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It is somewhat amusing, indeed, to notice the difference between
the fate of these three paradoxes in the fashion of the modern mind.
Charity is a fashionable virtue in our time; it is lit up by the
gigantic firelight of Dickens. Hope is a fashionable virtue to-day;
our attention has been arrested for it by the sudden and silver
trumpet of Stevenson. But faith is unfashionable, and it is customary
on every side to cast against it the fact that it is a paradox.
Everybody mockingly repeats the famous childish definition that faith
is "the power of believing that which we know to be untrue."
Yet it is not one atom more paradoxical than hope or charity.
Charity is the power of defending that which we know to be indefensible.
Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances which we know
to be desperate. It is true that there is a state of hope which belongs
to bright prospects and the morning; but that is not the virtue of hope.
The virtue of hope exists only in earthquake and, eclipse.
It is true that there is a thing crudely called charity, which means
charity to the deserving poor; but charity to the deserving is not
charity at all, but justice. It is the undeserving who require it,
and the ideal either does not exist at all, or exists wholly for them.
For practical purposes it is at the hopeless moment that we require
the hopeful man, and the virtue either does not exist at all,
or begins to exist at that moment. Exactly at the instant
when hope ceases to be reasonable it begins to be useful.
Now the old pagan world went perfectly straightforward until it
discovered that going straightforward is an enormous mistake.
It was nobly and beautifully reasonable, and discovered in its
death-pang this lasting and valuable truth, a heritage for the ages,
that reasonableness will not do. The pagan age was truly an Eden
or golden age, in this essential sense, that it is not to be recovered.
And it is not to be recovered in this sense again that,
while we are certainly jollier than the pagans, and much
more right than the pagans, there is not one of us who can,
by the utmost stretch of energy, be so sensible as the pagans.
That naked innocence of the intellect cannot be recovered
by any man after Christianity; and for this excellent reason,
that every man after Christianity knows it to be misleading.
Let me take an example, the first that occurs to the mind, of this
impossible plainness in the pagan point of view. The greatest
tribute to Christianity in the modern world is Tennyson's "Ulysses."
The poet reads into the story of Ulysses the conception of an incurable
desire to wander. But the real Ulysses does not desire to wander at all.
He desires to get home. He displays his heroic and unconquerable
qualities in resisting the misfortunes which baulk him; but that is all.
There is no love of adventure for its own sake; that is a
Christian product. There is no love of Penelope for her own sake;
that is a Christian product. Everything in that old world would
appear to have been clean and obvious. A good man was a good man;
a bad man was a bad man. For this reason they had no charity;
for charity is a reverent agnosticism towards the complexity of the soul.
For this reason they had no such thing as the art of fiction, the novel;
for the novel is a creation of the mystical idea of charity.
For them a pleasant landscape was pleasant, and an unpleasant
landscape unpleasant. Hence they had no idea of romance; for romance
consists in thinking a thing more delightful because it is dangerous;
it is a Christian idea. In a word, we cannot reconstruct
or even imagine the beautiful and astonishing pagan world.
It was a world in which common sense was really common.
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