December

Old happiness is grey as weAnd we may still outstrip her;If we be slippered pantaloonsO let us hunt the slipper!The old world glows with colours clear,And if, as saith the saint,The world is but a painted show,O let us lick the paint!Far, far behind are morbid hoursAnd lonely hearts that bleed;Far, far behind us are the daysWhen we were old indeed.Behold the simple sum of thingsWhere, in one splendour spun,The stars go round the Mulberry Bush,The Burning Bush, the Sun.'Grey Beards at Play.'

Old happiness is grey as weAnd we may still outstrip her;If we be slippered pantaloonsO let us hunt the slipper!

The old world glows with colours clear,And if, as saith the saint,The world is but a painted show,O let us lick the paint!

Far, far behind are morbid hoursAnd lonely hearts that bleed;Far, far behind us are the daysWhen we were old indeed.

Behold the simple sum of thingsWhere, in one splendour spun,The stars go round the Mulberry Bush,The Burning Bush, the Sun.'Grey Beards at Play.'

NOVEMBER 11th

A man (of a certain age) may look into the eyes of his lady-love to see that they are beautiful. But no normal lady will allow that young man to look into her eyes to see whether they are beautiful. The same variety and idiosyncrasy has been generally observed in gods. Praise them; or leave them alone; but do not look for them unless you know they are there. Do not look for them unless you want them.

'All Things Considered.'

NOVEMBER 12th

Likelier across these flats afar,These sulky levels smooth and free,The drums shall crash a waltz of warAnd Death shall dance with Liberty;Likelier the barricades shall blareSlaughter below and smoke above,And death and hate and hell declareThat men have found a thing to love.'The Napoleon of Notting Hill.'

NOVEMBER 13th

Everything is military in the sense that everything depends upon obedience. There is no perfectly epicurean corner; there is no perfectly irresponsible place. Everywhere men have made the way for us with sweat and submission. We may fling ourselves into a hammock in a fit of divine carelessness. But we are glad that the net-maker did not make the net in a fit of divine carelessness. We may jump upon a child's rocking-horse for a joke. But we are glad that the carpenter did not leave the legs of it unglued for a joke.

'Heretics.'

NOVEMBER 14th

I will ride upon the Nightmare; but she shall not ride on me.

'Daily News.'

NOVEMBER 15th

A great man of letters or any great artist is symbolic without knowing it. The things he describes are types because they are truths. Shakespeare may or may not have ever put it to himself that Richard the Second was a philosophical symbol; but all good criticism must necessarily see him so. It may be a reasonable question whether an artist should be allegorical. There can be no doubt among sane men that a critic should be allegorical.

Introduction to 'Great Expectations.'

NOVEMBER 16th

When society is in rather a futile fuss about the subjection of women, will no one say how much every man owes to the tyranny and privilege of women, to the fact that they alone rule education until education becomes futile? For a boy is only sent to be taught at school when it is too late to teach him anything. The real thing has been done already, and thank God it is nearly always done by women. Every man is womanized, merely by being born. They talk of the masculine woman; but every man is a feminized man. And if ever men walk to Westminster to protest against this female privilege, I shall not join their procession.

'Orthodoxy.'

NOVEMBER 17th

Seriousness is not a virtue. It would be a heresy, but a much more sensible heresy, to say that seriousness is a vice. It is really a natural trend or lapse into taking one's self gravely, because it is the easiest thing to do. It is much easier to write a goodTimesleading article than a good joke inPunch. For solemnity flows out of men naturally, but laughter is a leap. It is easy to be heavy: hard to be light. Satan fell by the force of gravity.

'Orthodoxy.'

NOVEMBER 18th

Yes, you are right. I am afraid of him. Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him and strike him on the mouth. If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool I swear that I would pull him down.... Because I am afraid of him; and no man should leave in the universe anything of which he is afraid.

'The Man who was Thursday.'

NOVEMBER 19th

Under all this vast illusion of the cosmopolitan planet, with its empires and its Reuter's Agency, the real life of man goes on concerned with this tree or that temple, with this harvest or that drinking-song, totally uncomprehended, totally untouched. And it watches from its splendid parochialism, possibly with a smile of amusement, motor-car civilization going its triumphant way, outstripping time, consuming space, seeing all and seeing nothing, roaring on at last to the capture of the solar system, only to find the sun cockney and the stars suburban.

'Heretics.'

NOVEMBER 20th

Every detail points to something, certainly, but generally to the wrong thing. Facts point in all directions, it seems to me, like the thousands of twigs on a tree. It is only the life of the tree that has unity and goes up—only the green blood that springs, like a fountain, at the stars.

