heretics- 第13部分

a　single　new　trophy　or　ensign　for　the　world's　merriment　to　rally　to。



They　have　not　given　a　name　or　a　new　occasion　of　gaiety。



Mr。　Swinburne　does　not　hang　up　his　stocking　on　the　eve　of　the　birthday



of　Victor　Hugo。　　Mr。　William　Archer　does　not　sing　carols　descriptive



of　the　infancy　of　Ibsen　outside　people's　doors　in　the　snow。



In　the　round　of　our　rational　and　mournful　year　one　festival　remains



out　of　all　those　ancient　gaieties　that　once　covered　the　whole　earth。



Christmas　remains　to　remind　us　of　those　ages；　whether　Pagan　or　Christian；



when　the　many　acted　poetry　instead　of　the　few　writing　it。



In　all　the　winter　in　our　woods　there　is　no　tree　in　glow　but　the　holly。







The　strange　truth　about　the　matter　is　told　in　the　very　word　〃holiday。〃



A　bank　holiday　means　presumably　a　day　which　bankers　regard　as　holy。



A　half…holiday　means；　I　suppose；　a　day　on　which　a　schoolboy　is　only



partially　holy。　　It　is　hard　to　see　at　first　sight　why　so　human　a　thing



as　leisure　and　larkiness　should　always　have　a　religious　origin。



Rationally　there　appears　no　reason　why　we　should　not　sing　and　give



each　other　presents　in　honour　of　anythingthe　birth　of　Michael



Angelo　or　the　opening　of　Euston　Station。　　But　it　does　not　work。



As　a　fact；　men　only　become　greedily　and　gloriously　material　about



something　spiritualistic。　　Take　away　the　Nicene　Creed　and　similar　things；



and　you　do　some　strange　wrong　to　the　sellers　of　sausages。



Take　away　the　strange　beauty　of　the　saints；　and　what　has



remained　to　us　is　the　far　stranger　ugliness　of　Wandsworth。



Take　away　the　supernatural；　and　what　remains　is　the　unnatural。







And　now　I　have　to　touch　upon　a　very　sad　matter。　　There　are　in　the　modern



world　an　admirable　class　of　persons　who　really　make　protest　on　behalf



of　that　antiqua　pulchritudo　of　which　Augustine　spoke；　who　do　long



for　the　old　feasts　and　formalities　of　the　childhood　of　the　world。



William　Morris　and　his　followers　showed　how　much　brighter　were



the　dark　ages　than　the　age　of　Manchester。　　Mr。　W。　B。　Yeats　frames



his　steps　in　prehistoric　dances；　but　no　man　knows　and　joins　his　voice



to　forgotten　choruses　that　no　one　but　he　can　hear。　　Mr。　George　Moore



collects　every　fragment　of　Irish　paganism　that　the　forgetfulness



of　the　Catholic　Church　has　left　or　possibly　her　wisdom　preserved。



There　are　innumerable　persons　with　eye…glasses　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。



It　is　painful　to　regard　human　nature　in　such　a　light；



but　it　seems　somehow　possible　that　Mr。　George　Moore　does



not　wave　his　spoon　and　shout　when　the　pudding　is　set　alight。



It　is　even　possible　that　Mr。　W。　B。　Yeats　never　pulls　crackers。



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。　　Wherever　you　have　belief　you　will　have　hilarity；



