PART II, ARTICLE VI: DESIRE AND INSPIRATION IN THE LIVES OF TWO POETS, SECTION II

That Israel’s King Solomon was obsessed with women is attested by the biblical fact that he obtained for himself at least 1,000 women during his lifetime (1 Kings 11.3.) Leonard Cohen’s obsession is attested by his life and work. The obsession common to each is at variance with the influence of God on the writings of one. 

Leonard Cohen would never put himself on the level with Solomon as a poet. A comparison of their work is an unequal and unfair comparison. But to compare will demonstrate the difference that God can make in the writings of a man when that man comes under God’s governing direction.

Solomon was either a backslider, an apostate, or he converted late in life. His idolatrous lifestyle is documented in 1 Kings. This idolatry increased when he nurtured his desire for women because so many of these women were idolaters. “For it came to pass, when Solomon was old, that his wives turned away his heart after other gods” (1 Kings 11.4.) Many of these wives were ‘strange women’; that is, not of Israel: Moabites, Ammonites, Edomites, Zidonians, and Hittites (verse 1.) No doubt this list of nations that he obtained his women from is not exhaustive. These strange women goaded Solomon into raising heathen altars to gods and goddesses. In the Old Testament, sexual immorality and idolatry are ordinarily found together. By giving in to one, King Solomon was lured into practicing the other. Satan is not satisfied with taking man halfway. God commands our full devotion; the devil would have no less. Despite his inconstancy, however, Solomon was chosen by God to compose an inspired song of sensuous love. The object of his love was a Shulamite. The word ‘Shulamite’ may be a feminine version of the word ‘Solomon,’ signifying the woman’s attachment to him. Or the word may refer to a woman from a district called Shunem, in Palestine, a city of the tribe of Issachar. Some scholars say that the Shulamite was his Egyptian wife. This is convincing because in the song, her majesty is compared to ‘a company of horses in Pharaoh’s chariots’ (Song of Songs 1.9.) Moreover, his Egyptian woman is singled out from the rest of his women in 1 Kings 11.1, like so, ‘together with the daughter of Pharaoh.’ When this romantic interchange occurred, or if it occurred, is not certain. If it actually happened—if it is more than a nuptial song—it happened before ‘Solomon was old.’ This is obvious from the content: “his locks are bushy, and black as a raven” (Song of Songs 5.11.) Therefore if it happened it happened before his idolatry called forth the disapprobation of God that we read about in 1 Kings 11. It is presumable that this romance occurred when Solomon was relatively young because the two subjects of the composition are so intense. And it seems reasonable to assert that the love-trysts that are written about occurred before the days of Solomon’s harem, for even if the accumulation of wives and concubines was a common practice among great men in the olden time, would the Shulamite have been so passionate had Solomon’s love been spread so thin or so poisoned by lust? This seems like a reasonable assertion unless or until we realize that his other women are often mentioned in the text. For example, Solomon’s ‘dove’ is compared with the rest of his growing harem in chapter 6, verses 8 and 9. The events in the song likely happened when Solomon was a comparatively youthful king; and the song was probably written some time later than that. It is harder to say when the composition was written than when the events related in it occurred. It might have been written by a young man. But it might just as well have been written while, in the midst of his completed harem, Solomon realized that his illicit lifestyle was not the ideal that his carnal flesh had thought it would be. It may be that Solomon reflected on the lover that he had once enjoyed, and the Spirit came upon him to write a song of remembrance down. It is remarkable, regardless, for a man who desires women in the mass to center on just one in his song—to explore that part of his heart that longs for the way things ought to be. Solomon says nothing—not in the Song, and neither in Proverbs nor Ecclesiastes, for that matter—to suggest that there might be satisfaction in the possession of a harem. It is an astonishing omission from a man who, for so many years, did not deny himself the pleasure.