'The Club of Queer Trades.'

NOVEMBER 21st

Shallow romanticists go away in trains and stop in places called Hugmy-in-the-Hole, or Bumps-on-the-Puddle. And all the time they could, if they liked, go and live at a place with the dim, divine name of St. John's Wood. I have never been to St. John's Wood. I dare not. I should be afraid of the innumerable night of fir-trees, afraid to come upon a blood-red cup and the beating of the wings of the eagle. But all these things can be imagined by remaining reverently in the Harrow train.

'The Napoleon of Notting Hill.'

NOVEMBER 22nd

Giants, as in the wise old fairy-tales, are vermin. Supermen, if not good men, are vermin.

'Heretics.'

NOVEMBER 23rd

It is part of that large and placid lie that the rationalists tell when they say that Christianity arose in ignorance and barbarism. Christianity arose in the thick of a brilliant and bustling cosmopolitan civilization. Long sea voyages were not so quick, but were quite as incessant as to-day; and though in the nature of things Christ had not many rich followers, it is not unnatural to suppose that He had some. And a Joseph of Arimathea may easily have been a Roman citizen with a yacht that could visit Britain. The same fallacy is employed with the same partisan motive in the case of the Gospel of St. John; which critics say could not have been written by one of the first few Christians because of its Greek transcendentalism and its Platonic tone. I am no judge of the philology, but every human being is a divinely appointed judge of the philosophy: and the Platonic tone seems to me to prove nothing at all.

'Daily News.'

NOVEMBER 24th

Sometimes the best business of an age is to resist some alien invasion; sometimes to preach practical self-control in a world too self-indulgent and diffuse; sometimes to prevent the growth in the state of great new private enterprises that would poison or oppress it. Above all, it may happen that the highest task of a thinking citizen may be to do the exact opposite of the work the Radicals had to do. It may be his highest duty to cling on to every scrap of the past that he can find, if he feels that the ground is giving way beneath him and sinking into mere savagery and forgetfulness of all human culture.

Introduction to 'A Child's History of England.'

NOVEMBER 25th

Science in the modern world has many uses; its chief use, however, is to provide long words to cover the errors of the rich.

'Heretics.'

NOVEMBER 26th

We talk of art as something artificial in comparison with life. But I sometimes fancy that the very highest art is more real than life itself. At least this is true: that in proportion as passions become real they become poetical; the lover is always trying to be the poet. All real energy is an attempt at harmony and a high swing of rhythm; and if we were only real enough we should all talk in rhyme. However this may be, it is unquestionable in the case of great public affairs. Whenever you have real practical politics you have poetical politics. Whenever men have succeeded in wars they have sung war-songs; whenever you have the useful triumph you have also the useless trophy.

But the thing is more strongly apparent exactly where the great Fabian falls foul of it—in the open scenes of history and the actual operation of events. The things that actually did happen all over the world are precisely the things which he thinks could not have happened in Galilee, the artistic isolations, the dreadful dialogues in which each speaker was dramatic, the prophecies flung down like gauntlets, the high invocations of history, the marching and mounting excitement of the story, the pulverizing and appropriate repartees. These things do happen; they have happened; they are attested, in all the cases where the soul of man had become poetic in its very peril. At every one of its important moments the most certain and solid history reads like an historical novel.

'Daily News.'

NOVEMBER 27th

Anyone could easily excuse the ill-humour of the poor. But great masses of the poor have not even any ill-humour to be excused. Their cheeriness is startling enough to be the foundation of a miracle play; and certainly is startling enough to be the foundation of a romance.

Introduction to 'Christmas Stories.'

NOVEMBER 28th

Lo! I am come to autumn,When all the leaves are gold;Grey hairs and golden leaves cry outThe year and I are old.In youth I sought the prince of menCaptain in cosmic wars.Our Titan even the weeds would showDefiant, to the stars.But now a great thing in the streetSeems any human nod,Where shift in strange democracyThe million masks of God.In youth I sought the golden flowerHidden in wood or wold,But I am come to autumn,When all the leaves are gold.'The Wild Knight.'

Lo! I am come to autumn,When all the leaves are gold;Grey hairs and golden leaves cry outThe year and I are old.

In youth I sought the prince of menCaptain in cosmic wars.Our Titan even the weeds would showDefiant, to the stars.

But now a great thing in the streetSeems any human nod,Where shift in strange democracyThe million masks of God.

