{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_13534/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_13534","id":"gutenberg_13534","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13534","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Politics","Great Britain -- Social conditions -- 19th century","Social problems"],"text":"PAST AND PRESENT\n            By Thomas Carlyle\n\nAppreciation by Ralph Waldo Emerson\n\n\nFirst published 1843\n\n\n\nTHOMAS CARLYLE, born in 1795 at Ecclefechan, the son of a\nstonemason.  Educated at Edinburgh University.  Schoolmaster for\na short time, but decided on a literary career, visiting Paris\nand London.  Retired in 1828 to Dumfriesshire to write.  In 1834\nmoved to Cheyne Row, Chelsea, and died there in 1881.\n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n  Being an appreciation from \"The Dial\" (July 1843)\n            by Ralph Waldo Emerson\n\n\nHere is Carlyle's new poem, his _Iliad_ of English woes, to\nfollow his poem on France, entitled the _History of the French\nRevolution._  In its first aspect it is a political tract, and\nsince Burke, since Milton, we have had nothing to compare with\nit.  It grapples honestly with the facts lying before all men,\ngroups and disposes them with a master's mind, and, with a heart\nfull of manly tenderness, offers his best counsel to his\nbrothers.  Obviously it is the book of a powerful and\naccomplished thinker, who has looked with naked eyes at the\ndreadful political signs in England for the last few years,  has\nconversed much on these topics with such wisemen of all ranks and\nparties as are drawn to a scholar's house, until, such daily and\nnightly meditation has grown into a great connection, if not a\nsystem of thoughts;  and the topic of English politics becomes\nthe best vehicle for the expression of his recent thinking,\nrecommended to him by the desire to give some timely counsels,\nand to strip the worst mischiefs of their plausibility.  It is a\nbrave and just book, and not a semblance.  \"No new truth,\" say\nthe critics on all sides.  Is it so?  Truth is very old, but the\nmerit of seers is not to invent but to dispose objects in their\nright places, and he is the commander who is always in the mount,\nwhose eye not only sees details, but throws crowds of details\ninto their right arrangement and a larger and juster totality\nthan  any other.  The book makes great approaches to true\ncontemporary history, a very rare success, and firmly holds up to\ndaylight the absurdities still tolerated in the English and\nEuropean system.  It is such an appeal to the conscience and\nhonour of England as cannot be forgotten, or be feigned to be\nforgotten.  It has the merit which belongs to every honest book,\nthat it was self-examining before it was eloquent, and so hits\nall other men, and, as the country people say of good preaching,\n\"comes bounce down into every pew.\"  Every reader shall carry\naway something.  The scholar shall read and write, the farmer and\nmechanic shall toil, with new resolution, nor forget the book\nwhen they resume their labour.\n\nThough no theocrat, and more than most philosophers, a believer\nin political systems, Mr. Carlyle very fairly finds the calamity\nof the times, not in bad bills of Parliament, nor the remedy in\ngood bills, but the vice in false and superficial aims of the\npeople, and the remedy in honesty and insight.  Like every work\nof genius, its great value is in telling such simple truths.  As\nwe recall the topics, we are struck with force given to the plain\ntruths;  the picture of the English nation all sitting enchanted,\nthe poor, enchanted so that they cannot work, the rich, enchanted\nso that they cannot enjoy, and are rich in vain;  the exposure of\nthe progress of fraud into all arts and social activities;  the\nproposition that the labourer must have a greater share in his\nearnings;  that the principle of permanence shall be admitted\ninto all contracts of mutual service;  that the state shall\nprovide at least schoolmaster's education for all the citizens;\nthe exhortation to the workman that he shall respect the work and\nnot the wages;  to the scholar that he shall be there for light;\nto the idle, that no man shall sit idle;  the picture of Abbot\nSamson, the true governor, who \"is not there to expect reason and\nnobleness of others, he is there to give them of his own reason\nand nobleness;\"  the assumption throughout the book, that a new\nchivalry and nobility, namely the dynasty of labour, is replacing\nthe old nobilities.   These things strike us with a force which\nreminds us of the morals of the Oriental or early Greek masters,\nand of no modern book.  Truly in these things is great reward.\nIt is not by sitting so at a grand distance and calling the human\nrace _larvae,_ that men are to be helped, nor by helping the\ndepraved after their own foolish fashion;  but by doing\nunweariedly the particular work we were born to do.  Let no man\nthink himself absolved because he does a generous action and\nbefriends the poor, but let him see whether he so holds his\nproperty that a benefit goes from it to all.  A man's diet should\nbe what is simplest and readiest to be had, because it is so\nprivate a good.  His house should be better, because that is for\nthe use of hundreds, perhaps of thousands, and is the property of\nthe traveler.  But his speech is a perpetual and public\ninstrument;  let that always side with the race and yield neither\na lie nor a sneer.  His manners,--let them be hospitable and\ncivilising, so that no Phidias or Raphael shall have taught\nanything better in canvas or stone;  and his acts should be\nrepresentative of the human race, as one who makes them rich in\nhis having, and poor in his want.\n\nIt requires great courage in a man of letters to handle the\ncontemporary practical questions;  not because he then has all\nmen for his rivals, but because of the infinite entanglements of\nthe problem, and the waste of strength in gathering unripe\nfruits.  The task is superhuman;  and the poet knows well that a\nlittle time will do more than the most puissant genius.  Time\nstills the loud noise of opinions, sinks the small, raises the\ngreat, so that the true emerges without effort and in perfect\nharmony to all eyes;  but the truth of the present hour, except\nin particulars and single relations, is unattainable.  Each man\ncan very well know his own part of duty, if he will;  but to\nbring out the truth for beauty, and as literature, surmounts the\npowers of art.  The most elaborate history of today will have the\noddest dislocated look in the next generation.  The historian of\ntoday is yet three ages off.  The poet cannot descend into the\nturbid present without injury to his rarest gifts.  Hence that\nnecessity of isolation which genius has always felt.  He must\nstand on his glass tripod, if he would keep his electricity.\n\nBut when the political aspects are so calamitous that the\nsympathies of the man overpower the habits of the poet, a higher\nthan Literary inspiration may succour him.  It is a costly proof\nof character, that the most renowned scholar of England should\ntake his reputation in his hand and should descend into the ring;\nand he has added to his love whatever honour his opinions may\nforfeit.  To atone for this departure from the vows of the\nscholar and his eternal duties to this secular charity, we have\nat least this gain, that here is a message which those to whom it\nwas addressed cannot choose but hear.  Though they die, they must\nlisten.  It is plain that whether by hope or by fear, or were it\nonly by delight in this panorama of brilliant images; all the\ngreat classes of English society must read, even those whose\nexistence it proscribes.  Poor Queen Victoria--poor Sir Robert\nPeel--poor Primate and Bishops--poor Dukes and Lords!  There is\nno help in place or pride or in looking another way;  a grain of\nwit is more penetrating than the lightning of the night-storm,\nwhich no curtains or shutters will keep out.  Here is a book\nwhich will be read, no thanks to anybody but itself.  What pains,\nwhat hopes, what vows, shall come of the reading!  Here is a book\nas full of treason as an egg is full of meat, and every lordship\nand worship and high form and ceremony of English conservatism\ntossed like a football into the air, and kept in the air, with\nmerciless kicks and rebounds, and yet not a word is punishable by\nstatute.  The wit has eluded all official zeal;  and yet these\ndire jokes, these cunning thrusts, this darning sword of Cherubim\nwaved high in air, illuminates the whole horizon, and shows to\nthe eyes of the universe every wound it inflicts.  Worst of all\nfor the party attacked, it bereaves them beforehand of all\nsympathy, by anticipating the plea of poetic and humane\nconservatism, and impressing the reader with the conviction that\nthe satirist himself has the truest love for everything old and\nexcellent in English land and institutions, and a genuine respect\nfor the basis of truth in those whom he exposes.\n\nWe are at some loss how to state what strikes us as the fault of\nthis remarkable book, for the variety and excellence of the\ntalent displayed in it is pretty sure to leave all special\ncriticism in the wrong.  And we may easily fail in expressing the\ngeneral objection which we feel.  It appears to us as a certain\ndisproportion in the picture, caused by the obtrusion of the\nwhims of the painter.  In this work, as in his former labours,\nMr. Carlyle reminds us of a sick giant.  His humours are\n  expressed with so much force of constitution that his\nfancies are more attractive and more credible than the sanity of\nduller men.  But the habitual exaggeration of the tone wearies\nwhilst it stimulated.\n\nIt is felt to be so much deduction from the universality of the\npicture.  It is not serene sunshine, but everything is seen in\nlurid   storm lights.  Every object attitudinises, to the very\nmountains and stars almost, under the refraction of this\nwonderful humorist;  and instead of the common earth and sky, we\nhave a Martin's Creation or Judgment Day.  A crisis has always\narrived which requires a _deus ex machina._  One can hardly\ncredit, whilst under the spell of this magician, that the world\nalways had the same bankrupt look, to foregoing ages as to us--as\nof a failed world just re-collecting its old withered forces to\nbegin again and try to do a little business.  It was perhaps\ninseparable from the attempt to write a book of wit and\nimagination on English politics, that a certain local emphasis\nand love of effect, such as is the vice of preaching, should\nappear, producing on the reader a feeling of forlornness by the\nexcess of value attributed to circumstances.  But the splendour\nof wit cannot out--dazzle the calm daylight, which always shows\nevery individual man in balance with his age, and able to work\nout his own salvation from all the follies of that, and no such\nglaring contrasts or severalties in that or this.  Each age has\nits own follies, as its majority is made up of foolish young\npeople;  its superstitions appear no superstitions to itself;\nand if you should ask the contemporary, he would tell you, with\npride or with regret (according as he was practical or poetic),\nthat he had none.  But after a short time, down go its follies\nand weakness and the memory of them;  its virtues alone remain,\nand its limitation assumes the poetic form of a beautiful\nsuperstition, as the dimness of our sight clothes the objects in\nthe horizon with mist and colour.  The revelation of Reason is\nthis of the un-changeableness of the fate of humanity under all\nits subjective aspects;  that to the cowering it always cowers,\nto the daring it opens great avenues.  The ancients are only\nvenerable to us because distance has destroyed what was trivial;\nas the sun and stars affect us only grandly, because we cannot\nreach to their smoke and surfaces and say, Is that all?\n\nAnd yet the gravity of the times, the manifold and increasing\ndangers of the English State, may easily excuse some over-\ncolouring of the picture;  and we at this distance are not so far\nremoved from any of the specific evils, and are deeply\nparticipant in too many, not to share the gloom and thank the\nlove and the courage of the counselor.  This book is full of\nhumanity, and nothing is more excellent in this as in all Mr.\nCarlyle's works than the attitude of the writer.  He has the\ndignity of a man of letters, who knows what belongs to him, and\nnever deviates from his sphere;  a continuer of the great line of\nscholars, and sustains their office in the highest credit and\nhonour.  If the good heaven have any good word to impart to this\nunworthy generation, here is one scribe qualified and clothed for\nits occasion.  One excellence he has in an age of Mammon and of\ncriticism, that he never suffers the eye of his wonder to close.\nLet who will be the dupe of trifles, he cannot keep his eye oft\nfrom that gracious Infinite which embosoms us.\n\nAs a literary artist he has great merits, beginning with the main\none that he never wrote one dull line.  How well-read, how\nadroit, what thousand arts in his one art of writing;  with his\nexpedient for expressing those unproven opinions which he\nentertains but will not endorse, by summoning one of his men of\nstraw from the cell,--and the respectable Sauerteig, or\nTeufelsdrockh, or Dryasdust, or Picturesque Traveler, says what\nis put into his mouth, and disappears.  That morbid temperament\nhas given his rhetoric a somewhat bloated character;  a luxury to\nmany imaginative and learned persons, like a showery south-wind\nwith its sunbursts and rapid chasing of lights and glooms over\nthe landscape, and yet its offensiveness to multitudes of\nreluctant lovers makes us often wish some concession were\npossible on the part of the humorist.  Yet it must not be\nforgotten that in all his fun of castanets, or playing of tunes\nwith a whip-lash like some renowned charioteers,--in all this\nglad and needful venting of his redundant spirits, he does yet\never and anon, as if catching the glance of one wise man in the\ncrowd, quit his tempestuous key, and lance at him in clear level\ntone the very word, and then with new glee return to his game.\nHe is like a lover or an outlaw who wraps up his message in a\nserenade, which is nonsense to the sentinel, but salvation to the\near for which it is meant.  He does not dodge the question, but\ngives sincerity where it is due.\n\nOne word more respecting this remarkable style.  We have in\nliterature few specimens of magnificence.  Plato is the purple\nancient, and Bacon and Milton the moderns of the richest strains.\nBurke sometimes reaches to that exuberant fullness, though\ndeficient in depth.  Carlyle in his strange, half mad way, has\nentered the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and shown a vigour and\nwealth of resource which has no rival in the tourney play of\nthese times--the indubitable champion of England.  Carlyle is the\nfirst domestication of the modern system, with its infinity of\ndetails, into style.  We have been civilising very fast, building\nLondon and Paris, and now planting New England and India, New\nHolland and Oregon--and it has not appeared in literature;  there\nhas been no analogous expansion and recomposition in books.\nCarlyle's style is the first emergence of all this wealth and\nlabour with which the world has gone with child so long.  London\nand Europe, tunneled, graded corn-lawed, with trade-nobility, and\nEast and West Indies for dependencies, and America, with the\nRocky Hills in the horizon, have never before been conquered in\nliterature.  This is the first invasion and conquest.  How like\nan air-balloon or bird of Jove does he seem to float over the\ncontinent, and stooping here and there pounce on a fact as a\nsymbol which was never a symbol before.  This is the first\nexperiment, and something of rudeness and haste must be pardoned\nto so great an achievement.  It will be done again and again,\nsharper, simpler;  but fortunate is he who did it first, though\nnever so giant-like and fabulous.  This grandiose character\npervades his wit and his imagination.  We have never had anything\nin literature so like earthquakes as the laughter of Carlyle.  He\n\"shakes with his mountain mirth.\"  It is like the laughter of the\nGenii in the horizon.  These jokes shake down Parliament-house\nand Windsor Castle, Temple and Tower, and the future shall echo\nthe dangerous peals.  The other particular of magnificence is in\nhis rhymes.  Carlyle is a poet who is altogether too burly in his\nframe and habit to submit to the limits of metre.  Yet he is full\nof rhythm, not only in the perpetual melody of his periods, but\nin the burdens, refrains, and returns of his sense and music.\nWhatever thought or motto has once appeared to him fraught with\nmeaning, becomes an omen to him henceforward, and is sure to\nreturn with deeper tones and weightier import, now as threat, now\nas confirmation, in gigantic reverberation, as if the hills, the\nhorizon, and the next ages returned the sound.\n\n\n\nBIBLIOGRAPHY\n\nLife of Schiller (Lond. Mag., 1823-4), 1825, 1845.  (Supplement\npublished in the People's Edition, 1873)  Wilhelm Meister's\nApprenticeship, 1824.  Elements of Geometry and Trigonometry\n(from the French of Legendre), 1824.  German Romance, 1827.\nSartor Resartus (Fraser's Mag., 1833-4), 1835 (Boston) 1838.\nFrench Revolution, 1837,1839.  Critical and Miscellaneous Essays,\n1839, 1840, 1847, 1857.  (In these were reprinted Articles from\nEdinburgh Review, Foreign Review, Foreign Quarterly Review,\nFraser's Magazine, Westminster Review, New Monthly Magazine,\nLondon and Westminster Review, Keepsake, Proceedings of the\nSociety of Antiquaries of Scotland, Times.)  Chartism, 1840.\nHeroes, Hero-worship, and the Heroic in History, 1841.  Past and\nPresent, 1843.  Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches;  with\nElucidations, 1845.  Thirty-five Unpublished Letters of Oliver\nCromwell, 1847 (Fraser).  Original Discourses on the Negro\nQuestion (Fraser, 1849), 1853.  Latter-day Pamphlets, 1850.  Life\nof John Sterling, 1851.  History of Friedrich II. of Prussia,\n1858-65.  Inaugural Address at Edinburgh, 1866.  Shooting\nNiagara; and After? 1867 (from Macmillan).  The Early Kings of\nNorway;  also an Essay on the Portraits of John Knox, 1875.\n\nThere were also contributions to Brewster's Edinburgh\nEncyclopaedia, vols. xiv. xv., and xvi.;  to New Edinburgh\nReview, 1821, 1822;  Fraser's Magazine, 1830, 1831;  The Times,\n19 June, 1844 (Mazzini);  28 November, 1876;  5 May, 1877;\nExaminer, 1848;  Spectator 1848.\n\nFirst Collected Edition of Works, 1857-58 (16 vols.)\n\nReminiscences (ed. J.A. Froude), 1881;  (ed. C.E. Norton, 1887,\nand preprinted in Everyman's Library;  1932, with an added\narticle on Professor John Wilson--\"Christopher North\")\nReminiscences of my Irish journey in 1849, 1882.  Last Words of\nThomas Carlyle, 1882 (ed. by J.C.A.)  Last Words of Thomas\nCarlyle, 1892.  Rescued Essays (ed. P. Newberry) 1892.\nHistorical Sketches of Notable Persons and Events in the Reign of\nJames I. and Charles I. (ed. A. Carlyle), 1898.\n\nSir Leslie Stephen's article on Carlyle in the Dictionary of\nNational Biography gives a list of his occasional writings which\nhave never been collected or reprinted.\n\n\n\nContents\n\nBook I--Proem\n\nI. Midas.\nII. The Sphinx\nIII. Manchester Insurrection\nIV. Morrison's Pill\nV. Aristocracy of Talent\nVI. Hero-Worship\n\n\nBook II--The Ancient Monk\n\nI. Jocelin of Brakelond\nII. St. Edmundsbury\nIII. Landlord Edmund\nIV. Abbot Hugo\nV. Twelfth Century\nVI. Monk Samson\nVII. The Canvassing\nVIII. The Election\nIX. Abbot Samson\nX. Government\nXI. The Abbot's Ways\nXII. The Abbot's Troubles\nXIII. In Parliament\nXIV. Henry of Essex\nXV.  Practical-Devotional\nXVI St. Edmund\nXVII  The Beginnings\n\n\nBook III--The Modern Worker\n\nI. Phenomena,\nII. Gospel of Mammonism\nIII. Gospel of Dilettantism\nXV. Happy\nV. The English\nVI. Two Centuries\nVII. Over-Production\nVIII. Unworking Aristocracy\nIX. Working Aristocracy\nX. Plugson of Undershot\nXI. Labour\nXII  Reward\nXIII. Democracy\nXIV  Sir Jabesh Windbag\nXV. Morrison Again\n\nBook IV--Horoscope\n\nI. Aristocracies\nII. Bribery Committee\nIII. The One Institution\nIV Captains of Industry\nV. Permanence\nVI. The Landed\nVII. The Gifted\nVIII  The Didactic\n\nSummary\n\n\n\n\nBook I--Proem\n\n\nChapter I\n\nMidas\n\n\nThe condition of England, on which many pamphlets are now in the\ncourse of publication, and many thoughts unpublished are going on\nin every reflective head, is justly regarded as one of the most\nominous, and withal one of the strangest, ever seen in this\nworld.  England is full of wealth, of multifarious produce,\nsupply for human want in every kind;  yet England is dying of\ninanition.  With unabated bounty the land of England blooms and\ngrows;  waving with yellow harvests;  thick-studded with\nworkshops, industrial implements, with fifteen millions of\nworkers, understood to be the strongest, the cunningest and the\nwillingest our Earth ever had;  these men are here;  the work\nthey have done, the fruit they have realised is here, abundant,\nexuberant on every hand of us:  and behold, some baleful fiat as\nof Enchantment has gone forth, saying, \"Touch it not, ye workers,\nye master-workers, ye master-idlers;  none of you can touch it,\nno man of you shall be the better for it;  this is enchanted\nfruit!\"  On the poor workers such fiat falls first, in its rudest\nshape;  but on the rich masterworkers too it falls;  neither can\nthe rich master-idlers, nor any richest or highest man escape,\nbut all are like to be brought low with it, and made 'poor'\nenough, in the money-sense or a far fataller one.\n\nOf these successful skillful workers some two millions, it is now\ncounted, sit in Workhouses, Poor-law Prisons;  or have 'out-door\nrelief' flung over the wall to them,--the workhouse Bastille\nbeing filled to bursting, and the strong Poor-law broken asunder\nby a stronger.*  They sit there, these many months now;  their\nhope of deliverance as yet small.  In workhouses, pleasantly so\nnamed, because work cannot be done in them.  Twelve hundred\nthousand workers in England alone; their cunning right-hand\nlamed, lying idle in their sorrowful bosom;  their hopes,\noutlooks, share of this fair world, shut in by narrow walls.\nThey sit there, pent up, as in a kind of horrid enchantment;\nglad to be imprisoned and enchanted, that they may not perish\nstarved.  The picturesque Tourist, in a sunny autumn day,\nthrough this bounteous realm of England, describes the Union\nWorkhouse on his path.  'Passing by the Workhouse of St. Ives\nin Huntingdonshire, on a bright day last autumn,' says the\npicturesque Tourist, 'I saw sitting on wooden benches, in front\nof their Bastille and within their ringwall and its railings,\nsome half-hundred or more of these men.  Tall robust figures,\nyoung mostly or of middle age;  of honest countenance, many of\nthem thoughtful and even intelligent-looking men.  They sat\nthere, near by one another;  but in a kind of torpor, especially\nin a silence, which was very striking.  In silence:  for, alas,\nwhat word was to be said?  An Earth all lying round, crying, Come\nand till me, come and reap me;--yet we here sit enchanted!  In\nthe eyes and brows of these men hung the gloomiest expression,\nnot of anger, but of grief and shame and manifold inarticulate\ndistress and weariness;  they returned my glance with a glance\nthat seemed to say, \"Do not look at us.  We sit enchanted here,\nwe know not why.  The Sun shines and the Earth calls;  and, by\nthe governing Powers and Impotences of this England, we are\nforbidden to obey.  It is impossible, they tell us!\"  There was\nsomething that reminded me of Dante's Hell in the look of all\nthis;  and I rode swiftly away.\n\n---------\n* The Return of Paupers for England and Wales, at Ladyday, 1842,\nis, \"In-door 221,687, Out-door 1,207,402, Total 1,429,089.\"--\n(_Official Report_)\n---------\n\nSo many hundred thousands sit in workhouses:  and other hundred\nthousands have not yet got even workhouses;  and in thrifty\nScotland itself, in Glasgow or Edinburgh City, in their\ndark lanes, hidden from all but the eye of God, and of rare\nBenevolence the minister of God, there are scenes of woe and\ndestitution and desolation, such as, one may hope, the Sun never\nsaw before in the most barbarous regions where men dwelt.\nCompetent witnesses, the brave and humane Dr. Alison, who speaks\nwhat he knows, whose noble Healing Art in his charitable hands\nbecomes once more a truly sacred one, report these things for us:\nthese things are not of this year, or of last year, have no\nreference to our present state of commercial stagnation, but only\nto the common state.  Not in sharp fever-fits, but in chronic\ngangrene of this kind is Scotland suffering.  A Poor-law, any and\nevery Poor-law, it may be observed, is but a temporary measure;\nan anodyne, not a remedy:  Rich and Poor, when once the naked\nfacts of their condition have come into collision, cannot long\nsubsist together on a mere Poor-law.  True enough:--and yet,\nhuman beings cannot be left to die!  Scotland too, till something\nbetter come, must have a Poor-law, if Scotland is not to be a\nbyword among the nations.  O, what a waste is there;  of noble\nand thrice-noble national virtues;  peasant Stoicisms, Heroisms;\nvaliant manful habits, soul of a Nation's worth,--which all the\nmetal of Potosi cannot purchase back;  to which the metal of\nPotosi, and all you can buy with _it,_ is dross and dust!\n\nWhy dwell on this aspect of the matter?  It is too indisputable,\nnot doubtful now to any one.  Descend where you will into the\nlower class, in Town or Country, by what avenue you will, by\nFactory Inquiries, Agricultural Inquiries, by Revenue Returns, by\nMining-Labourer Committees, by opening your own eyes and looking,\nthe same sorrowful result discloses itself:  you have to admit\nthat the working body of this rich English Nation has sunk or is\nfast sinking into a state, to which, all sides of it considered,\nthere was literally never any parallel.  At Stockport Assizes,--\nand this too has no reference to the present state of trade,\nbeing of date prior to that,--a Mother and a Father are arraigned\nand found guilty of poisoning three of their children, to defraud\na 'burial-society' of some _31.8s._ due on the death of each\nchild:  they are arraigned, found guilty;  and the official\nauthorities, it is whispered, hint that perhaps the case is not\nsolitary, that perhaps you had better not probe farther into that\ndepartment of things.  This is in the autumn of 1841;  the crime\nitself is of the previous year or season.  \"Brutal savages,\ndegraded Irish,\" mutters the idle reader of Newspapers;  hardly\nlingering on this incident.  Yet it is an incident worth\nlingering on;  the depravity, savagery and degraded Irishism\nbeing never so well admitted.  In the British land, a human\nMother and Father, of white skin and professing the Christian\nreligion, had done this thing;  they, with their Irishism and\nnecessity and savagery, had been driven to do it.  Such instances\nare like the highest mountain apex emerged into view;  under\nwhich lies a whole mountain region and land, not yet emerged.  A\nhuman Mother and Father had said to themselves, What shall we do\nto escape starvation?  We are deep sunk here, in our dark cellar;\nand help is far.--Yes, in the Ugolino Hungertower stern things\nhappen;  best-loved little Gaddo fallen dead on his Father's\nknees!--The Stockport Mother and Father think and hint:  Our poor\nlittle starveling Tom, who cries all day for victuals, who will\nsee only evil and not good in this world:  if he were out of\nmisery at once;  he well dead, and the rest of us perhaps kept\nalive?  It is thought, and hinted;  at last it is done.  And now\nTom being killed, and all spent and eaten, Is it poor little\nstarveling Jack that must go, or poor little starveling Will?--\nWhat an inquiry of ways and means!\n\nIn starved sieged cities, in the uttermost doomed ruin of old\nJerusalem fallen under the wrath of God, it was prophesied and\nsaid, 'The hands of the pitiful women have sodden their own\nchildren.'  The stern Hebrew imagination could conceive no\nblacker gulf of wretchedness;  that was the ultimatum of degraded\ngod-punished man.  And we here, in modern England, exuberant with\nsupply of all kinds, besieged by nothing if it be not by\ninvisible Enchantments, are we reaching that?--How come these\nthings?  Wherefore are they, wherefore should they be?\n\n\nNor are they of the St. Ives workhouses, of the Glasgow lanes,\nand Stockport cellars, the only unblessed among us.  This\nsuccessful industry of England, with its plethoric wealth, has as\nyet made nobody rich;  it is an enchanted wealth, and belongs yet\nto nobody.  We might ask, Which of us has it enriched?  We can\nspend thousands where we once spent hundreds;  but can purchase\nnothing good with them.  In Poor and Rich, instead of noble\nthrift and plenty, there is idle luxury alternating with mean\nscarcity and inability.  We have sumptuous garnitures for our\nLife, but have forgotten to _live_ in the middle of them.  It is\nan enchanted wealth;  no man of us can yet touch it.  The class\nof men who feel that they are truly better off by means of it,\nlet them give us their name!\n\nMany men eat finer cookery, drink dearer liquors,--with what\nadvantage they can report, and their Doctors can:  but in the\nheart of them, if we go out of the dyspeptic stomach, what\nincrease of blessedness is there?  Are they better, beautifuller,\nstronger, braver?  Are they even what they call 'happier?  Do\nthey look with satisfaction on more things and human faces in\nthis God's Earth;  do more things and human faces look with\nsatisfaction on them?  Not so.  Human faces gloom discordantly,\ndisloyally on one another.  Things, if it be not mere cotton and\niron things, are growing disobedient to man.  The Master Worker\nis enchanted, for the present, like his Workhouse Workman;\nclamours, in vain hitherto, for a very simple sort of 'Liberty:'\nthe liberty 'to buy where he finds it cheapest, to sell where he\nfinds it dearest.'  With guineas jingling in every pocket, he was\nno whit richer;  but now, the very guineas threatening to vanish,\nhe feels that he is poor indeed.  Poor Master Worker!  And the\nMaster Unworker, is not he in a still fataller situation?\nPausing amid his game-preserves, with awful eye,--as he well may!\nCoercing fifty-pound tenants;  coercing, bribing, cajoling;\ndoing what he likes with his own.  His mouth full of loud\nfutilities, and arguments to prove the excellence of his\nCorn-law;*  and in his heart the blackest misgiving, a desperate\nhalf-consciousness that his excellent Corn-law is indefensible,\nthat his loud arguments for it are of a kind to strike men too\nliterally _dumb._\n\n-------------\n[* Digital transcriber note:  The \"corn-law\" that Carlyle\nrepeatedly refers to was an English sliding-scale tariff on\ngrain, which kept the price of bread artificially inflated.]\n-------------\n\nTo whom, then, is this wealth of England wealth?  Who is it that\nit blesses;  makes happier, wiser, beautifuller, in any way\nbetter?  Who has got hold of it, to make it fetch and carry for\nhim, like a true servant, not like a false mock-servant;  to do\nhim any real service whatsoever?  As yet no one.  We have more\nriches than any Nation ever had before;  we have less good of\nthem than any Nation ever had before.  Our successful industry is\nhitherto unsuccessful;  a strange success, if we stop here!  In\nthe midst of plethoric plenty, the people perish;  with gold\nwalls, and full barns, no man feels himself safe or satisfied.\nWorkers, Master Workers, Unworkers, all men, come to a pause;\nstand fixed, and cannot farther.  Fatal paralysis spreading\ninwards, from the extremities, in St. Ives workhouses, in\nStockport cellars, through all limbs, as if towards the heart\nitself.  Have we actually got enchanted, then;  accursed by\nsome god?--\n\nMidas longed for gold, and insulted the Olympians.  He got gold,\nso that whatsoever he touched became gold,--and he, with his long\nears, was little the better for it.  Midas had misjudged the\ncelestial music-tones;  Midas had insulted Apollo and the gods:\nthe gods gave him his wish, and a pair of long ears, which also\nwere a good appendage to it.  What a truth in these old Fables!\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\n\nThe Sphinx\n\n\nHow true, for example, is that other old Fable of the Sphinx, who\nsat by the wayside, propounding her riddle to the passengers,\nwhich if they could not answer she destroyed them!  Such a Sphinx\nis this Life of ours, to all men and societies of men.  Nature,\nlike the Sphinx, is of womanly celestial loveliness and\ntenderness;  the face and bosom of a goddess, but ending in claws\nand the body of a lioness.  There is in her a celestial beauty,--\nwhich means celestial order, pliancy to wisdom;  but there is\nalso a darkness, a ferocity, fatality, which are infernal.\nShe is a goddess, but one not yet disimprisoned;  one still\nhalf-imprisoned,--the inarticulate, lovely still encased in the\ninarticulate, chaotic.  How true!  And does she not propound her\nriddles to us?  Of each man she asks daily, in mild voice, yet\nwith a terrible significance, \"Knowest thou the meaning of this\nDay?  What thou canst do Today;  wisely attempt to do?\"  Nature,\nUniverse, Destiny, Existence, howsoever we name this grand\nunnameable Fact in the midst of which we live and struggle, is as\na heavenly bride and conquest to the wise and brave, to them who\ncan discern her behests and do them;  a destroying fiend to them\nwho cannot.  Answer her riddle, it is well with thee.  Answer it\nnot, pass on regarding it not, it will answer itself;  the\nsolution for thee is a thing of teeth and claws;  Nature is a\ndumb lioness, deaf to thy pleadings, fiercely devouring.  Thou\nart not now her victorious bridegroom;  thou art her mangled\nvictim, scattered on the precipices, as a slave found treacherous,\nrecreant, ought to be and must.\n\nWith Nations it is as with individuals:  Can they rede the riddle\nof Destiny?  This English Nation, will it get to know the meaning\nof _its_ strange new Today?  Is there sense enough extant,\ndiscoverable anywhere or anyhow, in our united twenty-seven\nmillion heads to discern the same;  valour enough in our\ntwenty-seven million hearts to dare and do the bidding thereof?\nIt will be seen!--\n\nThe secret of gold Midas, which he with his long ears never could\ndiscover, was, That he had offended the Supreme Powers;--that he\nhad parted company with the eternal inner Facts of this Universe,\nand followed the transient outer Appearances thereof;  and so was\narrived _here._  Properly it is the secret of all unhappy men and\nunhappy nations.  Had they known Nature's right truth, Nature's\nright truth would have made them free.  They have become\nenchanted;  stagger spell-bound, reeling on the brink of huge\nperil, because they were not wise enough.  They have forgotten\nthe right Inner True, and taken up with the Outer Sham-true.\nThey answer the Sphinx's question wrong.  Foolish men cannot\nanswer it aright!  Foolish men mistake transitory semblance for\neternal fact, and go astray more and more.\n\nFoolish men imagine that because judgment for an evil thing is\ndelayed, there is no justice, but an accidental one, here below.\nJudgment for an evil thing is many times delayed some day or two,\nsome century or two, but it is sure as life, it is sure as death!\nIn the centre of the world-whirlwind, verily now as in the oldest\ndays, dwells and speaks a God.  The great soul of the world is\n_just._  O brother, can it be needful now, at this late epoch of\nexperience, after eighteen centuries of Christian preaching for\none thing, to remind thee of such a fact;  which all manner of\nMahometans, old Pagan Romans, Jews, Scythians and heathen Greeks,\nand indeed more or less all men that God made, have managed at\none time to see into;  nay which thou thyself, till 'redtape'\nstrangled the inner life of thee, hadst once some inkling of:\nThat there is justice here below;  and even, at bottom, that\nthere is nothing else but justice!  Forget that, thou hast\nforgotten all.  Success will never more attend thee:  how can it\nnow?  Thou hast the whole Universe against thee.  No more\nsuccess:  mere sham-success, for a day and days;  rising ever\nhigher,--towards its Tarpeian Rock.  Alas, how, in thy soft-hung\nLongacre vehicle, of polished leather to the bodily eye, of\nredtape philosophy, of expediencies, clubroom moralities,\nParliamentary majorities to the mind's eye, thou beautifully\nrollest:  but knowest thou whitherward?  It is towards the\n_road's end._  Old use-and-wont;  established methods, habitudes,\nonce true and wise;  man's noblest tendency, his perseverance,\nand man's ignoblest, his inertia;  whatsoever of noble and\nignoble Conservatism there is in men and Nations, strongest\nalways in the strongest men and Nations:  all this is as a road\nto thee, paved smooth through the abyss,--till all this _end._\nTill men's bitter necessities can endure thee no more.  Till\nNature's patience with thee is done;  and there is no road or\nfooting any farther, and the abyss yawns sheer--\n\nParliament and the Courts of Westminster are venerable to me;\nhow venerable;  grey with a thousand years of honourable age!\nFor a thousand years and more, Wisdom and faithful Valour,\nstruggling amid much Folly and greedy Baseness, not without most\nsad distortions in the struggle, have built them up;  and they\nare as we see.  For a thousand years, this English Nation has\nfound them useful or supportable;  they have served this English\nNation's want;  _been_ a road to it through the abyss of Time.\nThey are venerable, they are great and strong.  And yet it is\ngood to remember always that they are not the venerablest, nor\nthe greatest, nor the strongest!  Acts of Parliament are\nvenerable;  but if they correspond not with the writing on the\nAdamant Tablet, what are they?  Properly their one element of\nvenerableness, of strength or greatness, is, that they at all\ntimes correspond therewith as near as by human possibility they\ncan.  They are cherishing destruction in their bosom every hour\nthat they continue otherwise.\n\nAlas, how many causes that can plead well for themselves in the\nCourts of Westminster;  and yet in the general Court of the\nUniverse, and free Soul of Man, have no word to utter!\nHonourable Gentlemen may find this worth considering, in times\nlike ours.  And truly, the din of triumphant Law-logic, and all\nshaking of horse-hair wigs and learned-sergeant gowns having\ncomfortably ended, we shall do well to ask ourselves withal, What\nsays that high and highest Court to the verdict?  For it is the\nCourt of Courts, that same;  where the universal soul of Fact and\nvery Truth sits President;--and thitherward, more and more\nswiftly, with a really terrible increase of swiftness, all causes\ndo in these days crowd for revisal,--for confirmation, for\nmodification, for reversal with costs.  Dost thou know that\nCourt;  hast thou had any Law-practice there?  What, didst thou\nnever enter;  never file any petition of redress, reclaimer,\ndisclaimer or demurrer, written as in thy heart's blood, for thy\nown behoof or another's;  and silently await the issue?  Thou\nknowest not such a Court?  Hast merely heard of it by faint\ntradition as a thing that was or had been?  Of thee, I think, we\nshall get little benefit.\n\nFor the gowns of learned-sergeants are good:  parchment records,\nfixed forms, and poor terrestrial justice, with or without\nhorse-hair, what sane man will not reverence these?  And yet,\nbehold, the man is not sane but insane, who considers these alone\nas venerable.  Oceans of horse-hair, continents of parchment, and\nlearned-sergeant eloquence, were it continued till the learned\ntongue wore itself small in the indefatigable learned mouth,\ncannot make unjust just.  The grand question still remains, Was\nthe judgment just?  If unjust, it will not and cannot get harbour\nfor itself, or continue to have footing in this Universe, which\nwas made by other than One Unjust.  Enforce it by never such\nstatuting, three readings, royal assents;  blow it to the four\nwinds with all manner of quilted trumpeters and pursuivants, in\nthe rear of them never so many gibbets and hangmen, it will not\nstand, it cannot stand.  From all souls of men, from all ends of\nNature, from the Throne of God above, there are voices bidding\nit:  Away, away!  Does it take no warning;  does it stand, strong\nin its three readings, in its gibbets and artillery-parks?  The\nmore woe is to it, the frightfuller woe.  It will continue\nstanding, for its day, for its year, for its century, doing\nevil all the while;  but it has One enemy who is Almighty:\ndissolution, explosion, and the everlasting Laws of Nature\nincessantly advance towards it;  and the deeper its rooting, more\nobstinate its continuing, the deeper also and huger will its ruin\nand overturn be.\n\nIn this God's-world, with its wild-whirling eddies and mad\nfoam-oceans, where men and nations perish as if without law, and\njudgment for an unjust thing is sternly delayed, dost thou think\nthat there is therefore no justice?  It is what the fool hath\nsaid in his heart.  It is what the wise, in all times, were wise\nbecause they denied, and knew forever not to be.  I tell thee\nagain, there is nothing else but justice.  One strong thing I\nfind here below:  the just thing, the true thing.  My friend, if\nthou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in\nsupport of an unjust thing;  and infinite bonfires visibly\nwaiting ahead of thee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on\nbehalf of it,--I would advise thee to call halt, to fling down\nthy baton, and say, \"In God's name, No!\"  Thy 'success?'  Poor\ndevil, what will thy success amount to?  