PART II, ARTICLE VI: DESIRE AND INSPIRATION IN THE LIVES OF TWO POETS, SECTION I

The Bible exhibits the standard of whatever genre of literature it contains. In the Bible are found the quintessential models of the proverb, the parable, the historical narrative, the letter, and so on. Poetry is acknowledged more universally than any other genre, though, as reaching its acme in the Bible. One can only look down from the Bible’s poetic heights; even haters of God have admitted this. When the Bible reader peruses poetry that is less than biblical, then, he will compare one with the other. If Solomon’s Canticles have been labeled ‘restricted’ by ancient Jewish doctors and certain Christian sects, it is not going too far to say that they would call the poetry of Leonard Cohen ‘licentious’—what today would be dubbed ‘pornographic.’ That said, not all of Cohen’s poetry is distasteful; Leonard Cohen is, if judged on the basis of poetic ability, a poet indeed. Unlike postmodern poetry, his poems evince poetic elements and manifest actual communication. Before my conversion to Christianity, I experienced an awakening to nature, art, and literature. This Awakening and this Faith dovetailed, the latter following closely upon the former. It was during this dovetailing period that I read a volume of what Cohen had written, not without, however, due to my growing zeal for God, blotting out his foul allusions and naughty words as I went. I don’t know if I would have noticed the licentious, and therefore blasphemous, character of his ‘Hallelujah’ if it had been one of the poems included in the book. But I would have been no more naïve about it, I guess, than those persons are who sing it as if engaged in the supernal religious exercise of their lives. It is a conspicuous proof of how debased we have become that crowds would cheer the singing of that song and that singers would line up to sing it; as it happens, even kids are encouraged to lend their voices to sacrilege, which is what an amalgam of worship and sexual innuendos amounts to.          

Desire is unsatisfied longing. Man’s unsatisfied longing for women has not tailed off with time, not since “men began to multiply on the face of the earth” and “the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair” (Genesis 6.1, 2.) Man’s desire for women has been the hinge upon which lives, be they great or small, have swayed; and events, be they of passing moment or of lasting consequence, have swung. This feral desire, therefore, has always been a chief subject on the point of the poet’s pen, quill, or (in the case of Gilgamesh) reed stylus. The droit du seigneur—the right of a lord to couple with his serf’s bride-to-be—may be traced back, not merely to medieval Europe and feudal France, but to when the oldest book presently known to man was written, which was when either Noah or his immediate descendents still walked the earth. “He will couple with the wife-to-be,/He first of all, the bridegroom after./By divine consent it is so ordained:/When his navel-cord was cut, for him she was destined” (The Epic of Gilgamesh, p. 15.)    

Inside the recesses of the sin nature, there lies in man the desire to have, not one, but many women. This desire lurks inside every man, though for the sake of peace with their wives or girlfriends, men will deny that it does. This desire overcomes the man when he stirs it up and makes it his focal point. This especially happens to the poets among us. Two such poets are King Solomon 3,000 years ago, and Canada’s own Leonard Cohen.

PART II, ARTICLE V: THE WRITINGS OF G. K. CHESTERTON DISMISSED, SECTION V

The essays contained in A Handful of Authors were written for newspapers from 1901 to 1935. We expect, therefore, essays of inferior quality. But articles written for newspapers ought to benefit, not deceive and bore, the commuters who pass time reading them. These essays are time wasters to be thrown away after use. Truer yet, they are not worth browsing through before being thrown out. They remind me of New York Times book reviews, which are thin on subject and thick with envy. Chesterton is the father of book reviewers who preen more than review, and who come out looking all the worse for doing so, at least to readers who demand the subjects that they read about to be actually delved into. Unlike Chesterton, I have dealt with my subject in this essay. I have quoted; I have explained; I have judged. I have done something else than pose in the mirror, cover for bad conduct, and reinterpret the Bible to suit my infidelity.        

It should go without saying that an author is not worth reading who is more concerned with trying to look fancy than opening the titles of his essays. Given his treatment of R. L. Stevenson, moreover, how can Chesterton ever be trusted? If he makes a saint out of an obstinate sinner such as Stevenson was, can he be safely read on anyone or anything? A Chesterton fan would no doubt say something like, “But you selected the wrong book. You should have picked one of his other ones, be it this one or that one.” No, sir, it looks like I picked the right one—the one that calls for this Chesterton project to be finished—the one that calls for Chesterton to be dismissed au complet, en bloc, in toto. Because of his vain show, his material is unattractive. Because his essays are empty vessels, they are useless to consume. Because of his deception, his body of work is now dismissed. I don’t care to find out one thing more about what G. K. Chesterton believed, said, or wrote. If he ever wrote anything insightful or prescient, there are more ethical authors to turn to for the same, both for the acquisition of wisdom and for the understanding of what must shortly come to pass. A reader is just as likely to be corrupted by reading A Handful of Authors as Stevenson was deceived by Herbert Spencer, the Darwinian. Thankfully, G. K. Chesterton is so transparently deceptive that it is not even true to say of him that latet anguis in herba (a snake lurks in the grass.) His deceit is as discernible as green hair on a Ugandan.     