In youth I sought the golden flowerHidden in wood or wold,But I am come to autumn,When all the leaves are gold.'The Wild Knight.'

NOVEMBER 29th

There is a noble instinct for giving the right touch of beauty to common and necessary things, but the things that are so touched are the ancient things, the things that always, to some extent, commended themselves to the lover of beauty. The spirit of William Morris has not seized hold of the century and made its humblest necessities beautiful. And this was because, with all his healthiness and energy, he had not the supreme courage to face the ugliness of things; Beauty shrank from the Beast and the fairy tale had a different ending.

'Twelve Types.'

NOVEMBER 30thST. ANDREW'S DAY

I am quite certain that Scotland is a nation; I am quite certain that nationality is the key of Scotland; I am quite certain that all our success with Scotland has been due to the fact that we have in spirit treated it as a nation. I am quite certain that Ireland is a nation. I am quite certain that nationality is the key of Ireland; I am quite certain that all our failure in Ireland arose from the fact that we would not in spirit treat it as a nation. It would be difficult to find, even among the innumerable examples that exist, a stronger example of the immensely superior importance of sentiment, to what is called practicality, than this case of the two sister nations. It is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be rich; it is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be active; it is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be free. It is that we have quite definitely encouraged a Scotchman to be Scotch.

'All Things Considered.'

DECEMBER 1st

In this world of ours we do not so much go on and discover small things: rather we go on and discover big things. It is the detail that we see first; it is the design that we only see very slowly, and some men die never having seen it at all. We see certain squadrons in certain uniforms gallop past; we take an arbitrary fancy to this or that colour, to this or that plume. But it often takes us a long time to realize what the fight is about or even who is fighting whom.

So in the modern intellectual world we can see flags of many colours, deeds of manifold interest; the one thing we cannot see is the map. We cannot see the simplified statement which tells us what is the origin of all the trouble.

'William Blake.'

DECEMBER 2nd

Our wisdom, whether expressed in private or public, belongs to the world, but our folly belongs to those we love.

'Browning.'

DECEMBER 3rd

Our fathers were large and healthy enough to make a thing humane, and not worry about whether it was hygienic. They were big enough to get into small rooms.

'Charles Dickens.'

DECEMBER 4th

A cosmic philosophy is not constructed to fit a man; a cosmic philosophy is constructed to fit a cosmos. A man can no more possess a private religion than he can possess a private sun and moon.

Introduction to 'Book of Job.'

DECEMBER 5th

That Christianity is identical with democracy, is the hardest of gospels; there is nothing that so strikes men with fear as the saying that they are all the sons of God.

'Twelve Types.'

DECEMBER 6thST. NICHOLAS'S DAY

All the old wholesome customs in connexion 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. The editors of the magazines bring out their Christmas numbers so long before the time that the reader is more likely to be lamenting for the turkey of last year than to have seriously settled down to a solid anticipation of the turkey which is to come. Christmas numbers of magazines ought to be tied up in brown paper and kept for Christmas Day. On consideration, I should favour the editors being tied up in brown paper. Whether the leg or arm of an editor should ever be allowed to protrude I leave to individual choice.

'All Things Considered.'

DECEMBER 7th

We had talked for about half an hour about politics and God; for men always talk about the most important things to total strangers. It is because in the total stranger we perceive man himself; the image of God is not disguised by resemblances to an uncle or doubts of the wisdom of a moustache.

'The Club of Queer Trades.'

DECEMBER 8th

He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.

'The Man who was Thursday.'

DECEMBER 9th

There was a time when you and I and all of us were all very close to God; so that even now the colour of a pebble (or a paint), the smell of a flower (or a firework) comes to our hearts with a kind of authority and certainty; as if they were fragments of a muddled message, or features of a forgotten face. To pour that fiery simplicity upon the whole of life is the only real aim of education; and closest to the child comes the woman—she understands.

'What's Wrong with the World.'

DECEMBER 10th

A man must love a thing very much if he not only practises it without any hope of fame or money, but even practises it without any hope of doing it well. Such a man must love the toils of the work more than any other man can love the rewards of it.

'Browning.'

DECEMBER 11th

Among all the strange things that men have forgotten, the most universal and catastrophic lapse of memory is that by which they have forgotten that they are living on a star.

'Defendant.'

