of his has lit in his dark brain the dreadful star called religion, so it has lit in his hand the only adequate symbol of it:  I mean the red flower called Fire.  Fire, the most magic and startling of all material things, is a thing known only to man and the expression of his sublime externalism.  It embodies all that is human in his hearths and all that is divine on his altars.  It is the most human thing in the world; seen across wastes of marsh or medleys of forest, it is veritably the purple and golden flag of the sons of Eve.  But there is about this generous and rejoicing thing an alien and awful quality:  the quality of torture.  Its presence is life; its touch is death.  Therefore, it is always necessary to have an intermediary between ourselves and this dreadful deity; to have a priest to intercede for us with the god of life and death; to send an ambassador to the fire.  That priest is the poker.  Made of a material more merciless and warlike than the other instruments of domesticity, hammered on the anvil and born itself in the flame, the poker is strong enough to enter the burning fiery furnace, and, like the holy children, not be consumed.  In this heroic service it is often battered and twisted, but is the more honourable for it, like any other soldier who has been under fire.

Now all this may sound very fanciful and mystical, but it is the right view of pokers, and no one who takes it will ever go in for any wrong view of pokers, such as using them to beat one’s wife or torture one’s children, or even (though that is more excusable) to make a policeman jump, as the clown does in the pantomime.  He who has thus gone back to the beginning, and seen everything as quaint and new, will always see things in their right order, the one depending on the other in degree of purpose and importance:  the poker for the fire and the fire for the man and the man for the glory of God.

This is thinking forwards.  Now our modern discussions about everything, Imperialism, Socialism, or Votes for Women, are all entangled in an opposite train of thought, which runs as follows:—­A modern intellectual comes in and sees a poker.  He is a positivist; he will not begin with any dogmas about the nature of man, or any day-dreams about the mystery of fire.  He will begin with what he can see, the poker; and the first thing he sees about the poker is that it is crooked.  He says, “Poor poker; it’s crooked.”  Then he asks how it came to be crooked; and is told that there is a thing in the world (with which his temperament has hitherto left him unacquainted)—­a thing called fire.  He points out, very kindly and clearly, how silly it is of people, if they want a straight poker, to put it into a chemical combustion which will very probably heat and warp it.  “Let us abolish fire,” he says, “and then we shall have perfectly straight pokers.  Why should you want a fire at all?” They explain to him that a creature called Man wants a fire, because he