The man who recommended Chesterton so unqualifiedly, claimed to be a Reformed Christian. Maybe he read some book of Chesterton’s that has more merit than this one has. He came across as a man who has read a lot of Chesterton, though. If this man has read A Handful of Authors, and even after that recommends Chesterton without reservation, I have to wonder if his Reformed Christianity is more nominal and hereditary than actual and spiritual. Whether this man is a Reformed Christian or not, I discourage the reading of Chesterton as ardently as he promotes him. Based on the first twenty-eight pages of  A Handful of Authors—pages that I have looked closely at—I shamelessly assert that no more of Chesterton needs to be read or should be read. His writings ought to be, if not burned, then at least shelved. These essays of his are not only travesties; they are treacherous. Their only good use is for quoting in order to show what should never be imitated. Therefore they will be kept on my heresy shelf in case they are needed for that purpose once again.

PART II, ARTICLE V: THE WRITINGS OF G. K. CHESTERTON DISMISSED, SECTION IV

In essay number three I learned more about G. K. Chesterton than about what Les Quinze is. The essay is supposed to be about a troop of entertainers, I guess. It’s really about Chesterton trying to show that he’s a good fit for high society. He knows how Moliere wore his hair, and he seems to think that the animals of the Ark were ‘fantastic.’ I say ‘seems’ because his writing is cloudy enough on this point, maybe, to shield him from a just charge of heresy. Whenever he touches on a biblical character or theme, he seems to be off the mark. So he doesn’t deserve to be given a pass. Jesus Christ is the lion ‘who will not hurt virgins,’ he says. That is an odd way to assert the falsehood that Jesus must always be as gentle as a lamb, not to mention what a failed attempt at eloquence the statement is. This essay teems with oddities. A microbe, for example, is said to be of ‘small stature’ and has a ‘shy and retiring disposition.’ This attempt at wit, by the standard I go by, is pretty witless. More perfect knowledge of Mark Twain’s method might have helped. Since this essay was published in the London News in 1931, I suppose that it was written very shortly before this time, which was just a handful of years before the author died. So I guess that this essay represents Chesterton’s mature thought. If this is what his writing is like in maturity, what need is there to read him from any other year?                      

In the fourth essay, so little is communicated that there is next to nothing to say about it. No target is aimed at; therefore nothing is hit. It is so loosely an introduction to Cervantes that it is not even about him. Its title is, The True Romance. Chesterton might be trying to tell us about a romance in this essay; it is impossible to say. This much can be said for sure: he is trying, in this essay, to be romantic himself: to be ‘Emersonian.’ Like Emerson does, Chesterton loads his essay up with characters and places as if an essay that means nothing will mean something by virtue of containing a large collection of words that must be capitalized. Europe, Asia, Africa, Southern nations, Northern nations, Eastern borders, an Eastern sea, Greek islands, Greek headland, the Mediterranean, and Gascony are all squished into the space of four small pages with Moorish walls and windows, Henty, Cellini, Casanova, Cervantes, Harry Harkaway, the Battle of Trafalgar, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, the Turk, the Pope, Papal galleys, the Prince, the King, Solomon, Xerxes, the battle of Lepanto, and Marguerite de Valois. No one can possibly know what all of this together means except that Chesterton must be a well read snob. Even if some of these places, persons, or events are in the writings of Cervantes somewhere, maybe in Don Quixote, it is extremely pathetic that no thread connecting these many things can be discerned in the essay.        

The fifth and final essay that I read is, The Divine Parody of Don Quixote. Here again we are beclouded by Emersonian pretence. But we learn some more about Chesterton’s unbiblical beliefs. His world is one in which ‘truths contradict each other,’ a world in which each one of us may be right. This is not the belief of a fictional character, merely; it is Chesterton’s belief as well. He doesn’t hide it. Maybe he’s not ashamed of it. It is because of writers like G. K. Chesterton that relative truth is now such a widespread belief. The ‘elemental assumption that human nature is good’ is also Chesterton’s assumption; and it is that of the World, not the Bible and the Church. When he asserts that literature should not judge men, he means that men should not judge men. No wonder that he got along so well with progressive socialists like George Bernard Shaw. He had no doctrine of human depravity, no doctrine of divine judgment, and probably no doctrine of creation. As a nominal Anglican, he was an infidel; then he became a Roman Catholic, which, because of what Roman Catholicism is, was not much of an improvement if it even was one. Regardless of what religion he professed, he did not respect the Bible any more than a Muslim respects a dog.

