fying roar of a
lion, the flaunting scarlet of a poppy, and the inimitable flavour of
an onion--these are among the world's most familiar quantities, the
things that decline to be modified or changed. You might as well ask
for an ice-cream with the chill off as ask for a diluted edition of any
of these vivid and primitive things. Onions may be regarded by a man
as simply delicious, but oniony honey or oniony tea! The bather's
plunge is a rapture to every stinging and startled nerve in his body,
but to stand ankle-deep in the surf, shivering with folded arms in the
breeze that scatters the spray! Life is full of delightful things that
are a transport to the soul if we take them as they are, but that
become a torment and an abomination if we water them down. And it is
just because Christianity itself is so distinctive, so outstanding, so
boldly pronounced a thing, that we insist on its being unadulterated.
Even a worldling feels that a Christian, to be tolerable, must be out
and out. The man who waters down his religion is like the shivering
bather who, feeling the cold, cold waters tickling his toes, cannot
muster up the courage to plunge; he is like the man who wants an
ice-cream with the chill off; he is like oniony honey or oniony tea!

A man cannot, of course, live upon onions. Onions have their place and
their purpose, and, as I have said, are simply invaluable. But they
must be kept to that place and to that purpose. The modern tendency is
to eat nothing but onions. We are fast becoming the victims of a
perfect passion for piquancy. Time was when we expected our newspapers
to tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We
don't care a rap about the truth now, so long as they'll give us a
thrill. We must have onions. We used to demand of the novelist a
love-story; now he must be morbidly sexual and grimly sensational. Our
grandfathers went to a magic lantern entertainment and thought it a
furious frolic. And on Sundays they prayed. 'From lightning and
tempest; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder,
and from sudden death, Good Lord, deliver us!' Their grandchildren
pray, 'From all churches and chapels, Good Lord, deliver us!' And,
during the week, they like to see all the blood-curdling horrors of
lightning and tempest; of plague, pestilence, and famine; of battle,
murder, and of sudden death, enacted before their starting eyes with
never a flicker to remind