It is no argument for unalterable law (as Huxley fancied) that we count on
the ordinary course of things. We do not count on it; we bet on it. We risk the remote possibility of a miracle as we do that of a poisoned
pancake or a world-destroying comet. We leave it out of account, not because it is a miracle, and therefore an impossibility, but be cause it
is a miracle, and therefore an exception.
Just as we all like love tales because there is an instinct of sex, we all like astonishing tales because they touch the nerve of the ancient
instinct of astonishment. This is proved by the fact that when we are very young children we do not need fairy tales: we only need tales. Mere life
is interesting enough. A child of seven is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door and saw a dragon. But a child of three is excited by
being told that Tommy opened a door. Boys like romantic tales; but babies like realistic tales—because they find them romantic. In fact, a baby is
about the only person, I should think, to whom a modern realistic novel could be read without boring him.
Children are grateful when Santa Claus puts in their stockings gifts of toys or sweets. Could I not be grateful to Santa Claus when he put in my
stockings the gift of two miraculous legs? We thank people for birthday presents of cigars and slippers. Can I thank no one for the birthday
present of birth?
Orthodoxy, first published in 1908, by G. K. Chesterton, is in the public domain, and available from Project Gutenberg. The previous post in this series is here.
Thanks for reading! Read Chesterton.
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