By the Christmas Fire | Page 8

harmless vanity.

Sometimes on the street you see a man whom you take for an old
acquaintance. You approach with outstretched hand and expectant
countenance, but his stony glare of non-recognition gives you pause.
The fact that he does not know you gives you time to perceive that you
do not know him and have never seen him before. A superficial
resemblance has deceived you. In the dictionary you may find many
instances of such mistakes in the moral realm.
One of the most common of these mistakes in identity is the confusion
of the Idealist and the Doctrinaire. An idealist is defined as "one who
pursues and dwells upon the ideal, a seeker after the highest beauty and
good." A doctrinaire may do this also, but he is differentiated as "one
who theorizes without sufficient regard for practical considerations, one
who undertakes to explain things by a narrow theory or group of
theories."
The Idealist is the kind of man we need. He is not satisfied with things
as they are. He is one
Whose soul sees the perfect Which his eyes seek in vain.
If a more perfect society is to come, it must be through the efforts of
persons capable of such visions. Our schools, churches, and all the
institutions of a higher civilization have as their chief aim the
production of just such personalities. But why are they not more
successful? What becomes of the thousands of young idealists who
each year set forth on the quest for the highest beauty and truth? Why
do they tire so soon of the quest and sink into the ranks of the
spiritually unemployed.
The answer is that many persons who set out to be idealists end by
becoming doctrinaires. They identify the highest beauty and truth with
their own theories. After that they make no further excursions into the
unexplored regions of reality, for fear that they may discover their
identification to have been incomplete.
The Doctrinaire is like a mason who has mixed his cement before he is
ready to use it. When he is ready the cement has set, and he can't use it.

It sticks together, but it won't stick to anything else. George Eliot
describes such a predicament in her sketch of the Reverend Amos
Barton. Mr. Barton's plans, she says, were, like his sermons,
"admirably well conceived, had the state of the case been otherwise."
By eliminating the "state of the case," the Doctrinaire is enabled to live
the simple life--intellectually and ethically. The trouble is that it is too
simple. To his mind the question, "Is it true?" is never a disturbing one,
nor does it lead to a troublesome investigation of matters of fact. His
definition of truth has the virtue of perfect simplicity,--"A truth is that
which has got itself believed by me." His thoughts form an exclusive
club, and when a new idea applies for admission it is placed on the
waiting list. A single black-ball from an old member is sufficient
permanently to exclude it. When an idea is once in, it has a very
pleasant time of it. All the opinions it meets with are clubable, and on
good terms with one another. Whether any of them are related to any
reality outside their own little circle would be a question that it would
be impolite to ask. It would be like asking a correctly attired member
who was punctilious in paying his club dues, whether he had also paid
his tailor. To the Doctrinaire there seems something sordid and vulgar
in the anxiety to make the two ends--theory and practice--meet. It
seems to indicate that one is not intellectually in comfortable
circumstances.
The Doctrinaire, when he has conceived certain ideals, is not content
that they should be cast upon the actual world, to take their chances in
the rough-and-tumble struggle for existence, proving their right to the
kingdom by actually conquering it, inch by inch. He cannot endure
such tedious delays. He must have the satisfaction of seeing his ideals
instantly realized. The ideal life must be lived under ideal conditions.
And so, for his private satisfaction, he creates for himself such a world
into which he retires.
It is a world of natural law, as he understands natural law. There are no
exceptions, no deviation from general principles, no shadings off, no
fascinating obscurities, no rude practical jokes, no undignified by-play,
no "east windows of divine surprise," no dark unfathomable abysses.

He would not allow such things. In his world the unexpected never
happens. The endless chain of causation runs smoothly. Every event
has a cause, and the cause is never tangled up with the effect, so that
you cannot tell where one begins and the other ends. He is
intellectually tidy, and everything must be in its