DECEMBER 12thBROWNING DIED

The poem, 'Old Pictures in Florence,' suggests admirably that a sense of incompleteness may easily be a great advance upon a sense of completeness: that the part may easily and obviously be greater than the whole. And from this Browning draws, as he is fully justified in drawing, a definite hope for immortality and the larger scale of life. For nothing is more certain than that though this world is the only world that we have known, or of which we could ever dream, the fact does remain that we have named it 'a strange world.' In other words, we have certainly felt that this world did not explain itself, that something in its complete and patent picture has been omitted. And Browning was right in saying that in a cosmos where incompleteness implies completeness, life implies immortality. The second of the great Browning doctrines requires some audacity to express. It can only be properly stated as the hope that lies in the imperfection of God—that is to say, that Browning held that sorrow and self-denial, if they were the burdens of man, were also his privileges. He held that these stubborn sorrows and obscure valours might—to use a yet more strange expression—have provoked the envy of the Almighty. If man has self-sacrifice and God has none, then man has in the universe a secret and blasphemous superiority. And this tremendous story of a divine jealousy Browning reads into the story of the Crucifixion. These are emphatically the two main doctrines or opinionsof Browning, which I have ventured to characterize roughly as the hope in the imperfection of man, and more boldly as the hope in the imperfection of God. They are great thoughts, thoughts written by a great man, and they raise noble and beautiful doubts on behalf of faith which the human spirit will never answer or exhaust.

'Robert Browning.'

DECEMBER 13th

Elder father, though thine eyesShine with hoary mysteries,Canst thou tell what in the heartOf a cowslip blossom lies?Smaller than all lives that be,Secret as the deepest sea,Stands a little house of seedsLike an elfin's granary.Speller of the stones and weeds,Skilled in Nature's crafts and creeds,Tell me what is in the heartOf the smallest of the seeds.God Almighty, and with HimCherubim and SeraphimFilling all Eternity—Adonai Elohim.'The Wild Knight.'

Elder father, though thine eyesShine with hoary mysteries,Canst thou tell what in the heartOf a cowslip blossom lies?

Smaller than all lives that be,Secret as the deepest sea,Stands a little house of seedsLike an elfin's granary.

Speller of the stones and weeds,Skilled in Nature's crafts and creeds,Tell me what is in the heartOf the smallest of the seeds.

God Almighty, and with HimCherubim and SeraphimFilling all Eternity—Adonai Elohim.'The Wild Knight.'

DECEMBER 14th

The rare strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross obvious thing is to miss it. Chaos is dull; because in chaos a train might go anywhere—to Baker Street or Bagdad. But man is a magician and his whole magic is in this that he does say 'Victoria,' and lo! it is Victoria.

'The Man who was Thursday.'

DECEMBER 15th

Men talk of philosophy and theology as if they were something specialistic and arid and academic. But philosophy and theology are not only the only democratic things, they are democratic to the point of being vulgar, to the point, I was going to say, of being rowdy. They alone admit all matters: they alone lie open to all attacks.... There is no detail from buttons to kangaroos that does not enter into the gay confusion of philosophy. There is no fact of life, from the death of a donkey to the General Post Office, which has not its place to dance and sing in, in the glorious carnival of theology.

'G. F. Watts.'

DECEMBER 16th

The Duke of Chester, the vice-president, was a young and rising politician—that is to say, he was a pleasant youth with flat fair hair and a freckled face, with moderate intelligence and enormous estates. In public his appearances were always successful and his principle was simple enough. When he thought of a joke he made it and was called brilliant. When he could not think of a joke he said that this was no time for trifling, and was called able. In private, in a club of his own class, he was simply quite pleasantly frank and silly like a schoolboy.

'The Innocence of Father Brown.'

DECEMBER 17th

The personal is not a mere figure for the impersonal: rather the impersonal is a clumsy term for something more personal than common personality. God is not a symbol of goodness. Goodness is a symbol of God.

'William Blake.'

DECEMBER 18th

The world is not to be justified as it is justified by the mechanical optimists; it is not to be justified as the best of all possible worlds.... Its merit is precisely that none of us could have conceived such a thing; that we should have rejected the bare idea of it as miracle and unreason. It is the best of all impossible worlds.

'Charles Dickens.'

DECEMBER 19th

The educated classes have adopted a hideous and heathen custom of considering death as too dreadful to talk about, and letting it remain a secret for each person, like some private malformation. The poor, on the contrary, make a great gossip and display about bereavement; and they are right. They have hold of a truth of psychology which is at the back of all the funeral customs of the children of men. The way to lessen sorrow is to make a lot of it. The way to endure a painful crisis is to insist very much that it is a crisis; to permit people who must feel sad at least to feel important. In this the poor are simply the priests of the universal civilization; and in their stuffy feasts and solemn chattering there is the smell of the baked meats of Hamlet and the dust and echo of the funeral games of Patroclus.

