but it is too much to ask that I should respect his doubt,
his worldly hesitations and fictions, his political bargain
and make-believe. Most Nonconformists with an instinct for
English history could see something poetic and national about
the Archbishop of Canterbury as an Archbishop of Canterbury. It is
when he does the rational British statesman that they very
justifiably get annoyed. Most Anglicans with an eye for pluck
and simplicity could admire Dr. Clifford as a Baptist minister.
It is when he says that he is simply a citizen that nobody can
possibly believe him.

But indeed the case is yet more curious than this.
The one argument that used to be urged for our creedless
vagueness was that at least it saved us from fanaticism.
But it does not even do that. On the contrary, it creates
and renews fanaticism with a force quite peculiar to itself.
This is at once so strange and so true that I will ask the reader's
attention to it with a little more precision.

Some people do not like the word "dogma." Fortunately they are free,
and there is an alternative for them. There are two things,
and two things only, for the human mind, a dogma and a prejudice.
The Middle Ages were a rational epoch, an age of doctrine.
Our age is, at its best, a poetical epoch, an age of prejudice.
A doctrine is a definite point; a prejudice is a direction.
That an ox may be eaten, while a man should not be eaten,
is a doctrine. That as little as possible of anything should be
eaten is a prejudice; which is also sometimes called an ideal.
Now a direction is always far more fantastic than a plan.
I would rather have the most archaic map of the road to