Really, my dear Mr. Wells, I must here interrupt. Why “my” phantasy? Not that he uses the word “phantasy,” but he implies that I invented God (another enormous compliment to me). Does he not know that the human race as a whole, or at any rate the leading part of it, including his own immediate honourable ancestry, pay some reverence to Almighty God, and humbly admits His creative power and Sustained Omnipotence? But I must resume.
... that my phantasy of a Creator has worked within disproportionate margins both of space and time; when he tells me if I reach beatitude I shall feel like a fish out of water; when he speaks like this, I recognise the unmistakable touch of the Bible Christian who has lost his God.
Mr. Wells has never met anybody, I suppose, of sufficient breadth of culture to instruct him in these things. He does not know that the truths of the Faith cannot be visualised; he does not know that the Faith is a philosophy; he does not know that our limitations are no disproof of an infinite Creator.
He boasts that his education was a modern one, and taught him things that were unknown a hundred years ago. So was mine. I also was taught that the Earth was a globe, that geological time was prolonged, and the rest of it, but I was also taught how to think, and I was also taught a little—not very much—history.
For instance, I was taught enough to know that the doctrine of immortality did not arise in the Middle Ages, as Mr. Wells thinks it did, nor even the doctrine of eternal beatitude. But I was taught enough to regard these great mysteries with reverence and not to talk about them as preposterous. In other words, I was taught not to measure the infinite things of God, nor even the great things of Christendom, by the standards of the Yellow Press.
When Mr. Wells concludes this passage by saying, “I strut to no such personal beatitude,” and then goes on to say, “the life to which I belong uses me and will pass on beyond me, and I am content,” he does two unintelligent things. First of all, he mixes up the real with the imaginary (for whether he will attain beatitude or its opposite has nothing whatever to do with his opinions upon the subject), and next he falls into the very common error of confused intellects—the personification of abstract ideas. “The life to which we belong uses us” is a meaningless phrase. God may use us or we may use ourselves, or some other third Will, not God’s or our own, may use us: but “the life to which we belong” does not use us. Talking like that is harmless when it is mere metaphor, it is asinine when it sets up to be definition.
He accuses the Christian of being anthropomorphic: it is just the other way. It is we who are perpetually compelled to drag back inferior minds to a confession of their own apparently ineradicable tendency to talk in terms of their own petty experience; to imagine that the whole world has “progressed” because they have daily hot baths and bad cooking, while in their childhood they had only occasional hot baths, but better cooking; that more people voting is “progressive” as compared with people not voting at all; that a lot of rich people going from England to the Riviera every year is “progressive” compared with staying at home in the hideous surroundings of poor old England.
This leads Mr. Wells, as it always does all his kind, to prophecy. We are all of us approaching what I may call The Great Rosy Dawn: a goldmine: a terrestrial Paradise.
This sort of exaltation is the inevitable first phase of Bible-mania in decay. But it is a very short phase. It is the shoddy remnant of the Christian hope, and when it is gone there will return on us, not the simple paganism of a sad world, but sheer darkness: and strange things in the dark.
A COMPANION
TO MR. WELLS’S
“OUTLINE OF HISTORY”