There is, of course, an idea in our time that the very antithesis of the typical line of Pope is a mark of artificiality.  I shall have occasion more than once to point out that nothing in the world has ever been artificial.  But certainly antithesis is not artificial.  An element of paradox runs through the whole of existence itself.  It begins in the realm of ultimate physics and metaphysics, in the two facts that we cannot imagine a space that is infinite, and that we cannot imagine a space that is finite.  It runs through the inmost complications of divinity, in that we cannot conceive that Christ in the wilderness was truly pure, unless we also conceive that he desired to sin.  It runs, in the same manner, through all the minor matters of morals, so that we cannot imagine courage existing except in conjunction with fear, or magnanimity existing except in conjunction with some temptation to meanness.  If Pope and his followers caught this echo of natural irrationality, they were not any the more artificial.  Their antitheses were fully in harmony with existence, which is itself a contradiction in terms.

Pope was really a great poet; he was the last great poet of civilisation.  Immediately after the fall of him and his school come Burns and Byron, and the reaction towards the savage and the elemental.  But to Pope civilisation was still an exciting experiment.  Its perruques and ruffles were to him what feathers and bangles are to a South Sea Islander—­the real romance of civilisation.  And in all the forms of art which peculiarly belong to civilisation, he was supreme.  In one especially he was supreme—­the great and civilised art of satire.  And in this we have fallen away utterly.

We have had a great revival in our time of the cult of violence and hostility.  Mr Henley and his young men have an infinite number of furious epithets with which to overwhelm any one who differs from them.  It is not a placid or untroubled position to be Mr Henley’s enemy, though we know that it is certainly safer than to be his friend.  And yet, despite all this, these people produce no satire.  Political and social satire is a lost art, like pottery and stained glass.  It may be worth while to make some attempt to point out a reason for this.

It may seem a singular observation to say that we are not generous enough to write great satire.  This, however, is approximately a very accurate way of describing the case.  To write great satire, to attack a man so that he feels the attack and half acknowledges its justice, it is necessary to have a certain intellectual magnanimity which realises the merits of the opponent as well as his defects.  This is, indeed, only another way of putting the simple truth that in order to attack an army we must know not only its weak points, but also its strong points.  England in the present season and spirit fails in satire for the same simple reason that it fails in war:  it despises the enemy.  In matters of battle and