a miscellany of men-第12部分

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ea　is　his；　and　he　made　it。　　In　other　words；　what　the　savage　really　said　about　the　sea　was；　〃Only　my　fetish　Mumbo　could　raise　such　mountains　out　of　mere　water。〃　　What　the　savage　really　said　about　the　sun　was；〃　Only　my　great…　great…grandfather　Jumbo　could　deserve　such　a　blazing　crown。〃

About　all　these　myths　my　own　position　is　utterly　and　even　sadly　simple。　I　say　you　cannot　really　understand　any　myths　till　you　have　found　that　one　of　them　is　not　a　myth。　　Turnip　ghosts　mean　nothing　if　there　are　no　real　ghosts。　　Forged　bank…notes　mean　nothing　if　there　are　no　real　bank…notes。　Heathen　gods　mean　nothing；　and　must　always　mean　nothing；　to　those　of　us　that　deny　the　Christian　God。　　When　once　a　god　is　admitted；　even　a　false　god；　the　Cosmos　begins　to　know　its　place：　which　is　the　second　place。　When　once　it　is　the　real　God　the　Cosmos　falls　down　before　Him；　offering　flowers　in　spring　as　flames　in　winter。　　〃My　love　is　like　a　red；　red　rose〃　does　not　mean　that　the　poet　is　praising　roses　under　the　allegory　of　a　young　lady。　　〃My　love　is　an　arbutus〃　does　not　mean　that　the　author　was　a　botanist　so　pleased　with　a　particular　arbutus　tree　that　he　said　he　loved　it。　　〃Who　art　the　moon　and　regent　of　my　sky〃　does　not　mean　that　Juliet　invented　Romeo　to　account　for　the　roundness　of　the　moon。　　〃Christ　is　the　Sun　of　Easter〃　does　not　mean　that　the　worshipper　is　praising　the　sun　under　the　emblem　of　Christ。　　Goddess　or　god　can　clothe　themselves　with　the　spring　or　summer；　but　the　body　is　more　than　raiment。　　Religion　takes　almost　disdainfully　the　dress　of　Nature；　and　indeed　Christianity　has　done　as　well　with　the　snows　of　Christmas　as　with　the　snow…drops　of　spring。　And　when　I　look　across　the　sun…struck　fields；　I　know　in　my　inmost　bones　that　my　joy　is　not　solely　in　the　spring；　for　spring　alone；　being　always　returning；　would　be　always　sad。　　There　is　somebody　or　something　walking　there；　to　be　crowned　with　flowers：　and　my　pleasure　is　in　some　promise　yet　possible　and　in　the　resurrection　of　the　dead。



THE　REAL　JOURNALIST


Our　age　which　has　boasted　of　realism　will　fail　chiefly　through　lack　of　reality。　　Never；　I　fancy；　has　there　been　so　grave　and　startling　a　divorce　between　the　real　way　a　thing　is　done　and　the　look　of　it　when　it　is　done。　I　take　the　nearest　and　most　topical　instance　to　hand　a　newspaper。　Nothing　looks　more　neat　and　regular　than　a　newspaper；　with　its　parallel　columns；　its　mechanical　printing；　its　detailed　facts　and　figures；　its　responsible；　polysyllabic　leading　articles。　　Nothing；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　goes　every　night　through　more　agonies　of　adventure；　more　hairbreadth　escapes；　desperate　expedients；　crucial　councils；　random　compromises；　or　barely　averted　catastrophes。　　Seen　from　the　outside；　it　seems　to　come　round　as　automatically　as　the　clock　and　as　silently　as　the　dawn。　　Seen　from　the　inside；　it　gives　all　its　organisers　a　gasp　of　relief　every　morning　to　see　that　it　has　come　out　at　all；　that　it　has　come　out　without　the　leading　article　upside　down　or　the　Pope　congratulated　on　discovering　the　North　Pole。

I　will　give　an　instance　（merely　to　illustrate　my　thesis　of　unreality）　from　the　paper　that　I　know　best。　　Here　is　a　simple　story；　a　little　episode　in　the　life　of　a　journalist；　which　may　be　amusing　and　instructive：　the　tale　of　how　I　made　a　great　mistake　in　quotation。　　There　are　really　two　stories：　the　story　as　seen　from　the　outside；　by　a　man　reading　the　paper；　and　the　story　seen　from　the　inside；　by　the　journalists　shouting　and　telephoning　and　taking　notes　in　shorthand　through　the　night。