'What's Wrong with the World.'

DECEMBER 20th

A crime is like any other work of art. Don't look surprised; crimes are by no means the only works of art that come from an infernal workshop. But every work of art, divine or diabolic, has one indispensable mark—I mean that the centre of it is simple, however the entourage may be complicated.

'The Innocence of Father Brown.'

DECEMBER 21stST. THOMAS'S DAY

It was Huxley and Herbert Spencer and Bradlaugh who brought me back to orthodox theology. They sowed in my mind my first wild doubts of doubt. Our grandmothers were quite right when they said that Tom Paine and the Freethinkers unsettled the mind. They do. They unsettled mine horribly. The rationalists made me question whether reason was of any use whatever; and when I had finished Herbert Spencer I had got as far as doubting (for the first time) whether evolution had occurred at all. As I laid down the last of Colonel Ingersoll's atheistic lectures, the dreadful thought broke into my mind, 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.'

'Orthodoxy.'

DECEMBER 22nd

Pure and exalted atheists talk themselves into believing that the working classes are turning with indignant scorn from the churches. The working classes are not indignant against the churches in the least. The things the working classes really are indignant against are the hospitals. The people has no definite disbelief in the temples of theology. The people has a very fiery and practical disbelief in the temples of physical science.

'Charles Dickens.'

DECEMBER 23rd

A turkey is more occult and awful than all the angels and archangels. In so far as God has partly revealed to us an angelic world, He has partly told us what an angel means. But God has never told us what a turkey means. And if you go and stare at a live turkey for an hour or two, you will find by the end of it that the enigma has rather increased than diminished.

'All Things Considered.'

DECEMBER 24thCHRISTMAS EVE

THE TRUCE OF CHRISTMAS

Passionate peace is in the sky—And in the snow in silver sealedThe beasts are perfect in the field,And men seem men so suddenly—(But take ten swords and ten times tenAnd blow the bugle in praising men;For we are for all men under the sun,And they are against us every one;And misers haggle and madmen clutchAnd there is peril in praising much,And we have the terrible tongues uncurledThat praise the world to the sons of the world).The idle humble hill and woodAre bowed about the sacred birth,And for one little hour the earthIs lazy with the love of good—(But ready are you, and ready am I,If the battle blow and the guns go by;For we are for all men under the sun,And they are against us every one;And the men that hate herd all together,To pride and gold, and the great white feather,And the thing is graven in star and stoneThat the men who love are all alone).Hunger is hard and time is tough,But bless the beggars and kiss the kings,For hope has broken the heart of things,And nothing was ever praised enough.(But hold the shield for a sudden swingAnd point the sword when you praise a thing,For we are for all men under the sun,And they are against us every one,And mime and merchant, thane and thrallHate us because we love them all,Only till Christmastide go byPassionate peace is in the sky).'The Commonwealth.'

The idle humble hill and woodAre bowed about the sacred birth,And for one little hour the earthIs lazy with the love of good—(But ready are you, and ready am I,If the battle blow and the guns go by;For we are for all men under the sun,And they are against us every one;And the men that hate herd all together,To pride and gold, and the great white feather,And the thing is graven in star and stoneThat the men who love are all alone).

Hunger is hard and time is tough,But bless the beggars and kiss the kings,For hope has broken the heart of things,And nothing was ever praised enough.(But hold the shield for a sudden swingAnd point the sword when you praise a thing,For we are for all men under the sun,And they are against us every one,And mime and merchant, thane and thrallHate us because we love them all,Only till Christmastide go byPassionate peace is in the sky).'The Commonwealth.'

DECEMBER 25thCHRISTMAS DAY

There fared a mother driven forthOut of an inn to roam;In the place where she was homelessAll men are at home.The crazy stable close at hand,With shaking timber and shifting sand,Grew a stronger thing to abide and standThan the square stones of Rome.For men are homesick in their homes,And strangers under the sun,And they lay their heads in a foreign landWhenever the day is done.Here we have battle and blazing eyes,And chance and honour and high surprise,But our homes are under miraculous skiesWhere the Yule tale was begun.A Child in a foul stable,Where the beasts feed and foam,Only where He was homelessAre you and I at home:We have hands that fashion and heads that know,But our hearts we lost—how long ago!In a place no chart nor ship can showUnder the sky's dome.This world is wild as an old wives' tale,And strange the plain things are,The earth is enough and the air is enoughFor our wonder and our war;But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swingsAnd our peace is put in impossible thingsWhere clashed and thundered unthinkable wingsRound an incredible star.To an open house in the eveningHome shall all men come,To an older place than EdenAnd a taller town than Rome.To the end of the way of the wandering star,To the things that cannot be and that are,To the place where God was homelessAnd all men are at home.The House of Christmas: 'Daily News.'

