The Worship of The Wealthy
G. K. Chesterton
- Biography -
- Full Name – Gilbert Keith Chesterton
- G.K. Chesterton (1874-1936) was a British author, philosopher, and critic.
- He is best known for his Father Brown mystery stories and his non-fiction work, “Orthodoxy”.
- Born in London, England, Chesterton studied art at the Slade School and later became a journalist.
- He was a prominent figure in the Distributist movement and a close friend of H.G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw.
- Born: 29 May 1874, Kensington, London, United Kingdom
- Died: 14 June 1936 (age 62 years), Beaconsfield, United Kingdom
- Education: Slade School of Fine Art (1892–1895).
List of Major Works:
Charles Dickens (1903)
The Napoleon of Notting Hill (1904) Retrieved May 31, 2007.
Heretics (1905)
The Man Who Was Thursday (1907) Retrieved May 31, 2007.
Orthodoxy (1908)
The Ballad of the White Horse (1911), poetry
Father Brown short stories, (detective fiction)
The Everlasting Man (1925)
Short Summary/Introduction
‘The Worship of the Wealthy’ is about how he journalists and literary people falsely praising the people those who are wealthy and great. The author also says some examples how the poor and common people praise the wealthy persons. The author says that he noticed in literature and journalism this type of falsehood is silently creeping as a tradition praising the wealthy people. The common people are wishing to please a rich man for their personal gains simply saying all types of flattering words. The courtiers sang that their king almost resembles the sun at noonday, that they should shade their eyes when he enters the court. Further, they say that they could not breathe without him. He is one who conquered all continents with his single sword.
The moderns have invented a much more poisonous kind of eulogy. The modern method of flattery is to take the prince or rich man to give a credible picture of his type of personality by enormously exaggerating his natural qualities. The newer and cleverer flatterer takes for granted that he is extraordinary, and therefore even ordinary things into extraordinary flattering.
Thus, the author G K Chesterton has tried to give his paradoxical instances how poor and common people are always flattering the rich and the great for the personal gains and benefits.
Summary & Analysis
There has crept, I notice, into our literature and journalism a new way of flattering the wealthy and the great. In more straightforward times flattery itself was more straight-forward; falsehood itself was more true. A poor man wishing to please a rich man simply said that he was the wisest, bravest, tallest, strongest, most benevolent and most beautiful of mankind; and as even the rich man probably knew that he wasn’t that, the thing did the less harm. When courtiers sang the praises of a King they attributed to him things that were entirely improbable, as that he resembled the sun at noonday, that they had to shade their eyes when he entered the room, that his people could not breathe without him, or that he had with his single sword conquered Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. The safety of this method was its artificiality; between the King and his public image there was really no relation. But the moderns have invented a much subtler and more poisonous kind of eulogy. The modern method is to take the prince or rich man, to give a credible picture of his type of personality, as that he is business-like, or a sportsman, or fond of art, or convivial, or reserved; and then enormously exaggerate the value and importance of these natural qualities. Those who praise Mr. Carnegie do not say that he is as wise as Solomon and as brave as Mars; I wish they did. It would be the next most honest thing to giving their real reason for praising him, which is simply that he has money. The journalists who write about Mr. Pierpont Morgan do not say that he is as beautiful as Apollo; I wish they did. What they do is to take the rich man’s superficial life and manner, clothes, hobbies, love of cats, dislike of doctors, or what not; and then with the assistance of this realism make the man out to be a prophet and a saviour of his kind, whereas he is merely a private and stupid man who happens to like cats or to dislike doctors. The old flatterer took for granted that the King was an ordinary man, and set to work to make him out extraordinary. The newer and cleverer flatterer takes for granted that he is extraordinary, and that therefore even ordinary things about him will be of interest.
I have noticed one very amusing way in which this is done. I notice the method applied to about six of the wealthiest men in England in a book of interviews published by an able and well-known journalist. The flatterer contrives to combine strict truth of fact with a vast atmosphere of awe and mystery by the simple operation of dealing almost entirely in negatives. Suppose you are writing a sympathetic study of Mr. Pierpont Morgan. Perhaps there is not much to say about what he does think, or like, or admire; but you can suggest whole vistas of his taste and philosophy by talking a great deal about what he does not think, or like, or admire. You say of him–“But little attracted to the most recent schools of German philosophy, he stands almost as resolutely aloof from the tendencies of transcendental Pantheism as from the narrower ecstasies of Neo-Catholicism.” Or suppose I am called upon to praise the charwoman who has just come into my house, and who certainly deserves it much more. I say–“It would be a mistake to class Mrs. Higgs among the followers of Loisy; her position is in many ways different; nor is she wholly to be identified with the concrete Hebraism of Harnack.” It is a splendid method, as it gives the flatterer an opportunity of talking about something else besides the subject of the flattery, and it gives the subject of the flattery a rich, if somewhat bewildered, mental glow, as of one who has somehow gone through agonies of philosophical choice of which he was previously unaware. It is a splendid method; but I wish it were applied sometimes to charwomen rather than only to millionaires.
