genuine

examples of what is meant by a vain use of the name. And it is

not very difficult to see where we have really to look for it.

The people (as I tactfully pointed out to them) who really take

the name of the Lord in vain are the clergymen themselves. The thing

which is fundamentally and really frivolous is not a careless joke.

The thing which is fundamentally and really frivolous is a

careless solemnity. If Mr. McCabe really wishes to know what sort

of guarantee of reality and solidity is afforded by the mere act

of what is called talking seriously, let him spend a happy Sunday

in going the round of the pulpits. Or, better still, let him drop

in at the House of Commons or the House of Lords. Even Mr. McCabe

would admit that these men are solemn--more solemn than I am.

And even Mr. McCabe, I think, would admit that these men are frivolous--

more frivolous than I am. Why should Mr. McCabe be so eloquent

about the danger arising from fantastic and paradoxical writers?

Why should he be so ardent in desiring grave and verbose writers?

There are not so very many fantastic and paradoxical writers.

But there are a gigantic number of grave and verbose writers;

and it is by the efforts of the grave and verbose writers

that everything that Mr. McCabe detests (and everything that

I detest, for that matter) is kept in existence and energy.

How can it have come about that a man as intelligent as Mr. McCabe

can think that paradox and jesting stop the way? It is solemnity

that is stopping the way in every department of modern effort.

It is his own favourite "serious methods;" it is his own favourite

"momentousness;" it is his own favourite "judgment" which stops

the way everywhere. Every man who has ever headed a deputation

to a minister knows this. Every man who has ever written a letter

to the Times knows it. Every rich man who wishes to stop the mouths

of the poor talks about "momentousness." Every Cabinet minister

who has not got an answer suddenly develops a "judgment."

Every sweater who uses vile methods recommends "serious methods."

I said a moment ago that sincerity had nothing to do with solemnity,

but I confess that I am not so certain that I was right.

In the modern world, at any rate, I am not so sure that I was right.

In the modern world solemnity is the direct enemy of sincerity.

In the modern world sincerity is almost always on one side, and solemnity

almost always on the other. The only answer possible to the fierce

and glad attack of sincerity is the miserable answer of solemnity.

Let Mr. McCabe, or any one else who is much concerned that we should be

grave in order to be sincere, simply imagine the scene in some government

office in which Mr. Bernard Shaw should head a Socialist deputation

to Mr. Austen Chamberlain. On which side would be the solemnity?

And on which the sincerity?

I am, indeed, delighted to discover that Mr. McCabe reckons

Mr. Shaw along with me in his system of condemnation of frivolity.

He said once, I believe, that he always wanted Mr. Shaw to label

his paragraphs serious or comic. I do not know which paragraphs

of Mr. Shaw are paragraphs to be labelled serious; but surely

there can be no doubt that this paragraph of Mr. McCabe's is

one to be labelled comic. He also says, in the article I am

now discussing, that Mr. Shaw has the reputation of deliberately

saying everything which his hearers do not expect him to say.

I need not labour the inconclusiveness and weakness of this, because it

has already been dealt with in my remarks on Mr. Bernard Shaw.

Suffice it to say here that the only serious reason which I can imagine

inducing any one person to listen to any other is, that the first person

looks to the second person with an ardent faith and a fixed attention,

expecting him to say what he does not expect him to say.

It may be a paradox, but that is because paradoxes are true.

It may not be rational, but that is because rationalism is wrong.

But clearly it is quite true that whenever we go to hear a prophet or

teacher we may or may not expect wit, we may or may not expect eloquence,

but we do expect what we do not expect. We may not expect the true,

we may not even expect the wise, but we do expect the unexpected.

If we do not expect the unexpected, why do we go there at all?

If we expect the expected, why do we not sit at home and expect

it by ourselves? If Mr. McCabe means merely this about Mr. Shaw,

that he always has some unexpected application of his doctrine

to give to those who listen to him, what he says is quite true,

and to say it is only to say that Mr. Shaw is an original man.