This　is　the　outside　story；　and　it　reads　like　a　dreadful　quarrel。　　The　notorious　G。　　K。　　Chesterton；　a　reactionary　Torquemada　whose　one　gloomy　pleasure　was　in　the　defence　of　orthodoxy　and　the　pursuit　of　heretics；　long　calculated　and　at　last　launched　a　denunciation　of　a　brilliant　leader　of　the　New　Theology　which　he　hated　with　all　the　furnace　of　his　fanatic　soul。　　In　this　document　Chesterton　darkly；　deliberately；　and　not　having　the　fear　of　God　before　his　eyes；　asserted　that　Shakespeare　wrote　the　line　〃that　wreathes　its　old　fantastic　roots　so　high。〃　　This　he　said　because　he　had　been　kept　in　ignorance　by　Priests；　or；　perhaps；　because　he　thought　craftily　that　none　of　his　dupes　could　discover　a　curious　and　forgotten　rhyme　called　'Elegy　in　a　Country　Churchyard'。　　Anyhow；　that　orthodox　gentleman　made　a　howling　error；　and　received　some　twentyfive　letters　and　post…cards　from　kind　correspondents　who　pointed　out　the　mistake。

But　the　odd　thing　is　that　scarcely　any　of　them　could　conceive　that　it　was　a　mistake。　　The　first　wrote　in　the　tone　of　one　wearied　of　epigrams；　and　cried；　〃What　is　the　joke　NOW？〃　　Another　professed　（and　practised；　for　all　I　know；　God　help　him）　that　he　had　read　through　all　Shakespeare　and　failed　to　find　the　line。　　A　third　wrote　in　a　sort　of　moral　distress；　asking；　as　in　confidence；　if　Gray　was　really　a　plagiarist。　　They　were　a　noble　collection；　but　they　all　subtly　assumed　an　element　of　leisure　and　exactitude　in　the　recipient's　profession　and　character　which　is　far　from　the　truth。　　Let　us　pass　on　to　the　next　act　of　the　external　tragedy。

In　Monday's　issue　of　the　same　paper　appeared　a　letter　from　the　same　culprit。　　He　ingenuously　confessed　that　the　line　did　not　belong　to　Shakespeare；　but　to　a　poet　whom　he　called　Grey。　　Which　was　another　cropperor　whopper。　　This　strange　and　illiterate　outbreak　was　printed　by　the　editor　with　the　justly　scornful　title；　〃Mr。　Chesterton　'Explains'？〃　Any　man　reading　the　paper　at　breakfast　saw　at　once　the　meaning　of　the　sarcastic　quotation　marks。　　They　meant；　of　course；　〃Here　is　a　man　who　doesn't　know　Gray　from　Shakespeare；　he　tries　to　patch　it　up　and　he　can't　even　spell　Gray。　　And　that　is　what　he　calls　an　Explanation。〃　　That　is　the　perfectly　natural　inference　of　the　reader　from　the　letter；　the　mistake；　and　the　headlineas　seen　from　the　outside。　　The　falsehood　was　serious；　the　editorial　rebuke　was　serious。　　The　stern　editor　and　the　sombre；　baffled　contributor　confront　each　other　as　the　curtain　falls。

And　now　I　will　tell　you　exactly　what　really　happened。　　It　is　honestly　rather　amusing；　it　is　a　story　of　what　journals　and　journalists　really　are。　A　monstrously　lazy　man　lives　in　South　Bucks　partly　by　writing　a　column　in　the　Saturday　Daily　News。　　At　the　time　he　usually　writes　it　（which　is　always　at　the　last　moment）　his　house　is　unexpectedly　invaded　by　infants　of　all　shapes　and　sizes。　　His　Secretary　is　called　away；　and　he　has　to　cope　with　the　invading　pigmies。　　Playing　with　children　is　a　glorious　thing；　but　the　journalist　in　question　has　never　understood　why　it　was　considered　a　soothing　or　idyllic　one。　　It　reminds　him；　not　of　watering　little　budding　flowers；　but　of　wrestling　for　hours　with　gigantic　angels　and　devils。　　Moral　problems　of　the　most　monstrous　complexity　besiege　him　incessantly。　　He　has　to　decide　before　the　awful　eyes　of　innocence；　whether；　when　a　sister　has　knocked　down　a　brother's　bricks；　in　revenge　for　the　brother　having　taken　two　sweets　out　of　his　turn；　it　is　endurable　that　the　brother　should　retaliate　by　scribbling　on　the　sister's　picture…　book；　and　whether　such　conduct　does　not　justify　the　sister　in　blowing　out　the　brother's　unlawfully　lighted　match。