There is another way of flattering important people which has become very common, I notice, among writers in the newspapers and elsewhere. It consists in applying to them the phrases “simple,” or “quiet,” or “modest,” without any sort of meaning or relation to the person to whom they are applied. To be simple is the best thing in the world; to be modest is the next best thing. I am not so sure about being quiet. I am rather inclined to think that really modest people make a great deal of noise. It is quite self-evident that really simple people make a great deal of noise. But simplicity and modesty, at least, are very rare and royal human virtues, not to be lightly talked about. Few human beings, and at rare intervals, have really risen into being modest; not one man in ten or in twenty has by long wars become simple, as an actual old soldier does by long wars become simple. These virtues are not things to fling about as mere flattery; many prophets and righteous men have desired to see these things and have not seen them. But in the description of the births, lives, and deaths of very luxurious men they are used incessantly and quite without thought. If a journalist has to describe a great politician or financier (the things are substantially the same) entering a room or walking down a thoroughfare, he always says, “Mr. Midas was quietly dressed in a black frock coat, a white waistcoat, and light grey trousers, with a plain green tie and simple flower in his button-hole.” As if any one would expect him to have a crimson frock coat or spangled trousers. As if any one would expect him to have a burning Catherine wheel in his button-hole.
But this process, which is absurd enough when applied to the ordinary and external lives of worldly people, becomes perfectly intolerable when it is applied, as it always is applied, to the one episode which is serious even in the lives of politicians. I mean their death. When we have been sufficiently bored with the account of the simple costume of the millionaire, which is generally about as complicated as any that he could assume without being simply thought mad; when we have been told about the modest home of the millionaire, a home which is generally much too immodest to be called a home at all; when we have followed him through all these unmeaning eulogies, we are always asked last of all to admire his quiet funeral. I do not know what else people think a funeral should be except quiet. Yet again and again, over the grave of every one of those sad rich men, for whom one should surely feel, first and last, a speechless pity–over the grave of Beit, over the grave of Whiteley–this sickening nonsense about modesty and simplicity has been poured out. I well remember that when Beit was buried, the papers said that the mourning-coaches contained everybody of importance, that the floral tributes were sumptuous, splendid, intoxicating; but, for all that, it was a simple and quiet funeral. What, in the name of Acheron, did they expect it to be? Did they think there would be human sacrifice–the immolation of Oriental slaves upon the tomb? Did they think that long rows of Oriental dancing-girls would sway hither and thither in an ecstasy of lament? Did they look for the funeral games of Patroclus? I fear they had no such splendid and pagan meaning. I fear they were only using the words “quiet” and “modest” as words to fill up a page–a mere piece of the automatic hypocrisy which does become too common among those who have to write rapidly and often. The word “modest” will soon become like the word “honourable,” which is said to be employed by the Japanese before any word that occurs in a polite sentence, as “Put honourable umbrella in honourable umbrella-stand;” or “condescend to clean honourable boots.” We shall read in the future that the modest King went out in his modest crown, clad from head to foot in modest gold and attended with his ten thousand modest earls, their swords modestly drawn. No! if we have to pay for splendour let us praise it as splendour, not as simplicity. When next I meet a rich man I intend to walk up to him in the street and address him with Oriental hyperbole. He will probably run away.
In these days we are accused of attacking science because we want it to be scientific. Surely there is not any undue disrespect to our doctor in saying that he is our doctor, not our priest, or our wife, or ourself. It is not the business of the doctor to say that we must go to a watering-place; it is his affair to say that certain results of health will follow if we do go to a watering-place. After that, obviously, it is for us to judge. Physical science is like simple addition: it is either infallible or it is false. To mix science up with philosophy is only to produce a philosophy that has lost all its ideal value and a science that has lost all its practical value. I want my private physician to tell me whether this or that food will kill me. It is for my private philosopher to tell me whether I ought to be killed. I apologise for stating all these truisms. But the truth is, that I have just been reading a thick pamphlet written by a mass of highly intelligent men who seem never to have heard of any of these truisms in their lives.