wherever　you　have　hilarity　you　will　have　some　dangers。　　And　as　creed



and　mythology　produce　this　gross　and　vigorous　life；　so　in　its　turn



this　gross　and　vigorous　life　will　always　produce　creed　and　mythology。



If　we　ever　get　the　English　back　on　to　the　English　land　they　will　become



again　a　religious　people；　if　all　goes　well；　a　superstitious　people。



The　absence　from　modern　life　of　both　the　higher　and　lower　forms　of　faith



is　largely　due　to　a　divorce　from　nature　and　the　trees　and　clouds。



If　we　have　no　more　turnip　ghosts　it　is　chiefly　from　the　lack　of　turnips。















VII。　　Omar　and　the　Sacred　Vine











A　new　morality　has　burst　upon　us　with　some　violence　in　connection



with　the　problem　of　strong　drink；　and　enthusiasts　in　the　matter



range　from　the　man　who　is　violently　thrown　out　at　12。30；　to　the　lady



who　smashes　American　bars　with　an　axe。　　In　these　discussions　it



is　almost　always　felt　that　one　very　wise　and　moderate　position　is



to　say　that　wine　or　such　stuff　should　only　be　drunk　as　a　medicine。



With　this　I　should　venture　to　disagree　with　a　peculiar　ferocity。



The　one　genuinely　dangerous　and　immoral　way　of　drinking　wine　is　to　drink



it　as　a　medicine。　　And　for　this　reason；　If　a　man　drinks　wine　in　order



to　obtain　pleasure；　he　is　trying　to　obtain　something　exceptional；



something　he　does　not　expect　every　hour　of　the　day；　something　which；



unless　he　is　a　little　insane；　he　will　not　try　to　get　every　hour



of　the　day。　　But　if　a　man　drinks　wine　in　order　to　obtain　health；



he　is　trying　to　get　something　natural；　something；　that　is；



that　he　ought　not　to　be　without；　something　that　he　may　find　it



difficult　to　reconcile　himself　to　being　without。　　The　man　may　not



be　seduced　who　has　seen　the　ecstasy　of　being　ecstatic；　it　is　more



dazzling　to　catch　a　glimpse　of　the　ecstasy　of　being　ordinary。



If　there　were　a　magic　ointment；　and　we　took　it　to　a　strong　man；



and　said；　〃This　will　enable　you　to　jump　off　the　Monument；〃



doubtless　he　would　jump　off　the　Monument；　but　he　would　not　jump



off　the　Monument　all　day　long　to　the　delight　of　the　City。



But　if　we　took　it　to　a　blind　man；　saying；　〃This　will　enable　you　to　see；〃



he　would　be　under　a　heavier　temptation。　　It　would　be　hard　for　him



not　to　rub　it　on　his　eyes　whenever　he　heard　the　hoof　of　a　noble



horse　or　the　birds　singing　at　daybreak。　　It　is　easy　to　deny　one's



self　festivity；　it　is　difficult　to　deny　one's　self　normality。



Hence　comes　the　fact　which　every　doctor　knows；　that　it　is　often



perilous　to　give　alcohol　to　the　sick　even　when　they　need　it。



I　need　hardly　say　that　I　do　not　mean　that　I　think　the　giving



of　alcohol　to　the　sick　for　stimulus　is　necessarily　unjustifiable。



But　I　do　mean　that　giving　it　to　the　healthy　for　fun　is　the　proper



use　of　it；　and　a　great　deal　more　consistent　with　health。







The　sound　rule　in　the　matter　would　appear　to　be　like　many　other



sound　rulesa　paradox。　　Drink　because　you　are　happy；　but　never　because



you　are　miserable。　　Never　drink　when　you　are　wretched　without　it；



or　you　will　be　like　the　grey…faced　gin…drinker　in　the　slum；



but　drink　when　you　would　be　happy　without　it；　and　you　will　be　like



the　laughing　peasant　of　Italy。　　Never　drink　because　you　need　it；



for　this　is　rational　drinking；　and　the　way　to　death　and　hell。



But　drink　because　you　do　not　need　it；　for　this　is　irrational　drinking；



and　the　ancient　health　of　the　world。







For　more　than　thirty　years　the　shadow　and　glory　of　a　great



Eastern　figure　has　lain　upon　our　English　literature。



Fitzgerald's　translation　of　Omar　Khayyam　concentrated　into　an



immortal　poignancy　all　the　dark　and　drifting　hedonism　of　our　time。



Of　the　literary　splendour　of　that　work　it　would　be　merely　banal　to　speak；



in　few　other　of　the　books　of　men　has　there　been　anything　so　combining



the　gay　pugnacity　of　an　epigram　with　the　vague　sadness　of　a　song。



But　of　its　philosophical；　ethical；　and　religious　influence　which　has



been　almost　as　great　as　its　brilliancy；　I　should　like　to　say　a　word；



and　that　word；　I　confess；　one　of　uncompromising　hostility。



There　are　a　great　many　things　which　might　be　said　against



the　spirit　of　the　Rubaiyat；　and　against　its　prodigious　influence。



But　one　matter　of　indictment　towers　ominously　above　the　rest



a　genuine　disgrace　to　it；　a　genuine　calamity　to　us。　　This　is　the　terrible



blow　that　this　great　poem　has　struck　against　sociability　and　the　joy



of　life。　　Some　one　called　Omar　〃the　sad；　glad　old　Persian。〃



Sad　he　is；　glad　he　is　not；　in　any　sense　of　the　word　whatever。



He　has　been　a　worse　foe　to　gladness　than　the　Puritans。







A　pensive　and　graceful　Oriental　lies　under　the　rose…tree



with　his　wine…pot　and　his　scroll　of　poems。　　It　may　seem　strange



that　any　one's　thoughts　should；　at　the　moment　of　regarding　him；



fly　back　to　the　dark　bedside　where　the　doctor　doles　out　brandy。



It　may　seem　stranger　still　that　they　should　go　back



to　the　grey　wastrel　shaking　with　gin　in　Houndsditch。



But　a　great　philosophical　unity　links　the　three　in　an　evil　bond。



Omar　Khayyam's　wine…bibbing　is　bad；　not　because　it　is　wine…bibbing。



It　is　bad；　and　very　bad；　because　it　is　medical　wine…bibbing。　It



is　the　drinking　of　a　man　who　drinks　because　he　is　not　happy。



His　is　the　wine　that　shuts　out　the　universe；　not　the　wine　that　reveals　it。



It　is　not　poetical　drinking；　which　is　joyous　and　instinctive；



it　is　rational　drinking；　which　is　as　prosaic　as　an　investment；



as　unsavoury　as　a　dose　of　camomile。　　Whole　heavens　above　it；



from　the　point　of　view　of　sentiment；　though　not　of　style；



rises　the　splendour　of　some　old　English　drinking…song







　　〃Then　pass　the　bowl；　my　comrades　all；



　　　And　let　the　zider　vlow。〃







For　this　song　was　caught　up　by　happy　men　to　express　the　worth



of　truly　worthy　things；　of　brotherhood　and　garrulity；　and　the　brief