If the thing is unjust,\nthou hast not succeeded;  no, not though bonfires blazed\nfrom North to South, and bells rang, and editors wrote\nleading-articles, and the just thing lay trampled out of sight,\nto all mortal eyes an abolished and annihilated thing.  Success?\nIn few years, thou wilt be dead and dark,--all cold, eyeless,\ndeaf;  no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of bells or leading-articles\nvisible or audible to thee again at all forever:  What kind of\nsuccess is that!--\n\nIt is true all goes by approximation in this world;  with any not\ninsupportable approximation we must be patient.  There is a noble\nConservatism as well as an ignoble.  Would to Heaven, for the\nsake of Conservatism itself, the noble alone were left, and the\nignoble, by some kind severe hand, were ruthlessly lopped away,\nforbidden ever more to skew itself!  For it is the right and\nnoble alone that will have victory in this struggle;  the rest is\nwholly an obstruction, a postponement and fearful imperilment of\nthe victory.  Towards an eternal centre of right and nobleness,\nand of that only, is all this confusion tending.  We already know\nwhither it is all tending;  what will have victory, what will\nhave none!  The Heaviest will reach the centre.  The Heaviest,\nsinking through complex fluctuating media and vortices, has its\ndeflexions, its obstructions, nay at times its resiliences, its\nreboundings;  whereupon some blockhead shall be heard jubilating,\n\"See, your Heaviest ascends!\"--but at all moments it is moving\ncentreward, fast as is convenient for it;  sinking, sinking; and,\nby laws older than the World, old as the Maker's first Plan of\nthe World, it has to arrive there.\n\nAwait the issue.  In all battles, if you await the issue, each\nfighter has prospered according to his right.  His right and his\nmight, at the close of the account, were one and the same.  He\nhas fought with all his might, and in exact proportion to all his\nright he has prevailed.  His very death is no victory over him.\nHe dies indeed;  but his work lives, very truly lives.  A heroic\nWallace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot hinder that his\nScotland become, one day, a part of England:  but he does hinder\nthat it become, on tyrannous unfair terms, a part of it;\ncommands still, as with a god's voice, from his old Valhalla and\nTemple of the Brave, that there be a just real union as of\nbrother and brother, not a false and merely semblant one as of\nslave and master.  If the union with England be in fact one of\nScotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace withal that it was\nnot the chief curse.  Scotland is not Ireland:  no, because brave\nmen rose there, and said, \"Behold, ye must not tread us down like\nslaves;  and ye shall not,--and cannot!\"  Fight on, thou brave\ntrue heart, and falter not, through dark fortune and through\nbright.  The cause thou fightest for, so far as it is true, no\nfarther, yet precisely so far, is very sure of victory.  The\nfalsehood alone of it will be conquered, will be abolished, as it\nought to be:  but the truth of it is part of Nature's own Laws,\ncooperates with the World's eternal Tendencies, and cannot\nbe conquered.\n\nThe _dust_ of controversy, what is it but the _falsehood_ flying\noff from all manner of conflicting true forces, and making such a\nloud dust-whirlwind,--that so the truths alone may remain, and\nembrace brother-like in some true resulting-force!  It is ever\nso.  Savage fighting Heptarchies:  their fighting is an\nascertainment, who has the right to rule over whom;  that out of\nsuch waste-bickering Saxondom a peacefully cooperating England\nmay arise.  Seek through this Universe;  if with other than owl's\neyes, thou wilt find nothing nourished there, nothing kept in\nlife, but what has right to nourishment and life.  The rest, look\nat it with other than owl's eyes, is not living;  is all dying,\nall as good as dead!  Justice was ordained from the foundations\nof the world;  and will last with the world and longer.\n\n\nFrom which I infer that the inner sphere of Fact, in this present\nEngland as elsewhere, differs infinitely from the outer sphere\nand spheres of Semblance.  That the Temporary, here as elsewhere,\nis too apt to carry it over the Eternal.  That he who dwells in\nthe temporary Semblances, and does not penetrate into the eternal\nSubstance, will _not_ answer the Sphinx-riddle of Today, or of\nany Day.  For the substance alone is substantial;  that is the\nlaw of Fact:  if you discover not that, Fact, who already knows\nit, will let you also know it by and by!\n\nWhat is justice? that, on the whole, is the question of the\nSphinx to us. The law of Fact is, that justice must and will be\ndone.  The sooner the better;  for the Time grows stringent,\nfrightfully pressing!  \"What is justice?\" ask many, to whom cruel\nFact alone will be able to prove responsive.  It is like jesting\nPilate asking, What is Truth?  Jesting Pilate had not the\nsmallest chance to ascertain what was Truth.  He could not have\nknown it, had a god shewn it to him.  Thick serene opacity,\nthicker than amaurosis, veiled those smiling eyes of his to\nTruth;  the inner _retina_ of them was gone paralytic, dead.  He\nlooked at Truth;  and discerned her not, there where she stood.\n\"What is justice?\"  The clothed embodied justice that sits in\nWestminster Hall, with penalties, parchments, tipstaves, is very\nvisible.  But the unembodied justice, whereof that other is\neither an emblem, or else is a fearful indescribability, is not\nso visible!  For the unembodied Justice is of Heaven;  a Spirit,\nand Divinity of Heaven,--invisible to all but the noble and pure\nof soul.  The impure ignoble gaze with eyes, and she is not\nthere.  They will prove it to you by logic, by endless Hansard\nDebatings, by bursts of Parliamentary eloquence.  It is not\nconsolatory to behold!  For properly, as many men as there are in\na Nation who _can_ withal see Heaven's invisible Justice, and\nknow it to be on Earth also omnipotent, so many men are there who\nstand between a Nation and perdition.  So many, and no more.\nHeavy-laden England, how many hast thou in this hour?  The\nSupreme Power sends new and ever new, all _born_ at least with\nhearts of flesh and not of stone;--and heavy Misery itself, once\nheavy enough, will prove didactic!--\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\nManchester Insurrection\n\n\nBlusterowski, Colacorde, and other Editorial prophets of the\nContinental Democratic Movement, have in their leading-articles\nshewn themselves disposed to vilipend the late Manchester\nInsurrection, as evincing in the rioters an extreme backwardness\nto battle;  nay as betokening, in the English People itself,\nperhaps a want of the proper animal-courage indispensable in\nthese ages.  A million hungry operative men started up, in utmost\nparoxysm of desperate protest against their lot;  and, ask\nColacorde and company, How many shots were fired?  Very few in\ncomparison!  Certain hundreds of drilled soldiers sufficed to\nsuppress this million-headed hydra's and tread it down, without\nthe smallest appeasement or hope of such, into its subterranean\nsettlements again, there to reconsider itself.  Compared\nwith our revolts in Lyons, in Warsaw and elsewhere, to say\nnothing of incomparable Paris City past or present, what a\nlamblike Insurrection!--\n\nThe present Editor is not here, with his readers, to vindicate\nthe character of Insurrections;  nor does it matter to us whether\nBlusterowski and the rest may think the English a courageous\npeople or not courageous.  In passing, however, let us mention\nthat, to our view, this was not an unsuccessful Insurrection;\nthat as Insurrections go, we have not heard lately of any that\nsucceeded so well.\n\nA million of hungry operative men, as Blusterowski says, rose\nall up, came all out into the streets, and--stood there.  What\nother could they do?  Their wrongs and griefs were bitter,\ninsupportable, their rage against the same was just:  but who are\nthey that cause these wrongs, who that will honestly make effort\nto redress them?  Our enemies are we know not who or what;  our\nfriends are we know not where!  How shall we attack any one,\nshoot or be shot by any one?  O, if the accursed invisible\nNightmare, that is crushing out the life of us and ours, would\ntake a shape;  approach us like the Hyrcanian tiger, the Behemoth\nof Chaos, the Archfiend himself;  in any shape that we could see,\nand fasten on!--A man can have himself shot with cheerfulness;\nbut it needs first that he see clearly for what.  Shew him the\ndivine face of justice, then the diabolic monster which is\neclipsing that:  he will fly at the throat of such monster, never\nso monstrous, and need no bidding to do it.  Woolwich grapeshot\nwill sweep clear all streets, blast into invisibility so many\nthousand men:  but if your Woolwich grapeshot be but eclipsing\nDivine justice, and the God's-radiance itself gleam recognisable\nathwart such grapeshot,--then, yes then is the time come for\nfighting and attacking.  All artillery-parks have become weak,\nand are about to dissipate:  in the God's-thunder, their poor\nthunder slackens, ceases;  finding that it is, in all senses of\nthe term, a _brute_ one!--\n\nThat the Manchester Insurrection stood still, on the streets,\nwith an indisposition to fire and bloodshed, was wisdom for it\neven as an Insurrection.  Insurrection, never so necessary, is a\nmost sad necessity;  and governors who wait for that to instruct\nthem, are surely getting into the fatallest courses,--proving\nthemselves Sons of Nox and Chaos, of blind Cowardice, not of\nseeing Valour!  How can there be any remedy in insurrection?  It\nis a mere announcement of the disease,--visible now even to Sons\nof Night.  Insurrection usually 'gains' little;  usually wastes\nhow much!  One of its worst kinds of waste, to say nothing of the\nrest, is that of irritating and exasperating men against each\nother, by violence done;  which is always sure to be injustice\ndone, for violence does even justice unjustly.\n\nWho shall compute the waste and loss, the obstruction of every\nsort, that was produced in the Manchester region by Peterloo\nalone!  Some thirteen unarmed men and women cut down,--the number\nof the slain and maimed is very countable:  but the treasury of\nrage, burning hidden or visible in all hearts ever since, more or\nless perverting the effort and aim of all hearts ever since, is\nof unknown extent.  \"How ye came among us, in your cruel armed\nblindness, ye unspeakable County Yeomanry, sabres flourishing,\nhoofs prancing, and slashed us down at your brute pleasure;\ndeaf, blind to all _our_ claims and woes and wrongs;  of quick\nsight and sense to your own claims only!  There lie poor sallow\nworkworn weavers, and complain no more now;  women themselves are\nslashed and sabred, howling terror fills the air;  and ye ride\nprosperous, very victorious,--ye unspeakable:  give us sabres\ntoo, and then come-on a little!\"  Such are Peterloos.  In\nall hearts that witnessed Peterloo, stands written, as in\nfire-characters, or smoke-characters prompt to become fire again,\na legible balance-account of grim vengeance;  very unjustly\nbalanced, much exaggerated, as is the way with such accounts;\nbut payable readily at sight, in full with compound interest!\nSuch things should be avoided as the very pestilence.  For men's\nhearts ought not to be set against one another;  but set _with_\none another, and all against the Evil Thing only.  Men's souls\nought to be left to see clearly;  not jaundiced, blinded, twisted\nall awry, by revenge, mutual abhorrence, and the like.  An\nInsurrection that can announce the disease, and then retire with\nno such balance-account opened anywhere, has attained the highest\nsuccess possible for it.\n\nAnd this was what these poor Manchester operatives, with all the\ndarkness that was in them and round them, did manage to perform.\nThey put their huge inarticulate question, \"What do you mean to\ndo with us?\" in a manner audible to every reflective soul in this\nkingdom;  exciting deep pity in all good men, deep anxiety in all\nmen whatever;  and no conflagration or outburst of madness came\nto cloud that feeling anywhere, but everywhere it operates\nunclouded.  All England heard the question:  it is the first\npractical form of our Sphinx-riddle.  England will answer it;\nor, on the whole, England will perish;--one does not yet expect\nthe latter result!\n\nFor the rest, that the Manchester Insurrection could yet discern\nno radiance of Heaven on any side of its horizon;  but feared\nthat all lights, of the O'Connor or other sorts, hitherto\nkindled, were but deceptive fish-oil transparencies, or bog\nwill-o'-wisp lights, and no dayspring from on high:  for this\nalso we will honour the poor Manchester Insurrection, and augur\nwell of it.  A deep unspoken sense lies in these strong men,--\ninconsiderable, almost stupid, as all they can articulate of it\nis.  Amid all violent stupidity of speech, a right noble instinct\nof what is doable and what is not doable never forsakes them:\nthe strong inarticulate men and workers, whom _Fact_ patronises;\nof whom, in all difficulty and work whatsoever, there is good\naugury!  This work too is to be done:  Governors and Governing\nClasses that _can_ articulate and utter, in any measure, what the\nlaw of Fact and Justice is, may calculate that here is a Governed\nClass who will listen.\n\nAnd truly this first practical form of the Sphinx-question,\ninarticulately and so audibly put there, is one of the most\nimpressive ever asked in the world.  \"Behold us here, so many\nthousands, millions, and increasing at the rate of fifty every\nhour.  We are right willing and able to work;  and on the Planet\nEarth is plenty of work and wages for a million times as many.\nWe ask, If you mean to lead us towards work;  to try to lead us,\n--by ways new, never yet heard of till this new unheard-of Time?\nOr if you declare that you cannot lead us?  And expect that we\nare to remain quietly unled, and in a composed manner perish of\nstarvation?  What is it you expect of us?  What is it you mean to\ndo with us?\"  This question, I say, has been put in the hearing\nof all Britain;  and will be again put, and ever again, till some\nanswer be given it.\n\nUnhappy Workers, unhappier Idlers, unhappy men and women of this\nactual England!  We are yet very far from an answer, and there\nwill be no existence for us without finding one.  \"A fair\nday's-wages for a fair day's-work:\"  it is as just a demand as\nGoverned men ever made of Governing.  It is the everlasting\nright of man.  Indisputable as Gospels, as arithmetical\nmultiplication-tables:  it must and will have itself fulfilled;\n--and yet, in these times of ours, with what enormous difficulty,\nnext-door to impossibility!  For the times are really strange;\nof a complexity intricate with all the new width of the\never-widening world;  times here of half-frantic velocity of\nimpetus, there of the deadest-looking stillness and paralysis;\ntimes definable as shewing two qualities, Dilettantism and\nMammonism;--most intricate obstructed times!  Nay, if there\nwere not a Heaven's radiance of justice, prophetic, clearly\nof Heaven, discernible behind all these confused worldwide\nentanglements, of Landlord interests, Manufacturing interests,\nTory-Whig interests, and who knows what other interests,\nexpediencies, vested interests, established possessions,\ninveterate Dilettantisms, Midas-eared Mammonisms,--it would\nseem to everyone a flat impossibility, which all wise men\nmight as well at once abandon.  If you do not know eternal\njustice from momentary Expediency, and understand in your\nheart of hearts how justice, radiant, beneficent, as the\nall-victorious Light-element, is also in essence, if need be,\nan all-victorious _Fire_-element, and melts all manner of vested\ninterests, and the hardest iron cannon, as if they were soft wax,\nand does ever in the long-run rule and reign, and allows nothing\nelse to rule and reign,--you also would talk of impossibility!\nBut it is only difficult, it is not impossible.  Possible?  It\nis, with whatever difficulty, very clearly inevitable.\n\nFair day's-wages for fair-day's-work! exclaims a sarcastic man;\nalas, in what corner of this Planet, since Adam first awoke on\nit, was that ever realised?  The day's-wages of John Milton's\nday's-work, named _Paradise Lost_ and _Milton's Works,_ were Ten\nPounds paid by instalments, and a rather close escape from death\non the gallows.  Consider that:  it is no rhetorical flourish;\nit is an authentic, altogether quiet fact,--emblematic, quietly\ndocumentary of a whole world of such, ever since human history\nbegan.  Oliver Cromwell quitted his farming;  undertook a\nHercules' Labour and lifelong wrestle with that Lernean\nHydracoil, wide as England, hissing heaven-high through its\nthousand crowned, coroneted, shovel-hatted quackheads;  and he\ndid wrestle with it, the truest and terriblest wrestle I have\nheard of;  and he wrestled it, and mowed and cut it down a good\nmany stages, so that its hissing is ever since pitiful in\ncomparison, and one can walk abroad in comparative peace from\nit;--and his wages, as I understand, were burial under the\ngallows-tree near Tyburn Turnpike, with his head on the gable of\nWestminster Hall, and two centuries now of mixed cursing and\nridicule from all manner of men.  His dust lies under the\nEdgeware Road, near Tyburn Turnpike, at this hour;  and his\nmemory is--Nay, what matters what his memory is?  His memory, at\nbottom, is or yet shall be as that of a god:  a terror and horror\nto all quacks and cowards and insincere persons;  an everlasting\nencouragement, new memento, battleword, and pledge of victory to\nall the brave.  It is the natural course and history of the\nGodlike, in every place, in every time.  What god ever carried it\nwith the Tenpound Franchisers;  in Open Vestry, or with any\nSanhedrim of considerable standing?  When was a god found\nagreeable to everybody?  The regular way is to hang, kill,\ncrucify your gods, and execrate and trample them under your\nstupid hoofs for a century or two;  till you discover that they\nare gods,--and then take to braying over them, still in a very\nlong-eared manner!--So speaks the sarcastic man;  in his wild\nway, very mournful truths.\n\nDay's-wages for day's-work? continues he:  The Progress of Human\nSociety consists even in this same.  The better and better\napportioning of wages to work.  Give me this, you have given me\nall.  Pay to every man accurately what he has worked for, what he\nhas earned and done and deserved,--to this man broad lands and\nhonours, to that man high gibbets and treadmills:  what more have\nI to ask?  Heaven's Kingdom, which we daily pray for, _has_ come;\nGod's will is done on Earth even as it is in Heaven!  This _is_\nthe radiance of celestial justice;  in the light or in the fire\nof which all impediments, vested interests, and iron cannon, are\nmore and more melting like wax, and disappearing from\nthe pathways of men.  A thing ever struggling forward;\nirrepressible, advancing inevitable;  perfecting itself, all\ndays, more and more,--never to be _perfect_ till that general\nDoomsday, the ultimate Consummation, and Last of earthly Days.\n\nTrue, as to 'perfection' and so forth, answer we;  true enough!\nAnd yet withal we have to remark, that imperfect Human Society\nholds itself together, and finds place under the Sun, in virtue\nsimply of some _approximation_ to perfection being actually made\nand put in practice.  We remark farther, that there are\nsupportable approximations, and then likewise insupportable.\nWith some, almost with any, supportable approximation men are\napt, perhaps too apt, to rest indolently patient, and say, It\nwill do.  Thus these poor Manchester manual workers mean only, by\nday's-wages for day's-work, certain coins of money adequate to\nkeep them living;--in return for their work, such modicum of\nfood, clothes and fuel as will enable them to continue their work\nitself!  They as yet clamour for no more;  the rest, still\ninarticulate, cannot yet shape itself into a demand at all, and\nonly lies in them as a dumb wish;  perhaps only, still more\ninarticulate, as a dumb, altogether unconscious want.  _This_ is\nthe supportable approximation they would rest patient with, That\nby their work they might be kept alive to work more!--_This_ once\ngrown unattainable, I think, your approximation may consider\nitself to have reached the insupportable stage;  and may prepare,\nwith whatever difficulty, reluctance and astonishment, for one of\ntwo things, for changing or perishing!  With the millions no\nlonger able to live, how can the units keep living?  It is too\nclear the Nation itself is on the way to suicidal death.\n\nShall we say then, The world has retrograded in its talent of\napportioning wages to work, in late days?  The world had always a\ntalent of that sort, better or worse.  Time was when the mere\n_hand_worker needed not announce his claim to the world by\nManchester Insurrections!--The world, with its Wealth of Nations,\nSupply-and-demand and such like, has of late days been terribly\ninattentive to that question of work and wages.  We will not say,\nthe poor world has retrograded even here:  we will say rather,\nthe world has been rushing on with such fiery animation to get\nwork and ever more work done, it has had no time to think of\ndividing the wages; and has merely left them to be scrambled for\nby the Law of the Stronger, law of Supply-and-demand, law of\nLaissez-faire, and other idle Laws and Un-laws,--saying, in its\ndire haste to get the work done, That is well enough!\n\nAnd now the world will have to pause a little, and take up that\nother side of the problem, and in right earnest strive for some\nsolution of that.  For it has become pressing.  What is the use\nof your spun shirts?  They hang there by the million unsaleable;\nand here, by the million, are diligent bare backs that can get no\nhold of them.  Shirts are useful for covering human backs;\nuseless otherwise, an unbearable mockery otherwise.  You have\nfallen terribly behind with that side of the problem!  Manchester\nInsurrections, French Revolutions, and thousandfold phenomena\ngreat and small, announce loudly that you must bring it forward a\nlittle again.  Never till now, in the history of an Earth which\nto this hour nowhere refuses to grow corn if you will plough it,\nto yield shirts if you will spin and weave in it, did the mere\nmanual two-handed worker (however it might fare with other\nworkers) cry in vain for such \"wages\" as _he_ means by \"fair\nwages,\" namely food and warmth!  The Godlike could not and cannot\nbe paid;  but the Earthly always could.  Gurth, a mere swineherd,\nborn thrall of Cedric the Saxon, tended pigs in the wood, and did\nget some parings of the pork.  Why, the four-footed worker has\nalready got all that this two-handed one is clamouring for!  How\noften must I remind you?  There is not a horse in England, able\nand willing to work, but _has_ due food and lodging;  and goes\nabout sleek-coated, satisfied in heart.  And you say, It is\nimpossible.  Brothers, I answer, if for you it be impossible,\nwhat is to become of you?  It is impossible for us to believe it\nto be impossible.  The human brain, looking at these sleek\nEnglish horses, refuses to believe in such impossibility for\nEnglish men.  Do you depart quickly;  clear the ways soon, lest\nworse befall.  We for our share do purpose, with full view of the\nenormous difficulty, with total disbelief in the impossibility,\nto endeavour while life is in us, and to die endeavouring, we and\nour sons, till we attain it or have all died and ended.\n\nSuch a Platitude of a World, in which all working horses could be\nwell fed, and innumerable working men should die starved, were it\nnot best to end it;  to have done with it, and restore it once\nfor all to the _Jotuns,_ Mud-giants, Frost-giants and Chaotic\nBrute-gods of the Beginning?  For the old Anarchic Brute-gods it\nmay be well enough, but it is a Platitude which Men should be\nabove countenancing by their presence in it.  We pray you, let\nthe word _impossible_ disappear from your vocabulary in this\nmatter.  It is of awful omen;  to all of us, and to yourselves\nfirst of all.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\nMorrison's Pill\n\n\nWhat is to be done, what would you have us do? asks many a one,\nwith a tone of impatience, almost of reproach;  and then, if you\nmention some one thing, some two things, twenty things that might\nbe done, turns round with a satirical tehee, and, \"These are your\nremedies!\"  The state of mind indicated by such question, and\nsuch rejoinder, is worth reflecting on.\n\nIt seems to be taken for granted, by these interrogative\nphilosophers, that there is some 'thing,' or handful of 'things,'\nwhich could be done;  some Act of Parliament, 'remedial measure\nor the like, which could be passed, whereby the social malady\nwere fairly fronted, conquered, put an end to;  so that, with\nyour remedial measure in your pocket, you could then go on\ntriumphant, and be troubled no farther.  \"You tell us the evil,\"\ncry such persons, as if justly aggrieved, \"and do not tell us how\nit is to be cured!\"\n\nHow it is to be cured?  Brothers, I am sorry I have got\nno Morrison's Pill for curing the maladies of Society.  It\nwere infinitely handier if we had a Morrison's Pill, Act of\nParliament, or remedial measure, which men could swallow, one\ngood time, and then go on in their old courses, cleared from all\nmiseries and mischiefs!  Unluckily we have none such;  unluckily\nthe Heavens themselves, in their rich pharmacopoeia, contain none\nsuch.  There will no 'thing' be done that will cure you.  There\nwill a radical universal alteration of your regimen and way of\nlife take place;  there will a most agonising divorce between you\nand your chimeras, luxuries and falsities, take place;  a most\ntoilsome, all but 'impossible' return to Nature, and her\nveracities, and her integrities, take place:  that so the inner\nfountains of life may again begin, like eternal Light-fountains,\nto irradiate and purify your bloated, swollen, foul existence,\ndrawing nigh, as at present, to nameless death!  Either death or\nelse all this will take place.  Judge if, with such diagnosis,\nany Morrison's Pill is like to be discoverable!\n\nBut the Life-fountain within you once again set flowing,\nwhat innumerable 'things,' whole sets and classes and continents\nof 'things,' year after year, and decade after decade, and\ncentury after century, will then be doable and done!  Not\nEmigration, Education, Corn-Law Abrogation, Sanitary Regulation,\nLand Property-Tax;  not these alone, nor a thousand times as much\nas these.  Good Heavens, there will then be light in the inner\nheart of here and there a man, to discern what is just, what is\ncommanded by the Most High God, what _must_ be done, were it\nnever so 'impossible.'  Vain jargon in favour of the palpably\nunjust will then abridge itself within limits.  Vain jargon, on\nHustings, in Parliaments or wherever else, when here and there a\nman has vision for the essential God's-Truth of the things\njargoned of, will become very vain indeed.  The silence of here\nand there such a man, how eloquent in answer to such jargon!\nSuch jargon, frightened at its own gaunt echo, will unspeakably\nabate;  nay, for a while, may almost in a manner disappear,--the\nwise answering it in silence, and even the simple taking cue from\nthem to hoot it down wherever heard.  It will be a blessed time;\nand many 'things' will become doable,--and when the brains are\nout, an absurdity will die!  Not easily again shall a Corn-Law\nargue ten years for itself;  and still talk and argue, when\nimpartial persons have to say with a sigh that, for so long back,\nthey have heard no 'argument' advanced for it but such as might\nmake the angels and almost the very jackasses weep!--\n\nWholly a blessed time:  when jargon might abate, and here and\nthere some genuine speech begin.  When to the noble opened heart,\nas to such heart they alone do, all noble things began to grow\nvisible;  and the difference between just and unjust, between\ntrue and false, between work and sham-work, between speech and\njargon, was once more, what to our happier Fathers it used to be,\n_infinite,_--as between a Heavenly thing and an Infernal:  the\none a thing which you were _not_ to do, which you were wise not\nto attempt doing;  which it were better for you to have a\nmillstone tied round your neck, and be cast into the sea, than\nconcern yourself with doing!--Brothers, it will not be a\nMorrison's Pill, or remedial measure, that will bring all this\nabout for us.\n\n\nAnd yet, very literally, till, in some shape or other, it be\nbrought about, we remain cureless;  till it begin to be brought\nabout, the cure does not begin.  For Nature and Fact, not Redtape\nand Semblance, are to this hour the basis of man's life;  and on\nthose, through never such strata of these, man and his life and\nall his interests do, sooner or later, infallibly come to rest,--\nand to be supported or be swallowed according as they agree with\nthose.  The question is asked of them, not, How do you agree with\nDowning-streets and accredited Semblance? but, How do you agree\nwith God's Universe and the actual Reality of things?  This\nUniverse _has_ its Laws.  If we walk according to the Law, the\nLaw-Maker will befriend us;  if not, not.  Alas, by no Reform\nBill, Ballot-box, Five-point Charter, by no boxes or bills or\ncharters, can you perform this alchemy:  'Given a world of Knaves\nto produce an Honesty from their united action!'  It is a\ndistillation, once for all, not possible.  You pass it through\nalembic after alembic, it comes out still a Dishonesty, with a\nnew dress on it, a new colour to it.  'While we ourselves\ncontinue valets, how can any hero come to govern us?'  We are\ngoverned, very infallibly, by the 'sham-hero,'--whose name is\nQuack, whose work and governance is Plausibility, and also is\nFalsity and Fatuity;  to which Nature says, and must say when it\ncomes to _her_ to speak, eternally No!  Nations cease to be\nbefriended of the Law-Maker, when they walk _not_ according to\nthe Law.  The Sphinx-question remains unsolved by them, becomes\never more insoluble.\n\nIf thou ask again, therefore, on the Morrison's-Pill hypothesis,\nWhat is to be done? allow me to reply:  By thee, for the present,\nalmost nothing.  Thou there, the thing for thee to do is, if\npossible, to cease to be a hollow sounding-shell of hearsays,\negoisms, purblind dilettantisms;  and become, were it on the\ninfinitely small scale, a faithful discerning soul.  Thou shalt\ndescend into thy inner man, and see if there be any traces of a\n_soul_ there;  till then there can be nothing done!  O brother,\nwe must if possible resuscitate some soul and conscience in us,\nexchange our dilettantisms for sincerities, our dead hearts of\nstone for living hearts of flesh.  Then shall we discern, not one\nthing, but, in clearer or dimmer sequence, a whole endless host\nof things that can be done.  _Do_ the first of these;  do it;\nthe second will already have become clearer, doabler;  the\nsecond, third and three-thousandth will then have begun to be\npossible for us.  Not any universal Morrison's Pill shall we\nthen, either as swallowers or as venders, ask after at all;  but\na far different sort of remedies:  Quacks shall no more have\ndominion over us, but true Heroes and Healers!\n\n\nWill not that be a thing worthy of 'doing;'  to deliver ourselves\nfrom quacks, sham-heroes;  to deliver the whole world more and\nmore from such?  They are the one bane of the world.  Once clear\nthe world of them, it ceases to be a Devil's-world, in all fibres\nof it wretched, accursed;  and begins to be a God's-world,\nblessed, and working hourly towards blessedness.  Thou for one\nwilt not again vote for any quack, do honour to any edge-gilt\nvacuity in man's shape:  cant shall be known to thee by the sound\nof it;--thou wilt fly from cant with a shudder never felt before;\nas from the opened litany of Sorcerers' Sabbaths, the true Devil-\nworship of this age, more horrible than any other blasphemy,\nprofanity or genuine blackguardism elsewhere audible among men.\nIt is alarming to witness,--in its present completed state!  And\nQuack and Dupe, as we must ever keep in mind, are upper-side and\nunder of the selfsame substance;  convertible personages:  turn\nup your dupe into the proper fostering element, and he\nhimself can become a quack;  there is in him the due prurient\ninsincerity, open voracity for profit, and closed sense for\ntruth, whereof quacks too, in all their kinds, are made.\n\nAlas, it is not to the hero, it is to the sham-hero that, of\nright and necessity, the valet-world belongs.  'What is to be\ndone?'  The reader sees whether it is like to be the seeking and\nswallowing of some 'remedial measure!'\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\nAristocracy of Talent\n\n\nWhen an individual is miserable, what does it most of all behove\nhim to do?  To complain of this man or of that, of this thing or\nof that?  To fill the world and the street with lamentation,\nobjurgation?  Not so at all;  the reverse of so.  All moralists\nadvise him not to complain of any person or of any thing, but of\nhimself only.  He is to know of a truth that being miserable he\nhas been unwise, he.  Had he faithfully followed Nature and her\nLaws, Nature, ever true to her Laws, would have yielded fruit and\nincrease and felicity to him:  but he has followed other than\nNature's Laws;  and now Nature, her patience with him being\nended, leaves him desolate;  answers with very emphatic\nsignificance to him:  No.  Not by this road, my son;  by another\nroad shalt thou attain well-being:  this, thou perceivest is the\nroad to ill-being;  quit this!--So do all moralists advise:  that\nthe man penitently say to himself first of all, Behold I was not\nwise enough;  I quitted the laws of Fact, which are also called\nthe Laws of God, and mistook for them the laws of Sham and\nSemblance, which are called the Devil's Laws;  therefore\nam I here!\n\nNeither with Nations that become miserable is it fundamentally\notherwise.  The ancient guides of Nations, Prophets, Priests, or\nwhatever their name, were well aware of this;  and, down to a\nlate epoch, impressively taught and inculcated it.  The modern\nguides of Nations, who also go under a great variety of names,\njournalists, Political Economists, Politicians, Pamphleteers,\nhave entirely forgotten this, and are ready to deny this.  But it\nnevertheless remains eternally undeniable:  nor is there any\ndoubt but we shall all be taught it yet, and made again to\nconfess it:  we shall all be striped and scourged till we do\nlearn it;  and shall at last either get to know it, or be striped\nto death in the process.  For it is undeniable!  When a Nation is\nunhappy, the old Prophet was right and not wrong in saying to it:\nYe have forgotten God, ye have quitted the ways of God, or ye\nwould not have been unhappy.  It is not according to the laws of\nFact that ye have lived and guided yourselves, but according to\nthe laws of Delusion, Imposture, and wilful and unwilful\n_Mistake_ of Fact;  behold therefore the Unveracity is worn out;\nNature's long-suffering with you is exhausted;  and ye are here!\n\nSurely there is nothing very inconceivable in this, even to the\nJournalist, to the Political Economist, Modern Pamphleteer, or\nany two-legged animal without feathers!  If a country finds\nitself wretched, sure enough that country has been _mis_guided:\nit is with the wretched Twenty-seven Millions, fallen wretched,\nas with the Unit fallen wretched:  they as he have quitted the\ncourse prescribed by Nature and the Supreme Powers, and so are\nfallen into scarcity, disaster, infelicity;  and pausing to\nconsider themselves, have to lament and say, Alas, we were not\nwise enough.  We took transient superficial Semblance for\neverlasting central Substance;  we have departed far away from\nthe _Laws_ of this Universe, and behold now lawless Chaos and\ninane Chimera is ready to devour us!--'Nature in late centuries,'\nsays Sauerteig, 'was universally supposed to be dead;  an old\neight-day clock, made many thousand years ago, and still ticking,\nbut dead as brass,--which the Maker, at most, sat looking at, in\na distant, singular, and indeed incredible manner:  but now I am\nhappy to observe, she is everywhere asserting herself to be not\ndead and brass at all, but alive and miraculous, celestial-\ninfernal, with an emphasis that will again penetrate the thickest\nhead of this Planet by and by!--\n\nIndisputable enough to all mortals now, the guidance of this\ncountry has not been sufficiently wise:  men too foolish have\nbeen set to the guiding and governing of it, and have guided it\nhither;  we must find wiser,--_wiser,_ or else we perish!  To\nthis length of insight all England has now advanced;  but as yet\nno farther.  All England stands wringing its hands, asking\nitself, nigh desperate, What farther?  Reform Bill proves to be a\nfailure;  Benthamee Radicalism, the gospel of 'Enlightened\nSelfishness,' dies out, or dwindles into Five-point Chartism,\namid the tears and hootings of men:  what next are we to hope or\ntry?  Five-point Charter, Freetrade;  Church-extension, Sliding-\nscale;  what, in Heaven's name, are we next to attempt, that we\nsink not in inane Chimera, and be devoured of Chaos?--The case is\npressing, and one of the most complicated in the world.  A God's-\nmessage never came to thicker-skinned people;  never had a God's-\nmessage to pierce through thicker integuments, into heavier ears.\nIt is Fact, speaking once more, in miraculous thunder-voice, from\nout of the centre of the world;--how unknown its language to the\ndeaf and foolish many;  how distinct, undeniable, terrible and\nyet beneficent, to the hearing few:  Behold, ye shall grow wiser,\nor ye shall die!  Truer to Nature's Fact, or inane Chimera will\nswallow you;  in whirlwinds of fire, you and your Mammonisms,\nDilettantisms, your Midas-eared philosophies, double-barreled\nAristocracies, shall disappear!--Such is the God's-message to\n_us,_ once more; in these modern days.\n\nWe must have more Wisdom to govern us, we must be governed by the\nWisest, we must have an Aristocracy of Talent! cry many.  True,\nmost true;  but how to get it?  The following extract from our\nyoung friend of the _Houndsditch Indicator_ is worth perusing:\n'At this time,' says he, 'while there is a cry everywhere,\narticulate or inarticulate, for an \"Aristocracy of Talent,\" a\nGoverning Class namely which did govern, not merely which took\nthe wages of governing, and could not with all our industry be\nkept from misgoverning, corn-lawing, and playing the very deuce\nwith us,--it may not be altogether useless to remind some of the\ngreener-headed sort what a dreadfully difficult affair the\ngetting of such an Aristocracy is!  Do you expect, my friends,\nthat your indispensable Aristocracy of Talent is to be enlisted\nstraightway, by some sort of recruitment aforethought, out of the\ngeneral population;  arranged in supreme regimental order;  and\nset to rule over us?  That it will be got sifted, like wheat out\nof chaff, from the Twenty-seven Million British subjects;  that\nany Ballot-box, Reform Bill, or other Political Machine, with\nForce of Public Opinion never so active on it, is likely to\nperform said process of sifting?  Would to Heaven that we had a\nsieve;  that we could so much as fancy any kind of sieve, wind-\nfanners, or ne-plus-ultra of machinery, devisable by man, that\nwould do it!\n\n'Done nevertheless, sure enough, it must be;  it shall and will\nbe.  We are rushing swiftly on the road to destruction;  every\nhour bringing us nearer, until it be, in some measure, done.  The\ndoing of it is not doubtful;  only the method and the costs!  Nay\nI will even mention to you an infallible sifting-process whereby\nhe that has ability will be sifted out to rule among us, and that\nsame blessed Aristocracy of Talent be verily, in an approximate\ndegree, vouchsafed us by and by:  an infallible sifting-process;\nto which, however, no soul can help his neighbour, but each must,\nwith devout prayer to Heaven, endeavour to help himself.  It is,\nO friends, that all of us, that many of us, should acquire the\ntrue eye for talent, which is dreadfully wanting at present!  The\ntrue _eye_ for talent presupposes the true reverence for it,--O\nHeavens, presupposes so many things!\n\n'For example, you Bobus Higgins, Sausage-maker on the great\nscale, who are raising such a clamour for this Aristocracy of\nTalent, what is it that you do, in that big heart of yours,\nchiefly in very fact pay reverence to?  Is it to talent,\nintrinsic manly worth of any kind, you unfortunate Bobus?  The\nmanliest man that you saw going in a ragged coat, did you ever\nreverence him;  did you so much as know that he was a manly man\nat all, till his coat grew better?  Talent!  I understand you to\nbe able to worship the fame of talent, the power, cash, celebrity\nor other success of talent;  but the talent itself is a thing you\nnever saw with eyes.  Nay what is it in yourself that you\nare proudest of, that you take most pleasure in surveying\nmeditatively in thoughtful moments?  Speak now, is it the bare\nBobus stript of his very name and shirt, and turned loose upon\nsociety, that you admire and thank Heaven for;  or Bobus with\nhis cash-accounts and larders dropping fatness, with his\nrespectabilities, warm garnitures, and pony-chaise, admirable in\nsome measure to certain of the flunkey species?  Your own degree\nof worth and talent, is it of _infinite_ value to you;  or only\nof finite,--measurable by the degree of currency, and conquest of\npraise or pudding, it has brought you to?  Bobus, you are in a\nvicious circle, rounder than one of your own sausages;  and will\nnever vote for or promote any talent, except what talent or sham-\ntalent has already _got_ itself voted for!'--We here cut short\nthe _Indicator;_ all readers perceiving whither he now tends.\n\n\n'More Wisdom' indeed:  but where to find more Wisdom?  We have\nalready a Collective Wisdom, after its kind,--though 'class-\nlegislation,' and another thing or two, affect it somewhat!  