Those who detest the harmless writer of this column are generally reduced (in their final ecstasy of anger) to calling him “brilliant;” which has long ago in our journalism become a mere expression of contempt. But I am afraid that even this disdainful phrase does me too much honour. I am more and more convinced that I suffer, not from a shiny or showy impertinence, but from a simplicity that verges upon imbecility. I think more and more that I must be very dull, and that everybody else in the modern world must be very clever. I have just been reading this important compilation, sent to me in the name of a number of men for whom I have a high respect, and called “New Theology and Applied Religion.” And it is literally true that I have read through whole columns of the things without knowing what the people were talking about. Either they must be talking about some black and bestial religion in which they were brought up, and of which I never even heard, or else they must be talking about some blazing and blinding vision of God which they have found, which I have never found, and which by its very splendour confuses their logic and confounds their speech. But the best instance I can quote of the thing is in connection with this matter of the business of physical science on the earth, of which I have just spoken. The following words are written over the signature of a man whose intelligence I respect, and I cannot make head or tail of them—
“When modern science declared that the cosmic process knew nothing of a historical event corresponding to a Fall, but told, on the contrary, the story of an incessant rise in the scale of being, it was quite plain that the Pauline scheme—I mean the argumentative processes of Paul’s scheme of salvation—had lost its very foundation; for was not that foundation the total depravity of the human race inherited from their first parents?…. But now there was no Fall; there was no total depravity, or imminent danger of endless doom; and, the basis gone, the superstructure followed.”
It is written with earnestness and in excellent English; it must mean something. But what can it mean? How could physical science prove that man is not depraved? You do not cut a man open to find his sins. You do not boil him until he gives forth the unmistakable green fumes of depravity. How could physical science find any traces of a moral fall? What traces did the writer expect to find? Did he expect to find a fossil Eve with a fossil apple inside her? Did he suppose that the ages would have spared for him a complete skeleton of Adam attached to a slightly faded fig-leaf? The whole paragraph which I have quoted is simply a series of inconsequent sentences, all quite untrue in themselves and all quite irrelevant to each other. Science never said that there could have been no Fall. There might have been ten Falls, one on top of the other, and the thing would have been quite consistent with everything that we know from physical science. Humanity might have grown morally worse for millions of centuries, and the thing would in no way have contradicted the principle of Evolution. Men of science (not being raving lunatics) never said that there had been “an incessant rise in the scale of being;” for an incessant rise would mean a rise without any relapse or failure; and physical evolution is full of relapse and failure. There were certainly some physical Falls; there may have been any number of moral Falls. So that, as I have said, I am honestly bewildered as to the meaning of such passages as this, in which the advanced person writes that because geologists know nothing about the Fall, therefore any doctrine of depravity is untrue. Because science has not found something which obviously it could not find, therefore something entirely different—the psychological sense of evil—is untrue. You might sum up this writer’s argument abruptly, but accurately, in some way like this—”We have not dug up the bones of the Archangel Gabriel, who presumably had none, therefore little boys, left to themselves, will not be selfish.” To me it is all wild and whirling; as if a man said—”The plumber can find nothing wrong with our piano; so I suppose that my wife does love me.”
I am not going to enter here into the real doctrine of original sin, or into that probably false version of it which the New Theology writer calls the doctrine of depravity. But whatever else the worst doctrine of depravity may have been, it was a product of spiritual conviction; it had nothing to do with remote physical origins. Men thought mankind wicked because they felt wicked themselves. If a man feels wicked, I cannot see why he should suddenly feel good because somebody tells him that his ancestors once had tails. Man’s primary purity and innocence may have dropped off with his tail, for all anybody knows. The only thing we all know about that primary purity and innocence is that we have not got it. Nothing can be, in the strictest sense of the word, more comic than to set so shadowy a thing as the conjectures made by the vaguer anthropologists about primitive man against so solid a thing as the human sense of sin. By its nature the evidence of Eden is something that one cannot find. By its nature the evidence of sin is something that one cannot help finding.
Some statements I disagree with; others I do not understand. If a man says, “I think the human race would be better if it abstained totally from fermented liquor,” I quite understand what he means, and how his view could be defended. If a man says, “I wish to abolish beer because I am a temperance man,” his remark conveys no meaning to my mind. It is like saying, “I wish to abolish roads because I am a moderate walker.” If a man says, “I am not a Trinitarian,” I understand. But if he says (as a lady once said to me), “I believe in the Holy Ghost in a spiritual sense,” I go away dazed. In what other sense could one believe in the Holy Ghost? And I am sorry to say that this pamphlet of progressive religious views is full of baffling observations of that kind. What can people mean when they say that science has disturbed their view of sin? What sort of view of sin can they have had before science disturbed it? Did they think that it was something to eat? When people say that science has shaken their faith in immortality, what do they mean? Did they think that immortality was a gas?