But if he means that Mr. Shaw has ever professed or preached any

doctrine but one, and that his own, then what he says is not true.

It is not my business to defend Mr. Shaw; as has been seen already,

I disagree with him altogether. But I do not mind, on his behalf

offering in this matter a flat defiance to all his ordinary opponents,

such as Mr. McCabe. I defy Mr. McCabe, or anybody else, to mention

one single instance in which Mr. Shaw has, for the sake of wit

or novelty, taken up any position which was not directly deducible

from the body of his doctrine as elsewhere expressed. I have been,

I am happy to say, a tolerably close student of Mr. Shaw's utterances,

and I request Mr. McCabe, if he will not believe that I mean

anything else, to believe that I mean this challenge.

All this, however, is a parenthesis. The thing with which I am here

immediately concerned is Mr. McCabe's appeal to me not to be so frivolous.

Let me return to the actual text of that appeal. There are,

of course, a great many things that I might say about it in detail.

But I may start with saying that Mr. McCabe is in error in supposing

that the danger which I anticipate from the disappearance

of religion is the increase of sensuality. On the contrary,

I should be inclined to anticipate a decrease in sensuality,

because I anticipate a decrease in life. I do not think that under

modern Western materialism we should have anarchy. I doubt whether we

should have enough individual valour and spirit even to have liberty.

It is quite an old-fashioned fallacy to suppose that our objection

to scepticism is that it removes the discipline from life.

Our objection to scepticism is that it removes the motive power.

Materialism is not a thing which destroys mere restraint.

Materialism itself is the great restraint. The McCabe school

advocates a political liberty, but it denies spiritual liberty.

That is, it abolishes the laws which could be broken, and substitutes

laws that cannot. And that is the real slavery.

The truth is that the scientific civilisation in which Mr. McCabe

believes has one rather particular defect; it is perpetually tending

to destroy that democracy or power of the ordinary man in which

Mr. McCabe also believes. Science means specialism, and specialism

means oligarchy. If you once establish the habit of trusting

particular men to produce particular results in physics or astronomy,

you leave the door open for the equally natural demand that you

should trust particular men to do particular things in government

and the coercing of men. If, you feel it to be reasonable that

one beetle should be the only study of one man, and that one man

the only student of that one beetle, it is surely a very harmless

consequence to go on to say that politics should be the only study

of one man, and that one man the only student of politics.

As I have pointed out elsewhere in this book, the expert is more

aristocratic than the aristocrat, because the aristocrat is only

the man who lives well, while the expert is the man who knows better.

But if we look at the progress of our scientific civilisation we see

a gradual increase everywhere of the specialist over the popular function.

Once men sang together round a table in chorus; now one man

sings alone, for the absurd reason that he can sing better.

If scientific civilisation goes on (which is most improbable)

only one man will laugh, because he can laugh better than the rest.

I do not know that I can express this more shortly than by taking

as a text the single sentence of Mr. McCabe, which runs as follows:

"The ballets of the Alhambra and the fireworks of the Crystal Palace

and Mr. Chesterton's Daily News articles have their places in life."

I wish that my articles had as noble a place as either of the other

two things mentioned. But let us ask ourselves (in a spirit of love,

as Mr. Chadband would say), what are the ballets of the Alhambra?

The ballets of the Alhambra are institutions in which a particular

selected row of persons in pink go through an operation known

as dancing. Now, in all commonwealths dominated by a religion--

in the Christian commonwealths of the Middle Ages and in many

rude societies--this habit of dancing was a common habit with everybody,

and was not necessarily confined to a professional class.

A person could dance without being a dancer; a person could dance

without being a specialist; a person could dance without being pink.