On\nthe whole, as they say, Like people like priest;  so we may say,\nLike people like king.  The man gets himself appointed and\nelected who is ablest--to be appointed and elected.  What can the\nincorruptiblest _Bobuses_ elect, if it be not some _Bobissimus,_\nshould they find such?\n\nOr, again, perhaps there is not, in the whole Nation, Wisdom\nenough, 'collect' it as we may, to make an adequate Collective!\nThat too is a case which may befall:  a ruined man staggers down\nto ruin because there was not wisdom enough in him;  so, clearly\nalso, may Twenty-seven Million collective men!--But indeed one of\nthe infalliblest fruits of Unwisdom in a Nation is that it cannot\nget the use of what Wisdom is actually in it:  that it is not\ngoverned by the wisest it has, who alone have a divine right to\ngovern in all Nations;  but by the sham-wisest, or even by the\nopenly not-so-wise if they are handiest otherwise!  This is the\ninfalliblest result of Unwisdom;  and also the balefullest,\nimmeasurablest,--not so much what we can call a poison-_fruit,_\nas a universal death-disease, and poisoning of the whole tree.\nFor hereby are fostered, fed into gigantic bulk, all manner of\nUnwisdoms, poison-fruits;  till, as we say, the life-tree\neverywhere is made a upas-tree, deadly Unwisdom overshadowing all\nthings;  and there is done what lies in human skill to stifle all\nWisdom everywhere in the birth, to smite our poor world barren of\nWisdom,--and make your utmost Collective Wisdom, were it\ncollected and elected by Rhadamanthus, AEacus and Minos, not to\nspeak of drunken Tenpound Franchisers with their ballot-boxes, an\ninadequate Collective!  The Wisdom is not now there:  how will\nyou 'collect' it?  As well wash Thames mud, by improved methods,\nto find more gold in it.\n\nTruly, the first condition is indispensable, That Wisdom be\nthere:  but the second is like unto it, is properly one with it:\nthese two conditions act and react through every fibre of them,\nand go inseparably together.  If you have much Wisdom in your\nNation, you will get it faithfully collected;  for the wise love\nWisdom, and will search for it as for life and salvation.  If you\nhave little Wisdom, you will get even that little ill-collected,\ntrampled under foot, reduced as near as possible to annihilation;\nfor fools do not love Wisdom;  they are foolish, first of all,\nbecause they have never loved Wisdom,--but have loved their own\nappetites, ambitions, their coroneted coaches, tankards of heavy-\nwet.  Thus is your candle lighted at both ends, and the progress\ntowards consummation is swift.  Thus is fulfilled that saying in\nthe Gospel:  To him that hath shall be given;  and from him that\nhath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.  Very\nliterally, in a very fatal manner, that saying is here fulfilled.\n\nOur 'Aristocracy of Talent' seems at a considerable distance yet;\ndoes it not, O Bobus?\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\nHero-Worship\n\n\nTo the present Editor, not less than to Bobus, a Government of\nthe Wisest, what Bobus calls an Aristocracy of Talent, seems the\none healing remedy:  but he is not so sanguine as Bobus with\nrespect to the means of realizing it.  He thinks that we have at\nonce missed realising it, and come to need it so pressingly,\nby departing far from the inner eternal Laws and taking up\nwith the temporary outer semblances of Laws.  He thinks that\n'enlightened Egoism,' never so luminous, is not the rule by\nwhich man's life can be led.  That 'Laissez-faire,' 'Supply-and-\ndemand,' 'Cash-payment for the sole nexus,' and so forth, were\nnot, are not, and will never be, a practicable Law of Union for a\nSociety of Men.  That Poor and Rich, that Governed and Governing,\ncannot long live together on any such Law of Union.  Alas, he\nthinks that man has a soul in him, _different_ from the stomach\nin any sense of this word;  that if said soul be asphyxied, and\nlie quietly forgotten, the man and his affairs are in a bad way.\nHe thinks that said soul will have to be resuscitated from its\nasphyxia;  that if it prove irresuscitable, the man is not long\nfor this world.  In brief, that Midas-eared Mammonism, double-\nbarreled Dilettantism, and their thousand adjuncts and corollaries,\nare not the Law by which God Almighty has appointed this his\nUniverse to go.  That, once for all, these are not the Law:\nand then farther that we shall have to return to what is\nthe Law,--not by smooth flowery paths, it is like, and with\n'tremendous cheers' in our throat;  but over steep untrodden\nplaces, through stormclad chasms, waste oceans, and the bosom of\ntornadoes;  thank Heaven, if not through very Chaos and the\nAbyss!  The resuscitating of a soul that has gone to asphyxia is\nno momentary or pleasant process, but a long and terrible one.\n\n\nTo the present Editor 'Hero-worship,' as he has elsewhere named\nit, means much more than an elected Parliament, or stated\nAristocracy, of the Wisest;  for, in his dialect, it is the\nsummary, ultimate essence, and supreme practical perfection of\nall manner of 'worship,' and true worships and noblenesses\nwhatsoever.  Such  blessed  Parliament and, were it once in\nperfection, blessed Aristocracy of the Wisest, god-honoured and\nman-honoured, he does look for, more and more perfected,--as the\ntopmost blessed practical apex of a whole world reformed from\nsham-worship, informed anew with worship, with truth and\nblessedness!  He thinks that Hero-worship, done differently in\nevery different epoch of the world, is the soul of all social\nbusiness among men;  that the doing of it well, or the doing of\nit ill, measures accurately what degree of well-being or of ill-\nbeing there is in the world's affairs.  He thinks that we, on the\nwhole, do our Hero-worship worse than any Nation in this world\never did it before:  that the Burns an Exciseman, the Byron a\nLiterary Lion, are intrinsically, all things considered, a baser\nand falser phenomenon than the Odin a God, the Mahomet a Prophet\nof God.  It is this Editor's clear opinion, accordingly, that we\nmust learn to do our Hero-worship better;  that to do it better\nand better, means the awakening of the Nation's soul from its\nasphyxia, and the return of blessed life to us,--Heaven's blessed\nlife, not Mammon's galvanic accursed one.  To resuscitate the\nAsphyxied, apparently now moribund, and in the last agony if not\nresuscitated:  such and no other seems the consummation.\n\n'Hero-worship,' if you will,--yes, friends;  but, first of all,\nby being ourselves of heroic mind.  A whole world of Heroes;  a\nworld not of Flunkeys, where no Hero-King _can_ reign:  that is\nwhat we aim at!  We, for our share, will put away all Flunkeyism,\nBaseness, Unveracity from us;  we shall then hope to have\nNoblenesses and Veracities set over us;  never till then.  Let\nBobus and Company sneer, \"That is your Reform!\"  Yes, Bobus, that\nis our Reform;  and except in that, and what will follow out of\nthat, we have no hope at all.  Reform, like Charity, O Bobus,\nmust begin at home.  Once well at home, how will it radiate\noutwards, irrepressible, into all that we touch and handle, speak\nand work;  kindling ever new light, by incalculable contagion,\nspreading in geometric ratio, far and wide,--doing good only,\nwheresoever it spreads, and not evil.\n\nBy Reform Bills, Anti-Corn-Law Bills, and thousand other bills\nand methods, we will demand of our Governors, with emphasis, and\nfor the first time not without effect, that they cease to be\nquacks, or else depart;  that they set no quackeries and\nblockheadisms anywhere to rule over us, that they utter or act no\ncant to us,--that it will be better if they do not.  For we shall\nnow know quacks when we see them;  cant, when we hear it, shall\nbe horrible to us!  We will say, with the poor Frenchman at the\nBar of the Convention, though in wiser style than he, and 'for\nthe space' not 'of an hour' but of a lifetime:  _\"Je demande\nl'arrestation des coquins et des laches.\"_  'Arrestment of the\nknaves and dastards:'  ah, we know what a work that is;  how long\nit will be before _they_ are all or mostly got 'arrested:'--but\nhere is one;  arrest him, in God's name;  it is one fewer!  We\nwill, in all practicable ways, by word and silence, by act\nand refusal to act, energetically demand arrestment,--_\"le\ndemande cette arrestation-la!\"_--and by degrees infallibly\nattain it.  Infallibly:  for light spreads;  all human\nsouls, never so bedarkened, love light;  light once kindled\nspreads, till all is luminous;--till the cry, \"_Arrest_ your\nknaves and dastards rises imperative from millions of hearts, and\nrings and reigns from sea to sea.  Nay, how many of them may we\nnot 'arrest' with our own hands, even now;  we!  Do not\ncountenance them, thou there:  turn away from their lackered\nsumptuosities, their belauded sophistries, their serpent\ngraciosities, their spoken and acted cant, with a sacred horror,\nwith an _Apage Satanas._--Bobus and Company, and all men will\ngradually join us.  We demand arrestment of the knaves and\ndastards, and begin by arresting our own poor selves out of that\nfraternity.  There is no other reform conceivable.  Thou and I,\nmy friend, can, in the most flunkey world, make, each of us,\n_one_ non-flunkey, one hero, if we like:  that will be two heroes\nto begin with:--Courage! even that is a whole world of heroes to\nend with, or what we poor Two can do in furtherance thereof!\n\nYes, friends:  Hero-kings and a whole world not unheroic, there\nlies the port and happy haven, towards which, through all these\nstormtost seas, French Revolutions, Chartisms, Manchester\nInsurrections, that make the heart sick in these bad days, the\nSupreme Powers are driving us.  On the whole, blessed be the\nSupreme Powers, stern as they are!  Towards that haven will we, O\nfriends;  let all true men, with what of faculty is in them, bend\nvaliantly, incessantly, with thousandfold endeavour, thither,\nthither!  There, or else in the Ocean-abysses, it is very clear\nto me, we shall arrive.\n\n\nWell;  here truly is no answer to the Sphinx-question;  not the\nanswer a disconsolate Public, inquiring at the College of Health,\nwas in hopes of!  A total change of regimen, change of constitution\nand existence from the very centre of it;  a new body to be got,\nwith resuscitated soul,--not without convulsive travail-throes;\nas all birth and new-birth presupposes travail!  This is sad news\nto a disconsolate discerning Public, hoping to have got off by\nsome Morrison's Pill, some Saint-John's corrosive mixtures and\nperhaps a little blistery friction on the back!--We were prepared\nto part with our Corn-Law, with various Laws and Unlaws:  but\nthis, what is this?\n\nNor has the Editor forgotten how it fares with your ill-boding\nCassandras in Sieges of Troy.  Imminent perdition is not usually\ndriven away by words of warning.  Didactic Destiny has other\nmethods in store;  or these would fail always.  Such words\nshould, nevertheless, be uttered, when they dwell truly in the\nsoul of any man.  Words are hard, are importunate;  but how much\nharder the importunate events they foreshadow!  Here and there a\nhuman soul may listen to the words,--who knows how many human\nsouls? whereby the importunate events, if not diverted and\nprevented, will be rendered _less_ hard.  The present Editor's\npurpose is to himself full of hope.\n\nFor though fierce travails, though wide seas and roaring gulfs\nlie before us, is it not something if a Loadstar, in the eternal\nsky, do once more disclose itself;  an everlasting light, shining\nthrough all cloud-tempests and roaring billows, ever as we emerge\nfrom the trough of the sea:  the blessed beacon, far off on the\nedge of far horizons, towards which we are to steer incessantly\nfor life?  Is it not something;  O Heavens, is it not all?  There\nlies the Heroic Promised Land;  under that Heaven's-light, my\nbrethren, bloom the Happy Isles,--there, O there!  Thither\nwill we;\n\n     There dwells the great Achilles whom we knew.*\n\n-------------\n* Tennyson's _Poems_ (Ulysses)\n-----------\n\nThere dwell all Heroes, and will dwell:  thither, all ye heroic-\nminded!--The Heaven's Loadstar once clearly in our eye, how will\neach true man stand truly to _his_ work in the ship;  how, with\nundying hope, will all things be fronted, all be conquered.  Nay,\nwith the ship's prow once turned in that direction, is not all,\nas it were, already well?  Sick wasting misery has become noble\nmanful effort with a goal in our eye.  'The choking Nightmare\nchokes us no longer;  for we _stir_ under it;  the Nightmare has\nalready fled.'--\n\nCertainly, could the present Editor instruct men how to know\nWisdom, Heroism, when they see it, that they might do reverence\nto it only, and loyally make it ruler over them,--yes, he were\nthe living epitome of all Editors, Teachers, Prophets, that\nnow teach and prophesy;  he were an _Apollo_-Morrison, a\nTrismegistus! and _effective_ Cassandra!  Let no Able Editor hope\nsuch things.  It is to be expected the present laws of copyright,\nrate of reward per sheet, and other considerations, will save him\nfrom that peril.  Let no Editor hope such things:  no;--and yet\nlet all Editors aim towards such things, and even towards such\nalone!  One knows not what the meaning of editing and writing is,\nif even this be not it.\n\nEnough, to the present Editor it has seemed possible some\nglimmering of light, for here and there a human soul, might lie\nin these confused Paper-Masses now intrusted to him;  wherefore\nhe determines to edit the same.  Out of old Books, new Writings,\nand much Meditation not of yesterday, he will endeavour to select\na thing or two;  and from the Past, in a circuitous way,\nillustrate the Present and the Future.  The Past is a dim\nindubitable fact:  the Future too is one, only dimmer;  nay\nproperly it is the same fact in new dress and development.  For\nthe Present holds in it both the whole Past and the whole\nFuture;--as the LIFE-TREE IGDRASIL, wide-waving, many-toned, has\nits roots down deep in the Death-kingdoms, among the oldest dead\ndust of men, and with its boughs reaches always beyond the stars;\nand in all times and places is one and the same Life-tree!\n\n\n\n\nBook II--The Ancient Monk\n\n\n\nChapter I\n\nJocelin of Brakelond\n\n\nWe will, in this Second Portion of our Work, strive to penetrate\na little, by means of certain confused Papers, printed and other,\ninto a somewhat remote Century; and to look face to face on it,\nin hope of perhaps illustrating our own poor Century thereby.  It\nseems a circuitous way;  but it may prove a way nevertheless.\nFor man has ever been a striving, struggling, and, in spite of\nwide-spread calumnies to the contrary, a veracious creature:  the\nCenturies too are all lineal children of one another;  and often,\nin the portrait of early grandfathers, this and the other\nenigmatic feature of the newest grandson shall disclose itself,\nto mutual elucidation.  This Editor will venture on such a thing.\n\nBesides, in Editors' Books, and indeed everywhere else in the\nworld of Today, a certain latitude of movement grows more and\nmore becoming for the practical man.  Salvation lies not in tight\nlacing, in these times;--how far from that, in any province\nwhatsoever!  Readers and men generally are getting into strange\nhabits of asking all persons and things, from poor Editors' Books\nup to Church Bishops and State Potentates, not, By what\ndesignation are thou called;  in what wig and black triangle dost\nthou walk abroad?  Heavens, I know thy designation and black\ntriangle well enough!  But, in God's name, what _art_ thou?  Not\nNothing, sayest thou!  Then if not, How much and what?  This is\nthe thing I would know;  and even _must_ soon know, such a pass\nam I come to!--What weather-symptoms,--not for the poor Editor of\nBooks alone!  The Editor of Books may understand withal that if,\nas is said, 'many kinds are permissible,' there is one kind not\npermissible, 'the kind that has nothing in it, _le genre\nennuyeux;'_  and go on his way accordingly.\n\nA certain Jocelinus de Brakelonda, a natural-born Englishman, has\nleft us an extremely foreign Book,* which the labours of the\nCamden Society have brought to light in these days.  Jocelin's\nBook, the 'Chronicle,' or private Boswellean Notebook, of\nJocelin, a certain old St. Edmundsbury Monk and Boswell, now\nseven centuries old, how remote is it from us;  exotic,\nextraneous;  in all ways, coming from far abroad!  The language\nof it is not foreign only but dead:  Monk-Latin lies across not\nthe British Channel, but the ninefold Stygian Marshes, Stream of\nLethe, and one knows not where!  Roman Latin itself, still\nalive for us in the Elysian Fields of Memory, is domestic\nin comparison.  And then the ideas, life-furniture, whole\nworkings and ways of this worthy Jocelin;  covered deeper than\nPompeii with the lava-ashes and inarticulate wreck of seven\nhundred years!\n\n----------\n* _Chronica Jocelini de Brakelonda, de rebus gestis Samsonis\nAbbatis Monasterii Sancti Edmundi: nunc primum typis mandata,\ncurante Johanne Gage Rokewood._  (Camden Society, London, 1840)\n----------\n\nJocelin of Brakelond cannot be called a conspicuous literary\ncharacter;  indeed few mortals that have left so visible a work,\nor footmark, behind them can be more obscure.  One other of those\nvanished Existences, whose work has not yet vanished;--almost a\npathetic phenomenon, were not the whole world full of such!  The\nbuilders of Stonehenge, for example:--or alas, what say we,\nStonehenge and builders?  The writers of the _Universal Review_\nand _Homer's Iliad;_  the paviers of London streets;--sooner\nor later, the entire Posterity of Adam!  It is a pathetic\nphenomenon;  but an irremediable, nay, if well meditated, a\nconsoling one.\n\nBy his dialect of Monk-Latin, and indeed by his name, this\nJocelin seems to have been a Norman Englishman;  the surname de\nBrakelonda indicates a native of St. Edmundsbury itself,\n_Brakelond_ being the known old name of a street or quarter in\nthat venerable Town.  Then farther, sure enough, our Jocelin was\na Monk of St. Edmundsbury Convent;  held some _'obedientia,'_\nsubaltern officiality there, or rather, in succession several;\nwas, for one thing, 'chaplain to my Lord Abbot, living beside him\nnight and day for the space of six years;'--which last, indeed,\nis the grand fact of Jocelin's existence, and properly the origin\nof this present Book, and of the chief meaning it has for us now.\nHe was, as we have hinted, a kind of born _Boswell,_ though an\ninfinitesimally small one;  neither did he altogether want his\n_Johnson_ even there and then.  Johnsons are rare;  yet, as has\nbeen asserted, Boswels perhaps still rarer,--the more is the pity\non both sides!  This Jocelin, as we can discern well, was an\ningenious and ingenuous, a cheery-hearted, innocent, yet withal\nshrewd, noticing, quick-wilted man;  and from under his monk's\ncowl has looked out on that narrow section of the world in a\nreally _human_ manner;  not in any _simial,_ canine, ovine, or\notherwise inhuman manner,--afflictive to all that have humanity!\nThe man is of patient, peaceable, loving, clear-smiling nature;\nopen for this and that.  A wise simplicity is in him;  much\nnatural sense;  a _veracity_ that goes deeper than words.\nVeracity:  it is the basis of all;  and, some say, means genius\nitself;  the prime essence of all genius whatsoever.  Our\nJocelin, for the rest, has read his classical manuscripts, his\nVirgilius, his Flaccus, Ovidius Naso;  of course still more, his\nHomilies and Breviaries, and if not the Bible, considerable\nextracts of the Bible.  Then also he has a pleasant wit;  and\nloves a timely joke, though in mild subdued manner:  very amiable\nto see.  A learned grown man, yet with the heart of a good\nchild;  whose whole life indeed has been that of a child,--St.\nEdmundsbury Monastery a larger kind of cradle for him, in which\nhis whole prescribed duty was to _sleep_ kindly, and love his\nmother well!  This is the Biography of Jocelin;  'a man of\nexcellent religion,' says one of his contemporary Brother Monks,\n_'eximiae religionis, potens sermone et opere.'_\n\nFor one thing, he had learned to write a kind of Monk or Dog-\nLatin, still readable to mankind;  and, by good luck for us, had\nbethought him of noting down thereby what things seemed notablest\nto him.  Hence gradually resulted a _Chronica Jocelini;_  new\nManuscript in the _Liber Albus_ of St. Edmundsbury.  Which\nChronicle, once written in its childlike transparency, in its\ninnocent good-humour, not without touches of ready pleasant wit\nand many kinds of worth, other men liked naturally to read:\nwhereby it failed not to be copied, to be multiplied, to be\ninserted in the _Liber Albus;_  and so surviving Henry the\nEighth, Putney Cromwell, the Dissolution of Monasteries, and all\naccidents of malice and neglect for six centuries or so, it got\ninto the _Harleian Collection,_--and has now therefrom, by Mr.\nRokewood of the Camden Society, been deciphered into clear print;\nand lies before us, a dainty thin quarto, to interest for a few\nminutes whomsoever it can.\n\nHere too it will behove a just Historian gratefully to say that\nMr. Rokewood, Jocelin's Editor, has done his editorial function\nwell.  Not only has he deciphered his crabbed Manuscript into\nclear print;  but he has attended, what his fellow editors are\nnot always in the habit of doing, to the important truth that the\nManuscript so deciphered ought to have a meaning for the reader.\nStanding faithfully by his text, and printing its very errors in\nspelling, in grammar or otherwise, he has taken care by some note\nto indicate that they are errors, and what the correction of them\nought to be.  Jocelin's Monk-Latin is generally transparent, as\nshallow limpid water.  But at any stop that may occur, of which\nthere are a few, and only a very few, we have the comfortable\nassurance that a meaning does lie in the passage, and may by\nindustry be got at;  that a faithful editor's industry had\nalready got at it before passing on.  A compendious useful\nGlossary is given;  nearly adequate to help the uninitiated\nthrough:  sometimes one wishes it had been a trifle larger;\nbut, with a Spelman and Ducange at your elbow, how easy to have\nmade it far too large!  Notes are added, generally brief;\nsufficiently explanatory of most points.  Lastly, a copious\ncorrect Index;  which no such Book should want, and which\nunluckily very few possess.  And so, in a word, the _Chronicle of\nJocelin_ is, as it professes to be, unwrapped from its thick\ncerements, and fairly brought forth into the common daylight, so\nthat he who runs, and has a smattering of grammar, may read.\n\nWe have heard so much of Monks;  everywhere, in real and\nfictitious History, from Muratori Annals to Radcliffe Romances,\nthese singular two-legged animals, with their rosaries and\nbreviaries, with their shaven crowns, hair-cilices, and vows of\npoverty, masquerade so strangely through our fancy;  and they are\nin fact so very strange an extinct species of the human family,--\na veritable Monk of Bury St. Edmunds is worth attending to, if by\nchance made visible and audible.  Here he is;  and in his hand a\nmagical speculum, much gone to rust indeed, yet in fragments\nstill clear;  wherein the marvelous image of his existence does\nstill shadow itself, though fitfully, and as with an intermittent\nlight!  Will not the reader peep with us into this singular\n_camera lucida,_ where an extinct species, though fitfully, can\nstill be seen alive?  Extinct species, we say;  for the live\nspecimens which still go about under that character are too\nevidently to be classed as spurious in Natural History:  the\nGospel of Richard Arkwright once promulgated, no Monk of the old\nsort is any longer possible in this world.  But fancy a deep-\nburied Mastodon, some fossil Megatherion, Ichthyosaurus, were\nto begin to speak from amid its rock-swathings, never so\nindistinctly!  The most extinct fossil species of Men or Monks\ncan do, and does, this miracle,--thanks to the Letters of the\nAlphabet, good for so many things.\n\nJocelin, we said, was somewhat of a Boswell;  but unfortunately,\nby Nature, he is none of the largest, and distance has now\ndwarfed him to an extreme degree.  His light is most feeble,\nintermittent, and requires the intensest kindest inspection;\notherwise it will disclose mere vacant haze.  It must be owned,\nthe good Jocelin, spite of his beautiful childlike character, is\nbut an altogether imperfect 'mirror' of these old-world things!\nThe good man, he looks on us so clear and cheery, and in his\nneighbourly soft-smiling eyes we see so well our _own_ shadow,--\nwe have a longing always to cross-question him, to force from him\nan explanation of much.  But no;  Jocelin, though he talks with\nsuch clear familiarity, like a next-door neighbour, will not\nanswer any question:  that is the peculiarity of him, dead these\nsix hundred and fifty years, and quite deaf to us, though still\nso audible!  The good man, he cannot help it, nor can we.\n\nBut truly it is a strange consideration this simple one, as we go\non with him, or indeed with any lucid simple-hearted soul like\nhim:  Behold therefore, this England of the Year 1200 was no\nchimerical vacuity or dreamland, peopled with mere vaporous\nFantasms, Rymer's Foedera, and Doctrines of the Constitution, but\na green solid place, that grew corn and several other things.\nThe Sun shone on it;  the vicissitude of seasons and human\nfortunes.  Cloth was woven and worn;  ditches were dug,\nfurrowfields ploughed, and houses built.  Day by day all men and\ncattle rose to labour, and night by night returned home weary to\ntheir several lairs.  In wondrous Dualism, then as now, lived\nnations of breathing men;  alternating, in all ways, between\nLight and Dark;  between joy and sorrow, between rest and toil,\nbetween hope, hope reaching high as Heaven, and fear deep as very\nHell.  Not vapour Fantasms, Rymer's Foedera at all!  Coeur-de-\nLion was not a theatrical popinjay with greaves and steelcap on\nit, but a man living upon victuals,--_not_ imported by Peel's\nTariff.  Coeur-de-Lion came palpably athwart this Jocelin at St.\nEdmundsbury;  and had almost peeled the sacred gold _'Feretrum,'_\nor St. Edmund Shrine itself, to ransom him out of the Danube Jail.\n\nThese clear eyes of neighbour Jocelin looked on the bodily\npresence of King John;  the very John _Sansterre,_ or Lackland,\nwho signed _Magna Charta_ afterwards in Runnymead.  Lackland,\nwith a great retinue, boarded once, for the matter of a\nfortnight, in St. Edmundsbury Convent;  daily in the very\neyesight, palpable to the very fingers of our Jocelin:  O\nJocelin, what did he say, what did he do;  how looked he, lived\nhe;--at the very lowest, what coat or breeches had he on?\nJocelin is obstinately silent.  Jocelin marks down what interests\n_him;_  entirely deaf to _us._  With Jocelin's eyes we discern\nalmost nothing of John Lackland.  As through a glass darkly, we\nwith our own eyes and appliances, intensely looking, discern at\nmost:  A blustering, dissipated, human figure, with a kind of\nblackguard quality air, in cramoisy velvet, or other uncertain\ntexture, uncertain cut, with much plumage and fringing;  amid\nnumerous other human figures of the like;  riding abroad with\nhawks;  talking noisy nonsense;--tearing out the bowels of St.\nEdmundsbury Convent (its larders namely and cellars) in the most\nruinous way, by living at rack and manger there.  Jocelin notes\nonly, with a slight subacidity of manner, that the King's\nMajesty, _Dominus Rex,_ did leave, as gift for our St. Edmund\nShrine, a handsome enough silk cloak,--or rather pretended to\nleave, for one of his retinue borrowed it of us, and we never got\nsight of it again;  and, on the whole, that the _Dominus Rex,_ at\ndeparting, gave us 'thirteen _sterlingii,'_ one shilling and one\npenny, to say a mass for him;  and so departed,--like a shabby\nLackland as he was!  'Thirteen pence sterling,' this was what the\nConvent got from Lackland, for all the victuals he and his had\nmade away with.  We of course said our mass for him, having\ncovenanted to do it,--but let impartial posterity judge with what\ndegree of fervour!\n\nAnd in this manner vanishes King Lackland;  traverses swiftly our\nstrange intermittent magic-mirror, jingling the shabby thirteen\npence merely;  and rides with his hawks into Egyptian night\nagain.  It is Jocelin's manner with all things;  and it is men's\nmanner and men's necessity.  How intermittent is our good\nJocelin;  marking down, without eye to _us,_ what _he_ finds\ninteresting!  How much in Jocelin, as in all History, and indeed\nin all Nature, is at once inscrutable and certain;  so dim, yet\nso indubitable;  exciting us to endless considerations.  For King\nLackland was there, verily he;  and did leave these _tredecim\nsterlingii_ if nothing more, and did live and look in one way\nor the other, and a whole world was living and looking along\nwith him!  There, we say, is the grand peculiarity;  the\nimmeasurable one;  distinguishing, to a really infinite degree,\nthe poorest historical Fact from all Fiction whatsoever.  Fiction,\n'Imagination,' 'Imaginative Poetry,' &c. &c., except as the\nvehicle for truth, or _fact_ of some sort,--which surely a man\nshould first try various other ways of vehiculating, and\nconveying safe,--what is it?  Let the Minerva and other Presses\nrespond!--But it is time we were in St. Edmundsbury Monastery,\nand Seven good Centuries off.  If indeed it be possible, by any\naid of Jocelin, by any human art, to get thither, with a reader\nor two still following us?\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\n\nSt. Edmundsbury\n\n\nThe _Burg,_ Bury, or 'Berry' as they call it, of St. Edmund is\nstill a prosperous brisk Town;  beautifully diversifying, with\nits clear brick houses, ancient clean streets, and twenty or\nfifteen thousand busy souls, the general grassy face of Suffolk;\nlooking out right pleasantly, from its hill-slope, towards the\nrising Sun:  and on the eastern edge of it, still runs, long,\nblack and massive, a range of monastic ruins;  into the wide\ninternal spaces of which the stranger is admitted on payment of\none shilling.  Internal spaces laid out, at present, as a botanic\ngarden.  Here stranger or townsman, sauntering at his leisure\namid these vast grim venerable ruins, may persuade himself that\nan Abbey of St. Edmundsbury did once exist;  nay there is\nno doubt of it:  see here the ancient massive Gateway, of\narchitecture interesting to the eye of Dilettantism;  and farther\non, that other ancient Gateway, now about to tumble, unless\nDilettantism, in these very months, can subscribe money to cramp\nit and prop it!\n\nHere, sure enough, is an Abbey;  beautiful in the eye of\nDilettantism.  Giant Pedantry also will step in, with its huge\n_Dugdale_ and other enormous _Monasticons_ under its arm, and\ncheerfully apprise you.  That this was a very great Abbey, owner\nand indeed creator of St. Edmund's Town itself, owner of wide\nlands and revenues;  nay that its lands were once a county of\nthemselves;  that indeed King Canute or Knut was very kind to it;\nand gave St. Edmund his own gold crown off his head, on one\noccasion:  for the rest, that the Monks were of such and such a\ngenus, such and such a number;  that they had so many Carucates\nof land in this hundred, and so many in that;  and then farther\nthat the large Tower or Belfry was built by such a one, and the\nsmaller Belfry was built by &c. &c.--Till human nature can stand\nno more of it;  till human nature desperately take refuge in\nforgetfulness, almost in flat disbelief of the whole business,\nMonks, Monastery, Belfries, Carucates and all!  Alas, what\nmountains of dead ashes, wreck and burnt bones, does assiduous\nPedantry dig up from the Past Time, and name it History, and\nPhilosophy of History;  till, as we say, the human soul sinks\nwearied and bewildered;  till the Past Time seems all one\ninfinite incredible grey void, without sun, stars, hearth-fires,\nor candle-light;  dim offensive dust-whirlwinds filling universal\nNature;  and over your Historical Library, it is as if all the\nTitans had written for themselves:  DRY RUBBISH SHOT HERE!\n\n\nAnd yet these grim old walls are not a dilettantism and dubiety;\nthey are an earnest fact.  It was a most real and serious purpose\nthey were built for!  Yes, another world it was, when these black\nruins, white in their new mortar and fresh chiseling, first saw\nthe sun as walls, long ago.  Gauge not, with thy dilettante\ncompasses, with that placid dilettante simper, the Heaven's-\nWatchtower of our Fathers, the fallen God's-Houses, the Golgotha\nof true Souls departed!\n\nTheir architecture, belfries, land-carucates?  Yes,--and that is\nbut a small item of the matter.  Does it never give thee pause,\nthis other strange item of it, that men then had a _soul,_--not\nby hearsay alone, and as a figure of speech;  but as a truth that\nthey knew, and practically went upon!  Verily it was another\nworld then.  Their Missals have become incredible, a sheer\nplatitude, sayest thou?  Yes, a most poor platitude;  and even,\nif thou wilt, an idolatry and blasphemy, should any one persuade\n_thee_ to believe them, to pretend praying by them.  But yet it\nis pity we had lost tidings of our souls:--actually we shall\nhave to go in quest of them again, or worse in all ways will\nbefall!  A certain degree of soul, as Ben Jonson reminds us, is\nindispensable to keep the very body from destruction of the\nfrightfullest sort;  to 'save us,' says he, 'the expense of\n_salt.'_  Ben has known men who had soul enough to keep their\nbody and five senses from becoming carrion, and save salt:--men,\nand also Nations.  You may look in Manchester Hunger-mobs and\nCorn-law Commons Houses, and various other quarters, and\nsay whether either soul or else salt is not somewhat wanted\nat present!--\n\nAnother world, truly:  and this present poor distressed world\nmight get some profit by looking wisely into it, instead of\nfoolishly.  But at lowest, O dilettante friend, let us know\nalways that it was a world, and not a void infinite of grey haze\nwith fantasms swimming in it.  These old St. Edmundsbury walls, I\nsay, were not peopled with fantasms;  but with men of flesh and\nblood, made altogether as we are.  Had thou and I then been, who\nknows but we ourselves had taken refuge from an evil Time, and\nfled to dwell here, and meditate on an Eternity, in such fashion\nas we could?  Alas, how like an old osseous fragment, a broken\nblackened shin-bone of the old dead Ages, this black ruin looks\nout, not yet covered by the soil;  still indicating what a once\ngigantic Life lies buried there!  It is dead now, and dumb;  but\nwas alive once, and spake.  For twenty generations, here was the\nearthly arena where painful living men worked out their life-\nwrestle,--looked at by Earth, by Heaven and Hell.  Bells tolled\nto prayers;  and men, of many humours, various thoughts, chanted\nvespers, matins;--and round the little islet of their life rolled\nforever (as round ours still rolls, though we are blind and deaf)\nthe illimitable Ocean, tinting all things with _its_ eternal hues\nand reflexes;  making strange prophetic music!  How silent now;\nall departed, clean gone.  The World-Dramaturgist has written:\n_Exeunt._  The devouring Time-Demons have made away with it all:\nand in its stead, there is either nothing;  or what is worse,\noffensive universal dustclouds, and grey eclipse of Earth and\nHeaven, from 'dry rubbish shot here!'--\n\n\nTruly, it is no easy matter to get across the chasm of Seven\nCenturies, filled with such material.  But here, of all helps, is\nnot a Boswell the welcomest;  even a small Boswell?  Veracity,\ntrue simplicity of heart, how valuable are these always!  He that\nspeaks what _is_ really in him, will find men to listen, though\nunder never such impediments.  Even gossip, springing free and\ncheery from a human heart, this too is a kind of veracity and\n_speech;_--much preferable to pedantry and inane grey haze!\nJocelin is weak and garrulous, but he is human.  Through the thin\nwatery gossip of our Jocelin, we do get some glimpses of that\ndeep-buried Time;  discern veritably, though in a fitful\nintermittent manner, these antique figures and their life-method,\nface to face!  Beautifully, in our earnest loving glance, the old\ncenturies melt from opaque to partially translucent, transparent\nhere and there;  and the void black Night, one finds, is but the\nsumming up of innumerable peopled luminous _Days._  Not parchment\nChartularies, Doctrines of the Constitution, O Dryasdust;  not\naltogether, my erudite friend!--\n\nReaders who please to go along with us into this poor _Jocelini\nChronica_ shall wander inconveniently enough, as in wintry\ntwilight, through some poor stript hazel-grove, rustling with\nfoolish noises, and perpetually hindering the eyesight;  but\nacross which, here and there, some real human figure is seen\nmoving:  very strange;  whom we could hail if he would answer;--\nand we look into a pair of eyes deep as our own, _imaging_ our\nown, but all unconscious of us;  to whom we for the time are\nbecome as spirits and invisible!\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\nLandlord Edmund\n\n\nSome three centuries or so had elapsed since _Beodric's-worth_*\nbecame St. Edmund's _Stow,_ St. Edmund's _Town_ and Monastery,\nbefore Jocelin entered himself a Novice there.  'It was,' says\nhe, 'the year after the Flemings were defeated at Fornham St.\nGenevieve.'\n\n-------------\n* Dryasdust puzzles and pokes for some biography of this Beodric;\nand repugns to consider him a mere East-Anglian Person of\nCondition, not in need of a biography,--whose [script] _weorth_\nor _worth,_ that is to say, _Growth,_ Increase, or as we should\nnow name it, _Estate,_ that same Hamlet and wood Mansion, now St.\nEdmund's Bury, originally was.  For, adds our erudite Friend, the\nSaxon [script], equivalent to the German _werden,_ means to\n_grow,_ to _become;_  traces of which old vocable are still found\nin the North-country dialects, as, 'What is _word_ of him?\nmeaning 'What is become of him?' and the like.  Nay we in modern\nEnglish still say, 'Woe _worth_ the hour' (Woe _befall_ the\nhour), and speak of the _'Weird_ Sisters;'  not to mention the\ninnumerable other names of places still ending in _weorth_ or\n_worth._  And indeed, our common noun _worth,_ in the sense of\n_value,_ does not this mean simply, What a thing has _grown_ to,\nWhat a man has _grown_ to, How much he amounts to,--by the\nThreadneedle-street standard or another!\n--------------\n\nMuch passes away into oblivion:  this glorious victory over\nthe Flemings at Fornham has, at the present date, greatly\ndimmed itself out of the minds of men.  A victory and battle\nnevertheless it was, in its time:  some thrice-renowned Earl of\nLeicester, not of the De Montfort breed, (as may be read in\nPhilosophical and other Histories, could any human memory retain\nsuch things,) had quarreled with his sovereign, Henry Second of\nthe name;  had been worsted, it is like, and maltreated, and\nobliged to fly to foreign parts;  but had rallied there into new\nvigour;  and so, in the year 1173, returns across the German Sea\nwith a vengeful army of Flemings.  Returns, to the coast of\nSuffolk;  to Framlingham Castle, where he is welcomed;  westward\ntowards St. Edmundsbury and Fornham Church, where he is met by\nthe constituted authorities with _posse comitatus;_  and swiftly\ncut in pieces, he and his, or laid by the heels;  on the right\nbank of the obscure river Lark,--as traces still existing\nwill verify.\n\nFor the river Lark, though not very discoverably, still runs or\nstagnates in that country;  and the battle-ground is there;\nserving at present as a pleasure-ground to his Grace of\nNewcastle.  Copper pennies of Henry II are still found there;--\nrotted out from the pouches of poor slain soldiers, who had not\nhad _time_ to buy liquor with them.  In the river Lark itself was\nfished up, within man's memory, an antique gold ring;  which fond\nDilettantism can almost believe may have been the very ring\nCountess Leicester threw away, in her flight, into that same Lark\nriver or ditch.*  Nay, few years ago, in tearing out an enormous\nsuperannuated ash-tree, now grown quite corpulent, bursten,\nsuperfluous, but long a fixture in the soil, and not to be\ndislodged without revolution,--there was laid bare, under its\nroots, 'a circular mound of skeletons wonderfully complete,' all\nradiating from a centre, faces upwards, feet inwards;  a\n'radiation' not of Light, but of the Nether Darkness rather;  and\nevidently the fruit of battle;  for 'many of the heads were\ncleft, or had arrow-holes in them.  The Battle of Fornham,\ntherefore, is a fact, though a forgotten one;  no less obscure\nthan undeniable,--like so many other facts.\n\n----------\n*Lyttelton's _History of Henry II._ (2nd Edition), v. 169, &c.\n----------\n\nLike the St. Edmund's Monastery itself!  Who can doubt, after\nwhat we have said, that there was a Monastery here at one time?\nNo doubt at all there was a Monastery here;  no doubt, some three\ncenturies prior to this Fornham Battle, there dwelt a man in\nthese parts, of the name of Edmund, King, Landlord, Duke or\nwhatever his title was, of the Eastern Counties;--and a very\nsingular man and landlord he must have been.\n\nFor his tenants, it would appear, did not complain of him in the\nleast;  his labourers did not think of burning his wheatstacks,\nbreaking into his game-preserves;  very far the reverse of all\nthat.  Clear evidence, satisfactory even to my friend Dryasdust,\nexists that, on the contrary, they honoured, loved, admired this\nancient Landlord to a quite astonishing degree,--and indeed at\nlast to an immeasurable and inexpressible degree;  for, finding\nno limits or utterable words for their sense of his worth, they\ntook to beatifying and adoring him!  'Infinite admiration,' we\nare taught, 'means worship.'\n\nVery singular,--could we discover it!  