Of course the real truth is that science has introduced no new principle into the matter at all. A man can be a Christian to the end of the world, for the simple reason that a man could have been an Atheist from the beginning of it. The materialism of things is on the face of things; it does not require any science to find it out. A man who has lived and loved falls down dead and the worms eat him. That is Materialism if you like. That is Atheism if you like. If mankind has believed in spite of that, it can believe in spite of anything. But why our human lot is made any more hopeless because we know the names of all the worms who eat him, or the names of all the parts of him that they eat, is to a thoughtful mind somewhat difficult to discover. My chief objection to these semi-scientific revolutionists is that they are not at all revolutionary. They are the party of platitude. They do not shake religion: rather religion seems to shake them. They can only answer the great paradox by repeating the truism.
Key Themes:
- Flattery vs. Truth: A discussion of how the nature of flattery has evolved over time, particularly in its relationship with truth.
- Class and Society: An exploration of how wealth influences perception and language in journalism and literature.
- Value of Ordinary Traits: A critique of the trivialization of virtues like simplicity and modesty, which should be preserved and respected rather than exploited for flattery.
1 & 2 Marks Que & Ans
Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Old flattery made extraordinary claims about ordinary people, while modern flattery assumes that the wealthy are extraordinary and amplifies ordinary traits to make them seem profound.
The author argues that modern flattery of the wealthy and powerful is more subtle and harmful than traditional flattery because it exaggerates ordinary qualities, making them appear profound or extraordinary.
Earlier flattery involved attributing impossible and exaggerated qualities to kings or rich people, such as comparing them to the sun or claiming they conquered entire continents.
The author highlights the technique of describing a subject’s depth by focusing on what they do not think, admire, or follow. This creates an illusion of intellectual or philosophical complexity.
The author suggests that the true reason for modern flattery is simply that the individuals being praised are wealthy or powerful.
The theme of flattery.
He thinks it is artificial and inappropriate.
“Simple,” “quiet,” and “modest.”
He believes they reveal very little about the person and are often unrealistic.
4, 5 & 10 Marks Que & Ans
In The Worship of the Wealthy, G.K. Chesterton critiques the media’s tendency to excessively flatter the rich. He believes that journalists go to great lengths to portray the wealthy as exceptional individuals, often exaggerating ordinary traits to make them appear extraordinary. For example, simple hobbies or dislikes of the wealthy are presented as remarkable, and even dull ideas are framed as profound thoughts. Chesterton finds this kind of flattery dishonest and misleading, as it misrepresents the true nature of the rich. Instead of offering an honest portrayal, the press creates an illusion of greatness around the wealthy. Chesterton argues that such praise does not stem from merit, but from a desire to maintain a positive image of the elite, which ultimately distorts the truth about wealth and power.
Chesterton is particularly critical of the words journalists use to describe the wealthy, such as “simple,” “quiet,” and “modest.” He argues that these terms are often misused to create a false image of humility and modesty. In reality, the rich often live extravagant lives, and events like their funerals are far from simple. For example, he mocks the description of Whiteley’s funeral as “simple and quiet,” even though it was filled with luxury and attended by important people. Chesterton finds this kind of description absurd and dishonest, as it disguises the truth behind a façade of modesty. He believes that such language is used to elevate the wealthy by presenting them as humble and unpretentious, which only adds to the artificial image created by the press.
Another key point in Chesterton’s essay is the way journalists create an artificial separation between the wealthy and the rest of society. Through their language, journalists portray the rich as if they are fundamentally different or superior to ordinary people. This, according to Chesterton, is an attempt to elevate the wealthy by disconnecting them from the common folk. The use of exaggerated praise and descriptions that suggest the wealthy are exceptional makes them seem almost otherworldly. Chesterton criticizes this approach, arguing that the wealthy are not inherently different from others, except for their wealth. By praising them in such an exaggerated way, the press contributes to the social divide, rather than presenting the wealthy as ordinary people who happen to have money.
Chesterton suggests that if journalists must lie about the wealthy, they should do so in an overtly exaggerated manner, rather than misrepresenting their ordinary traits as extraordinary. He argues that in the past, journalists would exaggerate the greatness of the rich in a way that was so clearly artificial that it did not deceive anyone. For example, kings might be compared to the sun or described as conquerors of the world, which everyone knew was an exaggeration. Chesterton finds this kind of over-the-top praise less harmful than the current trend of misrepresenting the wealthy as humble or intelligent when they are not. He prefers a more obvious form of flattery, as it is less likely to deceive people into believing falsehoods. This preference for exaggeration over subtle misrepresentation reflects Chesterton’s frustration with the media’s dishonest portrayal of the rich.