PART II, ARTICLE V: THE WRITINGS OF G. K. CHESTERTON DISMISSED, SECTION III

Chesterton is not only wrong about Stevenson’s character and our right and duty to judge it, he is wrong about Stevenson’s craft. It is not true that Stevenson’s method can ‘easily be mistaken’ for ‘mere finnicking polish.’ What makes his stories endure is that they cannot be easily mistaken for that. His stories are still read because they are not mistaken for ‘mere finnicking polish.’ Or, his stories continue to rivet because their finnicking polish is undergirded by fundamentally interesting ideas. It is for this reason that his style is not in danger of ‘being mistaken,’ as Chesterton worries, for ‘literary juggling.’ These thoughts of Chesterton on the craft of Stevenson read like that of a man who is thinking more of his own style than of saying something true. Not to say that ‘literary juggling’ is an original turn of phrase; it was, probably, nothing but a cliché even by the time Chesterton wrote it down. Indeed, this being a much later draft of my original article, I decided to look the phrase up on a search engine. I found it written on page 601 in something called The New Ireland Review, Volume 2, 1895. As near as I can tell, Chesterton published nothing until the year 1900.      

As ‘faddling’ as I found this first essay; that is, as trifling, petty, and piddling, I continued to read four more before I quit the book—and before, hopefully, quitting the whole of what G. K. Chesterton ever produced. Based on the first essay, I knew that the other book of his that I had bought would have to be left unread. What was that book? It was a biography of R. L. Stevenson. How could a biography be tolerated from as dishonest a writer as this essay proves Chesterton to have been? Moreover, in the essay on Stevenson, we are assured by Chesterton that biographies are illegitimate. “The only biography that is really possible is autobiography,” he says. All this gun-slinging to defend his subject, but in the process Chesterton shoots his own biography in the head. He’s not as deadly with his words as he has been made out to be, except when inadvertently aiming at himself. Chesterton was a hapless bumbler. His Handful of Authors reminds me of what Elmer Fudd looks and sounds like.         

Before reading this distrustful essay on R. L. Stevenson, my suspicion, based on what I had heard of Chesterton, was that he had a low view of Scripture, and therefore, of God. That suspicion was on the mark. This is why there cannot be found, in this essay, any indignation at Stevenson for his atheism. This is why Chesterton could have, but did not, single Stevenson out for having written something like this: “It was really pathetic to hear my father praying pointedly for me today at family worship, and to think the poor man’s supplications were addressed to nothing better able to hear and answer than the chandelier” (Iain H. Murray, The Undercover Revolution, p. 13.) I further thought that Literature, not the word of God, was Chesterton’s Bible. After reading that first essay, however, I was forced to conclude that it was not. The Holy Bible was not his Bible; neither was Literature. If his Bible had been Literature, he would have shown more respect for it. 

I learned nothing worth knowing about anyone or anything from the first five essays of A Handful of Authors. All I learned in essay the second is that Chesterton could have been dismissed after essay number one. Nothing is told us about Mark Twain except that he had wit. No word is even quoted from his works to show us this wit. “Wit requires an intellectual athleticism, because it is akin to logic.” I don’t doubt that wit is akin to logic. But how about supplying an example of this from something that Mark Twain wrote? And then how about placing that quote beside a logical proposition so that we may catch a sight of this logical wit?

PART II, ARTICLE V: THE WRITINGS OF G. K. CHESTERTON DISMISSED, SECTION II

While thumbing through the pages of my copy of The Scarlet Letter, I came across this prejudiced passage that I had put in brackets. It occurs about thirty pages before the end of the book: “Their immediate posterity, the generation next to the early emigrants, wore the blackest shade of Puritanism, and so darkened the national visage with it, that all the subsequent years have not sufficed to clear it up. We have yet to learn again the forgotten art of gayety.” This is Hawthorne supplying a concocted background for his narrative. Isn’t it interesting that he uses the same word as Chesterton later did—gayety—to tell us what character trait Puritanism, at its best, embodied? Haters of authentic Christianity think alike; and they typically redefine what they love and hate, sometimes in the same words. Hawthorne and Chesterton would like us to believe that being gay is what the best of Puritanism was about and what Christianity should always be about, not holiness, not faith, not grace, not redemption, and not even Jesus Christ. The nearest trait to what Chesterton means by ‘gaiety’ is what the Bible calls ‘merry.’ Did R. L. Stevenson’s ‘gaiety’ resemble this?—: “Is any merry? let him sing Psalms” (James 5.13.) Or did it, rather, resemble this?—“And Nabal’s heart was merry within him, for he was very drunken” (1 Samuel 25.36.) After a doctor warned him to give up drinking, Stevenson described himself like so: ‘that lean, feverish, voluble and whiskyfied young Scot’ (Iain H. Murray, The Undercover Revolution, p. 19.) He was habitually ‘gay,’ alright; but a candid critic would define this ‘gaiety’ as ‘whiskyfied.’     