What Edmund's specific\nduties were;  above all, what his method of discharging them with\nsuch results was, would surely be interesting to know;  but are\n_not_ very discoverable now.  His Life has become a poetic, nay a\nreligious _Mythus;_  though, undeniably enough, it was once a\nprose Fact, as our poor lives are;  and even a very rugged\nunmanageable one.  This landlord Edmund did go about in leather\nshoes, with _femoralia_  and bodycoat of some sort on him;  and\ndaily had his breakfast to procure;  and daily had contradictory\nspeeches, and most contradictory facts not a few, to reconcile\nwith himself.  No man becomes a Saint in his sleep.  Edmund, for\ninstance, instead of _reconciling_ those same contradictory facts\nand speeches to himself;  which means _subduing,_ and, in a\nmanlike and godlike manner, conquering them to himself,--might\nhave merely thrown new contention into them, new unwisdom into\nthem, and so been conquered _by_ them;  much the commoner case!\nIn that way he had proved no 'Saint,' or Divine-looking Man, but\na mere Sinner, and unfortunate, blameable, more or less Diabolic-\nlooking man!  No landlord Edmund becomes infinitely admirable in\nhis sleep.\n\nWith what degree of wholesome rigour his rents were collected we\nhear not.  Still less by what methods he preserved his game,\nwhether by 'bushing' or how,--and if the partridge-seasons were\n'excellent,' or were indifferent.  Neither do we ascertain what\nkind of Corn-bill he passed, or wisely-adjusted Sliding-scale:--\nbut indeed there were few spinners in those days;  and the\nnuisance of spinning, and other dusty labour, was not yet so\nglaring a one.\n\nHow then, it may be asked, did this Edmund rise into favour;\nbecome to such astonishing extent a recognised Farmer's Friend?\nReally, except it were by doing justly and loving mercy, to an\nunprecedented extent, one does not know.  The man, it would seem,\n'had walked,' as they say, 'humbly with God;'  humbly and\nvaliantly with God;  struggling to make the Earth heavenly, as he\ncould:  instead of walking sumptuously and pridefully with\nMammon, leaving the Earth to grow hellish as it liked.  Not\nsumptuously with Mammon?  How then could he 'encourage trade,'--\ncause Howel and James, and many wine-merchants to bless him, and\nthe tailor's heart (though in a very short-sighted manner) to\nsing for joy?  Much in this Edmund's Life is mysterious.\n\nThat he could, on occasion, do what he liked with his own is,\nmeanwhile, evident enough.  Certain Heathen Physical-Force Ultra-\nChartists, 'Danes' as they were then called, coming into his\nterritory with their 'five points,' or rather with their five-\nand-twenty thousand _points_ and edges too, of pikes namely and\nbattleaxes;  and proposing mere Heathenism, confiscation,\nspoliation, and fire and sword,--Edmund answered that he would\noppose to the utmost such savagery.  They took him prisoner;\nagain required his sanction to said proposals.  Edmund again\nrefused.  Cannot we kill you? cried they.--Cannot I die? answered\nhe.  My life, I think, is my own to do what I like with!  And he\ndied, under barbarous tortures, refusing to the last breath;  and\nthe Ultra-Chartist Danes _lost_ their propositions;--and went\nwith their 'points' and other apparatus, as is supposed, to the\nDevil, the Father of them.  Some say, indeed, these Danes were\nnot Ultra-Chartists, but Ultra-Tories, demanding to reap where\nthey had not sown, and live in this world without working, though\nall the world should starve for it;  which likewise seems a\npossible hypothesis.  Be what they might, they went, as we say,\nto the Devil;  and Edmund doing what he liked with his own, the\nEarth was got cleared of them.\n\nAnother version is, that Edmund on this and the like occasions\nstood by his order;  the oldest, and indeed only true order of\nNobility known under the stars, that of just Men and Sons of God,\nin opposition to Unjust and Sons of Belial,--which latter indeed\nare _second_-oldest, but yet a very unvenerable order.  This,\ntruly, seems the likeliest hypothesis of all.  Names and\nappearances alter so strangely, in some half-score centuries;\nand all fluctuates chameleon-like, taking now this hue, now that.\nThus much is very plain, and does not change hue:  Landlord\nEdmund was seen and felt by all men to have done verily a man's\npart in this life-pilgrimage of his;  and benedictions, and\noutflowing love and admiration from the universal heart, were his\nmeed.  Well-done!  Well-done! cried the hearts of all men.  They\nraised his slain and martyred body;  washed its wounds with fast-\nflowing universal tears;  tears of endless pity, and yet of a\nsacred joy and triumph.  The beautifullest kind of tears,--indeed\nperhaps the beautifullest kind of thing:  like a sky all flashing\ndiamonds and prismatic radiance;  all weeping, yet shone on by\nthe everlasting Sun:--and _this_ is not a sky, it is a Soul and\nliving Face!  Nothing liker the _Temple of the Highest,_ bright\nwith some real effulgence of the Highest, is seen in this world.\n\nO, if all Yankee-land follow a small good 'Schnuspel the\ndistinguished Novelist' with blazing torches, dinner-invitations,\nuniversal hep-hep-hurrah, feeling that he, though small, is\nsomething;  how might all Angle-land once follow a hero-martyr\nand great true Son of Heaven!  It is the very joy of man's heart\nto admire, where he can;  nothing so lifts him from all his mean\nimprisonments, were it but for moments, as true admiration.  Thus\nit has been said, 'all men, especially all women, are born\nworshipers;'  and will worship, if it be but possible.  Possible\nto worship a Something, even a small one;  not so possible a mere\nloud-blaring Nothing!  What sight is more pathetic than that of\npoor multitudes of persons met to gaze at King's Progresses,'\nLord Mayor's Shews, and other gilt-gingerbread phenomena of the\nworshipful sort, in these times;  each so eager to worship;\neach, with a dim fatal sense of disappointment, finding that he\ncannot rightly here!  These be thy gods, O Israel?  And thou art\nso _willing_ to worship,--poor Israel!\n\nIn this manner, however, did the men of the Eastern Counties take\nup the slain body of their Edmund, where it lay cast forth in the\nvillage of Hoxne;  seek out the severed head, and reverently\nreunite the same.  They embalmed him with myrrh and sweet spices,\nwith love, pity, and all high and awful thoughts;  consecrating\nhim with a very storm of melodious adoring admiration, and sun-\ndyed showers of tears;--joyfully, yet with awe (as all deep joy\nhas something of the awful in it), commemorating his noble deeds\nand godlike walk and conversation while on Earth.  Till, at\nlength, the very Pope and Cardinals at Rome were forced to hear\nof it;  and they, summing up as correctly as they well could,\nwith _Advocatus-Diaboli_ pleadings and their other forms of\nprocess, the general verdict of mankind, declared:  That he had,\nin very fact, led a hero's life in this world;  and being now\n_gone,_ was gone as they conceived to God above, and reaping his\nreward _there._  Such, they said, was the best judgment they\ncould form of the case;--and truly not a bad judgment.\nAcquiesced in, zealously adopted, with full assent of 'private\njudgment,' by all mortals.\n\n\nThe rest of St. Edmund's history, for the reader sees he has now\nbecome a _Saint,_ is easily conceivable.  Pious munificence\nprovided him a _loculus,_ a _feretrum_ or shrine;  built for him\na wooden chapel, a stone temple, ever widening and growing by new\npious gifts;--such the overflowing heart feels it a blessedness\nto solace itself by giving.  St. Edmund's Shrine glitters now\nwith diamond flowerages, with a plating of wrought gold.  The\nwooden chapel, as we say, has become a stone temple.  Stately\nmasonries, longdrawn arches, cloisters, sounding aisles buttress\nit, begirdle it far and wide.  Regimented companies of men, of\nwhom our Jocelin is one, devote themselves, in every generation,\nto meditate here on man's Nobleness and Awfulness, and celebrate\nand shew forth the same, as they best can,--thinking they will do\nit better here, in presence of God the Maker, and of the so Awful\nand so Noble made by Him.  In one word, St. Edmund's Body has\nraised a Monastery round it.  To such length, in such manner, has\nthe Spirit of the Time visibly taken body, and crystallised\nitself here.  New gifts, houses, farms, _katalla_*--come ever in.\nKing Knut, whom men call Canute, whom the Ocean-tide would not be\nforbidden to wet,--we heard already of this wise King, with his\ncrown and gifts;  but of many others, Kings, Queens, wise men and\nnoble loyal women, let Dryasdust and divine Silence be the\nrecord!  Beodric's-Worth has become St. Edmund's _Bury;_--and\nlasts visible to this hour.  All this that thou now seest, and\nnamest Bury Town, is properly the Funeral Monument of Saint or\nLandlord Edmund.  The present respectable Mayor of Bury may be\nsaid, like a Fakeer (little as he thinks of it), to have his\ndwelling in the extensive, many-sculptured Tombstone of St.\nEdmund;  in one of the brick niches thereof dwells the present\nrespectable Mayor of Bury.\n\n---------\n* Goods, properties; what we now call _chattels,_ and still more\nsingularly _cattle,_ says my erudite friend!\n---------\n\nCertain Times do crystallise themselves in a magnificent manner;\nand others, perhaps, are like to do it in rather a shabby one!--\nBut Richard Arkwright too will have his Monument, a thousand\nyears hence:  all Lancashire and Yorkshire, and how many other\nshires and countries, with their machineries and industries, for\nhis monument!  A true _pyr_amid or _'flame_-mountain,' flaming\nwith steam fires and useful labour over wide continents, usefully\ntowards the Stars, to a certain height;--how much grander than\nyour foolish Cheops Pyramids or Sakhara clay ones!  Let us withal\nbe hopeful, be content or patient.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\nAbbot Hugo\n\n\nIt is true, all things have two faces, a light one and a dark.\nIt is true, in three centuries much imperfection accumulates;\nmany an Ideal, monastic or other, shooting forth into practice as\nit can, grows to a strange enough Reality;  and we have to ask\nwith amazement, Is this your Ideal!  For, alas, the Ideal always\nhas to grow in the Real, and to seek out its bed and board there,\noften in a very sorry way.  No beautifullest Poet is a Bird-of-\nParadise, living on perfumes;  sleeping in the aether with\noutspread wings.  The Heroic, _independent_ of bed and board, is\nfound in Drury Lane Theatre only;  to avoid disappointments, let\nus bear this in mind.\n\nBy the law of Nature, too, all manner of Ideals have their fatal\nlimits and lot;  their appointed periods, of youth, of maturity\nor perfection, of decline, degradation, and final death and\ndisappearance.  There is nothing born but has to die.  Ideal\nmonasteries, once grown real, do seek bed and board in this\nworld;  do find it more and more successfully;  do get at length\ntoo intent on finding it, exclusively intent on that.  They are\nthen like diseased corpulent bodies fallen idiotic, which merely\neat and sleep;  _ready_ for 'dissolution,' by a Henry the Eighth\nor some other.  Jocelin's St. Edmundsbury is still far from this\nlast dreadful state:  but here too the reader will prepare\nhimself to see an Ideal not sleeping in the nether like a bird-\nof-paradise, but roosting as the common woodfowl do, in an\nimperfect, uncomfortable, more or less contemptible manner!--\n\n\nAbbot Hugo, as Jocelin, breaking at once into the heart of the\nbusiness, apprises us, had in those days grown old, grown rather\nblind, and his eyes were somewhat darkened, _aliquantulum\ncaligaverunt oculi ejus._  He dwelt apart very much, in his\n_Talamus_ or peculiar Chamber;  got into the hands of flatterers,\na set of mealy-mouthed persons who strove to make the passing\nhour easy for him,--for him easy, and for themselves profitable;\naccumulating in the distance mere mountains of confusion.  Old\nDominus Hugo sat inaccessible in this way, far in the interior,\nwrapt in his warm flannels and delusions;  inaccessible to all\nvoice of Fact; and bad grew ever worse with us.  Not that our\nworthy old _Dominus Abbas_ was inattentive to the divine offices,\nor to the maintenance of a devout spirit in us or in himself;\nbut the Account-Books of the Convent fell into the frightfullest\nstate, and Hugo's annual Budget grew yearly emptier, or filled\nwith futile expectations, fatal deficit, wind and debts!\n\nHis one worldly care was to raise ready money;  sufficient for\nthe day is the evil thereof.  And how he raised it:  From\nusurious insatiable Jews;  every fresh Jew sticking on him like a\nfresh horseleech, sucking his and our life out;  crying\ncontinually, Give, Give!  Take one example instead of scores.\nOur _Camera_ having fallen into ruin, William the Sacristan\nreceived charge to repair it;  strict charge, but no money;\nAbbot Hugo would, and indeed could, give him no fraction\nof money.  The _Camera_ in ruins, and Hugo penniless and\ninaccessible, Willelmus Sacrista borrowed Forty Mares (some\nSeven-and-twenty Pounds) of Benedict the Jew, and patched up our\nCamera again.  But the means of repaying him?  There were no\nmeans.  Hardly could _Sacrista, Cellerarius, or any public\nofficer, get ends to meet, on the indispensablest scale, with\ntheir shrunk allowances:  ready money had vanished.\n\nBenedict's Twenty-seven pounds grew rapidly at compound-interest;\nand at length, when it had amounted to One hundred pounds, he, on\na day of settlement, presents the account to Hugo himself.  Hugo\nalready owed him another One hundred of his own;  and so here it\nhas become Two hundred!  Hugo, in a fine frenzy, threatens to\ndepose the Sacristan, to do this and do that;  but, in the mean\nwhile, How to quiet your insatiable Jew?  Hugo, for this couple\nof hundreds, grants the Jew his bond for Four hundred payable at\nthe end of four years.  At the end of four years there is, of\ncourse, still no money;  and the Jew now gets a bond for Eight\nhundred and eighty pounds, to be paid by installments, Four-score\npounds every year.  Here was a way of doing business!\n\nNeither yet is this insatiable Jew satisfied or settled with:  he\nhad papers against us of 'small debts fourteen years old;'  his\nmodest claim amounts finally to 'Twelve hundred pounds besides\ninterest;'--and one hopes he never got satisfied in this world;\none almost hopes he was one of those beleaguered Jews who hanged\nthemselves in York Castle shortly afterwards, and had his usances\nand quittances and horseleech papers summarily set fire to!  For\napproximate justice will strive to accomplish itself;  if not in\none way, then in another.  Jews, and also Christians and\nHeathens, who accumulate in this manner, though furnished with\nnever so many parchments, do, at times, 'get their grinder-teeth\nsuccessively pulled out of their head, each day a new grinder,\ntill they consent to disgorge again.  A sad fact,--worth\nreflecting on.\n\n\nJocelin, we see, is not without secularity:  Our _Dominus Abbas_\nwas intent enough on the divine offices;  but then his Account-\nBooks--?--One of the things that strike us most, throughout, in\nJocelin's Chronicle, and indeed in Eadmer's _Anselm,_ and other\nold monastic Books, written evidently by pious men, is this, That\nthere is almost no mention whatever of 'personal religion' in\nthem;  that the whole gist of their thinking and speculation\nseems to be the 'privileges of our order,' 'strict exaction of\nour dues,' 'God's honour' (meaning the honour of our Saint), and\nso forth.  Is not this singular?  A body of men, set apart for\nperfecting and purifying their own souls, do not seem disturbed\nabout that in any measure:  the 'Ideal' says nothing about its\nidea;  says much about finding bed and board for itself!  How\nis this?\n\nWhy, for one thing, bed and board are a matter very apt to come\nto speech:  it is much easier to _speak_ of them than of ideas;\nand they are sometimes much more pressing with some!  Nay, for\nanother thing, may not this religious reticence, in these devout\ngood souls, be perhaps a merit, and sign of health in them?\nJocelin, Eadmer, and such religious men, have as yet nothing of\n'Methodism;'  no Doubt or even root of Doubt.  Religion is not a\ndiseased self-introspection, an agonising inquiry:  their duties\nare clear to them, the way of supreme good plain, indisputable,\nand they are traveling on it.  Religion lies over them like an\nall-embracing heavenly canopy, like an atmosphere and life-\nelement, which is not spoken of, which in all things is\npresupposed without speech.  Is not serene or complete Religion\nthe highest aspect of human nature;  as serene Cant, or complete\nNo-religion, is the lowest and miserablest?  Between which two,\nall manner of earnest Methodisms, introspections, agonising\ninquiries, never so morbid, shall play their respective parts,\nnot without approbation.\n\n\nBut let any reader fancy himself one of the Brethren in St.\nEdmundsbury Monastery under such circumstances!  How can a Lord\nAbbot, all stuck over with horse-leeches of this nature, front\nthe world?  He is fast losing his life-blood, and the Convent\nwill be as one of Pharaoh's lean kine.  Old monks of experience\ndraw their hoods deeper down;  careful what they say:  the monk's\nfirst duty is obedience.  Our Lord the King, hearing of such\nwork, sends down his Almoner to make investigations:  but what\nboots it?  Abbot Hugo assembles us in Chapter;  asks, \"If there\nis any complaint?\"  Not a soul of us dare answer, \"Yes,\nthousands!\" but we all stand silent, and the Prior even says that\nthings are in a very comfortable condition.  Whereupon old Abbot\nHugo, turning to the royal messenger, says, \"You see!\"--and the\nbusiness terminates in that way.  I, as a brisk-eyed, noticing\nyouth and novice, could not help asking of the elders, asking of\nMagister Samson in particular:  Why he, well-instructed and a\nknowing man, had not spoken out, and brought matters to a\nbearing?  Magister Samson was Teacher of the Novices, appointed\nto breed us up to the rules, and I loved him well.  _\"Fili mi,\"_\nanswered Samson, \"the burnt child shuns the fire.  Dost thou not\nknow, our Lord the Abbot sent me once to Acre in Norfolk, to\nsolitary confinement and bread and water, already?  The Hinghams,\nHugo and Robert, have just got home from banishment for speaking.\nThis is the hour of darkness:  the hour when flatterers rule and\nare believed.  _Videat Dominus,_ let the Lord see, and judge.\"\n\nIn very truth, what could poor old Abbot Hugo do?  A frail old\nman;  and the Philistines were upon him,--that is to say, the\nHebrews.  He had nothing for it but to shrink away from them;\nget back into his warm flannels, into his warm delusions again.\nHappily, before it was quite too late, he bethought him of\npilgriming to St. Thomas of Canterbury.  He set out, with a fit\ntrain, in the autumn days of the year 1180;  near Rochester City,\nhis mule threw him, dislocated his poor kneepan, raised incurable\ninflammatory fever;  and the poor old man got his dismissal from\nthe whole coil at once.  St. Thomas a Becket, though in a\ncircuitous way, had _brought_ deliverance!  Neither Jew usurers,\nnor grumbling monks, nor other importunate despicability of men\nor mud-elements afflicted Abbot Hugo any more;  but he dropt his\nrosaries, closed his account-books, closed his old eyes, and lay\ndown into the long sleep.  Heavy-laden hoary old Dominus Hugo,\nfare thee well.\n\nOne thing we cannot mention without a due thrill of horror:\nnamely, that, in the empty exchequer of Dominus Hugo, there was\nnot found one penny to distribute to the Poor that they might\npray for his soul!  By a kind of godsend, Fifty shillings did, in\nthe very nick of time, fall due, or seem to fall due, from one of\nhis Farmers (the _Firmarius_ de Palegrava), and he paid it, and\nthe Poor had it;  though, alas, this too only _seemed_ to fall\ndue, and we had it to pay again afterwards.  Dominus Hugo's\napartments were plundered by his servants, to the last portable\nstool, in a few minutes after the breath was out of his body.\nForlorn old Hugo, fare thee well forever.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\nTwelfth Century\n\n\nOur Abbot being dead, the _Dominus Rex,_ Henry II, or Ranulf de\nGlanvill _Justiciarius_ of England for him, set Inspectors or\nCustodiars over us;--not in any breathless haste to appoint a new\nAbbot, our revenues coming into his own Scaccarium, or royal\nExchequer, in the meanwhile.  They proceeded with some rigour,\nthese Custodiars;  took written inventories, clapt-on seals,\nexacted everywhere strict tale and measure:  but wherefore should\na living monk complain?  The living monk has to do his devotional\ndrill-exercise;  consume his allotted _pitantia,_ what we\ncall _pittance,_ or ration of victual;  and possess his soul\nin patience.\n\nDim, as through a long vista of Seven Centuries, dim and very\nstrange looks that monk-life to us;  the ever-surprising\ncircumstance this, That it is a _fact_ and no dream, that we see\nit there, and gaze into the very eyes of it!  Smoke rises daily\nfrom those culinary chimney-throats;  there are living human\nbeings there, who chant, loud-braying, their matins, nones,\nvespers;  awakening echoes, not to the bodily ear alone.  St.\nEdmund's Shrine, perpetually illuminated, glows ruddy through\nthe Night, and through the Night of Centuries withal;  St.\nEdmundsbury Town paying yearly Forty pounds for that express end.\nBells clang out;  on great occasions, all the bells.  We have\nProcessions, Preachings, Festivals, Christmas Plays, _Mysteries_\nshewn in the Churchyard, at which latter the Townsfolk sometimes\nquarrel.  Time was, Time is, as Friar Bacon's Brass Head\nremarked;  and withal Time will be.  There are three Tenses,\n_Tempora,_ or Times;  and there is one Eternity;  and as for us,\n\n     'We are such stuff as Dreams are made of!'\n\nIndisputable, though very dim to modern vision, rests on its hill-\nslope that same _Bury,_ _Stow,_ or Town of St. Edmund;  already a\nconsiderable place, not without traffic, nay manufactures, would\nJocelin only tell us what.  Jocelin is totally careless of\ntelling:  but, through dim fitful apertures, we can see\n_Fullones,_ 'Fullers,' see cloth-making;  looms dimly going,\ndye-vats, and old women spinning yarn.  We have Fairs too,\n_Nundinae,_ in due course;  and the Londoners give us much\ntrouble, pretending that they, as a metropolitan people, are\nexempt from toll.  Besides there is Field-husbandry, with\nperplexed settlement of Convent rents:  comricks pile themselves\nwithin burgh, in their season;  and cattle depart and enter;  and\neven the poor weaver has his cow,--'dung-heaps' lying quiet at\nmost doors (_ante foras,_ says the incidental Jocelin), for the\nTown has yet no improved police.  Watch and ward nevertheless we\ndo keep, and have Gates,--as what Town must not;  thieves so\nabounding;  war, _werra,_ such a frequent thing!  Our thieves, at\nthe Abbot's judgment bar, deny;  claim wager of battle;  fight,\nare beaten, and _then_ hanged.  'Ketel, the thief,' took this\ncourse;  and it did nothing for him,--merely brought us, and\nindeed himself, new trouble!\n\nEvery way a most foreign Time.  What difficulty, for example, has\nour Cellerarius to collect the _repselver,_ 'reaping silver,' or\npenny, which each householder is by law bound to pay for cutting\ndown the Convent grain!  Richer people pretend that it is\ncommuted, that it is this and the other;  that, in short, they\nwill not pay it.  Our _Cellerarius_ gives up calling on the rich.\nIn the houses of the poor, our _Cellerarius_ finding, in like\nmanner, neither penny nor good promise, snatches, without\nceremony, what _vadium_ (pledge, _wad_) he can come at:  a joint-\nstool, kettle, nay the very house-door, _'hostium;'_  and old\nwomen, thus exposed to the unfeeling gaze of the public, rush out\nafter him with their distaffs and the angriest shrieks:\n_'vetulae exibant cum colis suis,'_ says Jocelin, 'minantes\net exprobrantes.'_\n\nWhat a historical picture, glowing visible, as St. Edmund's\nShrine by night, after Seven long Centuries or so!  _Vetulae cum\ncolis:_  My venerable ancient spinning grandmothers,--ah, and ye\ntoo have to shriek, and rush out with your distaffs;  and become\nFemale Chartists, and scold all evening with void doorway;--and\nin old Saxon, as we in modern, would fain demand some Five-point\nCharter, could it be fallen in with, the Earth being too\ntyrannous!--Wise Lord Abbots, hearing of such phenomena, did in\ntime abolish or commute the reap-penny, and one nuisance was\nabated.  But the image of these justly offended old women, in\ntheir old wool costumes, with their angry features, and spindles\nbrandished, lives forever in the historical memory.  Thanks to\nthee, Jocelin Boswell.  Jerusalem was taken by the Crusaders, and\nagain lost by them;  and Richard Coeur-de-Lion 'veiled his face'\nas he passed in sight of it:  but how many other things went on,\nthe while!\n\nThus, too, our trouble with the Lakenheath eels is very great.\nKing Knut, namely, or rather his Queen who also did herself\nhonour by honouring St. Edmund, decreed by authentic deed yet\nextant on parchment, that the Holders of the Town Fields, once\nBeodric's, should, for one thing, go yearly and catch us four\nthousand eels in the marsh-pools of Lakenheath.  Well, they went,\nthey continued to go;  but, in later times, got into the way of\nreturning with a most short account of eels.  Not the due six-\nscore apiece;  no, Here are two-score, Here are twenty, ten,--\nsometimes, Here are none at all;  Heaven help us, we _could_\ncatch no more, they were not there!  What is a distressed\n_Cellerarius_ to do?  We agree that each Holder of so many acres\nshall pay one penny yearly, and let go the eels as too slippery.\nBut alas, neither is this quite effectual:  the Fields, in my\ntime, have got divided among so many hands, there is no catching\nof them _either_;  I have known our Cellarer get seven and twenty\npence formerly, and now it is much if he get ten pence farthing\n(_vix decem denarios et obolum_).  And then their sheep, which\nthey are bound to fold nightly in our pens, for the manure's\nsake;  and, I fear, do not always fold:  and their _aver-\npennies,_ and their _avragiums,_ and their _foder-corns,_ and\nmill-and-market dues!  Thus, in its undeniable but dim manner,\ndoes old St. Edmundsbury spin and till, and laboriously keep its\npot boiling, and St. Edmund's Shrine lighted, under such\nconditions and averages as it can.\n\n\nHow much is still alive in England;  how much has not yet come\ninto life!  A Feudal Aristocracy is still alive, in the prime of\nlife;  superintending the cultivation of the land, and less\nconsciously the distribution of the produce of the land, the\nadjustment of the quarrels of the land;  judging, soldiering,\nadjusting;  everywhere governing the people,--so that even a\nGurth born thrall of Cedric lacks not his due parings of the pigs\nhe tends.  Governing;--and, alas, also game-preserving, so that a\nRobert Hood, a William Scarlet and others have, in these days,\nput on Lincoln coats, and taken to living, in some universal-\nsuffrage manner, under the greenwood tree!\n\nHow silent, on the other hand, lie all Cotton-trades and such\nlike;  not a steeple-chimney yet got on end from sea to sea!\nNorth of the Humber, a stern Willelmus Conquestor burnt the\nCountry, finding it unruly, into very stern repose.  Wild fowl\nscream in those ancient silences, wild cattle roam in those\nancient solitudes;  the scanty sulky Norse-bred population all\ncoerced into silence,--feeling that, under these new Norman\nGovernors, their history has probably as good as _ended._  Men\nand Northumbrian Norse populations know little what has ended,\nwhat is but beginning!  The Ribble and the Aire roll down, as yet\nunpolluted by dyers' chemistry;  tenanted by merry trouts and\npiscatory otters;  the sunbeam and the vacant wind's-blast alone\ntraversing those moors.  Side by side sleep the coal-strata and\nthe iron-strata for so many ages;  no Steam-Demon has yet risen\nsmoking into being.  Saint Mungo rules in Glasgow;  James Watt\nstill slumbering in the deep of Time.  _Mancunium,_ Manceaster,\nwhat we now call Manchester, spins no cotton,--if it be not\n_wool_ 'cottons,' clipped from the backs of mountain sheep.  The\nCreek of the Mersey gurgles, twice in the four-and-twenty hours,\nwith eddying brine, clangorous with sea-fowl; and is a _Lither_-\nPool, a _lazy_ or sullen Pool, no monstrous pitchy City, and\nSeahaven of the world!  The Centuries are big;  and the birth-\nhour is coming, not yet come.  _Tempus ferax, tempus edax rerum._\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\nMonk Samson\n\n\nWithin doors, down at the hill-foot, in our Convent here, we are\na peculiar people,--hardly conceivable in the Arkwright Corn-Law\nages, of mere Spinning-Mills and Joe-Mantons!  There is yet no\nMethodism among us, and we speak much of Secularities:  no\nMethodism;  our Religion is not yet a horrible restless Doubt,\nstill less a far horribler composed Cant;  but a great heaven-\nhigh Unquestionability, encompassing, interpenetrating the whole\nof Life.  Imperfect as we may be, we are here, with our litanies,\nshaven crowns, vows of poverty, to testify incessantly and\nindisputably to every heart, That this Earthly Life, and\nits riches and possessions, and good and evil hap, are not\nintrinsically a reality at all, but _are_ a shadow of realities\neternal, infinite;  that this Time-world, as an air-image,\nfearfully _emblematic,_ plays and flickers in the grand still\nmirror of Eternity;  and man's little Life has Duties that are\ngreat, that are alone great, and go up to Heaven and down to\nHell.  This, with our poor litanies, we testify and struggle\nto testify.\n\nWhich, testified or not, remembered by all men, or forgotten by\nall men, does verily remain the fact, even in Arkwright Joe\nManton ages!  But it is incalculable, when litanies have grown\nobsolete;  when _fodercorns,_ _avragiums,_ and all human dues and\nreciprocities have been fully changed into one great due of _cash\npayment;_  and man's duty to man reduces itself to handing him\ncertain metal coins, or covenanted money-wages, and then shoving\nhim out of doors;  and man's duty to God becomes a cant, a doubt,\na dim inanity, a 'pleasure of virtue' or such like;  and the\nthing a man does infinitely fear (the real _Hell_ of a man) is\n'that he do not make money and advance himself,'--I say, it is\nincalculable what a change has introduced itself everywhere into\nhuman affairs!  How human affairs shall now circulate everywhere\nnot healthy life-blood in them, but, as it were, a detestable\ncopperas banker's ink;  and all is grown acrid, divisive,\nthreatening dissolution;  and the huge tumultuous Life of Society\nis galvanic, devil-ridden, too truly possessed by a devil!  For,\nin short, Mammon _is_ not a god at all;  but a devil, and even a\nvery despicable devil.  Follow the Devil faithfully, you are sure\nenough to _go_ to the Devil:  whither else _can_ you go?--In such\nsituations, men look back with a kind of mournful recognition\neven on poor limited Monk-figures, with their poor litanies;  and\nreflect, with Ben Jonson, that soul is indispensable, some degree\nof soul, even to save you the expense of salt!--\n\nFor the rest, it must be owned, we Monks of St. Edmundsbury are\nbut a limited class of creatures, and seem to have a somewhat\ndull life of it.  Much given to idle gossip;  having indeed no\nother work, when our chanting is over.  Listless gossip, for most\npart, and a mitigated slander;  the fruit of idleness, not of\nspleen.  We are dull, insipid men, many of us;  easy-minded;\nwhom prayer and digestion of food will avail for a life.  We have\nto receive all strangers in our Convent, and lodge them gratis;\nsuch and such sorts go by rule to the Lord Abbot and his special\nrevenues;  such and such to us and our poor Cellarer, however\nstraitened.  Jews themselves send their wives and little ones\nhither in war-time, into our _Pitanceria;_  where they abide\nsafe, with due _pittances,_--for a consideration.  We have the\nfairest chances for collecting news.  Some of us have a turn for\nreading Books;  for meditation, silence;  at times we even write\nBooks.  Some of us can preach, in English-Saxon, in Norman\nFrench, and even in Monk-Latin;  others cannot in any language or\njargon, being stupid.\n\nFailing all else, what gossip about one another!  This is a\nperennial resource.  How one hooded head applies itself to the\near of another, and whispers--_tacenda._  Willelmus Sacrista, for\ninstance, what does he nightly, over in that Sacristy of his?\nFrequent bibations, _'frequentes bibationes et quaedam tacenda,'_\n--eheu!  We have _'tempora minutionis,'_ stated seasons of\nbloodletting, when we are all let blood together;  and then\nthere is a general free-conference, a sanhedrim of clatter.  For\nall our vow of poverty, we can by rule amass to the extent of\n'two shillings;'  but it is to be given to our necessitous\nkindred, or in charity.  Poor Monks!  Thus too a certain\nCanterbury Monk was in the habit of 'slipping, _clanculo_ from\nhis sleeve,' five shillings into the hand of his mother, when she\ncame to see him, at the divine offices, every two months.  Once,\nslipping the money clandestinely, just in the act of taking\nleave, he slipt it not into her hand but on the floor, and\nanother had it;  whereupon the poor Monk, coming to know it,\nlooked mere despair for some days;  till, Lanfranc the noble\nArchbishop, questioning his secret from him, nobly made the sum\n_seven_ shillings, and said, Never mind!\n\n\nOne Monk of a taciturn nature distinguishes himself among these\nbabbling ones:  the name of him Samson;  he that answered\nJocelin, \"_Fili mi,_ a burnt child shuns the fire.\" They call him\n'Norfolk _Barrator,'_ or litigious person;  for indeed, being of\ngrave taciturn ways, he is not universally a favourite;  he has\nbeen in trouble more than once.  The reader is desired to mark\nthis Monk.  A personable man of seven-and-forty;  stout-made,\nstands erect as a pillar;  with bushy eyebrows, the eyes of him\nbeaming into you in a really strange way;  the face massive,\ngrave, with 'a very eminent nose;'  his head almost bald, its\nauburn remnants of hair, and the copious ruddy beard, getting\nslightly streaked with grey.  This is Brother Samson;  a man\nworth looking at.\n\nHe is from Norfolk, as the nickname indicates;  from Tottington\nin Norfolk, as we guess;  the son of poor parents there.  He has\ntold me, Jocelin, for I loved him much, That once in his ninth\nyear he had an alarming dream;--as indeed we are all somewhat\ngiven to dreaming here.  Little Samson, lying uneasily in his\ncrib at Tottington, dreamed that he saw the Arch Enemy in person,\njust alighted in front of some grand building, with outspread\nbat-wings, and stretching forth detestable clawed hands to grip\nhim, little Samson, and fly off with him:  whereupon the little\ndreamer shrieked desperate to St. Edmund for help, shrieked and\nagain shrieked;  and St. Edmund, a reverend heavenly figure, did\ncome,--and indeed poor little Samson's mother, awakened by his\nshrieking, did come;  and the Devil and the Dream both fled away\nfruitless.  On the morrow, his mother, pondering such an awful\ndream, thought it were good to take him over to St. Edmund's own\nShrine, and pray with him there.  See, said little Samson at\nsight of the Abbey-Gate;  see, mother, this is the building I\ndreamed of!  His poor mother dedicated him to St. Edmund,--left\nhim there with prayers and tears:  what better could she do?  The\nexposition of the dream, Brother Samson used to say, was this:\n_Diabolus_ with outspread bat-wings shadowed forth the pleasures\nof this world, _voluptates hujus saeculi,_ which were about to\nsnatch and fly away with me, had not St. Edmund flung his arms\nround me, that is to say, made me a monk of his.  A monk,\naccordingly, Brother Samson is;  and here to this day where his\nmother left him.  A learned man, of devout grave nature;  has\nstudied at Paris, has taught in the Town Schools here, and done\nmuch else;  can preach in three languages, and, like Dr. Caius,\n'has had losses' in his time.  A thoughtful, firm-standing man;\nmuch loved by some, not loved by all;  his clear eyes flashing\ninto you, in an almost inconvenient way!\n\nAbbot Hugo, as we said, has his own difficulties with him;  Abbot\nHugo had him in prison once, to teach him what authority was, and\nhow to dread the fire in future.  For Brother Samson, in the time\nof the Antipopes, had been sent to Rome on business;  and,\nreturning successful, was too late,--the business had all misgone\nin the interim!  As tours to Rome are still frequent with us\nEnglish, perhaps the reader will not grudge to look at the method\nof traveling thither in those remote ages.  We happily have, in\nsmall compass, a personal narrative of it.  Through the clear\neyes and memory of Brother Samson, one peeps direct into the very\nbosom of that Twelfth Century, and finds it rather curious.  The\nactual _Papa,_ Father, or universal President of Christendom, as\nyet not grown chimerical, sat there;  think of that only!\nBrother Samson went to Rome as to the real Light-fountain of this\nlower world;  we now--!--But let us hear Brother Samson, as to\nhis mode of traveling:\n\n'You know what trouble I had for that Church of Woolpit;  how I\nwas despatched to Rome in the time of the Schism between Pope\nAlexander and Octavian;  and passed through Italy at that season,\nwhen all clergy carrying letters for our Lord Pope Alexander were\nlaid hold of, and some were clapt in prison, some hanged;  and\nsome, with nose and lips cut off, were sent forward to our Lord\nthe Pope, for the disgrace and confusion of him (_in dedecus et\nconfusionem ejus_).  I, however, pretended to be Scotch, and\nputting on the garb of a Scotchman, and taking the gesture of\none, walked along;  and when anybody mocked at me, I would\nbrandish my staff in the manner of that weapon they call\n_gaveloc,_* uttering comminatory words after the way of the\nScotch.  To those that met and questioned me who I was, I made no\nanswer but:  _Ride, ride Rome;  turne Cantwereberei._ ** Thus did\nI, to conceal myself and my errand, and get safer to Rome under\nthe guise of a Scotchman.\n\n----------\n* Javelin, missile pike.  _Gaveloc_ is still the Scotch name for\n_crowbar._\n\n** Does this mean, \"Rome forever;  Canterbury _not\"_ (which\nclaims an unjust Supremacy _over_ us)!  Mr. Rokewood is silent.\nDryasdust would perhaps explain it,--in the course of a week or\ntwo of talking;  did one dare to question him!\n----------\n\n'Having at last obtained a Letter from our Lord the Pope\naccording to my wishes, I turned homewards again.  I had to pass\nthrough a certain strong town on my road;  and lo, the soldiers\nthereof surrounded me, seizing me, and saying:  \"This vagabond\n(_iste solivagus_), who pretends to be Scotch, is either a spy,\nor has Letters from the false Pope Alexander.\"  And whilst they\nexamined every stitch and rag of me, my leggings (_caligas_),\nbreeches, and even the old shoes that I carried over my shoulder\nin the way of the Scotch,--I put my hand into the leather scrip I\nwore, wherein our Lord the Pope's Letter lay, close by a little\njug (_ciffus_) I had for drinking out of;  and the Lord God so\npleasing, and St. Edmund, I got out both the Letter and the jug\ntogether;  in such a way that, extending my arm aloft, I held the\nLetter hidden between jug and hand:  they saw the jug, but the\nLetter they saw not.  And thus I escaped out of their hands in\nthe name of the Lord.  Whatever money I had they took from me;\nwherefore I had to beg from door to door, without any payment\n(_sine omni expensa_) till I came to England again.  But hearing\nthat the Woolpit Church was already given to Geoffry Ridell, my\nsoul was struck with sorrow because I had laboured in vain.\n\n'Coming home, therefore, I sat me down secretly under the Shrine\nof St. Edmund, fearing lest our Lord Abbot should seize and\nimprison me, though I had done no mischief;  nor was there a monk\nwho durst speak to me, nor a laic who durst bring me food except\nby stealth.\n\nSuch resting and welcoming found Brother Samson, with his worn\nsoles, and strong heart!  He sits silent, revolving many\nthoughts, at the foot of St. Edmund's Shrine.  In the wide Earth,\nif it be not Saint Edmund, what friend or refuge has he?  Our\nLord Abbot, hearing of him, sent the proper officer to lead him\ndown to prison, clap 'foot-gyves on him' there.  Another poor\nofficial furtively brought him a cup of wine;  bade him \"be\ncomforted in the Lord.\"  Samson utters no complaint;  obeys in\nsilence.  'Our Lord Abbot, taking counsel of it, banished me to\nAcre, and there I had to stay long.'\n\nOur Lord Abbot next tried Samson with promotions;  made him\nSubsacristan, made him Librarian, which he liked best of all,\nbeing passionately fond of Books:  Samson, with many thoughts in\nhim, again obeyed in silence;  discharged his offices to\nperfection, but never thanked our Lord Abbot,--seemed rather as\nif looking into him, with those clear eyes of his.  Whereupon\nAbbot Hugo said, _Se nunquam vidisse,_ he had never seen such a\nman;  whom no severity would break to complain, and no kindness\nsoften into smiles or thanks:--a questionable kind of man!\n\n\nIn this way, not without troubles, but still in an erect clear-\nstanding manner, has Brother Samson reached his forty-seventh\nyear;  and his ruddy beard is getting slightly grizzled.  He is\nendeavouring, in these days, to have various broken things\nthatched in;  nay perhaps to have the Choir itself completed, for\nhe can bear nothing ruinous.  He has gathered 'heaps of lime and\nsand;'  has masons, slaters working, he and _Warinus monachus\nnoster,_ who are joint keepers of the Shrine;  paying out the\nmoney duly,--furnished by charitable burghers of St. Edmundsbury,\nthey say.  Charitable burghers of St. Edmundsbury?  