Answer: In The Worship of the Wealthy, G.K. Chesterton presents a sharp critique of the media’s tendency to flatter the rich. Written as part of his All Things Considered collection, the essay focuses on how journalists praise the wealthy, often to an exaggerated and artificial degree. Chesterton argues that this kind of praise is not only misleading but also harmful, as it creates an illusion of greatness around those who may not deserve it.
At the heart of the essay is Chesterton’s concern with flattery. He believes that the press, instead of presenting an honest view of the wealthy, goes to extremes in their descriptions. Journalists often take ordinary traits or behaviors of the rich and present them as extraordinary. For instance, simple hobbies like disliking doctors or liking cats are exaggerated into signs of greatness, just because the person is wealthy. Chesterton sees this as dishonest because it misrepresents the reality of these individuals’ lives.
Moreover, Chesterton criticizes the way the press portrays the rich as intelligent or deep thinkers. He points out that even if a wealthy person has no remarkable thoughts or ideas, journalists will frame their opinions as if they were profound. This is another form of flattery, where even the most basic or dull statements are made to sound intelligent. Chesterton’s frustration lies in the fact that such portrayals are far from accurate and only serve to inflate the image of the wealthy.
One of Chesterton’s most biting critiques is of the way the press describes the rich’s lavish lifestyles as “modest” or “simple.” He finds this particularly irritating when such descriptions are applied to extravagant events like funerals, where the wealthy are said to have “simple” ceremonies, even though they are filled with luxury and attended by important figures. Chesterton mocks this portrayal, asking whether a funeral could only be simple if it involved human sacrifice. For him, this kind of description is absurd and dishonest, as it hides the truth behind the appearance of modesty.
Chesterton’s dissatisfaction with the press extends beyond the flattery of the wealthy. He also criticizes journalists for lacking originality in their writing. The constant use of the same few words—”simple,” “quiet,” and “modest”—to describe the rich makes their writing predictable and unimaginative. Chesterton feels that such repetition reflects a deeper problem in journalism: the press is more interested in maintaining a flattering image of the wealthy than in presenting an honest or creative account of reality.
In conclusion, Chesterton argues that the way journalists portray the wealthy is not only misleading but also damaging. By turning ordinary traits into extraordinary ones and calling lavish lives “modest,” they create a false image of greatness that ultimately harms the public’s understanding of wealth and class. Chesterton suggests that if the press must lie about the wealthy, they should at least do so in an exaggerated, overtly artificial way, rather than misrepresenting the truth with empty praise. The essay serves as a critique of both the wealthy and the media that supports them, calling for a more honest and straightforward approach to journalism.
Answer: In G.K. Chesterton’s essay, The Worship of the Wealthy, he criticizes how the media portrays the rich. He compares how the wealthy were exaggeratedly praised in the past to how today they are glorified for ordinary traits. Chesterton points out that the press often describes the wealthy as smart and their extravagant lifestyles as modest. He concludes by suggesting that if we must lie about the wealthy, it would be better to exaggerate boldly rather than misrepresenting their common traits and lives.
In The Worship of the Wealthy, Chesterton criticizes how the press writes about the very rich. He starts by comparing how the wealthy were described in the past to how they are portrayed in his time. In the past, writers knew the wealthy were ordinary, so they exaggerated their praises. They might compare a king to the sun or say he conquered the world with a single sword. This kind of praise was so over-the-top that it didn’t connect with the real person.
Chesterton says the way we praise the rich today is more “poisonous.” He explains this in several ways. First, normal traits or hobbies, like disliking doctors or liking cats, are made to seem amazing. Because someone is wealthy, their boring habits are treated like they are remarkable and special.
Second, even if someone is not very smart, they are presented as intelligent, with their simple ideas being shown as if they are deep philosophical thoughts.
Third, their extravagant lifestyle is described as “modest,” “simple,” and “quiet.” Chesterton finds this especially annoying when the funerals of the rich are called modest and simple, even when they include expensive flowers and are attended by powerful people. He mocks this, asking if they are simple because no human sacrifices were made at the grave.
Overall, Chesterton argues that if we’re going to lie about the wealthy, we should do it the old way by wildly exaggerating their qualities, rather than pretending their normal traits are extraordinary or calling their luxurious lives modest.