Those persons who understand Stevenson best are not, as Chesterton opines, the ones ‘who take him most lightly.’ This is not a true test for anyone; this is not how any person should be judged. To know someone, we need to plumb his depths, not merely skim the surface of his ‘gaiety.’ They who understand R. L. Stevenson best are those who take account of the facts—facts that must be gleaned from sources outside this distorting essay on his life. It is not ‘hazardous’ to ‘dogmatize about a man like Stevenson.’ I don’t feel hazarded from doing so. It does not mean that we are ‘rooted in open and systematic morbidities’ and ‘human prejudices’ if we choose to dogmatize about the subject. It’s almost like Chesterton is the ancestor of 21st century leftists who call others racist merely for wanting to judge a man by the facts. He is so determined to whitewash Stevenson’s tomb that he says that the notion that ‘a thing cannot at the same time be black and white’ is an ‘idle fiction.’ This is like saying that a man can be a woman or that a woman can be a man or that a determined sinner can be, at the same time, a devoted saint. What he’s really saying is that we should never mind the facts and just believe Chesterton instead. We should take it on faith—Chesterton’s faith, which is obviously willfully blind. Speaking of faith, Chesterton is even willing to redefine that in the interest of making his befouled subject look pristine. The ‘best definition of faith,’ he says, is the ‘divine frivolity’ that Stevenson personified. But the author of Hebrews teaches that faith is ‘the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’ That doesn’t sound like the ‘divine frivolity’ of Stevenson, which ‘divine frivolity’ was nothing else but the prodigal behavior from which he needed to be saved by faith. Life is not ‘a continual heaven of reconciliation,’ as Chesterton says. If God is ‘angry with the wicked every day,’ as the Psalmist tells us—angry each day with wicked sinners such as R. L. Stevenson was—life must be, rather, more like something of a continual rebellion against God. It is not, as Chesterton avers, ‘hazardous’ to ‘dogmatize about a man like Stevenson.’ It is, however, hazardous to bear false witness about a man to the readers who read your rubbish to pass time on the tram on their way to work. It is just as sinful to bear false witness by making a bad man appear virtuous as it is by making a good man appear vicious. It is just as sinful to whitewash as it is to slander. If it was wrong to try to make a Pharisee appear holy in Jesus’ day, it is wrong in our day to try to make a wretch look blameless. If Stevenson was such a mystic, why didn’t he make an effort to live like one? A mystic does not live in sin while getting drunk on his father’s income, does he? Why didn’t Chesterton mention something like this about R. L. Stevenson?—: “The fact that she [Fanny Osbourne] was already married did not hinder their intimacy, and after she returned to California and to her husband, he followed her” (Iain H. Murray, The Undercover Revolution, p. 18.) That doesn’t sound like a ‘faddling hedonist’ or a ‘gay mystic,’ but a bold adulterer. Iain Murray is a dependable source. But just to make sure, I went beyond him to check what he said about Stevenson’s affair with Fanny Osbourne. In a book that is sympathetic to Stevenson, called, Last Witness of Robert Louis Stevenson, the illicit liaison is confirmed.

PART II, ARTICLE V: THE WRITINGS OF G. K. CHESTERTON DISMISSED, SECTION I

G. K. Chesterton is so often quoted, and sometimes helpfully, that these quotes will make a reader wonder what reading the books from which the quotes are culled must be like. Because Chesterton is so copiously complimented for his contributions, he finally got my attention.

Once in awhile I am reminded that the writings of G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936) are so incalculably valuable that every serious reader must imbibe at least some of his books. Since the latest reminder came across urgently from an articulate young man who said that he was of the Reformed faith, I durst not shake the admonition off. Not wanting to remain a dunce for having never drunk deeply from at least a couple of Chesterton’s wells, I procured two of his books. These I acquired in handsome secondhand form.  

Literary criticism being one of my cherished pursuits, the Chesterton book that seemed the most approachable and interesting to me, is called, A Handful of Authors. I was made even happier when I saw that the first essay in this book was on a writer about whom I had some knowledge, Robert Louis Stevenson, the genius author of Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My knowledge of the subject would make judging the essay an easy thing, I thought, and might help me to judge the merits of the author of said essay.  

