Its method, the method of drums and
democratic appeal, is that of the Franciscans or any other march of the
Church Militant. It was precisely its aims that were dubious, with their
dissenting morality and despotic finance. It is somewhat the same with
things like the sky-signs in Broadway. The aesthete must not ask me to
mingle my tears with his, because these things are merely useful and
ugly. For I am not specially inclined to think them ugly; but I am
strongly inclined to think them useless. As a matter of art for art's
sake, they seem to me rather artistic. As a form of practical social
work they seem to me stark stupid waste. If Mr. Bilge is rich enough to
build a tower four hundred feet high and give it a crown of golden
crescents and crimson stars, in order to draw attention to his
manufacture of the Paradise Tooth Paste or The Seventh Heaven Cigar, I
do not feel the least disposition to thank him for any serious form of
social service. I have never tried the Seventh Heaven Cigar; indeed a
premonition moves me towards the belief that I shall go down to the dust
without trying it. I have every reason to doubt whether it does any
particular good to those who smoke it, or any good to anybody except
those who sell it. In short Mr. Bilge's usefulness consists in being
useful to Mr. Bilge, and all the rest is illusion and sentimentalism.
But because I know that Bilge is only Bilge, shall I stoop to the
profanity of saying that fire is only fire? Shall I blaspheme crimson
stars any more than crimson sunsets, or deny that those moons are golden
any more than that this grass is green? If a child saw these coloured
lights, he would dance with as much delight as at any other coloured
toys; and it is the duty of every poet, and even of every critic, to
dance in respectful imitation of the child. Indeed I am in a mood of so
much sympathy with the fairy lights of this pantomime city, that I
should be almost sorry to see social sanity and a sense of proportion
return to extinguish them. I fear the day is breaking, and the broad
daylight of tradition and ancient truth is coming to end all this
delightful nightmare of New York at night. Peasants and priests and all
sorts of practical and sensible people are coming back into power, and
their stern realism may wither all these beautiful, unsubstantial,
useless things. They will not believe in the Seventh Heaven Cigar, even
when they see it shining as with stars in the seventh heaven