Whatever is it that we are all looking for? I fancy that it is
really quite close. When I was a boy I had a fancy that Heaven
or Fairyland or whatever I called it, was immediately behind my
own back, and that this was why I could never manage to see it,
however often I twisted and turned to take it by surprise.
I had a notion of a man perpetually spinning round on one foot
like a teetotum in the effort to find that world behind his back
which continually fled from him. Perhaps this is why the world
goes round. Perhaps the world is always trying to look over
its shoulder and catch up the world which always escapes it,
yet without which it cannot be itself.
In any case, as I have said, I think that we must always conceive
of that which is the goal of all our endeavours as something which is
in some strange way near. Science boasts of the distance of its stars;
of the terrific remoteness of the things of which it has to speak.
But poetry and religion always insist upon the proximity, the almost
menacing closeness of the things with which they are concerned.
Always the Kingdom of Heaven is "At Hand"; and Looking-glass Land is
only through the looking-glass. So I for one should never be astonished
if the next twist of a street led me to the heart of that maze in
which all the mystics are lost. I should not be at all surprised if I
turned one corner in Fleet Street and saw a yet queerer-looking lamp;
I should not be surprised if I turned a third corner and found
myself in Elfland.
I should not be surprised at this; but I was surprised the other day
at something more surprising. I took a turn out of Fleet Street
and found myself in England.
. . . . .
The singular shock experienced perhaps requires explanation.
In the darkest or the most inadequate moments of England there
is one thing that should always be remembered about the very
nature of our country. It may be shortly stated by saying that
England is not such a fool as it looks. The types of England,
the externals of England, always misrepresent the country.
England is an oligarchical country, and it prefers that its
oligarchy should be inferior to itself.
The speaking in the House of Commons, for instance, is not only worse
than the speaking was, it is worse than the speaking is, in all or
almost all other places in small debating clubs or casual dinners.
Our countrymen probably prefer this solemn futility in the higher
places of the national life. It may be a strange sight to see
the blind leading the blind; but England provides a stranger.
England shows us the blind leading the people who can see.
And this again is an under-statement of the case. For the English
political aristocrats not only speak worse than many other people;
they speak worse than themselves. The ignorance of statesmen is
like the ignorance of judges, an artificial and affected thing.
If you have the good fortune really to talk with a statesman, you will
be constantly startled with his saying quite intelligent things.
It makes one nervous at first. And I have never been sufficiently
intimate with such a man to ask him why it was a rule of his life
in Parliament to appear sillier than he was.
It is the same with the voters. The average man votes below himself;
he votes with half a mind or with a hundredth part of one.
A man ought to vote with the whole of himself as he worships
or gets married. A man ought to vote with his head and heart,
his soul and stomach, his eye for faces and his ear for music;
also (when sufficiently provoked) with his hands and feet.
If he has ever seen a fine sunset, the crimson colour of it
should creep into his vote. If he has ever heard splendid songs,
they should be in his ears when he makes the mystical cross.
But as it is, the difficulty with English democracy at all
elections is that it is something less than itself. The question
is not so much whether only a minority of the electorate votes.
The point is that only a minority of the voter votes.
. . . . .
This is the tragedy of England; you cannot judge it by its foremost men.
Its types do not typify. And on the occasion of which I speak
I found this to be so especially of that old intelligent middle
class which I had imagined had almost vanished from the world.
It seemed to me that all the main representatives of the middle
class had gone off in one direction or in the other; they had either
set out in pursuit of the Smart Set or they had set out in pursuit
of the Simple Life. I cannot say which I dislike more myself;
the people in question are welcome to have either of them, or, as is
more likely, to have both, in hideous alternations of disease and cure.
But all the prominent men who plainly represent the middle class have
adopted either the single eye-glass of Mr Chamberlain or the single
eye of Mr. Bernard Shaw.
The old class that I mean has no representative. Its food was plentiful;
but it had no show. Its food was plain; but it had no fads.
It was serious about politics; and when it spoke in public it
committed the solecism of trying to speak well. I thought that
this old earnest political England had practically disappeared.
And as I say, I took one turn out of Fleet Street and I found
a room full of it.
. . . . .
At the top of the room was a chair in which Johnson had sat. The club
was a club in which Wilkes had spoken, in a time when even the
ne'er-do-weel was virile. But all these things by themselves might be
merely archaism. The extraordinary thing was that this hall had all
the hubbub, the sincerity, the anger, the oratory of the eighteenth
century. The members of this club were of all shades of opinion, yet
there was not one speech which gave me that jar of unreality which I
often have in listening to the ablest men uttering my own opinion.
The Toryism of this club was like the Toryism of Johnson,
a Toryism that could use humour and appealed to humanity.
The democracy of this club was like the democracy of Wilkes,
a democracy that can speak epigrams and fight duels;
a democracy that can face things out and endure slander;
the democracy of Wilkes, or, rather, the democracy of Fox.
One thing especially filled my soul with the soul of my fathers.
Each man speaking, whether he spoke well or ill, spoke as
well as he could from sheer fury against the other man.
This is the greatest of our modern descents, that nowadays a man
does not become more rhetorical as he becomes more sincere.
An eighteenth-century speaker, when he got really and honestly furious,
looked for big words with which to crush his adversary.
The new speaker looks for small words to crush him with.
He looks for little facts and little sneers. In a modern speech
the rhetoric is put into the merely formal part, the opening
to which nobody listens. But when Mr. Chamberlain, or a Moderate,
or one of the harder kind of Socialists, becomes really sincere,
he becomes Cockney. "The destiny of the Empire," or "The destiny
of humanity," do well enough for mere ornamental preliminaries,
but when the man becomes angry and honest, then it is a snarl,
"Where do we come in?" or "It's your money they want."
The men in this eighteenth-century club were entirely different;
they were quite eighteenth century. Each one rose to his feet
quivering with passion, and tried to destroy his opponent,
not with sniggering, but actually with eloquence. I was arguing
with them about Home Rule; at the end I told them why the English
aristocracy really disliked an Irish Parliament; because it would
be like their club.
. . . . .
I came out again into Fleet Street at night, and by a dim lamp I
saw pasted up some tawdry nonsense about Wastrels and how London
was rising against something that London had hardly heard of.
Then I suddenly saw, as in one obvious picture, that the modern world
is an immense and tumultuous ocean, full of monstrous and living things.
And I saw that across the top of it is spread a thin, a very thin,
sheet of ice, of wicked wealth and of lying journalism.
And as I stood there in the darkness I could almost fancy that I
heard it crack.
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