The first paragraph of the first essay is, I’m pretty sure, the first paragraph by Chesterton that I have ever read. It is not long; but my concern about it is enormous. After telling an anecdote from the childhood of his subject, Chesterton remarks that the Scottish religion of Stevenson’s day was so ‘over-formalised’ that the soul of a man was thought of as a kind of ‘younger brother’ who had to be saved ‘at all costs.’ It makes no difference that this composite essay was written in 1901 and 1907, over a decade before Chesterton converted to Roman Catholicism in 1922. It doesn’t matter because the Church of England that he converted from calls itself Christian too, albeit not as zealously as does the Roman Catholic Church. Both churches maintain the biblical fact that sinners need salvation. Is it over-formulaic to think of a soul as needing to be saved? No Christian would belittle the important matter of the salvation of souls, especially in writing. It is plain that Chesterton did not believe that souls need saving; he was not a Christian when he wrote this essay. This is the first thing that I learned from A Handful of Authors. And he certainly became no Christian in 1922. A sinner does not become saved by converting to Roman Catholicism, but by converting from it. Roman Catholicism does not draw sinners to faith in Jesus Christ and his sacrifice on the cross, but to works, the Mass, prayers to Mary, and superstition.   

In paragraph two the absurd claim is made that ‘no one can know what Stevenson’s life was’ but that Stevenson must have had ‘glimmerings’ of what it was. I suspected by this remark that I was being set up to receive a rewriting of Stevenson’s life. I didn’t expect the rewrite to be so noticeable, though. To note down some of Stevenson’s ‘actions’ would be like ‘zoology,’ says Chesterton. It would be akin to treating the subject like an animal. Who says this but a critic who wants to conceal the sins of the man he is writing about? He gives us permission to be angry for Stevenson’s honor if Stevenson were to be referred to as a ‘faddling hedonist,’ as if that is the worst thing he should be called. Why should we be rallied to Stevenson’s defense in the first place? Chesterton prefers to call Stevenson’s lifestyle ‘gaiety,’ which he stupidly terms ‘the most difficult of all virtues.’ Is ‘gaiety’ included in the list of virtues marked down in Galatians 5? No, but ‘temperance’ is. The only time ‘gay’ is mentioned in the Bible, it has to do with clothing (James 2.3.) ‘Gaiety’ is not a virtue; or if it is, it is not a biblical one. Here are some biblical virtues to consider—four of them: humility, faithfulness, generosity, and temperance. So it is more difficult to be gay, by which Chesterton means ‘merry,’ than to be humble, faithful, generous, or temperate? Are drunkards not commonly gay? Which is the harder thing to do? Is it harder to drink too many rounds of rum with your buddies and to be made gay in the process? Or is it harder to abstain from drinking too many rounds of rum with your buddies and to be humbled by the abstinence, not to mention the scorn? It is more difficult to be humble in your actions, faithful to your wife, generous with your money, and temperate with the bottle than getting gay with the boys in a bar, where humility is not exhibited, where generosity is practiced to induce drunkenness, and where faithfulness is likely to fail and fall more than anywhere else. Chesterton warns that only the ‘sevenfold critical spirit’ might not see that ‘gaiety’ is the most difficult of all virtues. If the reader does not go along with Chesterton’s praise of Stevenson’s ‘gaiety,’ then, which really means, in plain, honest words, Stevenson’s lifestyle of ‘sin,’—if he does not want to go along with calling evil good and good evil—he must be a hyper-critical fellow! Styling Stevenson a ‘faddling hedonist’ or a man who exhibited ‘gaiety,’ moreover, is to slap Stevenson with the velvet glove that his sins do not deserve. Stevenson was not ‘a Puritan in fancy dress,’ like we are told. He wore gay clothing; but he was not a Puritan in any sense. Notwithstanding the high moral value of some of his stories, especially his Misadventures of John Nicholson, he was an unprincipled, contemptible fellow who was as far from being a Puritan as a cow pie is from a piece of cake. His was not the ‘gaiety of the mystic.’ Calling his gaiety the ‘gaiety of a mystic’ is not merely misleading; it is a lie. Stevenson was a rebellious son who, as an adult, took advantage of his enabling father. He was still taking an allowance in his mid-thirties. And it was a lavish one—enough for a person to drink to excess and to whoop it up on, which Stevenson lazily did year after miserable year.