Just　as　he　is　solving　this　problem　upon　principles　of　the　highest　morality；　it　occurs　to　him　suddenly　that　he　has　not　written　his　Saturday　article；　and　that　there　is　only　about　an　hour　to　do　it　in。　He　wildly　calls　to　somebody　（probably　the　gardener）　to　telephone　to　somewhere　for　a　messenger；　he　barricades　himself　in　another　room　and　tears　his　hair；　wondering　what　on　earth　he　shall　write　about。　　A　drumming　of　fists　on　the　door　outside　and　a　cheerful　bellowing　encourage　and　clarify　his　thoughts；　and　he　is　able　to　observe　some　newspapers　and　circulars　in　wrappers　lying　on　the　table。　One　is　a　dingy　book　catalogue；　the　second　is　a　shiny　pamphlet　about　petrol；　the　third　is　a　paper　called　The　Christian　Commonwealth。　　He　opens　it　anyhow；　and　sees　in　the　middle　of　a　page　a　sentence　with　which　he　honestly　disagrees。　　It　says　that　the　sense　of　beauty　in　Nature　is　a　new　thing；　hardly　felt　before　Wordsworth。　　A　stream　of　images　and　pictures　pour　through　his　head；　like　skies　chasing　each　other　or　forests　running　by。　　〃Not　felt　before　Wordsworth！〃　　he　thinks。　〃Oh；　but　this　won't　do。。。bare　ruined　choirs　where　late　the　sweet　birds　sang。。。night's　candles　are　burnt　out。。。　glowed　with　living　sapphires。　leaving　their　moon…loved　maze。。。antique　roots　fantastic。。。　antique　roots　wreathed　high。。。what　is　it　in　As　You　Like　It？〃

He　sits　down　desperately；　the　messenger　rings　at　the　bell；　the　children　drum　on　the　door；　the　servants　run　up　from　time　to　time　to　say　the　messenger　is　getting　bored；　and　the　pencil　staggers　along；　making　the　world　a　present　of　fifteen　hundred　unimportant　words；　and　making　Shakespeare　a　present　of　a　portion　of　Gray's　Elegy；　putting　〃fantastic　roots　wreathed　high〃　instead　of　〃antique　roots　peep　out。〃　　Then　the　journalist　sends　off　his　copy　and　turns　his　attention　to　the　enigma　of　whether　a　brother　should　commandeer　a　sister's　necklace　because　the　sister　pinched　him　at　Littlehampton。　　That　is　the　first　scene；　that　is　how　an　article　is　really　written。

The　scene　now　changes　to　the　newspaper　office。　　The　writer　of　the　article　has　discovered　his　mistake　and　wants　to　correct　it　by　the　next　day：　but　the　next　day　is　Sunday。　　He　cannot　post　a　letter；　so　he　rings　up　the　paper　and　dictates　a　letter　by　telephone。　　He　leaves　the　title　to　his　friends　at　the　other　end；　he　knows　that　they　can　spell　〃Gray；〃　as　no　doubt　they　can：　but　the　letter　is　put　down　by　journalistic　custom　in　a　pencil　scribble　and　the　vowel　may　well　be　doubtful。　　The　friend　writes　at　the　top　of　the　letter　〃'G。　　K。　　C。'　Explains；〃　putting　the　initials　in　quotation　marks。　　The　next　man　passing　it　for　press　is　bored　with　these　initials　（I　am　with　him　there）　and　crosses　them　out；　substituting　with　austere　civility；　〃Mr。　Chesterton　Explains。〃　　But　and　now　he　hears　the　iron　laughter　of　the　Fates；　for　the　blind　bolt　is　about　to　fallbut　he　neglects　to　cross　out　the　second　〃quote〃　（as　we　call　it）　and　it　goes　up　to　press　with　a　〃quote〃　between　the　last　words。　　Another　quotation　mark　at　the　end　of　〃explains〃　was　the　work　of　one　merry　moment　for　the　printers　upstairs。　　So　the　inverted　commas　were　lifted　entirely　off　one　word　on　to　the　other