To me Jocelin\nit seems rather, Samson and Warinus, whom he leads, have privily\nhoarded the oblations at the Shrine itself, in these late\nyears of indolent dilapidation, while Abbot Hugo sat wrapt\ninaccessible;  and are struggling, in this prudent way, to have\nthe rain kept out!--Under what conditions, sometimes, has Wisdom\nto struggle with Folly;  get Folly persuaded to so much as thatch\nout the rain from itself!  For, indeed, if the Infant govern\nthe Nurse, what dexterous practice on the Nurse's part will\nnot be necessary!\n\nIt is regret to us that, in these circumstances, our Lord the\nKing's Custodiars, interfering, prohibited all building or\nthatching from whatever source;  and no Choir shall be completed,\nand Rain and Time, for the present, shall have their way.\nWillelmus Sacrista, he of 'the frequent bibations and some things\nnot to be spoken of;'  he, with his red nose, I am of opinion,\nhad made complaint to the Custodiars;  wishing to do Samson an\nill turn:--Samson his _Sub_-sacristan, with those clear eyes,\ncould not be a prime favourite of his!  Samson again obeys\nin silence.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII\n\nThe Canvassing\n\n\nNow, however, come great news to St. Edmundsbury:  That there is\nto be an Abbot elected;  that our interlunar obscuration is to\ncease;  St. Edmund's Convent no more to be a doleful widow, but\njoyous and once again a bride!  Often in our widowed state had we\nprayed to the Lord and St. Edmund, singing weekly a matter of\n'one-and-twenty penitential Psalms, on our knees in the Choir,'\nthat a fit Pastor might be vouchsafed us.  And, says Jocelin, had\nsome known what Abbot we were to get, they had not been so\ndevout, I believe!--Bozzy Jocelin opens to mankind the floodgates\nof authentic Convent gossip;  we listen, as in a Dionysius' Ear,\nto the inanest hubbub, like the voices at Virgil's Horn-Gate of\nDreams.  Even gossip, seven centuries off, has significance.\nList, list, how like men are to one another in all centuries:\n\n_`Dixit quidam de quodam,_ A certain person said of a certain\nperson, \"He, that _Frater,_ is a good monk, _probabilis persona;_\nknows much of the order and customs of the church;  and though\nnot so perfect a philosopher as some others, would make a very\ngood Abbot.  Old Abbot Ording, still famed among us, knew little\nof letters.  Besides, as we read in Fables, it is better to\nchoose a log for king, than a serpent, never so wise, that will\nvenomously hiss and bite his subjects.\"--\"Impossible!\" answered\nthe other:  \"How can such a man make a sermon in the chapter, or\nto the people on festival days, when he is without letters?  How\ncan he have the skill to bind and to loose, he who does not\nunderstand the Scriptures?  How--?\"'\n\nAnd then `another said of another, _alius de alio,_ \"That\n_Frater_ is a _homo literatus,_ eloquent, sagacious;  vigorous\nin discipline;  loves the Convent much, has suffered much for\nits sake.\"  To which a third party answers, \"From all your\ngreat clerks good Lord deliver us!  From Norfolk barrators, and\nsurly persons, That it would please thee to preserve us, We\nbeseech thee to hear us, good Lord!\"'  Then `another _quidam_\nsaid of another _quodam,_ \"That _Frater_ is a good manager\n(_husebondus_);\"  but was swiftly answered, \"God forbid that a\nman who can neither read nor chant, nor celebrate the divine\noffices, an unjust person withal, and grinder of the faces of the\npoor, should ever be Abbot!\"'  One man, it appears, is nice in\nhis victuals.  Another is indeed wise;  but apt to slight\ninferiors;  hardly at the pains to answer, if they argue with him\ntoo foolishly.  And so each _aliquis_ concerning his _aliquo,_--\nthrough whole pages of electioneering babble.  `For,' says\nJocelin, `So many men, as many minds.  Our Monks at time of\nblood-letting, _tempore minutionis,_' holding their sanhedrim of\nbabble, would talk in this manner:  Brother Samson, I remarked,\nnever said anything;  sat silent, sometimes smiling;  but he took\ngood note of what others said, and would bring it up, on\noccasion, twenty years after.  As for me Jocelin, I was of\nopinion that `some skill in Dialectics, to distinguish true from\nfalse,' would be good in an Abbot.  I spake, as a rash Novice in\nthose days, some conscientious words of a certain benefactor of\nmine;  `and behold, one of those sons of Belial' ran and reported\nthem to him, so that he never after looked at me with the same\nface again!  Poor Bozzy!--\n\nSuch is the buzz and frothy simmering ferment of the general mind\nand no-mind;  struggling to `make itself up,' as the phrase is,\nor ascertain what _it_ does really want:  no easy matter, in most\ncases.  St. Edmundsbury, in that Candlemas season of the year\n1182, is a busily fermenting place.  The very clothmakers sit\nmeditative at their looms;  asking, Who shall be Abbot?  The\n_sochemanni_ speak of it, driving their ox-teams afield;  the old\nwomen with their spindles:  and none yet knows what the days will\nbring forth.\n\n\nThe Prior, however, as our interim chief, must proceed to work;\nget ready 'Twelve Monks,' and set off with them to his Majesty at\nWaltham, there shall the election be made.  An election, whether\nmanaged directly by ballot-box on public hustings, or indirectly\nby force of public opinion, or were it even by open alehouses,\nlandlords' coercion, popular club-law, or whatever electoral\nmethods, is always an interesting phenomenon.  A mountain\ntumbling in great travail, throwing up dustclouds and absurd\nnoises, is visibly there;  uncertain yet what mouse or monster it\nwill give birth to.\n\nBesides it is a most important social act;  nay, at bottom, the\none important social act.  Given the men a People choose, the\nPeople itself, in its exact worth and worthlessness, is given.  A\nheroic people chooses heroes, and is happy;  a valet or flunkey\npeople chooses sham-heroes, what are called quacks, thinking them\nheroes, and is not happy.  The grand summary of a man's spiritual\ncondition, what brings out all his herohood and insight, or all\nhis flunkeyhood and horn-eyed dimness, is this question put to\nhim, What man dost thou honour?  Which is thy ideal of a man;  or\nnearest that?  So too of a People:  for a People too, every\nPeople, _speaks_ its choice,--were it only by silently obeying,\nand not revolting,--in the course of a century or so.  Nor are\nelectoral methods, Reform Bills and such like, unimportant.  A\nPeople's electoral methods are, in the long-run, the express\nimage of its electoral _talent;_  tending and gravitating\nperpetually, irresistibly, to a conformity with that:  and are,\nat all stages, very significant of the People.  Judicious\nreaders, of these times, are not disinclined to see how\nMonks elect their Abbot in the Twelfth Century:  how the St.\nEdmundsbury mountain manages its midwifery;  and what mouse or\nman the outcome is.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\n\nThe Election\n\n\nAccordingly our Prior assembles us in Chapter;  and, we adjuring\nhim before God to do justly, nominates, not by our selection, yet\nwith our assent, Twelve Monks, moderately satisfactory.  Of whom\nare Hugo Third-Prior, Brother Dennis a venerable man, Walter the\n_Medicus,_ Samson _Subsacrista,_ and other esteemed characters,--\nthough Willelmus _Sacrista,_ of the red nose, too is one.  These\nshall proceed straightway to Waltham;  elect the Abbot as they\nmay and can.  Monks are sworn to obedience;  must not speak too\nloud, under penalty of foot-gyves, limbo, and bread and water:\nyet monks too would know what it is they are obeying.  The St.\nEdmundsbury Community has no hustings, ballot-box, indeed no open\nvoting:  yet by various vague manipulations, pulse-feelings, we\nstruggle to ascertain what its virtual aim is, and succeed better\nor worse.\n\nThis question, however, rises;  alas, a quite preliminary\nquestion:  Will the _Dominus Rex_ allow us to choose freely?  It\nis to be hoped!  Well, if so, we agree to choose one of our own\nConvent.  If not, if the _Dominus Rex_ will force a stranger on\nus, we decide on demurring, the Prior and his Twelve shall demur:\nwe can appeal, plead, remonstrate;  appeal even to the Pope, but\ntrust it will not be necessary.  Then there is this other\nquestion, raised by Brother Samson:  What if the Thirteen should\nnot themselves be able to agree?  Brother Samson _Subsacrista,_\none remarks, is ready oftenest with some question, some\nsuggestion, that has wisdom in it.  Though a servant of servants,\nand saying little, his words all tell, having sense in them;\nit seems by his light mainly that we steer ourselves in this\ngreat dimness.\n\nWhat if the Thirteen should not themselves be able to agree?\nSpeak, Samson, and advise.--Could not, hints Samson, Six of our\nvenerablest elders be chosen by us, a kind of electoral\ncommittee, here and now:  of these, `with their hand on the\nGospels, with their eye on the _Sacrosancta,'_ we take oath that\nthey will do faithfully;  let these, in secret and as before God,\nagree on Three whom they reckon fittest;  write their names in a\nPaper, and deliver the same sealed, forthwith, to the Thirteen:\none of those Three the Thirteen shall fix on, if permitted.  If\nnot permitted, that is to say, if the _Dominus Rex_ force us to\ndemur,--the Paper shall be brought back unopened, and publicly\nburned, that no man's secret bring him into trouble.\n\nSo Samson advises, so we act;  wisely, in this and in other\ncrises of the business.  Our electoral committee, its eye on the\nSacrosancta,_ is soon named, soon sworn;  and we striking up the\nFifth Psalm, _'Verba mea,_\n\n     `Give ear unto my words, O Lord,\n     My meditation weigh,'\n\nmarch out chanting, and leave the Six to their work in the\nChapter here.  Their work, before long, they announce as\nfinished:  they, with their eye on the Sacrosancta, imprecating\nthe Lord to weigh and witness their meditation, have fixed on\nThree Names, and written them in this Sealed Paper.  Let Samson\nSubsacrista, general servant of the party, take charge of it.  On\nthe morrow morning, our Prior and his Twelve will be ready to get\nunder way.\n\nThis then is the  ballot-box and electoral winnowing-machine they\nhave at St. Edmundsbury: a mind fixed on the Thrice Holy, an\nappeal to God on high to witness their meditation:  by far the\nbest, and indeed the only good electoral winnowing-machine,--If\nmen have souls in them.  Totally worthless, it is true, and even\nhideous and poisonous, if men have no souls.  But without soul,\nalas what winnowing-machine in human elections, can be of\navail?  We cannot get along without soul;  we stick fast, the\nmournfullest spectacle;  and salt itself will not save us!\n\n\nOn the morrow morning, accordingly, our Thirteen set forth;  or\nrather our Prior and Eleven;  for Samson, as general servant of\nthe party, has to linger, settling many things.  At length he too\ngets upon the road;  and, 'carrying the sealed Paper in a leather\npouch hung round his neck;  and _froccum bajulans in ulnis'_\n(thanks to thee Bozzy Jocelin), 'his frock-skirts looped over his\nelbow,' skewing substantial stern-works, tramps stoutly along.\nAway across the Heath, not yet of Newmarket  and horse-jockeying;\nacross your Fleam-dike and Devil's-dike, no longer useful as a\nMercian East-Anglian boundary or bulwark:  continually towards\nWaltham, and the Bishop of Winchester's House there, for his\nMajesty is in that.  Brother Samson, as purse-bearer, has the\nreckoning always, when there is one, to pay;  'delays are\nnumerous,' progress none of the swiftest.\n\nBut, in the solitude of the Convent, Destiny thus big and in her\nbirthtime, what gossiping, what babbling, what dreaming of\ndreams!  The secret of the Three our electoral elders alone know:\nsome Abbot we shall have to govern us;  but which Abbot, O which!\nOne Monk discerns in a vision of the night-watches, that we shall\nget an Abbot of our own body, without needing to demur:  a\nprophet appeared to him clad all in white, and said, \"Ye shall\nhave one of yours, and he will rage among you like a wolf,\n_saeviet ut lupus.\"_  Verily!--then which of ours?  Another Monk\nnow dreams:  he has seen clearly which;  a certain Figure taller\nby head and shoulders than the other two, dressed in alb and\n_pallium,_ and with the attitude of one about to fight;--which\ntall Figure a wise Editor would rather not name at this stage of\nthe business!  Enough that the vision is true:  that Saint Edmund\nhimself, pale and awful, seemed to rise from his Shrine, with\nnaked feet, and say audibly, \"He, _ille,_ shall veil my feet;\"\nwhich part of the vision also proves true.  Such guessing,\nvisioning, dim perscrutation of the momentous future:  the very\nclothmakers, old women, all townsfolk speak of it, 'and more than\nonce it is reported in St. Edmundsbury, This one is elected;  and\nthen, This one and That other.'  Who knows?\n\n\nBut now, sure enough, at Waltham 'on the Second Sunday of\nQuadragesima,' which Dryasdust declares to mean the 22d day of\nFebruary, year 1182, Thirteen St. Edmundsbury Monks are, at last,\nseen processioning towards the Winchester Manorhouse;  and in\nsome high Presence-chamber, and Hall of State, get access to\nHenry II in all his glory.  What a Hall,--not imaginary in the\nleast, but entirely real and indisputable, though so extremely\ndim to us;  sunk in the deep distances of Night!  The Winchester\nManorhouse has fled bodily, like a Dream of the old Night;  not\nDryasdust himself can skew a wreck of it.  House and people,\nroyal and episcopal, lords and varlets, where are they?  Why\n_there,_ I say, Seven Centuries off;  sunk so far in the Night,\nthere they _are;_  peep through the blankets of the old Night,\nand thou wilt seel King Henry himself is visibly there, a vivid,\nnoble-looking man, with grizzled beard, in glittering uncertain\ncostume, with earls round him, and bishops and dignitaries, in\nthe like.  The Hall is large, and has for one thing an altar near\nit,--chapel and altar adjoining it;  but what gilt seats, carved\ntables, carpeting of rush-cloth, what arras-hangings, and a huge\nfire of logs:--alas, it has Human Life in it;  and is not that\nthe grand miracle, in what hangings or costume soever?--\n\nThe _Dominus Rex,_ benignantly receiving our Thirteen with their\nobeisance, and graciously declaring that he will strive to act\nfor God's honour, and the Church's good, commands, 'by the Bishop\nof Winchester and Geoffrey the Chancellor,'--_Galfrides\nCancellarius,_ Henry's and the Fair Rosamond's authentic Sons\npresent here!--commands, \"That they, the said Thirteen, do now\nwithdraw, and fix upon Three from their own Monastery.\"  A work\nsoon done;  the Three hanging ready round Samson's neck, in that\nleather pouch of his.  Breaking the seal, we find the names,--\nwhat think _ye_ of it, ye higher dignitaries, thou indolent\nPrior, thou Willelmus _Sacrista_ with the red bottle-nose?--the\nnames, in this order:  of Samson _Subsacrista,_ of Roger the\ndistressed Cellarer, of Hugo _Tertius-Prior._\n\nThe higher dignitaries, all omitted here, 'flush suddenly red in\nthe face;'  but have nothing to say.  One curious fact and\nquestion certainly is, How Hugo Third-Prior, who was of the\nelectoral committee, came to nominate _himself_ as one of the\nThree?  A curious fact, which Hugo Third-Prior has never yet\nentirely explained;  that I know of!--However, we return, and\nreport to the King our Three names;  merely altering the order;\nputting Samson last, as lowest of all.  The King, at recitation\nof our Three, asks us:  \"Who are they?  Were they born in my\ndomain?  Totally unknown to me!  You must nominate three others.\"\nWhereupon Willelmus Sacrista says, \"Our Prior must be named,\n_quia caput nostrum est,_ being already our head.\"  And the Prior\nresponds, \"Willelmus Sacrista is a fit man, _bonus vir est,\"_--\nfor all his red nose.  Tickle me Toby, and I'll tickle thee!\nVenerable Dennis too is named;  none in his conscience can say\nnay.  There are now Six on our List.  \"Well,\" said the King,\n\"they have done it swiftly, they!  _Deus est cum eis.\"_  The\nMonks withdraw again;  and Majesty revolves, for a little, with\nhis _Pares_ and _Episcopi,_ Lords or _'Law-wards'_* and Soul-\nOverseers, the thoughts of the royal breast.  The Monks wait\nsilent in an outer room.\n\n--------\n* or \"Lawyers\"--digital editor\n--------\n\n\nIn short while, they are next ordered, To add yet another three;\nbut not from their own Convent;  from other Convents, \"for the\nhonour of my kingdom.\"  Here,--what is to be done here?  We will\ndemur, if need be!  We do name three, however, for the nonce:\nthe Prior of St. Faith's, a good Monk of St. Neot's, a good Monk\nof St. Alban's;  good men all;  all made abbots and dignitaries\nsince, at this hour.  There are now Nine upon our List.  What the\nthoughts of the Dominus Rex may be farther?  The Dominus Rex,\nthanking graciously, sends out word that we shall now strike off\nthree.  The three strangers are instantly struck off.  Willelmus\nSacrista adds, that he will of his own accord decline,--a touch\nof grace and respect for the _Sacrosancta,_ even in Willelmus!\nThe King then orders us to strike off a couple more;  then yet\none more:  Hugo Third-Prior goes, and Roger _Cellerarius,_ and\nvenerable Monk Dennis;--and now there remain on our List two\nonly, Samson Subsacrista and the Prior.\n\nWhich of these two?  It were hard to say,--by Monks who may get\nthemselves foot-gyved and thrown into limbo, for speaking!  We\nhumbly request that the Bishop of Winchester and Geoffrey the\nChancellor may again enter, and help us to decide.  \"Which do you\nwant?\" asks the Bishop.  Venerable Dennis made a speech,\n'commending the persons of the Prior and Samson;  but always in\nthe corner of his discourse, in _angulo sui sermonis,_ brought\nSamson in.'  \"I see!\" said the Bishop:  \"We are to understand\nthat your Prior is somewhat remiss;  that you want to have him\nyou call Samson for Abbot.\"  \"Either of them is good,\" said\nvenerable Dennis, almost trembling;  \"but we would have the\nbetter, if it pleased God.\"  \"Which of the two _do_ you want?\"\ninquires the Bishop pointedly.  \"Samson!\" answered Dennis;\n\"Samson!\" echoed all of the rest that durst speak or echo\nanything:  and Samson is reported to the King accordingly.  His\nMajesty, advising of it for a moment, orders that Samson be\nbrought in with the other Twelve.\n\nThe King's Majesty, looking at us somewhat sternly, then says:\n\"You present to me Samson;  I do not know him:  had it been your\nPrior, whom I do know, I should have accepted him:  however, I\nwill now do as you wish.  But have a care of yourselves.  By the\ntrue eyes of God, _per veros oculos Dei,_ if you manage badly, I\nwill be upon you!\"  Samson, therefore, steps forward, kisses the\nKing's feet;  but swiftly rises erect again, swiftly turns\ntowards the altar, uplifting with the other Twelve, in clear\ntenor-note, the Fifty-first Psalm, _'Miserere mei Deus,_\n\n     'After thy loving-kindness, Lord,\n     Have mercy upon _me;'_\n\nwith firm voice, firm step and head, no change in his countenance\nwhatever.  \"By God's eyes,\" said the King, \"that one, I think,\nwill govern the Abbey well.\"  By the same oath (charged to your\nMajesty's account), I too am precisely of that opinion!  It is\nsome while since I fell in with a likelier man anywhere than this\nnew Abbot Samson.  Long life to him, and may the Lord _have_\nmercy on him as Abbot!\n\n\nThus, then, have the St. Edmundsbury Monks, without express\nballot-box or other good winnowing-machine, contrived to\naccomplish the most important social feat a body of men can do,\nto winnow out the man that is to govern them:  and truly one sees\nnot that, by any winnowing-machine whatever, they could have done\nit better.  O ye kind Heavens, there is in every Nation and\nCommunity, a _fittest,_ a wisest, bravest, best;  whom could we\nfind and make King over us, all were in very truth well;--the\nbest that God and Nature had permitted _us_ to make it!  By what\nart discover him?  Will the Heavens in their pity teach us no\nart;  for our need of him is great!\n\nBallot-boxes, Reform Bills, winnowing-machines:  all these are\ngood, or are not so good;--alas, brethren, how _can_ these, I\nsay, be other than inadequate, be other than failures, melancholy\nto behold?  Dim all souls of men to the divine, the high and\nawful meaning of Human Worth and Truth, we shall never, by all\nthe machinery in Birmingham, discover the True and Worthy.  It is\nwritten, 'if we are ourselves valets, there shall exist no hero\nfor us;  we shall not know the hero when we see him;'--we\nshall take the quack for a hero;  and cry, audibly through\nall ballot-boxes and machinery whatsoever, Thou art he;  be\nthou King over us!\n\nWhat boots it?  Seek only deceitful Speciosity, godlike Reality\nwill be forever far from you.  The Quack shall be legitimate\ninevitable King of you;  no earthly machinery able to exclude the\nQuack.  Ye shall be born thralls of the Quack, and suffer under\nhim, till you hearts are near broken, and no French Revolution or\nManchester Insurrection, or partial or universal volcanic\ncombustions and explosions;  never so many, can do more than\n'change the _figure_ of your Quack;'  the essence of him\nremaining, for a time and times.--\"How long, O Prophet?\" say\nsome, with a rather melancholy sneer.  Alas, ye _un_prophetic,\never till this come about:  Till deep misery, if nothing softer\nwill, have driven you out of your Speciosites _into_ your\nSincerities;  and you find there either is a Godlike in the\nworld, or else ye are an unintelligible madness;  that there is a\nGod, as well as a Mammon and a Devil, and a Genius of Luxuries\nand canting Dilettantisms and Vain Shows!  How long that will be,\ncompute for yourselves.  My unhappy brothers!--\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX\n\nAbbot Samson\n\n\nSo then the bells of St. Edmundsbury clang out one and all, and\nin church and chapel the organs go:  Convent and Town, and all\nthe west side of Suffolk, are in gala;  knights, viscounts,\nweavers, spinners, the entire population, male and female, young\nand old, the very sockmen with their chubby infants,--out to have\na holiday, and see the Lord Abbot arrive!  And there is\n'stripping barefoot' of the Lord Abbot at the Gate, and solemn\nleading of him in to the High Altar and Shrine;  with sudden\n'silence of all the bells and organs,' as we kneel in deep prayer\nthere;  and again with outburst of all the bells and organs, and\nloud _Te Deum_ from the general human windpipe;  and speeches by\nthe leading viscount, and giving of the kiss of brotherhood;  the\nwhole wound up with popular games, and dinner within doors of\nmore than a thousand strong, _plus quam mille comedentibus in\ngaudio magno._\n\nIn such manner is the selfsame Samson once again returning\nto us, welcomed on _this_ occasion.  He that went away with his\nfrock-skirts looped over his arm, comes back riding high;\nsuddenly made one of the dignitaries of this world.  Reflective\nreaders will admit that here was a trial for a man.  Yesterday a\npoor mendicant, allowed to possess not above two shillings of\nmoney, and without authority to bid a dog run for him, this man\ntoday finds himself a _Dominus Abbas,_ mitred Peer of Parliament,\nLord of manorhouses, farms, manors, and wide lands;  a man with\n'Fifty Knights under him,' and dependent swiftly obedient\nmultitudes of men.  It is a change greater than Napoleon's;  so\nsudden withal.  As if one of the Chandos daydrudges had, on\nawakening some morning, found that he overnight was become Duke!\nLet Samson with his clear-beaming eyes see into that, and discern\nit if he can.  We shall now get the measure of him by a new scale\nof inches, considerably more rigorous than the former was.  For\nif a noble soul is rendered tenfold beautifuller by victory and\nprosperity, springing now radiant as into his own due element and\nsunthrone;  an ignoble one is rendered tenfold and hundredfold\nuglier, pitifuller.  Whatsoever vices, whatsoever weaknesses were\nin the man, the parvenu will shew us them enlarged, as in the\nsolar microscope, into frightful distortion.  Nay, how many mere\nseminal principles of vice, hitherto all wholesomely kept latent,\nmay we now see unfolded, as in the solar hothouse, into growth,\ninto huge universally-conspicuous luxuriance and development!\n\n\nBut is not this, at any rate, a singular aspect of what political\nand social capabilities, nay let us say what depth and opulence\nof true social vitality, lay in those old barbarous ages, That\nthe fit Governor could be met with under such disguises, could be\nrecognised and laid hold of under such?  Here he is discovered\nwith a maximum of two shillings in his pocket, and a leather\nscrip round his neck;  trudging along the highway, his frock-\nskirts looped over his arm.  They think this is he nevertheless,\nthe true Governor;  and he proves to be so.  Brethren, have we no\nneed of discovering true Governors, but will sham ones forever do\nfor us?  These were absurd superstitious blockheads of Monks;\nand we are enlightened Tenpound Franchisers, without taxes on\nknowledge!  Where, I say, are our superior, are our similar or at\nall comparable discoveries?  We also have eyes, or ought to have;\nwe have hustings, telescopes;  we have lights, link-lights and\nrushlights of an enlightened free Press, burning and dancing\neverywhere, as in a universal torch-dance;  singeing your\nwhiskers as you traverse the public thoroughfares in town and\ncountry.  Great souls, true Governors, go about under all manner\nof disguises now as then.  Such telescopes, such enlightenment,--\nand such discovery!  How comes it, I say;  how comes it?  Is it\nnot lamentable;  is it not even, in some sense, amazing?\n\nAlas, the defect, as we must often urge and again urge, is less a\ndefect of telescopes than of some eyesight.  Those superstitious\nblockheads of the Twelfth Century had no telescopes, but they had\nstill an eye:  not ballot-boxes;  only reverence for Worth,\nabhorrence of Unworth.  It is the way with all barbarians.  Thus\nMr. Sale informs me, the old Arab Tribes would gather in\nliveliest _gaudeamus,_ and sing, and kindle bonfires, and wreathe\ncrowns of honour, and solemnly thank the gods that, in their\nTribe too, a Poet had shewn himself.  As indeed they well might;\nfor what usefuller, I say not nobler and heavenlier thing could\nthe gods, doing their very kindest, send to any Tribe or Nation,\nin any time or circumstances?  I declare to thee, my afflicted\nquack-ridden brother, in spite of thy astonishment, it is very\nlamentable!  We English find a Poet, as brave a man as has been\nmade for a hundred years or so anywhere under the Sun;  and do we\nkindle bonfires, thank the gods?  Not at all.  We, taking due\ncounsel of it, set the man to gauge ale-barrels in the Burgh of\nDumfries;  and pique ourselves on our 'patronage of genius.'\n\nGenius, Poet:  do we know what these words mean?  An inspired\nSoul once more vouchsafed us, direct from Nature's own great\nfire-heart, to see the Truth, and speak it, and do it;  Nature's\nown sacred voice heard once more athwart the dreary boundless\nelement of hearsaying and canting, of twaddle and poltroonery, in\nwhich the bewildered Earth, nigh perishing, has _lost its way._\nHear once more, ye bewildered benighted mortals;  listen once\nagain to a voice from the inner Light-sea and Flame-sea, Nature's\nand Truth's own heart;  know the Fact of your Existence what it\nis, put away the Cant of it which it is not;  and knowing, do,\nand let it be well with you!--\n\nGeorge the Third is Defender of something we call 'the Faith' in\nthose years;  George the Third is head charioteer of the\nDestinies of England, to guide them through the gulf of French\nRevolutions, American Independences;  and Robert Burns is Gauger\nof ale in Dumfries.  It is an Iliad in a nutshell.  The\nphysiognomy of a world now verging towards dissolution, reduced\nnow to spasms and death-throes, lies pictured in that one fact,--\nwhich astonishes nobody, except at me for being astonished at it.\nThe fruit of long ages of confirmed Valethood, entirely confirmed\nas into a Law of Nature;  cloth-worship and quack-worship:\nentirely _confirmed_ Valethood,--which will have to unconfirm\nitself again;  God knows, with difficulty enough!--\n\nAbbot Samson had found a Convent all in dilapidation;  rain\nbeating through it, material rain and metaphorical, from all\nquarters of the compass.  Willelmus Sacrista sits drinking\nnightly, and doing mere _tacenda._  Our larders are reduced to\nleanness, Jew Harpies and unclean creatures our purveyors;  in\nour basket is no bread.  Old women with their distaffs rush out\non a distressed Cellarer in shrill Chartism.  'You cannot stir\nabroad but Jews and Christians pounce upon you with unsettled\nbonds;'  debts boundless seemingly as the National Debt of\nEngland.  For four years our new Lord Abbot never went abroad but\nJew creditors and Christian, and all manner of creditors, were\nabout him;  driving him to very despair.  Our Prior is remiss;\nour Cellarers, officials are remiss, our monks are remiss:  what\nman is not remiss?  Front this, Samson, thou alone art there to\nfront it;  it is thy task to front and fight this, and to die or\nkill it.  May the Lord have mercy on thee!\n\nTo our antiquarian interest in poor Jocelin and his Convent,\nwhere the whole aspect of existence, the whole dialect, of\nthought, of speech, of activity, is so obsolete, strange, long-\nvanished, there now superadds itself a mild glow of human\ninterest for Abbot Samson;  a real pleasure, as at sight of man's\nwork, especially of governing, which is man's highest work, done\n_well._  Abbot Samson had no experience in governing;  had served\nno apprenticeship to the trade of governing,--alas, only the\nhardest apprenticeship to that of obeying.  He had never in any\ncourt given _vadium_ or _plegium,_ says Jocelin;  hardly ever\nseen a court, when he was set to preside in one.  But it is\nastonishing, continues Jocelin, how soon he learned the ways of\nbusiness;  and, in all sort of affairs, became expert beyond\nothers.  Of the many persons offering him their service 'he\nretained one Knight skilled in taking _vadia_ and _plegia;'_  and\nwithin the year was himself well skilled.  Nay, by and by, the\nPope appoints him Justiciary in certain causes;  the King one of\nhis new Circuit judges:  official Osbert is heard saying, \"That\nAbbot is one of your shrewd ones, _disputator est;_  if he go on\nas he begins, he will cut out every lawyer of us!\"\n\nWhy not?  What is to hinder this Samson from governing?  There is\nin him what far transcends all apprenticeships;  in the man\nhimself there exists a model of governing, something to govern\nby!  There exists in him a heart-abhorrence of whatever is\nincoherent, pusillanimous, unveracious,--that is to say, chaotic,\n_un_governed;  of the Devil, not of God.  A man of this kind\ncannot help governing!  He has the living ideal of a governor in\nhim;  and the incessant necessity of struggling to unfold the\nsame out of him.  Not the Devil or Chaos, for any wages, will he\nserve;  no, this man is the born servant of Another than them.\nAlas, how little avail all apprenticeships, when there is in your\ngovernor himself what we may well call _nothing_ to govern by:\nnothing;--a general grey twilight, looming with shapes of\nexpediencies, parliamentary traditions, division-lists, election-\nfunds, leading-articles;  this, with what of vulpine alertness\nand adroitness soever, is not much!\n\nBut indeed what say we, apprenticeship?  Had not this Samson\nserved, in his way, a right good apprenticeship to governing;\nnamely, the harshest slave-apprenticeship to obeying!  Walk this\nworld with no friend in it but God and St. Edmund, you will\neither fall into the ditch, or learn a good many things.  To\nlearn obeying is the fundamental art of governing.  How much\nwould many a Serene Highness have learned, had he traveled\nthrough the world with water-jug and empty wallet, _sine omni\nexpensa;_  and, at his victorious return, sat down not to\nnewspaper-paragraphs and city-illuminations, but at the foot of\nSt. Edmund's Shrine to shackles and bread and water!  He that\ncannot be servant of many, will never be master, true guide and\ndeliverer of many;--that is the meaning of true mastership.  Had\nnot the Monk-life extraordinary 'political capabilities' in it;\nif not imitable by us, yet enviable?  Heavens, had a Duke of\nLogwood, now rolling sumptuously to his place in the Collective\nWisdom, but himself happened to plough daily, at one time, on\nseven-and-sixpence a week, with no out-door relief,--what a\nlight, unquenchable by logic and statistic and arithmetic, would\nit have thrown on several things for him!\n\nIn all cases, therefore, we will agree with the judicious Mrs.\nGlass:  'First catch your hare!'  First get your man;  all is\ngot:  he can learn to do all things, from making boots, to\ndecreeing judgments, governing communities;  and will do them\nlike a man.  Catch your no-man,--alas, have you not caught the\nterriblest Tartar in the world!  Perhaps all the terribler, the\nquieter and gentler he looks.  For the mischief that one\nblockhead, that every blockhead does, in a world so feracious,\nteeming with endless results as ours, no ciphering will sum up.\nThe quack bootmaker is considerable;  as corn-cutters can\ntestify, and desperate men reduced to buckskin and list-shoes.\nBut the quack priest, quack high-priest, the quack king!  Why do\nnot all just citizens rush, half-frantic, to stop him, as they\nwould a conflagration?  Surely a just citizen _is_ admonished by\nGod and his own Soul, by all silent and articulate voices of this\nUniverse, to do what in _him_ lies towards relief of this poor\nblockhead-quack, and of a world that groans under him.  Runs\nswiftly;  relieve him,--were it even by extinguishing him!  For\nall things have grown so old, tinder-dry, combustible;  and he is\nmore ruinous than conflagration.  Sweep him _down,_ at least;\nkeep him strictly within the hearth:  he will then cease to be\nconflagration;  he will then become useful, more or less, as\nculinary fire.  Fire is the best of servants;  but what a master!\nThis poor blockhead too is born for uses:  why, elevating him to\nmastership, will you make a conflagration, a parish-curse or\nworld-curse of him?\n\n\n\n\nChapter X\n\nGovernment\n\n\nHow Abbot Samson, giving his new subjects seriatim the kiss of\nfatherhood in the St. Edmundsbury chapterhouse, proceeded with\ncautious energy to set about reforming their disjointed\ndistracted way of life;  how he managed with his Fifty rough\n_Milites_ (Feudal Knights), with his lazy Farmers, remiss\nrefractory Monks, with Pope's Legates, Viscounts, Bishops, Kings;\nhow on all sides he laid about him like a man, and putting\nconsequence on premiss, and everywhere the saddle on the right\nhorse, struggled incessantly to educe organic method out of\nlazily fermenting wreck,--the careful reader will discern, not\nwithout true interest, in these pages of Jocelin Boswell.  In\nmost antiquarian quaint costume, not of garments alone, but of\nthought, word, action, outlook and position, the substantial\nfigure of a man with eminent nose, bushy brows and clear-flashing\neyes, his russet beard growing daily greyer, is visible, engaged\nin true governing of men.  It is beautiful how the chrysalis\ngoverning-soul, shaking off its dusty slough and prison, starts\nforth winged, a true royal soul!  Our new Abbot has a right\nhonest unconscious feeling, without insolence as without fear or\nflutter, of what he is and what others are.  A courage to quell\nthe proudest, an honest pity to encourage the humblest.  Withal\nthere is a noble reticence in this Lord Abbot:  much vain\nunreason he hears;  lays up without response.  He is not there to\nexpect reason and nobleness of others;  he is there to give them\nof his own reason and nobleness.  Is he not their servant, as we\nsaid, who can suffer from them, and for them;  bear the burden\ntheir poor spindle-limbs totter and stagger under;  and in virtue\n_thereof_ govern them, lead them out of weakness into strength,\nout of defeat into victory!\n\n\nOne of the first Herculean Labours Abbot Samson undertook, or the\nvery first, was to institute a strenuous review and radical\nreform of his economics.  It is the first labour of every\ngoverning man, from _Paterfamilias_ to _Dominus Rex._  To get the\nrain thatched out from you is the preliminary of whatever\nfarther, in the way of speculation or of action, you may mean to\ndo.  Old Abbot Hugo's budget, as we saw, had become empty, filled\nwith deficit and wind.  To see his account-books clear, be\ndelivered from those ravening flights of Jew and Christian\ncreditors, pouncing on him like obscene harpies wherever he\nshewed face, was a necessity for Abbot Samson.\n\nOn the morrow after his instalment, he brings in a load of money-\nbonds, all duly stamped, sealed with this or the other Convent\nSeal:  frightful, unmanageable, a bottomless confusion of Convent\nfinance.  There they are;--but there at least they all are;  all\nthat shall be of them.  Our Lord Abbot demands that all the\nofficial seals in use among us be now produced and delivered to\nhim.  Three-and-thirty seals turn up;  are straightway broken,\nand shall seal no more:  the Abbot only, and those duly\nauthorised by him shall seal any bond.  There are but two ways of\npaying debt:  increase of industry in raising income, increase of\nthrift in laying it out.  With iron energy, in slow but steady\nundeviating perseverance, Abbot Samson sets to work in both\ndirections.  His troubles are manifold:  cunning _milites,_\nunjust bailiffs, lazy sockmen, he an inexperienced Abbot;\nrelaxed lazy monks, not disinclined to mutiny in mass:  but\ncontinued vigilance, rigorous method, what we call 'the eye of\nthe master,' work wonders.  The clear-beaming eyesight of Abbot\nSamson, steadfast, severe, all-penetrating,--it is like _Fiat\nluxe_ in that inorganic waste whirlpool;  penetrates gradually to\nall nooks, and of the chaos makes a _kosmos_ or ordered world!\n\nHe arranges everywhere, struggles unweariedly to arrange, and\nplace on some intelligible footing, the 'affairs and dues,\n_res ac redditus,'_ of his dominion.  The Lakenheath eels\ncease to breed squabbles between human beings;  the penny of\n_reap-silver_ to explode into the streets the Female Chartism of\nSt. Edmundsbury.  These and innumerable greater things.\nWheresoever Disorder may stand or lie, let it have a care;  here\nis the man that has declared war with it, that never will make\npeace with it.  Man is the Missionary of Order;  he is the\nservant not of the Devil and Chaos, but of God and the Universe!\nLet all sluggards and cowards, remiss, false-spoken, unjust, and\notherwise diabolic persons have a care:  this is a dangerous man\nfor them.  He has a mild grave face;  a thoughtful sternness, a\nsorrowful pity:  but there is a terrible flash of anger in him\ntoo;  lazy monks often have to murmur, _\"Saevit ut lupus,_ He\nrages like a wolf;  was not our Dream true!\"  \"To repress and\nhold-in such sudden anger he was continually careful,\" and\nsucceeded well:--right, Samson;  that it may become in thee as\nnoble central heat, fruitful, strong, beneficent;  not blaze out,\nor the seldomest possible blaze out, as wasteful volcanoism to\nscorch and consume!\n\n\n\"We must first creep, and gradually learn to walk,\" had Abbot\nSamson said of himself, at starting.  In four years he has become\na great walker;  striding prosperously along;  driving much\nbefore him.  In less than four years, says Jocelin, the Convent\nDebts were all liquidated:  the harpy Jews not only settled\nwith, but banished, bag and baggage, out of the _Bannaleuca_\n(Liberties, _Banlieue_) of St. Edmundsbury,--so has the King's\nMajesty been persuaded to permit.  Farewell to _you,_ at any\nrate;  let us, in no extremity, apply again to you!  Armed men\nmarch them over the borders, dismiss them under stern penalties,\n--sentence of excommunication on all that shall again harbour them\nhere:  there were many dry eyes at their departure.\n\nNew life enters everywhere, springs up beneficent, the Incubus of\nDebt once rolled away.  Samson hastes not;  but neither does he\npause to rest.  This of the Finance is a life-long business with\nhim;--Jocelin's anecdotes are filled to weariness with it.  As\nindeed to Jocelin it was of very primary interest.\n\nBut we have to record also, with a lively satisfaction, that\nspiritual rubbish is as little tolerated in Samson's Monastery as\nmaterial.  With due rigour, Willelmus Sacrista, and his bibations\nand _tacenda_ are, at the earliest opportunity, softly, yet\nirrevocably put an end to.  The bibations, namely, had to end;\neven the building where they used to be carried on was razed from\nthe soil of St. Edmundsbury, and 'on its place grow rows of\nbeams:'  Willelmus himself, deposed from the Sacristry and all\noffices, retires into obscurity, into absolute taciturnity\nunbroken thenceforth to this hour.  Whether the poor Willelmus\ndid not still, by secret channels, occasionally get some slight\nwetting of vinous or alcoholic liquor,--now grown, in a manner,\nindispensable to the poor man?  Jocelin hints not;  one knows not\nhow to hope, what to hope!  But if he did, it was in silence and\ndarkness;  with an ever-present feeling that teetotalism was his\nonly true course.\n\nDrunken dissolute Monks are a class of persons who had better\nkeep out of Abbot Samson's way.  _Saevit ut lupus;_ was not the\nDream true! murmured many a Monk.  Nay Ranulf de Glanville,\nJusticiary in Chief, took umbrage at him, seeing these strict\nways;  and watched farther with suspicion:  but discerned\ngradually that there was nothing wrong, that there was much the\nopposite of wrong.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI\n\nThe Abbot's Ways\n\n\nAbbot Samson shewed no extraordinary favour to the Monks who had\nbeen his familiars of old;  did not promote them to offices,--\n_nisi essent idonei,_ unless they chanced to be fit men!  