And, in proportion as Mr. McCabe's scientific civilisation advances--

that is, in proportion as religious civilisation (or real civilisation)

decays--the more and more "well trained," the more and more pink,

become the people who do dance, and the more and more numerous become

the people who don't. Mr. McCabe may recognize an example of what I

mean in the gradual discrediting in society of the ancient European

waltz or dance with partners, and the substitution of that horrible

and degrading oriental interlude which is known as skirt-dancing.

That is the whole essence of decadence, the effacement of five

people who do a thing for fun by one person who does it for money.

Now it follows, therefore, that when Mr. McCabe says that the ballets

of the Alhambra and my articles "have their place in life,"

it ought to be pointed out to him that he is doing his best

to create a world in which dancing, properly speaking, will have

no place in life at all. He is, indeed, trying to create a world

in which there will be no life for dancing to have a place in.

The very fact that Mr. McCabe thinks of dancing as a thing

belonging to some hired women at the Alhambra is an illustration

of the same principle by which he is able to think of religion

as a thing belonging to some hired men in white neckties.

Both these things are things which should not be done for us,

but by us. If Mr. McCabe were really religious he would be happy.

If he were really happy he would dance.

Briefly, we may put the matter in this way. The main point of modern

life is not that the Alhambra ballet has its place in life.

The main point, the main enormous tragedy of modern life,

is that Mr. McCabe has not his place in the Alhambra ballet.

The joy of changing and graceful posture, the joy of suiting the swing

of music to the swing of limbs, the joy of whirling drapery,

the joy of standing on one leg,--all these should belong by rights

to Mr. McCabe and to me; in short, to the ordinary healthy citizen.

Probably we should not consent to go through these evolutions.

But that is because we are miserable moderns and rationalists.

We do not merely love ourselves more than we love duty; we actually

love ourselves more than we love joy.

When, therefore, Mr. McCabe says that he gives the Alhambra dances

(and my articles) their place in life, I think we are justified

in pointing out that by the very nature of the case of his philosophy

and of his favourite civilisation he gives them a very inadequate place.

For (if I may pursue the too flattering parallel) Mr. McCabe thinks

of the Alhambra and of my articles as two very odd and absurd things,

which some special people do (probably for money) in order to amuse him.

But if he had ever felt himself the ancient, sublime, elemental,

human instinct to dance, he would have discovered that dancing

is not a frivolous thing at all, but a very serious thing.

He would have discovered that it is the one grave and chaste

and decent method of expressing a certain class of emotions.

And similarly, if he had ever had, as Mr. Shaw and I have had,

the impulse to what he calls paradox, he would have discovered that

paradox again is not a frivolous thing, but a very serious thing.

He would have found that paradox simply means a certain defiant

joy which belongs to belief. I should regard any civilisation

which was without a universal habit of uproarious dancing as being,

from the full human point of view, a defective civilisation.

And I should regard any mind which had not got the habit

in one form or another of uproarious thinking as being,

from the full human point of view, a defective mind.

It is vain for Mr. McCabe to say that a ballet is a part of him.

He should be part of a ballet, or else he is only part of a man.

It is in vain for him to say that he is "not quarrelling

with the importation of humour into the controversy."

He ought himself to be importing humour into every controversy;

for unless a man is in part a humorist, he is only in part a man.

To sum up the whole matter very simply, if Mr. McCabe asks me why I

import frivolity into a discussion of the nature of man, I answer,

because frivolity is a part of the nature of man. If he asks me why

I introduce what he calls paradoxes into a philosophical problem,

I answer, because all philosophical problems tend to become paradoxical.

If he objects to my treating of life riotously, I reply that life

is a riot. And I say that the Universe as I see it, at any rate,

is very much more like the fireworks at the Crystal Palace than it

is like his own philosophy. About the whole cosmos there is a tense

and secret festivity--like preparations for Guy Fawkes' day.

Eternity is the eve of something. I never look up at the stars

without feeling that they are the fires of a schoolboy's rocket,

fixed in their everlasting fall.