For men are homesick in their homes,And strangers under the sun,And they lay their heads in a foreign landWhenever the day is done.Here we have battle and blazing eyes,And chance and honour and high surprise,But our homes are under miraculous skiesWhere the Yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,Where the beasts feed and foam,Only where He was homelessAre you and I at home:We have hands that fashion and heads that know,But our hearts we lost—how long ago!In a place no chart nor ship can showUnder the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale,And strange the plain things are,The earth is enough and the air is enoughFor our wonder and our war;But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swingsAnd our peace is put in impossible thingsWhere clashed and thundered unthinkable wingsRound an incredible star.

To an open house in the eveningHome shall all men come,To an older place than EdenAnd a taller town than Rome.To the end of the way of the wandering star,To the things that cannot be and that are,To the place where God was homelessAnd all men are at home.The House of Christmas: 'Daily News.'

DECEMBER 26thBOXING DAY

There are innumerable persons with eyeglasses and green garments who pray for the return of the maypole or the Olympian Games. But there is about these people a haunting and alarming something which suggests that it is just possible that they do not keep Christmas. If so, where is the sense of all their dreams of festive traditions? Here is a solid and ancient festive tradition still plying a roaring trade in the streets, and they think it vulgar. If this is so, let them be very certain of this: that they are the kind of people who in the time of the maypole would have thought the maypole vulgar; who in the time of the Canterbury pilgrimage would have thought the Canterbury pilgrimage vulgar; who in the time of the Olympian Games would have thought the Olympian Games vulgar. Nor can there be any reasonable doubt that they were vulgar. Let no man deceive himself; if by vulgarity we mean coarseness of speech, rowdiness of behaviour, gossip, horseplay, and some heavy drinking: vulgarity there always was, wherever there was joy, wherever there was faith in the gods.

'Heretics.'

DECEMBER 27thST. JOHN'S DAY

Christ did not love humanity, He never said He loved humanity; He loved men. Neither He nor anyone else can love humanity; it is like loving a gigantic centipede. And the reason that the Tolstoians can even endure to think of an equally distributed love is that their love of humanity is a logical love, a love into which they are coerced by their own theories, a love which would be an insult to a tom-cat.

'Twelve Types.'

DECEMBER 28thHOLY INNOCENTS' DAY

That little urchin with the gold-red hair (whom I have just watched toddling past my house), she shall not be lopped and lamed and altered; her hair shall not be cut short like a convict's. No; all the kingdoms of the earth shall be hacked about and mutilated to suit her. The winds of the world shall be tempered to that lamb unshorn. All crowns that cannot fit her head shall be broken; all raiment and building that does not harmonize with her glory shall waste away. Her mother may bid her bind her hair, for that is natural authority; but the Emperor of the Planet shall not bid her cut it off. She is the human and sacred image; all around her the social fabric shall sway and split and fall; the pillars of society shall be shaken and the roofs of ages come rushing down; and not one hair of her head shall be harmed.

'What's Wrong with the World.'

DECEMBER 29thST. THOMAS À BECKET

When four knights scattered the blood and brains of St. Thomas of Canterbury it was not only a sign of anger but a sort of black admiration. They wished for his blood, but they wished even more for his brains. Such a blow will remain for ever unintelligible unless we realize what the brains of St. Thomas were thinking about just before they were distributed over the floor. They were thinking about the great medieval conception that the Church is the judge of the world. Becket objected to a priest being tried even by the Lord Chief Justice. And his reason was simple: because the Lord Chief Justice was being tried by the priest. The judiciary was itselfsub judice. The kings were themselves in the dock. The idea was to create an invisible kingdom without armies or prisons, but with complete freedom to condemn publicly all the kingdoms of the earth.

'What's Wrong with the World.'

DECEMBER 30th

Progress is not an illegitimate word, but it is logically evident that it is illegitimate for us. It is a sacred word, a word that could only rightly be used by rigid believers and in the ages of faith.

'Heretics.'

DECEMBER 31st

With all the multiplicity of knowledge there is one thing happily that no man knows: whether the world is old or young.

'The Defendant.'

ADVENT SUNDAY

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