Whence\ngreat discontent among certain of these, who had contributed to\nmake him Abbot:  reproaches, open and secret, of his being\n'ungrateful, hard-tempered, unsocial, a Norfolk _barrator_\nand _paltenerius.'_\n\nIndeed, except it were for _idonei,_ 'fit men,' in all kinds, it\nwas hard to say for whom Abbot Samson had much favour.  He loved\nhis kindred well, and tenderly enough acknowledged the poor part\nof them;  with the rich part, who in old days had never\nacknowledged him, he totally refused to have any business.  But\neven the former he did not promote into offices;  finding none of\nthem _idonei._  'Some whom he thought suitable he put into\nsituations in his own household, or made keepers of his country\nplaces:  if they behaved ill, he dismissed them without hope of\nreturn.  In his promotions, nay almost in his benefits, you would\nhave said there was a certain impartiality.  'The official person\nwho had, by Abbot Hugo's order, put the fetters on him at his\nreturn from Italy, was now supported with food and clothes to the\nend of his days at Abbot Samson's expense.'\n\nYet he did not forget benefits;  far the reverse, when an\nopportunity occurred of paying them at his own cost.  How pay\nthem at the public cost;--how, above all, by _setting fire_ to\nthe public, as we said;  clapping 'conflagrations' on the public,\nwhich the services of blockheads, _non-idonei,_ intrinsically\nare!  He was right willing to remember friends, when it could be\ndone.  Take these instances:  'A certain chaplain who had\nmaintained him at the Schools of Paris by the sale of holy water,\n_quaestu aquae benedictae;_--to this good chaplain he did give a\nvicarage, adequate to the comfortable sustenance of him.  'The\nSon of Elias, too, that is, of old Abbot Hugo's Cupbearer, coming\nto do homage for his Father's land, our Lord Abbot said to him in\nfull court:  \"I have, for these seven years, put off taking thy\nhomage for the land which Abbot Hugo gave thy Father, because\nthat gift was to the damage of Elmswell, and a questionable one:\nbut now I must profess myself overcome;  mindful of the kindness\nthy Father did me when I was in bonds;  because he sent me a cup\nof the very wine his master had been drinking, and bade me be\ncomforted in God.\"'\n\n'To Magister Walter, son of Magister William de Dice, who wanted\nthe vicarage of Chevington, he answered:  \"Thy Father was Master\nof the Schools;  and when I was an indigent _clericus,_ he\ngranted me freely and in charity an entrance to his School, and\nopportunity of learning;  wherefore I now, for the sake of God,\ngrant to thee what thou askest.\"'  Or lastly, take this good\ninstance,--and a glimpse, along with it, into long-obsolete\ntimes:  'Two _Milites_ of Risby, Willelm and Norman, being\nadjudged in Court to come under his mercy, _in misericordia\nejus,'_ for a certain very considerable fine of twenty shillings,\n'he thus addressed them publicly on the spot:  \"When I was a\nCloister-monk, I was once sent to Durham on business of our\nChurch;  and coming home again, the dark night caught me at\nRisby, and I had to beg a lodging there.  I went to Dominus\nNorman's, and he gave me a flat refusal.  Going then to Dominus\nWillelm's, and begging hospitality, I was by him honourably\nreceived.  The twenty shillings therefore of _mercy,_ I, without\nmercy, will exact from Dominus Norman;  to Dominus Willelm, on\nthe other hand, I, with thanks, will wholly remit the said sum.\"'\nMen know not always to whom they refuse lodgings;  men have\nlodged Angels unawares!--\n\n\nIt is clear Abbot Samson had a talent;  he had learned to judge\nbetter than Lawyers, to manage better than bred Bailiffs:--a\ntalent shining out indisputable, on whatever side you took him.\n'An eloquent man he was,' says Jocelin, 'both in French and\nLatin;  but intent more on the substance and method of what was\nto be said, than on the ornamental way of saying it.  He could\nread English Manuscripts very elegantly, _elegantissime:_  he was\nwont to preach to the people in the English tongue, though\naccording to the dialect of Norfolk, where he had been brought\nup;  wherefore indeed he had caused a Pulpit to be erected in our\nChurch both for ornament of the same, and for the use of his\naudiences.'  There preached he, according to the dialect of\nNorfolk:  a man worth going to hear.\n\nThat he was a just clear-hearted man, this, as the basis of all\ntrue talent, is presupposed.  How can a man, without clear vision\nin his heart first of all, have any clear vision in the head?  It\nis impossible!  Abbot Samson was one of the justest of judges;\ninsisted on understanding the case to the bottom, and then\nswiftly decided without feud or favour.  For which reason,\nindeed, the Dominus Rex, searching for such men, as for hidden\ntreasure and healing to his distressed realm, had made him one of\nthe new Itinerant judges,--such as continue to this day.  \"My\ncurse on that Abbot's court,\" a suitor was heard imprecating,\n_\"Maledicta sit curia istius Abbatis,_ where neither gold nor\nsilver can help me to confound my enemy!\"  And old friendships\nand all connexions forgotten, when you go to seek an office from\nhim!  \"A kinless loon,\" as the Scotch said of Cromwell's new\njudges,--intent on mere indifferent fair-play!\n\nEloquence in three languages is good;  but it is not the best.\nTo us, as already hinted, the Lord Abbot's eloquence is less\nadmirable than his ineloquence, his great invaluable 'talent of\nsilence!'  _'\"Deus, Deus,\"_ said the Lord Abbot to me once, when\nhe heard the Convent were murmuring at some act of his, \"I have\nmuch need to remember that Dream they had of me, that I was to\nrage among them like a wolf.  Above all earthly things I dread\ntheir driving me to do it.  How much do I hold in, and wink at;\nraging and shuddering in my own secret mind, and not outwardly at\nall!\"  He would boast to me at other times:  \"This and that I\nhave seen, this and that I have heard;  yet patiently stood it.\"\nHe had this way, too, which I have never seen in any other man,\nthat he affectionately loved many persons to whom he never or\nhardly ever shewed a countenance of love.  Once on my venturing\nto expostulate with him on the subject, he reminded me of\nSolomon:  \"Many sons I have;  it is not fit that I should smile\non them.\"  He would suffer faults, damage from his servants, and\nknow what he suffered, and not speak of it;  but I think the\nreason was, he waited a good time for speaking of it, and in a\nwise way amending it.  He intimated, openly in chapter to us all,\nthat he would have no eavesdropping:  \"Let none,\" said he, \"come\nto me secretly accusing another, unless he will publicly stand to\nthe same;  if he come otherwise, I will openly proclaim the name\nof him.  I wish, too, that every Monk of you have free access to\nme, to speak of your needs or grievances when you will.\"'\n\nThe kinds of people Abbot Samson liked worst were these three:\n_`Mendaces, ebriosi, verbosi,_ Liars, drunkards, and wordy or\nwindy persons;'--not good kinds, any of them!  He also much\ncondemned 'persons given to murmur at their meat or drink,\nespecially Monks of that disposition.  We remark, from the very\nfirst, his strict anxious order to his servants to provide\nhandsomely for hospitality, to guard 'above all things that there\nbe no shabbiness in the matter of meat and drink;  no look of\nmean parsimony, in _novitate mea,_ at the beginning of my\nAbbotship;'  and to the last he maintains a due opulence of table\nand equipment for others:  but he is himself in the highest\ndegree indifferent to all such things.\n\n'Sweet milk, honey, and other naturally sweet kinds of food, were\nwhat he preferred to eat:  but he had this virtue,' says Jocelin,\n'he never changed the dish (_ferculum_) you set before him, be\nwhat it might.  Once when I, still a novice, happened to be\nwaiting table in the refectory, it came into my head' (rogue that\nI was!) `to try if this were true;  and I thought I would place\nbefore him a _ferculum_ that would have displeased any other\nperson, the very platter being black and broken.  But he, seeing\nit, was as one that saw it not:  and now some little delay taking\nplace, my heart smote me that I had done this;  and so, snatching\nup the platter (_discus_), I changed both it and its contents for\na better, and put down that instead;  which emendation he was\nangry at, and rebuked me for,'--the stoical monastic man!  'For\nthe first seven years he had commonly four sorts of dishes on his\ntable;  afterwards only three, except it might be presents, or\nvenison from his own parks, or fishes from his ponds.  And if, at\nany time, he had guests living in his house at the request of\nsome great person, or of some friend, or had public messengers,\nor had harpers (_citharoedos_), or any one of that sort, he took\nthe first opportunity of shifting to another of his Manor-houses,\nand so got rid of such superfluous individuals,'--very prudently,\nI think.\n\nAs to his parks, of these, in the general repair of buildings,\ngeneral improvement and adornment of the St. Edmund Domains, 'he\nhad laid out several, and stocked them with animals, retaining a\nproper huntsman with hounds:  and, if any guest of great quality\nwere there, our Lord Abbot with his Monks would sit in some\nopening of the woods, and see the dogs run;  but he himself never\nmeddled with hunting, that I saw.'\n\n\n'In an opening of the woods;'--for the country was still dark\nwith wood in those days;  and Scotland itself still rustled\nshaggy and leafy, like a damp black American Forest, with cleared\nspots and spaces here and there.  Dryasdust advances several\nabsurd hypotheses as to the insensible but almost total\ndisappearance of these woods;  the thick wreck of which now lies\nas peat, sometimes with huge heart-of-oak timber logs imbedded in\nit, on many a height and hollow.  The simplest reason doubtless\nis, that by increase of husbandry, there was increase of cattle;\nincrease of hunger for green spring food;  and so, more and more,\nthe new seedlings got yearly eaten out in April;  and the old\ntrees, having only a certain length of life in them, died\ngradually, no man heeding it, and disappeared into _peat._\n\nA sorrowful waste of noble wood and umbrage!  Yes,--but a\nvery common one;  the course of most things in this world.\nMonachism itself, so rich and fruitful once, is now all rotted\ninto peat;  lies sleek and buried,--and a most feeble bog-grass\nof Dilettantism all the crop we reap from it!  That also was\nfrightful waste;  perhaps among the saddest our England ever saw.\nWhy will men destroy noble Forests, even when in part a nuisance,\nin such reckless manner;  turning loose four-footed cattle and\nHenry-the-Eighths into them!  The fifth part of our English soil,\nDryasdust computes, lay consecrated to 'spiritual uses,' better\nor worse;  solemnly set apart to foster spiritual growth and\nculture of the soul, by the methods then known:  and now--\nit too, like the four-fifths, fosters what?  Gentle shepherd,\ntell me what!\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII\n\nThe Abbot's Troubles\n\n\nThe troubles of Abbot Samson, as he went along in this\nabstemious, reticent, rigorous way, were more than tongue can\ntell.  The Abbot's mitre once set on his head, he knew rest no\nmore.  Double, double, toil and trouble;  that is the life of all\ngovernors that really govern:  not the spoil of victory, only the\nglorious toil of battle can be theirs.  Abbot Samson found all\nmen more or less headstrong, irrational, prone to disorder;\ncontinually threatening to prove ungovernable.\n\nHis lazy Monks gave him most trouble.  'My heart is tortured,'\nsaid he, 'till we get out of debt, _cor meum cruciatum est.'_\nYour heart, indeed;--but not altogether ours!  By no devisable\nmethod, or none of three or four that he devised, could Abbot\nSamson get these Monks of his to keep their accounts straight;\nbut always, do as he might, the Cellerarius at the end of the\nterm is in a coil, in a flat deficit,--verging again towards debt\nand Jews.  The Lord Abbot at last declares sternly he will keep\nour accounts too himself;  will appoint an officer of his own to\nsee our Cellerarius keep them.  Murmurs thereupon among us:  Was\nthe like ever heard?  Our Cellerarius a cipher;  the very\nTownsfolk know it:  _subsannatio et derisio sumus,_ we have\nbecome a laughingstock to mankind.  The Norfolk barrator\nand paltener!\n\nAnd consider, if the Abbot found such difficulty in the mere\neconomic department, how much in more complex ones, in spiritual\nones perhaps!  He wears a stern calm face;  raging and gnashing\nteeth, _fremens_ and _frendens,_ many times, in the secret of his\nmind.  Withal, however, there is noble slow perseverance in him;\na strength of 'subdued rage' calculated to subdue most things:\nalways, in the long-run, he contrives to gain his point.\n\n\nMurmurs from the Monks, meanwhile, cannot fail;  ever deeper\nmurmurs, new grudges accumulating.  At one time, on slight cause,\nsome drop making the cup run over, they burst into open mutiny:\nthe Cellarer will not obey, prefers arrest on bread and water to\nobeying;  the Monks thereupon strike work;  refuse to do the\nregular chanting of the day, at least the younger part of them\nwith loud clamour and uproar refuse:--Abbot Samson has withdrawn\nto another residence, acting only by messengers:  the awful\nreport circulates through St. Edmundsbury that the Abbot is in\ndanger of being murdered by the Monks with their knives!  How\nwilt thou appease this, Abbot Samson?  Return;  for the Monastery\nseems near catching fire!\n\nAbbot Samson returns;  sits in his _Thalamus_ or inner room,\nhurls out a bolt or two of excommunication:  lo, one disobedient\nMonk sits in limbo, excommunicated, with foot-shackles on him,\nall day;  and three more our Abbot has gyved 'with the lesser\nsentence, to strike fear into the others!'  Let the others think\nwith whom they have to do.  The others think;  and fear enters\ninto them.  'On the morrow morning we decide on humbling\nourselves before the Abbot, by word and gesture, in order to\nmitigate his mind.  And so accordingly was done.  He, on the\nother side, replying with much humility, yet always alleging his\nown justice and turning the blame on us, when he saw that we were\nconquered, became himself conquered.  And bursting into tears,\n_perfusus lachrymis,_ he swore that he had never grieved so much\nfor anything in the world as for this, first on his own account,\nand then secondly and chiefly for the public scandal which had\ngone abroad, that St. Edmund's Monks were going to kill their\nAbbot.  And when he had narrated how he went away on purpose till\nhis anger should cool, repeating this word of the philosopher, \"I\nwould have taken vengeance on thee, had not I been angry,\" he\narose weeping, and embraced each and all of us with the kiss of\npeace.  He wept;  we all wept:'--what a picture!  Behave better,\nye remiss Monks, and thank Heaven for such an Abbot;  or know at\nleast that ye must and shall obey him.\n\n\nWorn down in this manner, with incessant toil and tribulation,\nAbbot Samson had a sore time of it;  his grizzled hair and beard\ngrew daily greyer.  Those Jews, in the first four years, had\n'visibly emaciated him:'  Time, Jews, and the task of Governing,\nwill make a man's beard very grey!  'In twelve years,' says\nJocelin, 'our Lord Abbot had grown wholly white as snow, _totus\nefficitur albus sicut nix.'_  White, atop, like the granite\nmountains:--but his clear-beaming eyes still look out, in their\nstern clearness, in their sorrow and pity;  the heart within him\nremains unconquered.\n\nNay sometimes there are gleams of hilarity too;  little snatches\nof encouragement granted even to a Governor.  'Once my Lord Abbot\nand I, coming down from London through the Forest, I inquired of\nan old woman whom we came up to, Whose wood this was, and of what\nmanor;  who the master, who the keeper?'--All this I knew very\nwell beforehand, and my Lord Abbot too, Bozzy that I was!  But\n'the old woman answered, The wood belonged to the new Abbot of\nSt. Edmund's, was of the manor of Harlow, and the keeper of it\nwas one Arnald.  How did he behave to the people of the manor? I\nasked farther.  She answered that he used to be a devil\nincarnate, _daemon vivus_, an enemy of God, and flayer of the\npeasants' skins,'--skinning them like live eels, as the manner of\nsome is:  but that now he dreads the new Abbot, knowing him to be\na wise and sharp man, and so treats the people reasonably,\n_tractat homines pacifice.'_  Whereat the Lord Abbot _factus est\nhilaris,_--could not but take a triumphant laugh for himself;\nand determines to leave that Harlow manor yet unmeddled with, for\na while.\n\nA brave man, strenuously fighting, fails not of a little triumph,\nnow and then, to keep him in heart.  Everywhere we try at least\nto give the adversary as good as he brings;  and, with swift\nforce or slow watchful manoeuvre, extinguish this and the other\nsolecism, leave one solecism less in God's Creation;  and so\n_proceed_ with our battle, not slacken or surrender in it!  The\nFifty feudal Knights;  for example, were of unjust greedy temper,\nand cheated us, in the Installation-day, of ten knights'-fees;--\nbut they know now whether that has profited them aught, and I\nJocelin know.  Our Lord Abbot for the moment had to endure it,\nand say nothing;  but he watched his time.\n\nLook also how my Lord of Clare, coming to claim his undue 'debt'\nin the Court at Witham, with barons and apparatus, gets a Rowland\nfor his Oliver!  Jocelin shall report:  'The Earl, crowded round\n(_constipatus_) with many barons and men at arms, Earl Alberic\nand others standing by him, said, \"That his bailiffs had given\nhim to understand they were wont annually to receive for his\nbehoof, from the Hundred of Risebridge and the bailiffs thereof,\na sum of five shillings, which sum was now unjustly held back;\"\nand he alleged farther that his predecessors had been infeft, at\nthe Conquest, in the lands of Alfric son of Wisgar, who was Lord\nof that Hundred, as may be read in Domesday Book by all persons.\n--The Abbot, reflecting for a moment, without stirring from his\nplace, made answer:  \"A wonderful deficit, my Lord Earl, this\nthat thou mentionest!  King Edward gave to St. Edmund that entire\nHundred, and confirmed the same with his Charter;  nor is there\nany mention there of those five shillings.  It will behove thee\nto say, for what service, or on what ground, thou exactest those\nfive shillings.\"  Whereupon the Earl, consulting with his\nfollowers, replied, That he had to carry the Banner of St. Edmund\nin war-time, and for this duty the five shillings were his.  To\nwhich the Abbot:  \"Certainly, it seems inglorious, if so great a\nman, Earl of Clare no less, receive so small a gift for such a\nservice.  To the Abbot of St. Edmund's it is no unbearable burden\nto give five shillings.  But Roger Earl Bigot holds himself duly\nseised, and asserts that he by such seisin has the office of\ncarrying St. Edmund's Banner;  and he did carry it when the Earl\nof Leicester and his Flemings were beaten at Fornham.  Then again\nThomas de Mendham says that the right is his.  When you have made\nout with one another, that this right is thine, come then and\nclaim the five shillings, and I will promptly pay them!\"\nWhereupon the Earl said, He would speak with Earl Roger his\nrelative;  and so the matter _cepit dilationem,'_ and lies\nundecided to the end of the world.  Abbot Samson answers by word\nor act, in this or the like pregnant manner, having justice on\nhis side, innumerable persons:  Pope's Legates, King's Viscounts,\nCanterbury Archbishops, Cellarers, _Sochemanni;_--and leaves many\na solecism extinguished.\n\nOn the whole, however, it is and remains sore work.  'One time,\nduring my chaplaincy, I ventured to say to him:  _\"Domane,_ I\nheard thee, this night after matins, wakeful, and sighing deeply,\n_valde suspirantem,_ contrary to thy usual wont.\"  He answered:\n\"No wonder.  Thou, son Jocelin, sharest in my good things, in\nfood and drink, in riding and such like;  but thou little\nthinkest concerning the management of House and Family, the\nvarious and arduous businesses of the Pastoral Care, which harass\nme, and make my soul to sigh and be anxious.\"  Whereto I, lifting\nup my hands to Heaven:  \"From such anxiety, Omnipotent Merciful\nLord deliver me!\"--I have heard the Abbot say, If he had been as\nhe was before he became a Monk, and could have anywhere got five\nor six mares of income,' some three pound ten of yearly revenue,\n'whereby to support himself in the schools, he would never have\nbeen Monk nor Abbot.  Another time he said with an oath, If he\nhad known what a business it was to govern the Abbey, he would\nrather have been Almoner, how much rather Keeper of the Books,\nthan Abbot and Lord.  That latter office he said he had always\nlonged for, beyond any other.  _Quis talia crederet,'_ concludes\nJocelin, 'Who can believe such things?'\n\nThree pound ten, and a life of Literature, especially of quiet\nLiterature, without copyright, or world-celebrity of literary-\ngazettes,--yes, thou brave Abbot Samson, for thyself it had been\nbetter, easier, perhaps also nobler!  But then, for thy\ndisobedient Monks, unjust Viscounts;  for a Domain of St. Edmund\novergrown with Solecisms, human and other, it had not been so\nwell.  Nay neither could _thy_ Literature, never so quiet, have\nbeen easy.  Literature, when noble, is not easy;  but only when\nignoble.  Literature too is a quarrel, and internecine duel, with\nthe whole World of Darkness that lies without one and within\none;--rather a hard fight at times, even with the three pound ten\nsecure.  Thou, there where thou art, wrestle and duel along,\ncheerfully to the end;  and make no remarks!\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII\n\nIn Parliament\n\n\nOf Abbot Samson's public business we say little, though that also\nwas great.  He had to judge the people as justice Errant, to\ndecide in weighty arbitrations and public controversies;  to\nequip his _milites,_ send them duly in war-time to the King;--\nstrive every way that the Commonweal, in his quarter of it, take\nno damage.\n\nOnce, in the confused days of Lackland's usurpation, while Coeur-\nde-Lion was away, our brave Abbot took helmet himself, having\nfirst excommunicated all that should favour Lackland;  and led\nhis men in person to the siege of _Windleshora_, what we now call\nWindsor;  where Lackland had entrenched himself, the centre of\ninfinite confusions;  some Reform Bill, then as now, being\ngreatly needed.  There did Abbot Samson 'fight the battle of\nreform,'--with other ammunition, one hopes, than 'tremendous\ncheering' and such like!  For these things he was called 'the\nmagnanimous Abbot'\n\nHe also attended duly in his place in Parliament _de arduis\nregni;_  attended especially, as in _arduissimo,_ when 'the news\nreached London that King Richard was a captive in Germany.'  Here\n'while all the barons sat to consult,' and many of them looked\nblank enough, 'the Abbot started forth, _prosiliit coram\nomnibus,_ in his place in Parliament, and said, That _he_ was\nready to go and seek his Lord the King, either clandestinely by\nsubterfuge (_in tapinagio_), or by any other method;  and search\ntill he found him, and got certain notice of him;  he for one!\nBy which word,' says Jocelin, 'he acquired great praise for\nhimself,'--unfeigned commendation from the Able Editors of\nthat age.\n\nBy which word;--and also by which _deed:_  for the Abbot actually\nwent 'with rich gifts to the King in Germany;'  Usurper Lackland\nbeing first rooted out from Windsor, and the King's peace\nsomewhat settled.\n\nAs to these 'rich gifts,' however, we have to note one thing:  In\nall England, as appeared to the Collective Wisdom, there was not\nlike to be treasure enough for ransoming King Richard;  in which\nextremity certain Lords of the Treasury, _Justiciarii ad\nScaccarium,_ suggested that St. Edmund's Shrine, covered with\nthick gold, was still untouched.  Could not it, in this\nextremity, be peeled off, at least in part;  under condition, of\ncourse, of its being replaced, when times mended?  The Abbot,\nstarting plumb up, _se erigens,_ answered:  \"Know ye for certain,\nthat I will in no wise do this thing;  nor is there any man who\ncould force me to consent thereto.  But I will open the doors of\nthe Church:  Let him that likes enter;  let him that dares come\nforward!\"  Emphatic words, which created a sensation round the\nwoolsack.  For the Justiciaries of the _Scaccarium_ answered,\n'with oaths, each for himself:  \"I won't come forward, for my\nshare;  nor will I, nor I!  The distant and absent who offended\nhim, Saint Edmund has been known to punish fearfully;  much more\nwill he those close by, who lay violent hands on his coat, and\nwould strip it off!\"  These things being said, the Shrine was not\nmeddled with, nor any ransom levied for it.\n\nFor Lords of the Treasury have in all times their impassable\nlimits, be it by 'force of public opinion' or otherwise;  and in\nthose days a Heavenly Awe overshadowed and encompassed, as it\nstill ought and must, all earthly Business whatsoever.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV\n\nHenry of Essex\n\n\nOf St. Edmund's fearful avengements have they not the\nremarkablest instance still before their eyes?  He that will go\nto Reading Monastery may find there, now tonsured into a mournful\npenitent Monk, the once proud Henry Earl of Essex;  and discern\nhow St. Edmund punishes terribly, yet with mercy! This Narrative\nis too significant to be omitted as a document of the Time.  Our\nLord Abbot, once on a visit at Reading, heard the particulars\nfrom Henry's own mouth;  and thereupon charged one of his monks\nto write it down;--as accordingly the Monk has done, in ambitious\nrhetorical Latin;  inserting the same, as episode, among\nJocelin's garrulous leaves.  Read it here;  with ancient yet with\nmodern eyes.\n\n\nHenry Earl of Essex, standard-bearer of England, had high places\nand emoluments;  had a haughty high soul, yet with various flaws,\nor rather with one many-branched flaw and crack, running through\nthe texture of it.  For example, did he not treat Gilbert de\nCereville in the most shocking manner?  He cast Gilbert into\nprison;  and, with chains and slow torments, wore the life out of\nhim there.  And Gilbert's crime was understood to be only that of\ninnocent Joseph:  the Lady Essex was a Potiphar's Wife, and had\naccused poor Gilbert!  Other cracks, and branches of that\nwidespread flaw in the Standard-bearer's soul we could point out:\nbut indeed the main stem and trunk of all is too visible in this,\nThat he had no right reverence for the Heavenly in Man,--that far\nfrom shewing due reverence to St. Edmund, he did not even shew\nhim common justice.  While others in the Eastern Counties were\nadorning and enlarging with rich gifts St. Edmund's resting-\nplace, which had become a city of refuge for many things, this\nEarl of Essex flatly defrauded him, by violence or quirk of law,\nof five shillings yearly, and converted said sum to his own poor\nuses!  Nay, in another case of litigation, the unjust Standard\nbearer, for his own profit, asserting that the cause belonged not\nto St. Edmund's Court, but to _his_ in Lailand Hundred, 'involved\nus in travelings and innumerable expenses, vexing the servants of\nSt. Edmund for a long tract of time:  In short, he is without\nreverence for the Heavenly, this Standard-bearer;  reveres only\nthe Earthly, Gold-coined;  and has a most morbid lamentable flaw\nin the texture of him.  It cannot come to, good.\n\nAccordingly, the same flaw, or St.-Vitus' _tic,_ manifests itself\nere long in another way.  In the year 1157, he went with his\nStandard to attend King Henry, our blessed Sovereign (whom _we_\nsaw afterwards at Waltham), in his War with the Welsh.  A\nsomewhat disastrous War;  in which while King Henry and his force\nwere struggling to retreat Parthian-like, endless clouds of\nexasperated Welshmen hemming them in, and now we had come to the\n'difficult pass of Coleshill,' and as it were to the nick of\ndestruction,--Henry Earl of Essex shrieks out on a sudden\n(blinded doubtless by his inner flaw, or 'evil genius' as some\nname it), That King Henry is killed, That all is lost,--and\nflings down his Standard to shift for itself there!  And,\ncertainly enough, all _had_ been lost, had all men been as he;--\nhad not brave men, without such miserable jerking _tic-\ndouloureux_ in the souls of them, come dashing up, with blazing\nswords and looks, and asserted That nothing was lost yet, that\nall must be regained yet.  In this manner King Henry and his\nforce got safely retreated, Parthian-like, from the pass of\nColeshill and the Welsh War.*  But, once home again, Earl Robert\nde Montfort, a kinsman of this Standard-bearer's, rises up in the\nKing's Assembly to declare openly that such a man is unfit for\nbearing English Standards, being in fact either a special\ntraitor, or something almost worse, a coward namely, or universal\ntraitor.  Wager of Battle in consequence;  solemn Duel, by the\nKing's appointment, 'in a certain Island of the Thames-stream at\nReading, _apud Radingas,_ short way from the Abbey there.  King,\nPeers, and an immense multitude of people, on such scaffoldings\nand heights as they can come at, are gathered round, to see what\nissue the business will take.  The business takes this bad issue,\nin our Monk's own words faithfully rendered:\n\n----------\n*See Lyttelton's _Henry II.,_ ii: 384.\n----------\n\n'And it came to pass, while Robert de Montfort thundered on him\nmanfully (_viriliter intonasset_) with hard and frequent strokes,\nand a valiant beginning promised the fruit of victory, Henry of\nEssex, rather giving way, glanced round on all sides;  and lo, at\nthe rim of the horizon, on the confines of the River and land, he\ndiscerned the glorious King and Martyr Edmund, in shining armour,\nand as if hovering in the air;  looking towards him with severe\ncountenance, nodding his head with a mien and motion of austere\nanger.  At St. Edmund's hand there stood also another Knight,\nGilbert de Cereville, whose armour was not so splendid, whose\nstature was less gigantic;  casting vengeful looks at him.  This\nhe seeing with his eyes, remembered that old crime brings new\nshame.  And now wholly desperate, and changing reason into\nviolence, he took the part of one blindly attacking, not\nskillfully defending.  Who while he struck fiercely was more\nfiercely struck;  and so, in short, fell down vanquished, and it\nwas thought, slain.  As he lay there for dead, his kinsmen,\nMagnates of England, besought the King, that the Monks of Reading\nmight have leave to bury him.  However, he proved not to be dead,\nbut got well again among them;  and now, with recovered health,\nassuming the Regular Habit, he strove to wipe out the stain of\nhis former life, to cleanse the long week of his dissolute\nhistory by at least a purifying sabbath, and cultivate the\nstudies of Virtue into fruits of eternal Felicity:\n\n\nThus does the Conscience of man project itself athwart whatsoever\nof knowledge or surmise, of imagination, understanding, faculty,\nacquirement, or natural disposition he has in him;  and, like\nlight through coloured glass, paint strange pictures 'on the rim\nof the horizon' and elsewhere!  Truly, this same 'sense of the\nInfinite nature of Duty' is the central part of all with us;  a\nray as of Eternity and Immortality, immured in dusky many-\ncoloured Time, and its deaths and births.  Your 'coloured glass'\nvaries so much from century to century;--and, in certain money-\nmaking, game-preserving centuries, it gets so terribly opaque!\nNot a Heaven with cherubim surrounds you then, but a kind of\nvacant leaden-coloured Hell.  One day it will again cease to be\nopaque, this 'coloured glass.'  Nay, may it not become at once\ntranslucent and uncoloured?  Painting no Pictures more for us,\nbut only the everlasting Azure itself?  That will be a right\nglorious consummation!--\n\nSaint Edmund from the horizon's edge, in shining armour,\nthreatening the misdoer in his hour of extreme need:  it is\nbeautiful, it is great and true.  So old, yet so modern, actual;\ntrue yet for every one of us, as for Henry the Earl and Monk!  A\nglimpse as of the Deepest in Man's Destiny, which is the same for\nall times and ages.  Yes, Henry my brother, there in thy extreme\nneed, thy soul _is lamed;_  and behold thou canst not so much as\nfight!  For justice and Reverence _are_ the everlasting central\nLaw of this Universe;  and to forget them, and have all the\nUniverse against one, God and one's own Self for enemies, and\nonly the Devil and the Dragons for friends, is not that a\n'lameness' like few?  That some shining armed St. Edmund hang\nminatory on thy horizon, that infinite sulphur-lakes hang\nminatory, or do not now hang,--this alters no whit the eternal\nfact of the thing.  I say, thy soul is lamed, and the God and all\nGodlike in it marred:  lamed, paralytic, tending towards baleful\neternal death, whether thou know it or not;--nay hadst thou never\nknown it, that surely had been worst of all!--\n\nThus, at any rate, by the heavenly Awe that overshadows earthly\nBusiness, does Samson, readily in those days, save St. Edmund's\nShrine, and innumerable still more precious things.\n\n\n\nChapter XV\n\nPractical--Devotional\n\n\nHere indeed, perhaps, by rule of antagonisms, may be the place to\nmention that, after King Richard's return, there was a liberty of\ntourneying given to the fighting men of England:  that a\nTournament was proclaimed in the Abbot's domain, 'between\nThetford and St. Edmundsbury,'--perhaps in the Euston region, on\nFakenham Heights, midway between these two localities:  that it\nwas publicly prohibited by our Lord Abbot;  and nevertheless was\nheld in spite of him,--and by the parties, as would seem,\nconsidered 'a gentle and free passage of arms.'\n\nNay, next year, there came to the same spot four-and-twenty young\nmen, sons of Nobles, for another passage of arms;  who, having\ncompleted the same, all rode into St. Edmundsbury to lodge for\nthe night.  Here is modesty!  Our Lord Abbot, being instructed of\nit, ordered the Gates to be closed;  the whole party shut in.\nThe morrow was the Vigil of the Apostles Peter and Paul;  no\noutgate on the morrow.  Giving their promise not to depart\nwithout permission, those four-and-twenty young bloods dieted all\nthat day (_manducaverunt_) with the Lord Abbot, waiting for trial\non the morrow.  'But after dinner,'--mark it, posterity!--'the\nLord Abbot retiring into his _Thalamus,_ they all started up, and\nbegan caroling and singing (_carolare et cantare_); sending\ninto the Town for wine;  drinking, and afterwards howling\n(_ululantes_);--totally depriving the Abbot and Convent of their\nafternoon's nap;  doing all this in derision of the Lord Abbot,\nand spending in such fashion the whole day till evening, nor\nwould they desist at the Lord Abbot's order!  Night coming on,\nthey broke the bolts of the Town-Gates, and went off by\nviolence!'  Was the like ever heard of?  The roysterous young\ndogs;  caroling, howling, breaking the Lord Abbot's sleep,--after\nthat sinful chivalry cock-fight of theirs!  They too are a\nfeature of distant centuries, as of near ones.  St. Edmund on the\nedge of your horizon, or whatever else there, young scamps, in\nthe dandy state, whether cased in iron or in whalebone, begin\nto caper and carol on the green Earth!  Our Lord Abbot\nexcommunicated most of them;  and they gradually came in\nfor repentance.\n\nExcommunication is a great recipe with our Lord Abbot;  the\nprevailing purifier in those ages.  Thus when the Townsfolk and\nMonks-menials quarreled once at the Christmas Mysteries in St.\nEdmund's Churchyard, and 'from words it came to cuffs, and from\ncuffs to cuttings and the effusion of blood,'--our Lord Abbot\nexcommunicates sixty of the rioters, with bell, book and candle\n(_accensis candelis_), at one stroke.  Whereupon they all come\nsuppliant, indeed nearly naked, 'nothing on but their breeches,\n_omnino nudi praeter femoralia,_ and prostrate themselves at the\nChurch-door.'  Figure that!\n\nIn fact, by excommunication or persuasion, by impetuosity of\ndriving or adroitness in leading, this Abbot, it is now becoming\nplain everywhere, is a man that generally remains master at last.\nHe tempers his medicine to the malady, now hot, now cool;\nprudent though fiery, an eminently practical man.  Nay sometimes\nin his adroit practice there are swift turns almost of a\nsurprising nature!  Once, for example, it chanced that Geoffrey\nRiddell Bishop of Ely, a Prelate rather troublesome to our Abbot,\nmade a request of him for timber from his woods towards certain\nedifices going on at Glemsford.  The Abbot, a great builder\nhimself, disliked the request;  could not however give it a\nnegative.  While he lay, therefore, at his Manorhouse of Melford\nnot long after, there comes to him one of the Lord Bishop's men\nor monks, with a message from his Lordship, \"That he now begged\npermission to cut down the requisite trees in Elmswell Wood,\" so\nsaid the monk:  Elm_swell,_ where there are no trees but scrubs\nand shrubs, instead of Elm_set,_ our true _nemus,_ and high-\ntowering oak-wood, here on Melford Manor!  Elmswell?  The Lord\nAbbot, in surprise, inquires privily of Richard his Forester;\nRichard answers that my Lord of Ely has already had his\n_carpentarii_ in Elmset, and marked out for his own use all the\nbest trees in the compass of it.  Abbot Samson thereupon answers\nthe monk:  \"Elmswell?  Yes surely, be it as my Lord Bishop\nwishes.\"  The successful monk, on the morrow morning, hastens\nhome to Ely;  but, on the morrow morning, 'directly after mass,'\nAbbot Samson too was busy!  The successful monk, arriving at Ely,\nis rated for a goose and an owl;  is ordered back to say that\nElmset was the place meant.  Alas, on arriving at Elmset, he\nfinds the Bishop's trees, they 'and a hundred more,' all felled\nand piled, and the stamp of St. Edmund's Monastery burnt into\nthem,--for roofing of the great tower we are building there!\nYour importunate Bishop must seek wood for Glemsford edifices in\nsome other _nemus_ than this.  A practical Abbot!\n\nWe said withal there was a terrible flash of anger in him:\nwitness his address to old Herbert the Dean, who in a too thrifty\nmanner has erected a wind-mill for himself on his glebe-lands at\nHaberdon.  On the morrow, after mass, our Lord Abbot orders the\nCellerarius to send off his carpenters to demolish the said\nstructure _brevi manu,_ and lay up the wood in safe keeping.  Old\nDean Herbert, hearing what was toward, comes tottering along\nhither, to plead humbly for himself and his mill.  The Abbot\nanswers:  \"I am obliged to thee as if thou hadst cut off both my\nfeet!  By God's face, _per os Dei,_ I will not eat bread till\nthat fabric be torn in pieces.  Thou art an old man, and shouldst\nhave known that neither the King nor his Justiciary dare change\naught within the Liberties, without consent of Abbot and Convent:\nand thou hast presumed on such a thing?  I tell thee, it will not\nbe without damage to my mills;  for the Townsfolk will go to thy\nmill, and grind their corn (_bladum suum_) at their own good\npleasure;  nor can I hinder them, since they are free men.  I\nwill allow no new mills on such principle.  Away, away;  before\nthou gettest home again, thou wilt see what thy mill has grown\nto!\"--The very reverend, the old Dean totters home again, in all\nhaste;  tears the mill in pieces by his own _carpentarii_, to\nsave at least the timber;  and Abbot Samson's workmen, coming up,\nfind the ground already clear of it.\n\n\nEasy to bully down poor old rural Deans, and blow their windmills\naway:  but who is the man that dare abide King Richard's anger;\ncross the Lion in his path, and take him by the whiskers!  Abbot\nSamson too;  he is that man, with justice on his side.  The case\nwas this.  Adam de Cokefield, one of the chief feudatories of St.\nEdmund, and a principal man in the Eastern Counties, died,\nleaving large possessions, and for heiress a daughter of three\nmonths;  who by clear law, as all men know, became thus Abbot\nSamson's ward;  whom accordingly he proceeded to dispose of to\nsuch person as seemed fittest.  But now King Richard has another\nperson in view, to whom the little ward and her great possessions\nwere a suitable thing.  He, by letter, requests that Abbot Samson\nwill have the goodness to give her to this person.  Abbot Samson,\nwith deep humility, replies that she is already given.  New\nletters from Richard, of severer tenor;  answered with new deep\nhumilities, with gifts and entreaties, with no promise of\nobedience.  King Richard's ire is kindled;  messengers arrive at\nSt. Edmundsbury, with emphatic message to obey or tremble!  Abbot\nSamson, wisely silent as to the King's threats, makes answer:\n\"The King can send if he will, and seize the ward:  force and\npower he has to do his pleasure, and abolish the whole Abbey.  I\nnever can be bent to wish this that he seeks, nor shall it by me\nbe ever done.  For there is danger lest such things be made a\nprecedent of, to the prejudice of my successors.  _Videat\nAltissimus,_ Let the Most High look on it.  Whatsoever thing\nshall befall I will patiently endure.\"\n\nSuch was Abbot Samson's deliberate decision.  Why not?  Coeur-de-\nLion is very dreadful, but not the dreadfulest.  _Videat\nAltissimus._ I reverence Coeur-de-Lion to the marrow of my bones,\nand will in all right things be _homo suus;_  but it is not,\nproperly speaking, with terror, with any fear at all.  On the\nwhole, have I not looked on the face of 'Satan with outspread\nwings;'  steadily into Hellfire these seven-and-forty years;--and\nwas not melted into terror even at that, such the Lord's goodness\nto me? Coeur-de-Lion!\n\nRichard swore tornado oaths, worse than our armies in Flanders,\nTo be revenged on that proud Priest.  But in the end he\ndiscovered that the Priest was right;  and forgave him, and even\nloved him.  'King Richard wrote, soon after, to Abbot Samson,\nThat he wanted one or two of the St. Edmundsbury dogs, which he\nheard were good.  