THE GOD-MAKERS.
The financial success of Mr. H.G. Wells' punctuality and enterprise in looking into the vexed question of the Deity, even in war time, has had the usual effect, and many literary men are feverishly pursuing similar studies. In due course some of these will no doubt take practical shape. Meanwhile it has seemed desirable for a Punch man to make a few inquiries among our leading philosophers and readers of the future with regard to the same engrossing topic. For England will ever be the wonder and despair of other nations in its capacity, no matter with what seriousness its hands are filled, for pursuing controversial distractions.
To run Mr. Arnold Bennett to earth was no easy matter, for in these days he is behind every scene, and no statesman, however new, can get along without his counsel or correction. But, since to the good Punch man difficulties exist only as obstacles of which the circumvention acts as intellectual cocktails or stimuli, the task was accomplished. Mr. Bennett agreed that the book of the other famous Essex fictionist was a meritorious and ingenious work, but he found it far from exhaustive. The idea of God, he held, still needed handling in a capable efficient way. What was wrong with religion was, he said, its mystery; if only it could be pruned of nonsense and made practical for the man in the street, it might become really useful. He personally had not yet thought finally on the subject of God, having just now more tasks on hand (including a new play and universal supervision) than he could count on the Five Fingers, but directly he had time he meant to attend to the matter and polish it off. It was a case where his intervention was clearly called for, since omniscience could be handled only by omniscience.
The Punch man has, however, to admit himself beaten in the matter of Sir Oliver Lodge. On inquiring at Birmingham University he was told that the illustrious Principal was absent, no one knew where, but it was believed that he was visiting the higher slopes of Mount Sinai. All that the Punch man could obtain was one of the black velvet skull-caps which the seer wears, but, as it refused to give up any of its secrets, he must confess to failure—at any rate until Sir Oliver returns.
Being in Brummagem (as it has been wittily called), the Punch man bethought him of the Rev. R.J. Campbell, once the very darling of the new gods—in fact the arch neo-theologian. But Mr. Campbell, erstwhile so articulate and confident, had nothing to say. All he could do was to lock himself for safety in his church and look through the keyhole with his beautiful troubled wistful orbs.
Mr. G.K. Chesterton loomed up to a dizzy height amid a cloud of new witnesses. Greeting the Punch man, he laid aside his proofs.
"I was just deleting the abusive epithet 'Lloyd' from all the references to the Premier," he said, "but I have a moment for you. I find a moment sufficient time for the assumption of any conviction however lifelong."
The Punch man asked if he had read the Dunmow evangel.
"I have read Mr. Wells's book, God, the Invisible Man, with the greatest interest," said Mr. Chesterton.
The Punch man ventured to correct him. "God, the Invisible King," he interposed.
"Very likely," replied the anti-Marconi Colossus. "But what's in a title anyway? Books should not have titles at all, but be numbered, like a composer's operas, Op. 1, Op. 2, and so on."
"Whether or not the opping comes, some of them," said the Punch man, "are certain to be skipped."
The giant was visibly annoyed. "You're not playing the game," he said. "It's I who ought to have said that. Not you. You're only the interviewer. You'd better give it to me anyway."
"And what," the Punch man asked, "are your views respecting God?"
"I consider," he said instantly, "that an honest god's the noblest work of man."
"I felt sure you would," the Punch man replied. "In fact, I had a bet on it."
The Rev. Sir William Robertson Nicoll, Editor of The British Weekly, said that for many years his paper had supported Providence, to, he believed, their mutual advantage, and it would continue to do so. He personally recognised no need for change. Still, no one welcomed honest analysis more warmly than himself, and he had read Mr. Wells's masterpiece with all his habitual avidity and delight.
The Punch man, passing on to the office of The Times, craved permission to see the Editor, through smoked glass if necessary. Having complied with a thousand formalities he was at last ushered into the presence. The great man was engaged in selecting the various types in which to-morrow's letters were to be set up—big for the whales and minion for the minnows. "I can give you just two minutes," he said, without looking up. "These are strenuous ti——, I should say days. Self-advertisement we leave to the lower branches of the family."
"All I want to know," said the Punch man, "is what is your idea of God? The feeling is very general that God should be more clearly defined and, if possible, personified. One of your own Republican correspondents, who not only got large type but a nasty leader, has said so. How do you yourself view Him?"
"I have a god of my own," said the Editor, watch in hand, "and I see him very distinctly. Powerfully built, with a boyish face and a wealth of fairish hair over one side of the noble brow. Aloof but vigilant. Restive but determined. Quick to praise but quicker to blame. Adaptive, volcanic, relentless and terribly immanent—terribly. That is my god. A king, no doubt, but"—here he sighed—"by no means invisible. Good day."
Nothing but the absence of Mr. Frank Harris in what is not only his spiritual but his actual home, America, prevents the publication of his definitive and epoch-making views on this suggestive theme.
Meanwhile things go on much as usual.
Officer (superintending party that is trying to extinguish a fire at French farm). "Good heavens, Corporal, what are you doing up there?"
Irish Corporal. "I'm watchin' the straw doesn't catch a-fire, Sor."
Officer. "Well, take care. Is it an easy place to get out of?"
Corporal. "It is that. You might go through the floor annywhere, Sor."