Abbot Samson sent him dogs of the best;\nRichard replied by the present of a ring, which Pope Innocent the\nThird had given him.  Thou brave Richard, thou brave Samson!\nRichard too, I suppose, 'loved a man,' and knew one when he\nsaw him.\n\nNo one will accuse our Lord Abbot of wanting worldly wisdom, due\ninterest in worldly things.  A skillful man;  full of cunning\ninsight, lively interests;  always discerning the road to his\nobject, be it circuit, be it short-cut, and victoriously\ntraveling forward thereon.  Nay rather it might seem, from\nJocelin's Narrative, as if he had his eye all but exclusively\ndirected on terrestrial matters, and was much too secular for a\ndevout man.  But this too, if we examine it, was right.  For it\nis in the world that a man, devout or other, has his life to\nlead, his work waiting to be done.  The basis of Abbot Samson's,\nwe shall discover, was truly religion, after all.  Returning from\nhis dusty pilgrimage, with such welcome as we saw, 'he sat down\nat the foot of St. Edmund's Shrine.'  Not a talking theory that;\nno, a silent practice:  Thou St. Edmund with what lies in thee,\nthou now must help me, or none will!\n\nThis also is a significant fact:  the zealous interest our Abbot\ntook in the Crusades.  To all noble Christian hearts of that era,\nwhat earthly enterprise so noble?  'When Henry II., having taken\nthe cross, came to St. Edmund's, to pay his devotions before\nsetting out, the Abbot secretly made for himself a cross of linen\ncloth:  and, holding this in one hand and a threaded needle in\nthe other, asked leave of the King to assume it!'  The King could\nnot spare Samson out of England;--the King himself indeed never\nwent.  But the Abbot's eye was set on the Holy Sepulchre, as on\nthe spot of this Earth where the true cause of Heaven was\ndeciding itself.  'At the retaking of Jerusalem by the Pagans,\nAbbot Samson put on a cilice and hair-shirt, and wore under-\ngarments of hair-cloth ever after;  he abstained also from flesh\nand fleshmeats (_carne et carneis_) thenceforth to the end of his\nlife.'  Like a dark cloud eclipsing the hopes of Christendom,\nthose tidings cast their shadow over St. Edmundsbury too:  Shall\nSamson Abbas take pleasure while Christ's Tomb is in the hands of\nthe Infidel?  Samson, in pain of body, shall daily be reminded of\nit, admonished to grieve for it.\n\nThe great antique heart:  how like a child's in its simplicity,\nlike a man's in its earnest solemnity and depth!  Heaven lies\nover him wheresoever he goes or stands on the Earth;  making all\nthe Earth a mystic Temple to him, the Earth's business all a kind\nof worship.  Glimpses of bright creatures flash in the common\nsunlight;  angels yet hover doing God's messages among men:  that\nrainbow was set in the clouds by the hand of God!  Wonder,\nmiracle encompass the man;  he lives in an element of miracle;\nHeaven's splendour over his head, Hell's darkness under his feet.\nA great Law of Duty, high as these two Infinitudes, dwarfing all\nelse, annihilating all else,--making royal Richard as small as\npeasant Samson, smaller if need be!--The 'imaginative faculties?'\n'Rude poetic ages?'  The 'primeval poetic element?'  O for God's\nsake, good reader, talk no more of all that!  It was not a\nDilettantism this of Abbot Samson.  It was a Reality, and it is\none.  The garment only of it is dead;  the essence of it lives\nthrough all Time and all Eternity!\n\n\nAnd truly, as we said above, is not this comparative silence of\nAbbot Samson as to his religion, precisely the healthiest sign of\nhim and of it?  'The Unconscious is the alone Complete.' Abbot\nSamson all along a busy working man, as all men are bound to be,\nhis religion, his worship was like his daily bread to him;--which\nhe did not take the trouble to talk much about;  which he merely\nate at stated intervals, and lived and did his work upon!  This\nis Abbot Samson's Catholicism of the Twelfth Century;--something\nlike the _Ism_ of all true men in all true centuries, I fancy!\nAlas, compared with any of the _Isms_ current in these poor days,\nwhat a thing!  Compared with the respectablest, morbid,\nstruggling Methodism, never so earnest;  with the respectablest,\nghastly, dead or galvanised Dilettantism, never so spasmodic!\n\nMethodism with its eye forever turned on its own navel;  asking\nitself with torturing anxiety of Hope and Fear, \"Am I right, am I\nwrong?  Shall I be saved, shall I not be damned?\"--what is this,\nat bottom, but a new phasis of _Egoism,_ stretched out into the\nInfinite;  not always the heavenlier for its infinitude!\nBrother, so soon as possible, endeavour to rise above all that.\n\"Thou art wrong;  thou art like to be damned:\"  consider that as\nthe fact, reconcile thyself even to that, if thou be a man;--then\nfirst is the devouring Universe subdued under thee, and from the\nblack murk of midnight and noise of greedy Acheron;  dawn as of\nan everlasting morning, how far above all Hope and all Fear,\nsprings for thee, enlightening thy steep path, awakening in thy\nheart celestial Memnon's music!\n\nBut of our Dilettantisms, and galvanised Dilettantisms;  of\nPuseyism--O Heavens, what shall we say of Puseyism, in comparison\nto Twelfth-Century Catholicism?  Little or nothing;  for indeed\nit is a matter to strike one dumb.\n\n     The Builder of this Universe was wise,\n     He plann'd all souls, all systems, planets, particles:\n     The Plan He shap'd His Worlds and Aeons by\n     Was--Heavens!--Was thy small Nine-and-thirty Articles?\n\nThat certain human souls, living on this practical Earth, should\nthink to save themselves and a ruined world by noisy theoretic\ndemonstrations and laudations of _the_ Church, instead of some\nunnoisy, unconscious, but _practical,_ total, heart-and-soul\ndemonstration of _a_ Church:  this, in the circle of revolving\nages, this also was a thing we were to see.  A kind of\npenultimate thing, precursor of very strange consummations;  last\nthing but one?  If there is no atmosphere, what will it serve a\nman to demonstrate the excellence of lungs?  How much profitabler\nwhen you can, like Abbot Samson, breathe;  and go along your way!\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI\n\nSt. Edmund\n\n\nAbbot Samson built many useful, many pious edifices;  human\ndwellings, churches, church-steeples, barns;--all fallen now and\nvanished, but useful while they stood.  He built and endowed 'the\nHospital of Babwell;'  built 'fit houses for the St. Edmundsbury\nSchools:  Many are the roofs once 'thatched with reeds' which he\n'caused to be covered with tiles;'  or if they were churches,\nprobably 'with lead.'  For all ruinous incomplete things,\nbuildings or other, were an eye-sorrow to the man.  We saw his\n'great tower of St. Edmund's;'  or at least the roof-timbers of\nit, lying cut and stamped in Elmset Wood.  To change combustible\ndecaying reed-thatch into tile or lead, and material, still more,\nmoral wreck into rain-tight order, what a comfort to Samson!\n\n\nOne of the things he could not in any wise but rebuild was the\ngreat Altar, aloft on which stood the Shrine itself;  the great\nAltar, which had been damaged by fire, by the careless rubbish\nand careless candle of two somnolent Monks, one night,--the\nShrine escaping almost as if by miracle!  Abbot Samson read his\nMonks a severe lecture:  \"A Dream one of us had, that he saw St.\nEdmund naked and in lamentable plight.  Know ye the\ninterpretation of that Dream?  St. Edmund proclaims himself\nnaked, because ye defraud the naked Poor of your old clothes, and\ngive with reluctance what ye are bound to give them of meat and\ndrink:  the idleness moreover and negligence of the Sacristan and\nhis people is too evident from the late misfortune by fire.  Well\nmight our Holy Martyr seem to be cast out from his Shrine, and\nsay with groans that he was stript of his garments, and wasted\nwith hunger and thirst!\"\n\nThis is Abbot Samson's interpretation of the Dream;--\ndiametrically the reverse of that given by the Monks themselves,\nwho scruple not to say privily, \"It is we that are the naked and\nfamished limbs of the Martyr;  we whom the Abbot curtails of all\nour privileges, setting his own official to control our very\nCellarer!\"  Abbot Samson adds, that this judgment by fire has\nfallen upon them for murmuring about their meat and drink.\n\nClearly enough, meanwhile, the Altar, whatever the burning of it\nmean or foreshadow, must needs be reedified.  Abbot Samson\nreedifies it, all of polished marble;  with the highest stretch\nof art and sumptuosity, reembellishes the Shrine for which it is\nto serve as pediment.  Nay farther, as had ever been among his\nprayers, he enjoys, he sinner, a glimpse of the glorious Martyr's\nvery Body in the process;  having solemnly opened the Loculus,\nChest or sacred Coffin, for that purpose.  It is the culminating\nmoment of Abbot Samson's life.  Bozzy Jocelin himself rises into\na kind of Psalmist solemnity on this occasion;  the laziest monk\n'weeps' warm tears, as _Te Deum_ is sung.\n\nVery strange;--how far vanished from us in these unworshiping\nages of ours!  The Patriot Hampden, best beatified man we have,\nhad lain in like manner some two centuries in his narrow home,\nwhen certain dignitaries of us, 'and twelve grave-diggers with\npulleys,' raised him also up, under cloud of night;  cut off his\narm with penknifes, pulled the scalp off his head,--and otherwise\nworshiped our Hero Saint in the most amazing manner!  Let the\nmodern eye look earnestly on that old midnight hour in St.\nEdmundsbury Church, shining yet on us, ruddy-bright, through the\ndepths of seven hundred years;  and consider mournfully what our\nHero-worship once was, and what it now is!  We translate with all\nthe fidelity we can:\n\n'The Festival of St. Edmund now approaching, the marble blocks\nare polished, and all things are in readiness for lifting of the\nShrine to its new place.  A fast of three days was held by all\nthe people, the cause and meaning thereof being publicly set\nforth to them.  The Abbot announces to the Convent that all must\nprepare themselves for transferring of the Shrine, and appoints\ntime and way for the work.  Coming therefore that night to\nmatins, we found the great Shrine (_feretrum magnum_) raised upon\nthe Altar, but empty;  covered all over with white doeskin\nleather, fixed to the wood with silver nails;  but one panel of\nthe Shrine was left down below, and resting thereon, beside its\nold column of the Church, the Loculus with the Sacred Body yet\nlay where it was wont.  Praises being sung, we all proceeded to\ncommence our disciplines (_ad disciplinas suscipiendas_).  These\nfinished, the Abbot and certain with him are clothed in their\nalbs;  and, approaching reverently, set about uncovering the\nLoculus.  There was an outer cloth of linen, enwrapping the\nLoculus and all; this we found tied on the upper side with\nstrings of its own:  within this was a cloth of silk, and then\nanother linen cloth, and then a third;  and so at last the\nLoculus was uncovered, and seen resting on a little tray of wood,\nthat the bottom of it might not be injured by the stone.  Over\nthe breast of the Martyr, there lay, fixed to the surface of the\nLoculus, a Golden Angel about the length of a human foot;\nholding in one hand a golden sword, and in the other a banner:\nunder this there was a hole in the lid of the Loculus, on which\nthe ancient servants of the Martyr had been wont to lay their\nhands for touching the Sacred Body.  And over the figure of the\nAngel was this verse inscribed:\n\n     _Martiris ecce zoma servat Michaelis agalma_ *\n\nAt the head and foot of the Loculus were iron rings whereby it\ncould be lifted.\n\n--------------\n* This is the Martyr's Garment, which Michael's Image guards.\n--------------\n\n'Lifting the Loculus and Body, therefore, they carried it to the\nAltar;  and I put-to my sinful hand to help in carrying, though\nthe Abbot had commanded that none should approach except called.\nAnd the Loculus was placed in the Shrine;  and the panel it had\nstood on was put in its place, and the Shrine for the present\nclosed.  We all thought that the Abbot would shew the Loculus to\nthe people;  and bring out the Sacred Body again, at a certain\nperiod of the Festival.  But in this we were woefully mistaken,\nas the sequel shews.\n\n'For in the fourth holiday of the Festival, while the Convent\nwere all singing _Completorium,_ our Lord Abbot spoke privily\nwith the Sacristan and Walter the Medicus;  and order was taken\nthat twelve of the Brethren should be appointed against midnight,\nwho were strong for carrying the panel-planks of the Shrine, and\nskillful in unfixing them, and putting them together again.  The\nAbbot then said that it was among his prayers to look once upon\nthe Body of his Patron;  and that he wished the Sacristan and\nWalter the Medicus to be with him.  The Twelve appointed Brethren\nwere these:  The Abbot's two Chaplains, the two Keepers of the\nShrine, the two Masters of the Vestry;  and six more, namely, the\nSacristan Hugo, Walter the Medicus, Augustin, William of Dice,\nRobert, and Richard.  I, alas, was not of the number.\n\n'The Convent therefore being all asleep, these Twelve, clothed in\ntheir albs, with the Abbot, assembled at the Altar;  and opening\na panel of the Shrine, they took out the Loculus;  laid it on a\ntable, near where the Shrine used to be;  and made ready for\nunfastening the lid, which was joined and fixed to the Loculus\nwith sixteen very long nails.  Which when, with difficulty, they\nhad done, all except the two forenamed associates are ordered to\ndraw back.  The Abbot and they two were alone privileged to look\nin.  The Loculus was so filled with the Sacred Body that you\ncould scarcely put a needle between the head and the wood, or\nbetween the feet and the wood:  the head lay united to the body,\na little raised with a small pillow.  But the Abbot, looking\nclose, found now a silk cloth veiling the whole Body, and then a\nlinen cloth of wondrous whiteness;  and upon the head was spread\na small linen cloth, and then another small and most fine silk\ncloth, as if it were the veil of a nun.  These coverings being\nlifted off, they found now the Sacred Body all wrapt in linen;\nand so at length the lineaments of the same appeared.  But here\nthe Abbot stopped;  saying he durst not proceed farther, or look\nat the sacred flesh naked.  Taking the head between his hands, he\nthus spake groaning:  \"Glorious Martyr, holy Edmund, blessed be\nthe hour when thou wert born.  Glorious Martyr, turn it not to my\nperdition that I have so dared to touch thee, I miserable and\nsinful;  thou knowest my devout love, and the intention of my\nmind.\"  And proceeding, he touched the eyes;  and the nose, which\nwas very massive and prominent (_valde grossum et valde\neminentem_);  and then he touched the breast and arms;  and\nraising the left arm he touched the fingers, and placed his own\nfingers between the sacred fingers.  And proceeding he found the\nfeet standing stiff up, like the feet of a man dead yesterday;\nand he touched the toes, and counted them (_tangendo numeravit_).\n\n'And now it was agreed that the other Brethren should be called\nforward to see the miracles;  and accordingly those ten now\nadvanced, and along with them six others who had stolen in\nwithout the Abbot's assent, namely, Walter of St. Alban's, Hugh\nthe Infirmirarius, Gilbert brother of the Prior, Richard of\nHenham, Jocellus our Cellarer, and Turstan the Little;  and all\nthese saw the Sacred Body, but Turstan alone of them put forth\nhis hand, and touched the Saint's knees and feet.  And that there\nmight be abundance of witnesses, one of our Brethren, John of\nDice, sitting on the roof of the Church, with the servants of the\nVestry, and looking through, clearly saw all these things.\n\n\nWhat a scene;  shining luminous effulgent, as the lamps of St.\nEdmund do, through the dark Night;  John of Dice, with vestrymen,\nclambering on the roof to look through;  the Convent all asleep,\nand the Earth all asleep,--and since then, Seven Centuries of\nTime mostly gone to sleep!  Yes, there, sure enough, is the\nmartyred Body of Edmund landlord of the Eastern Counties, who,\nnobly doing what he liked with his own, was slain three hundred\nyears ago:  and a noble awe surrounds the memory of him, symbol\nand promoter of many other right noble things.\n\nBut have not we now advanced to strange new stages of Hero-\nworship, now in the little Church of Hampden, with our penknives\nout, and twelve grave-diggers with pulleys?  The manner of men's\nHero-worship, verily it is the innermost fact of their existence,\nand determines all the rest,--at public hustings, in private\ndrawing-rooms, in church, in market, and wherever else.  Have\ntrue reverence, and what indeed is inseparable therefrom,\nreverence the right man, all is well;  have sham-reverence, and\nwhat also follows, greet with it the wrong man, then all is ill,\nand there is nothing well.  Alas, if Hero-worship become\nDilettantism, and all except Mammonism be a vain grimace, how\nmuch, in this most earnest Earth, has gone and is evermore going\nto fatal destruction, and lies wasting in quiet lazy ruin, no man\nregarding it!  Till at length no heavenly _Ism_ any longer coming\ndown upon us, _Isms_ from the other quarter have to mount up.\nFor the Earth, I say, is an earnest place;  Life is no grimace,\nbut a most serious fact.  And so, under universal Dilettantism\nmuch having been stript bare, not the souls of men only, but\ntheir very bodies and bread-cupboards having been stript bare,\nand life now no longer possible,--all is reduced to desperation,\nto the iron law of Necessity and very Fact again;  and to temper\nDilettantism, and astonish it, and burn it up with infernal fire,\narises Chartism, _Bare-backism,_ Sansculottism so-called!  May\nthe gods, and what of unworshiped heroes still remain among us,\navert the omen.--\n\n\nBut however this may be, St. Edmund's Loculus, we find, has the\nveils of silk and linen reverently replaced, the lid fastened\ndown again with its sixteen ancient nails;  is wrapt in a new\ncostly covering of silk, the gift of Hubert Archbishop of\nCanterbury:  and through the sky-window John of Dice sees it\nlifted to its place in the Shrine, the panels of this latter duly\nrefixed, fit parchment documents being introduced withal;--and\nnow John and his vestrymen can slide down from the roof, for all\nis over, and the Convent wholly awakens to matins.  'When we\nassembled to sing matins,' says Jocelin, 'and understood what had\nbeen done, grief took hold of all that had not seen these things,\neach saying to himself, \"Alas, I was deceived.\" Matins over, the\nAbbot called the Convent to the great Altar;  and briefly\nrecounting the matter, alleged that it had not been in his power,\nnor was it permissible or fit, to invite us all to the sight of\nsuch things.  At hearing of which, we all wept, and with tears\nsang _Te Deum laudamus;_  and hastened to toll the bells in\nthe Choir.\n\nStupid blockheads, to reverence their St. Edmund's dead Body in\nthis manner?  Yes, brother;--and yet, on the whole, who knows how\nto reverence the Body of a Man?  It is the most reverend\nphenomenon under this Sun.  For the Highest God dwells visible in\nthat mystic unfathomable Visibility, which calls itself \"I\" on\nthe Earth.  'Bending before men,' says Novalis, 'is a reverence\ndone to this Revelation in the Flesh.  We touch Heaven when we\nlay our hand on a human Body.'  And the Body of one Dead;--a\ntemple where the Hero-soul once was and now is not:  Oh, all\nmystery, all pity, all mute awe and wonder;  Supernaturalism\nbrought home to the very dullest;  Eternity laid open, and the\nnether Darkness and the upper Light-Kingdoms;--do conjoin there,\nor exist nowhere!  Sauerteig used to say to me, in his peculiar\nway:  \"A Chancery Lawsuit;  justice, nay justice in mere money,\ndenied a man, for all his pleading, till twenty, till forty years\nof his Life are gone seeking it:  and a Cockney Funeral, Death\nreverenced by hatchments, horsehair, brass-lacker, and\nunconcerned bipeds carrying long poles and bags of black\nsilk:--are not these two reverences, this reverence for Death\nand that reverence for Life, a notable pair of reverences among\nyou English?\"\n\nAbbot Samson, at this culminating point of his existence, may,\nand indeed must, be left to vanish with his Life-scenery from the\neyes of modern men.  He had to run into France, to settle with\nKing Richard for the military service there of his St.\nEdmundsbury Knights;  and with great labour got it done.  He had\nto decide on the dilapidated Coventry Monks;  and with great\nlabour, and much pleading and journeying, got them reinstated;\ndined with them all, and with the 'Masters of the Schools of\nOxneford,'--the veritable Oxford _Caput_ sitting there at dinner,\nin a dim but undeniable manner, in the City of Peeping Tom!  He\nhad, not without labour, to controvert the intrusive Bishop of\nEly, the intrusive Abbot of Cluny.  Magnanimous Samson, his life\nis but a labour and a journey;  a bustling and a justling, till\nthe still Night come.  He is sent for again, over sea, to advise\nKing Richard touching certain Peers of England, who had taken the\nCross, but never followed it to Palestine;  whom the Pope is\ninquiring after.  The magnanimous Abbot makes preparation for\ndeparture;  departs, and--And Jocelin's Boswellean Narrative,\nsuddenly shorn through by the scissors of Destiny, ends.  There\nare no words more;  but a black line, and leaves of blank paper.\nIrremediable:  the miraculous hand that held all this theatric-\nmachinery suddenly quits hold;  impenetrable Time-Curtains rush\ndown;  in the mind's eye all is again dark, void;  with loud\ndinning in the mind's ear, our real-phantasmagory of St.\nEdmundsbury plunges into the bosom of the Twelfth Century again,\nand all is over.  Monks, Abbot, Hero-worship, Government,\nObedience, Coeur-de-Lion and St. Edmund's Shrine, vanish like\nMirza's Vision;  and there is nothing left but a mutilated black\nRuin amid green botanic expanses, and oxen, sheep and dilettanti\npasturing in their places.\n\n\n\nChapter XVII\n\nThe Beginnings\n\n\nWhat a singular shape of a Man;  shape of a Time, have we in this\nAbbot Samson and his history;  how strangely do modes, creeds,\nformularies, and the date and place of a man's birth, modify the\nfigure of the man!\n\nFormulas too, as we call them, have a _reality_ in Human Life.\nThey are real as the very _skin_ and _muscular tissue_ of a Man's\nLife;  and a most blessed indispensable thing, so long as they\nhave _vitality_ withal, and are a living skin and tissue to him!\nNo man, or man's life, can go abroad and do business in the world\nwithout skin and tissues.  No;  first of all, these have to\nfashion themselves,--as indeed they spontaneously and inevitably\ndo.  Foam itself, and this is worth thinking of, can harden into\noyster-shell;  all living objects do by necessity form to\nthemselves a skin.\n\nAnd yet, again, when a man's Formulas become _dead;_  as all\nFormulas, in the progress of living growth, are very sure to do!\nWhen the poor man's integuments, no longer nourished from within,\nbecome dead skin, mere adscititious leather and callosity,\nwearing thicker and thicker, uglier and uglier;  till no _heart_\nany longer can be felt beating through them, so thick, callous,\ncalcified are they;  and all over it has now grown mere calcified\noystershell, or were it polished mother-of-pearl, inwards almost\nto the very heart of the poor man:--yes then, you may say, his\nusefulness once more is quite obstructed;  once more, he cannot\ngo abroad and do business in the world;  it is time that\n_he_ take to bed, and prepare for departure, which cannot now\nbe distant!\n\n_Ubi homines sunt modi sunt._  Habit is the deepest law of human\nnature.  It is our supreme strength;  if also, in certain\ncircumstances, our miserablest weakness.--From Stoke to Stowe is\nas yet a field, all pathless, untrodden:  from Stoke where I\nlive, to Stowe where I have to make my merchandises, perform my\nbusinesses, consult my heavenly oracles, there is as yet no path\nor human footprint;  and I, impelled by such necessities, must\nnevertheless undertake the journey.  Let me go once, scanning my\nway with any earnestness of outlook, and successfully arriving,\nmy footprints are an invitation to me a second time to go by the\nsame way.  It is easier than any other way:  the industry of\n'scanning' lies already invested in it for me;  I can go this\ntime with less of scanning, or without scanning at all.  Nay the\nvery sight of my footprints, what a comfort for me;  and in a\ndegree, for all my brethren of mankind!  The footprints are\ntrodden and retrodden;  the path wears ever broader, smoother,\ninto a broad highway, where even wheels can run;  and many travel\nit;--till--till the Town of Stowe disappear from that locality\n(as towns have been known to do), or no merchandising, heavenly\noracle, or real business any longer exist for one there:  then\nwhy should anybody travel the way?--Habit is our primal,\nfundamental law;  Habit and Imitation, there is nothing more\nperennial in us than these two.  They are the source of all\nWorking and all Apprenticeship, of all Practice and all Learning,\nin this world.\n\nYes, the wise man too speaks, and acts, in Formulas;  all men do\nso.  In general the more completely cased with Formulas a man may\nbe, the safer, happier is it for him.  Thou who, in an All of\nrotten Formulas, seemest to stand nigh bare, having indignantly\nshaken off the superannuated rags and unsound callosities of\nFormulas,--consider how thou too art still clothed!  This English\nNationality, whatsoever from uncounted ages is genuine and a fact\namong thy native People, and their words and ways:  all this, has\nit not made for thee a skin or second-skin, adhesive actually as\nthy natural skin?  This thou hast not stript off, this thou wilt\nnever strip off:  the humour that thy mother gave thee has to\nshew itself through this.  A common, or it may be an uncommon\nEnglishman thou art:  but good Heavens, what sort of Arab,\nChinaman, Jew-Clothesman, Turk, Hindoo, African Mandingo, wouldst\n_thou_ have been, thou with those mother-qualities of thine!\n\nIt strikes me dumb to look over the long series of faces, such as\nany full Church, Courthouse, London-Tavern Meeting, or miscellany\nof men will shew them.  Some score or two of years ago, all these\nwere little red-coloured pulpy infants;  each of them capable of\nbeing kneaded, baked into any social form you chose:  yet see now\nhow they are fixed and hardened,--into artisans, artists, clergy,\ngentry, learned sergeants, unlearned dandies, and can and shall\nnow be nothing else henceforth!\n\nMark on that nose the colour left by too copious port and viands;\nto which the profuse cravat with exorbitant breastpin, and the\nfixed, forward, and as it were menacing glance of the eyes\ncorrespond.  That is a 'Man of Business;'  prosperous\nmanufacturer, house-contractor, engineer, law-manager;  his eye,\nnose, cravat have, in such work and fortune, got such a\ncharacter:  deny him not thy praise, thy pity.  Pity him too, the\nHard-handed, with bony brow, rudely combed hair, eyes looking out\nas in labour, in difficulty and uncertainty;  rude mouth, the\nlips coarse, loose, as in hard toil and lifelong fatigue they\nhave got the habit of hanging:--hast thou seen aught more\ntouching than the rude intelligence, so cramped, yet energetic,\nunsubduable, true, which looks out of that marred visage?  Alas,\nand his poor wife, with her own hands, washed that cotton\nneckcloth for him, buttoned that coarse shirt, sent him forth\ncreditably trimmed as she could.  In such imprisonment lives he,\nfor his part;  man cannot now deliver him:  the red pulpy infant\nhas been baked and fashioned so.\n\nOr what kind of baking was it that this other brother-mortal got,\nwhich has baked him into the genus Dandy?  Elegant Vacuum;\nserenely looking down upon all Plenums and Entities, as low and\npoor to his serene Chimeraship and _Non_entity laboriously\nattained!  Heroic Vacuum;  inexpugnable, while purse and present\ncondition of society hold out;  curable by no hellebore.  The\ndoom of Fate was, Be thou a Dandy!  Have thy eye-glasses, opera-\nglasses, thy Long-Acre cabs with white-breeched tiger, thy\nyawning impassivities, pococurantisms;  fix thyself in Dandyhood,\nundeliverable;  it is thy doom.\n\nAnd all these, we say, were red-coloured infants;  of the same\npulp and stuff, few years ago;  now irretrievably shaped and\nkneaded as we see!  Formulas?  There is no mortal extant, out of\nthe depths of Bedlam, but lives all skinned, thatched, covered\nover with Formulas;  and is, as it were, held in from delirium\nand the Inane by his Formulas!  They are withal the most\nbeneficent, indispensable of human equipments:  blessed he who\nhas a skin and tissues, so it be a living one, and the heart-\npulse everywhere discernible through it.  Monachism, Feudalism,\nwith a real King Plantagenet, with real Abbots Samson, and their\nother living realities, how blessed!--\n\n\nNot without a mournful interest have we surveyed this authentic\nimage of a Time now wholly swallowed.  Mournful reflections crowd\non us;  and yet consolatory.  How many brave men have lived\nbefore Agamemnon!  Here is a brave governor Samson, a man fearing\nGod, and fearing nothing else;  of whom as First Lord of the\nTreasury, as King, Chief Editor, High Priest, we could be so glad\nand proud;  of whom nevertheless Fame has altogether forgotten to\nmake mention!  The faint image of him, revived in this hour, is\nfound in the gossip of one poor Monk, and in Nature nowhere else.\nOblivion had so nigh swallowed him altogether, even to the echo\nof his ever having existed.  What regiments and hosts and\ngenerations of such has Oblivion already swallowed!  Their\ncrumbled dust makes up the soil our life-fruit grows on.  Said I\nnot, as my old Norse Fathers taught me, The Life-tree Igdrasil,\nwhich waves round thee in this hour, whereof thou in this hour\nart portion, has its roots down deep in the oldest Death-\nKingdoms;  and grows;  the Three Nornas, or _Times,_ Past,\nPresent, Future, watering it from the Sacred Well!\n\nFor example, who taught thee to _speak?_  From the day when two\nhairy-naked or fig-leaved Human Figures began, as uncomfortable\ndummies, anxious no longer to be dumb, but to impart themselves\nto one another;  and endeavoured, with gaspings, gesturings, with\nunsyllabled cries, with painful pantomime and interjections, in a\nvery unsuccessful manner,--up to the writing of this present\ncopyright Book, which also is not very successful!  Between that\nday and this, I say, there has been a pretty space of time;  a\npretty spell of work, which _somebody_ has done!  Thinkest thou\nthere were no poets till Dan Chaucer?  No heart burning with a\nthought, which it could not hold, and had no word for;  and\nneeded to shape and coin a word for,--what thou callest a\nmetaphor, trope, or the like?  For every word we have, there was\nsuch a man and poet.  The coldest word was once a glowing new\nmetaphor, and bold questionable originality.  'Thy very\nATTENTION, does it not mean an _attentio,_ a STRETCHING-TO?'\nFancy that act of the mind, which all were conscious of, which\nnone had yet named,--when this new 'poet' first felt bound and\ndriven to name it!  His questionable originality, and new glowing\nmetaphor, was found adoptable, intelligible;  and remains our\nname for it to this day.\n\n\nLiterature:--and look at Paul's Cathedral, and the Masonries and\nWorships and Quasi-Worships that are there;  not to speak of\nWestminster Hall and its wigs!  Men had not a hammer to begin\nwith, not a syllabled articulation:  they had it all to make;--\nand they have made it.  What thousand thousand articulate, semi-\narticulate, earnest-stammering _Prayers_ ascending up to Heaven,\nfrom hut and cell, in many lands, in many centuries, from the\nfervent kindled souls of innumerable men, each struggling to pour\nitself forth incompletely as it might, before the incompletest\n_Liturgy_ could be compiled!  The Liturgy, or adoptable and\ngenerally adopted Set of Prayers and Prayer-Method, was what we\ncan call the Select Adoptabilities, 'Select Beauties' well-edited\n(by Oecumenic Councils and other Useful-Knowledge Societies) from\nthat wide waste imbroglio of Prayers already extant and\naccumulated, good and bad.  The good were found adoptable by men;\nwere gradually got together, well-edited, accredited:  the bad,\nfound inappropriate, unadoptable, were gradually forgotten,\ndisused and burnt.  It is the way with human things.  The first\nman who, looking with opened soul on this August Heaven and\nEarth, this Beautiful and Awful, which we name Nature, Universe\nand such like, the essence of which remains forever UNNAMEABLE;\nhe who first, gazing into this, fell on his knees awestruck, in\nsilence as is likeliest,--he, driven by inner necessity, the\n'audacious original' that he was, had done a thing, too, which\nall thoughtful hearts saw straightway to be an expressive,\naltogether adoptable thing!  To bow the knee was ever since the\nattitude of supplication.  Earlier than any spoken Prayers,\n_Litanias,_ or Leitourgias;_   the beginning of all Worship,--\nwhich needed but a beginning, so rational was it.  What a poet\nhe!  Yes, this bold original was a successful one withal.  The\nwellhead this one, hidden in the primeval dusks and distances,\nfrom whom as from a Nile-source all _Forms of Worship_ flow:--\nsuch a Nile-river (somewhat muddy and malarious now!) of Forms of\nWorship sprang there, and flowed, and flows, down to Puseyism,\nRotatory Calabash, Archbishop Laud at St. Catherine Creed's, and\nperhaps lower!\n\nThings rise, I say, in that way.  The _Iliad_ Poem, and indeed\nmost other poetic, especially epic things, have risen as the\nLiturgy did.  The great _Iliad_ in Greece, and the small _Robin\nHood's Garland_ in England, are each, as I understand, the well-\nedited 'Select Beauties' of an immeasurable waste imbroglio of\nHeroic Ballads in their respective centuries and countries.\nThink what strumming of the seven-stringed heroic lyre, torturing\nof the less heroic fiddle-catgut, in Hellenic Kings' Courts, and\nEnglish wayside Public Houses;  and beating of the studious\nPoetic brain, and gasping here too in the semi-articulate\nwindpipe of Poetic men, before the Wrath of a Divine Achilles,\nthe Prowess of a Will Scarlet or Wakefield Pinder, could be\nadequately sung!  Honour to you, ye nameless great and greatest\nones, ye long-forgotten brave!\n\nNor was the Statute _De Tallagio non concedendo,_ nor any\nStatute, Law-method, Lawyer's-wig, much less were the Statute-\nBook and Four Courts, with Coke upon Lyttleton and Three Estates\nof Parliament in the rear of them, got together without human\nlabour,--mostly forgotten now!  From the time of Cain's slaying\nAbel by swift head-breakage, to this time of killing your man in\nChancery by inches, and slow heart-break for forty years,--there\ntoo is an interval!  Venerable justice herself began by Wild-\njustice;  all Law is as a tamed furrowfield, slowly worked out,\nand rendered arable, from the waste jungle of Club-Law.  Valiant\nWisdom tilling and draining;  escorted by owl-eyed Pedantry, by\nowlish and vulturish and many other forms of Folly;--the valiant\nhusbandman assiduously tilling;  the blind greedy enemy _too_\nassiduously sowing tares!  It is because there is yet in\nvenerable wigged justice some wisdom, amid such mountains of\nwiggeries and folly, that men have not cast her into the River;\nthat she still sits there, like Dryden's Head in the _Battle of\nthe Books,_--a huge helmet, a huge mountain of greased parchment,\nof unclean horsehair, first striking the eye;  and then in the\ninnermost corner, visible at last, in size as a hazelnut, a real\nfraction of God's justice, perhaps not yet unattainable to some,\nsurely still indispensable to all;--and men know not what to do\nwith her!  Lawyers were not all pedants, voluminous voracious\npersons;  Lawyers too were poets, were heroes,--or their Law had\nbeen past the Nore long before this time.  Their Owlisms,\nVulturisms, to an incredible extent, will disappear by and by,\ntheir Heroisms only remaining, and the helmet be reduced to\nsomething like the size of the head, we hope!--\n\nIt is all work and forgotten work, this peopled, clothed,\narticulate-speaking, high-towered, wide-acred World.  The hands\nof forgotten brave men have made it a World for us;  they,--\nhonour to them;  they, in _spite_ of the idle and the dastard.\nThis English Land, here and now, is the summary of what was found\nof wise, and noble, and accordant with God's Truth, in all the\ngenerations of English Men.  Our English Speech is speakable\nbecause there were Hero-Poets of our blood and lineage;\nspeakable in proportion to the number of these.  This Land of\nEngland has its conquerors, possessors, which change from epoch\nto epoch, from day to day;  but its real conquerors, creators,\nand eternal proprietors are these following, and their\nrepresentatives if you can find them:  All the Heroic Souls that\never were in England, each in their degree;  all the men that\never cut a thistle, drained a puddle out of England, contrived a\nwise scheme in England, did or said a true and valiant thing in\nEngland.  I tell thee, they had not a hammer to begin with;  and\nyet Wren built St. Paul's:  not an articulated syllable;  and yet\nthere have come English Literatures, Elizabethan Literatures,\nSatanic-School, Cockney-School, and other Literatures;--once\nmore, as in the old time of the _Leitourgia,_ a most waste\nimbroglio, and world-wide jungle and jumble;  waiting terribly to\nbe 'well-edited,' and 'well-burnt!'  Arachne started with\nforefinger and thumb, and had not even a distaff;  yet thou seest\nManchester, and Cotton Cloth, which will shelter naked backs, at\ntwo-pence an ell.\n\nWork?  The quantity of done and forgotten work that lies silent\nunder my feet in this world, and escorts and attends me, and\nsupports and keeps me alive, wheresoever I walk or stand,\nwhatsoever I think or do, gives rise to reflections!  Is it not\nenough, at any rate, to strike the thing called 'Fame' into total\nsilence for a wise man?  For fools and unreflective persons, she\nis and will be very noisy, this 'Fame,' and talks of her\n'immortals' and so forth:  but if you will consider it, what is\nshe?  Abbot Samson was not nothing because nobody _said_ anything\nof him.  Or thinkest thou, the Right Honourable Sir Jabesh\nWindbag can be made something by Parliamentary Majorities and\nLeading Articles?  Her 'immortals!' Scarcely two hundred years\nback can Fame recollect articulately at all;  and there she but\nmaunders and mumbles.  She manages to recollect a Shakspeare or\nso;  and prates, considerably like a goose, about him;--and in\nthe rear of that, onwards to the birth of Theuth, to Hengst's\nInvasion, and the bosom of Eternity, it was all blank;  and the\nrespectable Teutonic Languages, Teutonic Practices, Existences\nall came of their own accord, as the grass springs, as the trees\ngrow;  no Poet, no work from the inspired heart of a Man needed\nthere;  and Fame has not an articulate word to say about it!  Or\nask her, What, with all conceivable appliances and mnemonics,\nincluding apotheosis and human sacrifices among the number, she\ncarries in her head with regard to a Wodan, even a Moses, or\nother such?  She begins to be uncertain as to what they were,\nwhether spirits or men of mould,--gods, charlatans;  begins\nsometimes to have a misgiving that they were mere symbols, ideas\nof the mind;  perhaps nonentities, and Letters of the Alphabet!\nShe is the noisiest, inarticulately babbling, hissing, screaming,\nfoolishest, unmusicalest of fowls that fly;  and needs no\n'trumpet,' I think, but her own enormous goose-throat,--measuring\nseveral degrees of celestial latitude, so to speak.  Her 'wings,'\nin these days, have grown far swifter than ever;  but her goose-\nthroat hitherto seems only larger;  louder and foolisher than\never.  _She_ is transitory, futile, a goose-goddess:--if she were\nnot transitory, what would become of us!  It is a chief comfort\nthat she forgets us all;  all, even to the very Wodans;  and\ngrows to consider us, at last, as probably nonentities and\nLetters of the Alphabet.\n\nYes, a noble Abbot Samson resigns himself to Oblivion too;  feels\nit no hardship, but a comfort;  counts it as a still resting-\nplace, from much sick fret and fever and stupidity, which in the\nnight-watches often made his strong heart sigh.  Your most sweet\nvoices, making one enormous goose-voice, O Bobus and Company, how\ncan they be a guidance for any Son of Adam?  In _silence_ of you\nand the like of you, the 'small still voices' will speak to him\nbetter;  in which does lie guidance.\n\nMy friend, all speech and rumour is shortlived, foolish, untrue.\nGenuine WORK alone, what thou workest faithfully, that is eternal,\nas the Almighty Founder and World-Builder himself.  Stand thou\nby that;  and let 'Fame' and the rest of it go prating.\n\n    \"Heard are the Voices,\n     Heard are the Sages,\n     The Worlds and the Ages:\n     \"Choose well, your choice is\n     Brief and yet endless.\n\n     Here eyes do regard you,\n     In Eternity's stillness;\n     Here is all fulness,\n     Ye brave, to reward you;\n     Work, and despair not.\"\n                          --Goethe\n\n\n\n\nBook III--The Modern Worker\n\n\n\nChapter I\n\nPhenomena\n\n\nBut, it is said, our religion is gone:  we no longer believe in\nSt. Edmund, no longer see the figure of him 'on the rim of the\nsky,' minatory or confirmatory!  God's absolute Laws, sanctioned\nby an eternal Heaven and an eternal Hell, have become Moral\nPhilosophies, sanctioned by able computations of Profit and\nLoss, by weak considerations of Pleasures of Virtue and the\nMoral Sublime.\n\nIt is even so.  To speak in the ancient dialect, we 'have\nforgotten God;'--in the most modern dialect and very truth of the\nmatter, we have taken up the Fact of this Universe as it _is\nnot._  We have quietly closed our eyes to the eternal Substance\nof things, and opened them only to the Shews and Shams of things.\nWe quietly believe this Universe to be intrinsically a great\nunintelligible PERHAPS;  extrinsically, clear enough, it is a\ngreat, most extensive Cattlefold and Workhouse, with most\nextensive Kitchen-ranges, Dining-tables,--whereat he is wise who\ncan find a place!  All the Truth of this Universe is uncertain;\nonly the profit and loss of it, the pudding and praise of it, are\nand remain very visible to the practical man.\n\nThere is no longer any God for us!  God's Laws are become a\nGreatest-Happiness Principle, a Parliamentary Expediency:  the\nHeavens overarch us only as an Astronomical Time-keeper;  a butt\nfor Herschel-telescopes to shoot science at, to shoot\nsentimentalities at:--in our and old Jonson's dialect, man has\nlost the _soul_ out of him;  and now, after the due period,--\nbegins to find the want of it!  This is verily the plague-spot;\ncentre of the universal Social Gangrene, threatening all modern\nthings with frightful death.  To him that will consider it, here\nis the stem, with its roots and taproot, with its world-wide\nupas-boughs and accursed poison-exudations, under which the world\nlies writhing in atrophy and agony.  You touch the focal-centre\nof all our disease, of our frightful nosology of diseases, when\nyou lay your hand on this.  There is no religion;  there is no\nGod;  man has lost his soul, and vainly seeks antiseptic salt.\nVainly:  in killing Kings, in passing Reform Bills, in French\nRevolutions, Manchester Insurrections, is found no remedy.  The\nfoul elephantine leprosy, alleviated for an hour, reappears in\nnew force and desperateness next hour.\n\nFor actually this is _not_ the real fact of the world;  the world\nis not made so, but otherwise!--Truly, any Society setting out\nfrom this No-God hypothesis will arrive at a result or two.  The\nUnveracities, escorted, each Unveracity of them by its\ncorresponding Misery and Penalty;  the Phantasms, and Fatuities,\nand ten-years Corn-Law Debatings, that shall walk the Earth at\nnoonday,--must needs be numerous!  The Universe _being_\nintrinsically a Perhaps, being too probably an 'infinite Humbug,'\nwhy should any minor Humbug astonish us?  It is all according to\nthe order of Nature;  and Phantasms riding with huge clatter\nalong the streets, from end to end of our existence, astonish\nnobody.  Enchanted St. Ives' Workhouses and Joe-Manton\nAristocracies;  giant Working Mammonism near strangled in the\npartridge-nets of giant-looking Idle Dilettantism,--this, in all\nits branches, in its thousand thousand modes and figures, is a\nsight familiar to us.\n\n\nThe Popish Religion, we are told, flourishes extremely in these\nyears;  and is the most vivacious-looking religion to be met with\nat present.  _\"Elle a trois cents ans dans le ventre,\"_ counts M.\nJouffroy;  _\"c'est pourquoi je la respecte!\"_--The old Pope of\nRome, finding it laborious to kneel so long while they cart him\nthrough the streets to bless the people on _Corpus-Christi_ Day,\ncomplains of rheumatism;  whereupon his Cardinals consult;--\nconstruct him, after some study, a stuffed cloaked figure, of\niron and wood, with wool or baked hair;  and place it in a\nkneeling posture.  Stuffed figure, or rump of a figure;  to this\nstuffed rump he, sitting at his ease on a lower level, joins, by\nthe aid of cloaks and drapery, his living head and outspread\nhands:  the rump with its cloaks kneels, the Pope looks, and\nholds his hands spread;  and so the two in concert bless the\nRoman population on _Corpus-Christi_ Day, as well as they can.\n\nI have considered this amphibious Pope, with the wool-and-iron\nback, with the flesh head and hands;  and endeavoured to\ncalculate his horoscope.  I reckon him the remarkablest Pontiff\nthat has darkened God's daylight, or painted himself in the human\nretina, for these several thousand years.  Nay, since Chaos first\nshivered, and 'sneezed,' as the Arabs say, with the first shaft\nof sunlight shot through it, what stranger product was there of\nNature and Art working together?  Here is a Supreme Priest who\nbelieves God to be--What in the name of God _does_ he believe God\nto be?--and discerns that all worship of God is a scenic\nphantasmagory of wax-candles, organ-blasts, Gregorian Chants,\nmass-brayings, purple monsignori, wool-and-iron rumps,\nartistically spread out,--to save the ignorant from worse.\n\nO reader, I say not who are Belial's elect.  This poor amphibious\nPope too gives loaves to the Poor;  has in him more good latent\nthan he is himself aware of.  His poor Jesuits, in the late\nItalian Cholera, were, with a few German Doctors, the only\ncreatures whom dastard terror had not driven mad:  they descended\nfearless into all gulfs and bedlams;  watched over the pillow of\nthe dying, with help, with counsel and hope;  shone as luminous\nfixed stars, when all else had gone out in chaotic night:  honour\nto them!  This poor Pope,--who knows what good is in him?  In a\nTime otherwise too prone to forget, he keeps up the mournfulest\nghastly memorial of the Highest, Blessedest, which once was;\nwhich, in new fit forms, will again partly have to be.  Is he not\nas a perpetual death's-head and cross-bones, with their\n_Resurgam,_ on the grave of a Universal Heroism,--grave of a\nChristianity?  Such Noblenesses, purchased by the world's best\nheart's-blood, must not be lost;  we cannot afford to lose them,\nin what confusions soever.  To all of us the day will come, to a\nfew of us it has already come, when no mortal, with his heart\nyearning for a 'Divine Humility,' or other 'Highest form of\nValour,' will need to look for it in death's-heads, but will see\nit round him in here and there a beautiful living head.\n\nBesides, there is in this poor Pope, and his practice of the\nScenic Theory of Worship, a frankness which I rather honour.  Not\nhalf and half, but with undivided heart does _he_ set about\nworshiping by stage-machinery;  as if there were now, and could\nagain be, in Nature no other.  He will ask you, What other?\nUnder this my Gregorian Chant, and beautiful wax-light\nPhantasmagory, kindly hidden from you is an Abyss, of black\nDoubt, Scepticism, nay Sansculottic Jacobinism;  an Orcus that\nhas no bottom.  Think of that.  'Groby Pool _is_ thatched with\npancakes,'--as Jeannie Deans's Innkeeper defied it to be!  The\nBottomless of Scepticism, Atheism, Jacobinism, behold, it is\nthatched over, hidden from your despair, by stage-properties\njudiciously arranged.  This stuffed rump of mine saves not me\nonly from rheumatism, but you also from what other _isms!_  In\nthis your Life-pilgrimage Nowhither, a fine Squallacci marching-\nmusic, and Gregorian Chant, accompanies you, and the hollow Night\nof Orcus is well hid!\n\nYes truly, few men that worship by the rotatory Calabash of the\nCalmucks do it in half so great, frank or effectual a way.\nDrury-lane, it is said, and that is saying much, may learn from\nhim in the dressing of parts, in the arrangement of lights and\nshadows.  He is the greatest Play-actor that at present draws\nsalary in this world.  Poor Pope;  and I am told he is fast\ngrowing bankrupt too;  and will, in a measurable term of years (a\ngreat way _within_ the 'three hundred'), not have a penny to make\nhis pot boil!  His old rheumatic back will then get to rest;  and\nhimself and his stage-properties sleep well in Chaos forevermore.\n\n\nOr, alas, why go to Rome for Phantasms walking the streets?\nPhantasms, ghosts, in this midnight hour, hold jubilee, and\nscreech and jabber;  and the question rather were, What high\nReality anywhere is yet awake?  Aristocracy has become Phantasm-\nAristocracy, no longer able to _do_ its work, not in the least\nconscious that it has any work longer to do.  Unable, totally\ncareless to _do_ its work;  careful only to clamour for the\n_wages_ of doing its work,--nay for higher, and _palpably_ undue\nwages, and Corn-Laws and _increase_ of rents;  the old rate of\nwages not being adequate now!  In hydra-wrestle, giant\n_'Millo_cracy' so-called, a real giant, though as yet a blind one\nand but half-awake, wrestles and wrings in choking nightmare,\n'like to be strangled in the partridge-nets of Phantasm-\nAristocracy,' as we said, which fancies itself still to be a\ngiant.  Wrestles, as under nightmare, till it do awaken;  and\ngasps and struggles thousandfold, we may say, in a truly painful\nmanner, through all fibres of our English Existence, in these\nhours and years!  Is our poor English Existence wholly becoming a\nNightmare;  full of mere Phantasms?--\n\nThe Champion of England, cased in iron or tin, rides into\nWestminster Hall, 'being lifted into his saddle with little\nassistance,' and there asks, If in the four quarters of the\nworld, under the cope of Heaven, is any man or demon that dare\nquestion the right of this King?  Under the cope of Heaven no man\nmakes intelligible answer,--as several men ought already to have\ndone.  Does not this Champion too know the world;  that it is a\nhuge Imposture, and bottomless Inanity, thatched over with bright\ncloth and other ingenious tissues?  Him let us leave there,\nquestioning all men and demons.\n\nHim we have left to his destiny;  but whom else have we found?\nFrom this the highest apex of things, downwards through all\nstrata and breadths, how many fully awakened Realities have we\nfallen in with:--alas, on the contrary, what troops and\npopulations of Phantasms, not God-Veracities but Devil-Falsities,\ndown to the very lowest stratum,--which now, by such\nsuperincumbent weight of Unveracities, lies enchanted in St.\nIves' Workhouses, broad enough, helpless enough!  You will walk\nin no public thoroughfare or remotest byway of English Existence\nbut you will meet a man, an interest of men, that has given up\nhope in the Everlasting, True, and placed its hope in the\nTemporary, half or wholly False.  The Honourable Member complains\nunmusically that there is 'devil's-dust' in Yorkshire cloth.\nYorkshire cloth,--why, the very Paper I now write on is made, it\nseems, partly of plaster-lime well-smoothed, and obstructs my\nwriting!  You are lucky if you can find now any good Paper,--any\nwork really _done;_  search where you will, from highest Phantasm\napex to lowest Enchanted basis!\n\nConsider, for example, that great Hat seven-feet high, which now\nperambulates London Streets;  which my Friend Sauerteig regarded\njustly as one of our English notabilities;  \"the topmost point as\nyet,\" said he, \"would it were your culminating and returning\npoint, to which English Puffery has been observed to reach!\"--The\nHatter in the Strand of London, instead of making better felt-\nhats than another, mounts a huge lath-and-plaster Hat, seven-feet\nhigh, upon wheels;  sends a man to drive it through the streets;\nhoping to be saved _thereby._  He has not attempted to _make_\nbetter hats, as he was appointed by the Universe to do, and as\nwith this ingenuity of his he could very probably have done;  but\nhis whole industry is turned to persuade us that he has made\nsuch!  He too knows that the Quack has become God.  Laugh not at\nhim, O reader;  or do not laugh only.  He has ceased to be comic;\nhe is fast becoming tragic.  To me this all-deafening blast of\nPuffery, of poor Falsehood grown necessitous, of poor Heart-\nAtheism fallen now into Enchanted Workhouses, sounds too surely\nlike a Doom's-blast!  I have to say to myself in old dialect:\n\"God's blessing is not written on all this, His curse is written\non all this!\"  Unless perhaps the Universe be a chimera;--some\nold totally deranged eightday clock, dead as brass;  which\nthe Maker, if there ever was any Maker, has long ceased to\nmeddle with?--To my Friend Sauerteig this poor seven-feet\nHat-manufacturer, as the topstone of English Puffery, was\nvery notable.\n\nAlas, that we natives note him little, that we view him as a\nthing of course, is the very burden of the misery.  We take it\nfor granted, the most rigorous of us, that all men who have made\nanything are expected and entitled to make the loudest possible\nproclamation of it;  call on a discerning public to reward them\nfor it.  Every man his own trumpeter;  that is, to a really\nalarming extent, the accepted rule.  Make loudest possible\nproclamation of your Hat:  true proclamation if that will do;  if\nthat will not do, then false proclamation,--to such extent of\nfalsity as will serve your purpose;  as will not seem too false\nto be credible!--I answer, once for all, that the fact is not so.\nNature requires no man to make proclamation of his doings and\nhat-makings;  Nature forbids all men to make such.  There is not\na man or hat-maker born into the world but feels, at first, that\nhe is degrading himself if he speak of his excellencies and\nprowesses, and supremacy in his craft:  his inmost heart says to\nhim, \"Leave thy friends to speak of these;  if possible, thy\nenemies to speak of these;  but at all events, thy friends!\"  He\nfeels that he is already a poor braggart;  fast hastening to be a\nfalsity and speaker of the Untruth.\n\nNature's Laws, I must repeat, are eternal:  her small still\nvoice, speaking from the inmost heart of us, shall not, under\nterrible penalties, be disregarded.  No one man can depart from\nthe truth without damage to himself;  no one million of men;  no\nTwenty-seven Millions of men.  Shew me a Nation fallen everywhere\ninto this course, so that each expects it, permits it to others\nand himself, I will shew you a Nation traveling with one assent\non the broad way.  The broad way, however many Banks of England,\nCotton-Mills and Duke's Palaces it may have!  Not at happy\nElysian fields, and everlasting crowns of victory, earned by\nsilent Valour, will this Nation arrive;  but at precipices,\ndevouring gulfs, if it pause not.  Nature has appointed happy\nfields, victorious laurel-crowns;  but only to the brave and\ntrue:  _Un_nature, what we call Chaos, holds nothing in it but\nvacuities, devouring gulfs.  What are Twenty-seven Millions, and\ntheir unanimity?  Believe them not:  the Worlds and the Ages, God\nand Nature and All Men say otherwise.\n\n'Rhetoric all this?'  No, my brother, very singular to say, it is\nFact all this.  Cocker's Arithmetic is not truer.  Forgotten in\nthese days, it is old as the foundations of the Universe, and\nwill endure till the Universe cease.  It is forgotten now;  and\nthe first mention of it puckers thy sweet countenance into a\nsneer:  but it will be brought to mind again,--unless indeed the\nLaw of Gravitation chance to cease, and men find that they can\nwalk on vacancy.  Unanimity of the Twenty-seven Millions will do\nnothing:  walk not thou with them;  fly from them as for thy\nlife.  Twenty-seven Millions traveling on such courses, with gold\njingling in every pocket, with vivats heaven-high, are\nincessantly advancing, let me again remind thee, towards the\n_firm-land's end,_--towards the end and extinction of what\nFaithfulness, Veracity, real Worth, was in their way of life.\nTheir noble ancestors have fashioned for them a 'life-road!'--in\nhow many thousand senses, this!  There is not an old wise Proverb\non their tongue, an honest Principle articulated in their hearts\ninto utterance, a wise true method of doing and despatching any\nwork or commerce of men, but helps yet to carry them forward.\nLife is still possible to them, because all is not yet Puffery,\nFalsity, Mammon-worship and Unnature;  because somewhat is yet\nFaithfulness, Veracity and Valour.  With a certain very\nconsiderable finite quantity of Unveracity and Phantasm, social\nlife is still possible;  not with an infinite quantity!  Exceed\nyour certain quantity, the seven-feet Hat, and all things upwards\nto the very Champion cased in tin, begin to reel and flounder,--\nin Manchester Insurrections, Chartisms, Sliding-scales;  the Law\nof Gravitation not forgetting to act.  You advance incessantly\ntowards the land's end;  you are, literally enough, 'consuming\nthe way.'  Step after step, Twenty-seven Million unconscious\nmen;--till you are at the land's end;  till there is not\nFaithfulness enough among you any more:  and the next step now is\nlifted _not_ over land, but into air, over ocean-deeps and\nroaring abysses:--unless perhaps the Law of Gravitation have\nforgotten to act?\n\nO, it is frightful when a whole Nation, as our Fathers used to\nsay, has 'forgotten God;'  has remembered only Mammon, and what\nMammon leads to!  When your self-trumpeting Hatmaker is the\nemblem of almost all makers, and workers, and men, that make\nanything,--from soul-overseerships, body-overseerships, epic\npoems, acts of parliament, to hats and shoe-blacking!  Not one\nfalse man but does uncountable mischief:  how much, in a\ngeneration or two, will Twenty-seven Millions, mostly false,\nmanage to accumulate?  The sum of it, visible in every street,\nmarketplace, senate-house, circulating-library, cathedral,\ncotton-mill, and union-workhouse, fills one _not_ with a\ncomic feeling!\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\n\nGospel of Mammonism\n\n\nReader, even Christian Reader as thy title goes, hast thou any\nnotion of Heaven and Hell?  I rather apprehend, not.  Often as\nthe words are on our tongue, they have got a fabulous or\nsemifabulous character for most of us, and pass on like a kind of\ntransient similitude, like a sound signifying little.\n\nYet it is well worth while for us to know, once and always, that\nthey are not a similitude, nor a fable nor semi-fable;  that they\nare an everlasting highest fact!  \"No Lake of Sicilian or other\nsulphur burns now anywhere in these ages,\" sayest thou?  Well,\nand if there did not!  Believe that there does not;  believe it\nif thou wilt, nay hold by it as a real increase, a rise to higher\nstages, to wider horizons and empires.  All this has vanished, or\nhas not vanished;  believe as thou wilt as to all this.  But that\nan Infinite of Practical Importance, speaking with strict\narithmetical exactness, an _Infinite,_ has vanished or can vanish\nfrom the Life of any Man:  this thou shalt not believe!  O\nbrother, the Infinite of Terror, of Hope, of Pity, did it not at\nany moment disclose itself to thee, indubitable, unnameable?\nCame it never, like the gleam of preternatural eternal Oceans,\nlike the voice of old Eternities, far-sounding through thy heart\nof hearts?  Never?  Alas, it was not thy Liberalism then;  it was\nthy Animalism!  The Infinite is more sure than any other fact.\nBut only men can discern it;  mere building beavers, spinning\narachnes, much more the predatory vulturous and vulpine species,\ndo not discern it well!--\n\n'The word Hell,' says Sauerteig, 'is still frequently in use\namong the English People:  but I could not without difficulty\nascertain what they meant by it.  Hell generally signifies the\nInfinite Terror, the thing a man is infinitely afraid of, and\nshudders and shrinks from, struggling with his whole soul to\nescape from it.  There is a Hell therefore, if you will consider,\nwhich accompanies man, in all stages of his history, and\nreligious or other development:  but the Hells of men and Peoples\ndiffer notably.  With Christians it is the infinite terror of\nbeing found guilty before the just Judge.  With old Romans, I\nconjecture, it was the terror not of Pluto, for whom probably\nthey cared little, but of doing unworthily, doing unvirtuously,\nwhich was their word for un_man_fully.  And now what is it, if\nyou pierce through his Cants, his oft-repeated Hearsays, what he\ncalls his Worships and so forth,--what is it that the modern\nEnglish soul does, in very truth, dread infinitely, and\ncontemplate with entire despair?  What is his Hell;  after all\nthese reputable, oft-repeated Hearsays, what is it?  With\nhesitation, with astonishment, I pronounce it to be:  The terror\nof \"Not succeeding;\"  of not making money, fame, or some other\nfigure in the world,--chiefly of not making money!  Is not that a\nsomewhat singular Hell?\n\nYes, O Sauerteig, it is very singular.  If we do not 'succeed,'\nwhere is the use of us?  We had better never have been born.\n\"Tremble intensely,\" as our friend the Emperor of China says:\n_there_ is the black Bottomless of Terror;  what Sauerteig calls\nthe 'Hell of the English!'--But indeed this Hell belongs\nnaturally to the Gospel of Mammonism, which also has its\ncorresponding Heaven.  For there is one Reality among so many\nPhantasms;  about one thing we are entirely in earnest:  The\nmaking of money.  Working Mammonism does divide the world with\nidle game-preserving Dilettantism:--thank Heaven that there is\neven a Mammonism, anything we are in earnest about!  Idleness is\nworst, Idleness alone is without hope:  work earnestly at\nanything, you will by degrees learn to work at almost all things.\nThere is endless hope in work, were it even work at making money.\n\nTrue, it must be owned, we for the present, with our Mammon-\nGospel, have come to strange conclusions.  We call it a Society;\nand go about professing openly the totalest separation,\nisolation.  Our life is not a mutual helpfulness;  but rather,\ncloaked under due laws-of-war, named 'fair competition' and so\nforth, it is a mutual hostility.  We have profoundly forgotten\neverywhere that _Cash-payment_ is not the sole relation of human\nbeings;  we think, nothing doubting, that it absolves and\nliquidates all engagements of man.  \"My starving workers?\"\nanswers the rich Mill-owner:  \"Did not I hire them fairly in the\nmarket?  Did I not pay them, to the last sixpence, the sum\ncovenanted for?  What have I to do with them more?\"--Verily\nMammon-worship is a melancholy creed.  When Cain, for his own\nbehoof, had killed Abel, and was questioned, \"Where is thy\nbrother\" he too made answer, \"Am I my brother's keeper?\"  Did I\nnot pay my brother _his_ wages, the thing he had merited from me?\n\nO sumptuous Merchant-Prince, illustrious game-preserving Duke, is\nthere no way of 'killing' thy brother but Cain's rude way!  'A\ngood man by the very look of him, by his very presence with us as\na fellow wayfarer in this Life-pilgrimage, _promises_ so much:'\nwoe to him if he forget all such promises, if he never know that\nthey were given!  To a deadened soul, seared with the brute\nIdolatry of Sense, to whom going to Hell is equivalent to not\nmaking money, all 'promises,' and moral duties, that cannot be\npleaded for in Courts of Requests, address themselves in vain.\nMoney he can be ordered to pay, but nothing more.  I have not\nheard in all Past History, and expect not to hear in all Future\nHistory, of any Society anywhere under God's Heaven supporting\nitself on such Philosophy.  The Universe is not made so;  it is\nmade otherwise than so.  The man or nation of men that thinks it\nis made so, marches forward nothing doubting, step after step;\nbut marches--whither we know!  In these last two centuries of\nAtheistic Government (near two centuries now, since the blessed\nrestoration of his Sacred Majesty, and Defender of the Faith,\nCharles Second), I reckon that we have pretty well exhausted what\nof 'firm earth' there was for us to march on;--and are now, very\nominously, shuddering, reeling, and let us hope trying to recoil,\non the cliff's edge!--\n\nFor out of this that we call Atheism come so many other _isms_\nand falsities, each falsity with its misery at its heels!--A SOUL\nis not like wind (_spiritus,_ or breath) contained within a\ncapsule;  the ALMIGHTY MAKER is not like a Clockmaker that once,\nin old immemorial ages, having _made_ his Horologe of a Universe,\nsits ever since and sees it go!  Not at all.  Hence comes\nAtheism;  come, as we say, many other _isms;_  and as the sum of\nall, comes Valetism, the _reverse_ of Heroism;  sad root of all\nwoes whatsoever.  For indeed, as no man ever saw the above-said\nwind-element enclosed within its capsule, and finds it at bottom\nmore deniable than conceivable;  so too he finds, in spite of\nBridgewater Bequests, your Clockmaker Almighty an entirely\nquestionable affair, a deniable affair;--and accordingly denies\nit, and along with it so much else.  Alas, one knows not what and\nhow much else!  For the faith in an Invisible, Unnameable,\nGodlike, present everywhere in all that we see and work and\nsuffer, is the essence of all faith whatsoever;  and that once\ndenied, or still worse, asserted with lips only, and out of bound\nprayerbooks only, what other thing remains believable?  That Cant\nwell-ordered is marketable Cant;  that Heroism means gas-lighted\nHistrionism;  that seen with 'clear eyes' (as they call Valet-\neyes), no man is a Hero, or ever was a Hero, but all men are\nValets and Varlets.  The accursed practical quintessence of all\nsorts of Unbelief!  For if there be now no Hero, and the Histrio\nhimself begin to be seen into, what hope is there for the seed of\nAdam here below?  We are the doomed everlasting prey of the\nQuack;  who, now in this guise, now in that, is to filch us, to\npluck and eat us, by such modes as are convenient for him.  For\nthe modes and guises I care little.  The Quack once inevitable,\nlet him come swiftly, let him pluck and eat me;--swiftly, that I\nmay at least have done with him;  for in his Quack-world I can\nhave no wish to linger.  Though he slay me, yet will I despise\nhim.  Though he conquer nations, and have all the Flunkeys of the\nUniverse shouting at his heels, yet will I know well that _he_ is\nan Inanity;  that for him and his there is no continuance\nappointed, save only in Gehenna and the Pool.  Alas, the Atheist\nworld, from its utmost summits of Heaven and Westminster Hall,\ndownwards through poor sevenfeet Hats and 'Unveracities fallen\nhungry,' down to the lowest cellars and neglected hunger-dens of\nit, is very wretched.\n\nOne of Dr. Alison's Scotch facts struck us much.*     A poor\nIrish Widow, her husband having died in one of the Lanes of\nEdinburgh, went forth with her three children, bare of all\nresource, to solicit help from the Charitable Establishments of\nthat City.  At this Charitable Establishment and then at that she\nwas refused;  referred from one to the other, helped by none;--\ntill she had exhausted them all;  till her strength and heart\nfailed her:  she sank down in typhus-fever;  died, and infected\nher Lane with fever, so that 'seventeen other persons' died of\nfever there in consequence.  The humane Physician asks thereupon,\nas with a heart too full for speaking, Would it not have been\n_economy_ to help this poor Widow?  She took typhus-fever, and\nkilled seventeen of you!--Very curious.  The forlorn Irish Widow\napplies to her fellow-creatures, as if saying, \"Behold I am\nsinking, bare of help:  ye must help me!  I am your sister, bone\nof your bone;  one God made us:  ye must help me!\"  They answer,\n\"No;  impossible:  thou art no sister of ours.\"  But she proves\nher sisterhood;  her typhus-fever kills _them:_  they actually\nwere her brothers, though denying it!  Had man ever to go lower\nfor a proof?\n\n------------\n* _Observations on the Management of the Poor in Scotland:_ By\nWilliam Pulteney Alison, M.D. (Edinburgh, 1840)\n------------\n\nFor, as indeed was very natural in such case, all government of\nthe Poor by the Rich has long ago been given over to Supply-and-\ndemand, Laissez-faire and such like, and universally declared to\nbe 'impossible.'  \"You are no sister of ours;  what shadow of\nproof is there?  Here are our parchments, our padlocks, proving\nindisputably our money-safes to be _ours,_ and you to have no\nbusiness with them.  Depart!  It is impossible!\"--Nay, what\nwouldst thou thyself have us do? cry indignant readers.  Nothing,\nmy friends,--till you have got a soul for yourselves again.  Till\nthen all things are 'impossible.'  Till then I cannot even bid\nyou buy, as the old Spartans would have done, two-pence worth of\npowder and lead, and compendiously shoot to death this poor Irish\nWidow:  even that is 'impossible' for you.  Nothing is left but\nthat she prove her sisterhood by dying, and infecting you with\ntyphus.  Seventeen of you lying dead will not deny such proof\nthat she was flesh of your flesh;  and perhaps some of the living\nmay lay it to heart.\n\n'Impossible:'  of a certain two-legged animal with feathers, it\nis said if you draw a distinct chalk-circle round him, he sits\nimprisoned, as if girt with the iron ring of Fate;  and will die\nthere, though within sight of victuals,--or sit in sick misery\nthere, and be fatted to death.  The name of this poor two-legged\nanimal is--Goose;  and they make of him, when well fattened,\n_Pate de foie gras,_ much prized by some!\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\nGospel of Dilettantism\n\n\nBut after all, the Gospel of Dilettantism, producing a Governing\nClass who do not govern, nor understand in the least that they\nare bound or expected to govern, is still mournfuler than that of\nMammonism.  Mammonism, as we said, at least works;  this goes\nidle.  Mammonism has seized some portion of the message of Nature\nto man;  and seizing that, and following it, will seize and\nappropriate more and more of Nature's message:  but Dilettantism\nhas missed it wholly.  'Make money:'  that will mean withal, 'Do\nwork in order to make money.'  But, 'Go gracefully idle in\nMayfair,' what does or can that mean?  An idle, game-preserving\nand even corn-Jawing Aristocracy, in such an England as ours:\nhas the world, if we take thought of it, ever seen such a\nphenomenon till very lately?  Can it long continue to see such?\n\nAccordingly the impotent, insolent Donothingism in Practice, and\nSaynothingism in Speech, which we have to witness on that side of\nour affairs, is altogether amazing.  A Corn-Law demonstrating\nitself openly, for ten years or more, with 'arguments' to make\nthe angels, and some other classes of creatures, weep!  For men\nare not ashamed to rise in Parliament and elsewhere, and speak\nthe things they do _not_ think.  'Expediency,' 'Necessities of\nParty,' &c. &c.!  It is not known that the Tongue of Man is a\nsacred organ;  that Man himself is definable in Philosophy as an\n'Incarnate _Word;'_  the Word not there, you have no Man there\neither, but a Phantasm instead!  In this way it is that\nAbsurdities may live long enough,--still walking, and talking for\nthemselves, years and decades after the brains are quite out!\nHow are 'the knaves and dastards' ever to be got 'arrested' at\nthat rate?--\n\n\"No man in this fashionable London of yours,\" friend Sauerteig\nwould say, \"speaks a plain word to me.  Every man feels bound to\nbe something more than plain;  to be pungent withal, witty,\nornamental.  His poor fraction of sense has to be perked into\nsome epigrammatic shape, that it may prick into me;--perhaps\n(this is the commonest) to be topsyturvied, left standing on its\nhead, that I may remember it the better!  Such grinning inanity\nis very sad to the soul of man.  Human faces should not grin on\none like masks;  they should look on one like faces!  I love\nhonest laughter, as I do sunlight;  but not dishonest:  most\nkinds of dancing too;  but the St.-Vitus kind not at all!  A\nfashionable wit, ach Himmel, if you ask, Which, he or a Death's-\nhead, will be the cheerier company for me? pray send _not_ him!\"\n\nInsincere Speech, truly, is the prime material of insincere\nAction.  Action hangs, as it were, _dissolved_ in Speech, in\nThought whereof Speech is the shadow;  and precipitates itself\ntherefrom.  The kind of Speech in a man betokens the kind of\nAction you will get from him.  Our Speech, in these modern days,\nhas become amazing.  Johnson complained, \"Nobody speaks in\nearnest, Sir;  there is no serious conversation.\"  To us all\nserious speech of men, as that of Seventeenth-Century Puritans,\nTwelfth-Century Catholics, German Poets of this Century, has\nbecome jargon, more or less insane.  Cromwell was mad and a\nquack;  Anselm, Becket, Goethe, _ditto ditto._\n\n\nPerhaps few narratives in History or Mythology are more\nsignificant than that Moslem one, of Moses and the Dwellers by\nthe Dead Sea.  A tribe of men dwelt on the shores of that same\nAsphaltic Lake;  and having forgotten, as we are all too prone to\ndo, the inner facts of Nature, and taken up with the falsities\nand outer semblances of it, were fallen into sad conditions,--\nverging indeed towards a certain far deeper Lake.  Whereupon it\npleased kind Heaven to send them the Prophet Moses, with an\ninstructive word of warning, out of which might have sprung\n'remedial measures' not a few.  But no:  the men of the Dead Sea\ndiscovered, as the valet-species always does in heroes or\nprophets, no comeliness in Moses;  listened with real tedium to\nMoses, with light grinning, or with splenetic sniffs and sneers,\naffecting even to yawn;  and signified, in short, that they found\nhim a humbug, and even a bore.  Such was the candid theory these\nmen of the Asphalt Lake formed to themselves of Moses, That\nprobably he was a humbug, that certainly he was a bore.\n\nMoses withdrew;  but Nature and her rigorous veracities did not\nwithdraw.  The men of the Dead Sea, when we next went to visit\nthem, were all 'changed into Apes;'* sitting on the trees there,\ngrinning now in the most _un_affected manner;  gibbering and\nchattering _complete_ nonsense;  finding the whole Universe now a\nmost indisputable Humbug!  The Universe has _become_ a Humbug to\nthese Apes who thought it one!  There they sit and chatter, to\nthis hour:  only, I think, every Sabbath there returns to them a\nbewildered half-consciousness, half-reminiscence;  and they sit,\nwith their wizened smoke-dried visages, and such an air of\nsupreme tragicality as Apes may;  looking out, through those\nblinking smoke-bleared eyes of theirs, into the wonderfulest\nuniversal smoky Twilight and undecipherable disordered Dusk of\nThings;  wholly an Uncertainty, Unintelligibility, they and it;\nand for commentary thereon, here and there an unmusical chatter\nor mew:--truest, tragicalest Humbug conceivable by the mind of\nman or ape!  They made no use of their souls;  and so have lost\nthem.  Their worship on the Sabbath now is to roost there, with\nunmusical screeches, and half-remember that they had souls.\n\nDidst thou never, O Traveler, fall in with parties of this tribe?\nMeseems they are grown somewhat numerous in our day.\n\n---------\n* Sale's _Koran_ (_Introduction_).\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\nHappy\n\n\nAll work, even cotton-spinning, is noble;  work is alone noble:\nbe that here said and asserted once more.  And in like manner too\nall dignity is painful;  a life of ease is not for any man, nor\nfor any god.  The life of all gods figures itself to us as a\nSublime Sadness--earnestness of Infinite Battle against Infinite\nLabour.  Our highest religion is named the 'Worship of Sorrow.'\nFor the son of man there is no noble crown, well worn, or even\nill worn, but is a crown of thorns!--These things, in spoken\nwords, or still better, in felt instincts alive in every heart,\nwere once well known.\n\nDoes not the whole wretchedness, the whole _Atheism_ as I call\nit, of man's ways, in these generations, shadow itself for us in\nthat unspeakable Life-philosophy of his:  The pretension to be\nwhat he calls 'happy?'  Every pitifulest whipster that walks\nwithin a skin has his head filled with the notion that he is,\nshall be, or by all human and divine laws ought to be, 'happy.'\nHis wishes, the pitifulest whipster's, are to be fulfilled for\nhim;  his days, the pitifulest whipster's, are to flow on in\never-gentle current of enjoyment, impossible even for the gods.\nThe prophets preach to us, Thou shalt be happy;  thou shalt love\npleasant things, and find them.  The people clamour, Why have we\nnot found pleasant things?\n\nWe construct our theory of Human Duties, not on any Greatest-\nNobleness Principle, never so mistaken;  no, but on a Greatest-\nHappiness Principle.  'The word _Soul_ with us, as in some\nSlavonic dialects, seems to be synonymous with _Stomach._  We\nplead and speak, in our Parliaments and elsewhere, not as from\nthe Soul, but from the Stomach;--wherefore, indeed, our pleadings\nare so slow to profit.  We plead not for God's justice;  we are\nnot ashamed to stand clamouring and pleading for our own\n'interests,' our own rents and trade-profits;  we say, They are\nthe 'interests' of so many;  there is such an intense desire for\nthem in us!  We demand Free-Trade, with much just vociferation\nand benevolence, That the poorer classes, who are terribly ill-\noff at present, may have cheaper New-Orleans bacon.  Men ask on\nFree-trade platforms, How can the indomitable spirit of\nEnglishmen be kept up without plenty of bacon?  We shall become a\nruined Nation!--Surely, my friends, plenty of bacon is good and\nindispensable:  but, I doubt, you will never get even bacon by\naiming only at that.  You are men, not animals of prey, well-used\nor ill-used!  Your Greatest-Happiness Principle seems to me fast\nbecoming a rather unhappy one.--What if we should cease babbling\nabout 'happiness,' and leave _it_ resting on its own basis, as it\nused to do!\n\nA gifted Byron rises in his wrath;  and feeling too surely that\nhe for his part is not 'happy,' declares the same in very violent\nlanguage, as a piece of news that may be interesting.  It\nevidently has surprised him much.  One dislikes to see a man and\npoet reduced to proclaim on the streets such tidings:  but on the\nwhole, as matters go, that is not the most dislikable.  Byron\nspeaks the _truth_ in this matter.  Byron's large audience\nindicates how true it is felt to be.\n\n'Happy,' my brother?  First of all, what difference is it whether\nthou art happy or not!  Today becomes Yesterday so fast, all\nTomorrows become Yesterdays;  and then there is no question\nwhatever of the 'happiness,' but quite another question.  Nay,\nthou hast such a sacred pity left at least for thyself, thy very\npains once gone over into Yesterday become joys to thee.\nBesides, thou knowest not what heavenly blessedness and\nindispensable sanative virtue was in them;  thou shalt only know\nit after many days, when thou art wiser!--A benevolent old\nSurgeon sat once in our company, with a Patient fallen sick by\ngourmandising, whom he had just, too briefly in the Patient's\njudgment, been examining.  The foolish Patient still at intervals\ncontinued to break in on our discourse, which rather promised to\ntake a philosophic turn:  \"But I have lost my appetite,\" said he,\nobjurgatively, with a tone of irritated pathos;  \"I have no\nappetite;  I can't eat!\"--\"My dear fellow,\" answered the Doctor\nin mildest tone, \"it isn't of the slightest consequence;\"--and\ncontinued his philosophical discoursings with us!\n\nOr does the reader not know the history of that Scottish iron\nMisanthrope?  The inmates of some town-mansion, in those Northern\nparts, were thrown into the fearfulest alarm by indubitable\nsymptoms of a ghost inhabiting the next house, or perhaps even\nthe partition-wall! Ever at a certain hour, with preternatural\ngnarring, growling and screeching, which attended as running\nbass, there began, in a horrid, semi-articulate, unearthly voice,\nthis song:  \"Once I was hap-hap-happy, but now I'm _mees_-erable!\nClack-clack-clack, gnarr-r-r, whuz-z:  Once I was hap-hap-happy,\nbut now I'm _mees_-erable!\"--Rest, rest, perturbed spirit;--or\nindeed, as the good old Doctor said:  My dear fellow, it isn't of\nthe slightest consequence!  But no;  the perturbed spirit could\nnot rest;  and to the neighbours, fretted, affrighted, or at\nleast insufferably bored by him, it _was_ of such consequence\nthat they had to go and examine in his haunted chamber.  In his\nhaunted chamber, they find that the perturbed spirit is an\nunfortunate--Imitator of Byron?  No, is an unfortunate rusty\nMeat-jack, gnarring and creaking with rust and work;  and this,\nin Scottish dialect, is _its_ Byronian musical Life-philosophy,\nsung according to ability!\n\n\nTruly, I think the man who goes about pothering and uproaring for\nhis 'happiness,'--pothering, and were it ballot-boxing, poem-\nmaking, or in what way soever fussing and exerting himself,--he\nis not the man that will help us to 'get our knaves and dastards\narrested!'  No;  he rather is on the way to increase the number,\n--by at least one unit and _his_ tail!  Observe, too, that this is\nall a modern affair;  belongs not to the old heroic times, but to\nthese dastard new times.  'Happiness our being's end and aim' is\nat bottom, if we will count well, not yet two centuries old in\nthe world.\n\nThe only happiness a brave man ever troubled himself with asking\nmuch about was, happiness enough to get his work done.  Not \"I\ncan't eat!\" but \"I can't work!\" that was the burden of all wise\ncomplaining among men.  It is, after all, the one unhappiness of\na man.  That he cannot work;  that he cannot get his destiny as a\nman fulfilled.  Behold, the day is passing swiftly over, our life\nis passing swiftly over;  and the night cometh, wherein no man\ncan work.  The night once come, our happiness, our unhappiness,--\nit is all abolished;  vanished, clean gone;  a thing that has\nbeen:  'not of the slightest consequence' whether we were happy\nas eupeptic Curtis, as the fattest pig of Epicurus, or unhappy as\njob with potsherds, as musical Byron with Giaours and\nsensibilities of the heart;  as the unmusical Meat-jack with hard\nlabour and rust!  But our work,--behold that is not abolished,\nthat has not vanished:  our work, behold, it remains, or the want\nof it remains;--for endless Times and Eternities, remains;  and\nthat is now the sole question with us forevermore!  Brief\nbrawling Day, with its noisy phantasms, its poor paper-crowns\ntinsel-gilt, is gone;  and divine everlasting Night, with her\nstar-diadems, with her silences and her veracities, is come!\nWhat hast thou done, and how?  Happiness, unhappiness:  all that\nwas but the _wages_ thou hadst;  thou hast spent all that, in\nsustaining thyself hitherward;  not a coin of it remains with\nthee, it is all spent, eaten:  and now thy work, where is thy\nwork?  Swift, out with it, let us see thy work!\n\n\nOf a truth, if man were not a poor hungry dastard, and even\nmuch of a blockhead withal, he would cease criticising his\nvictuals to such extent;  and criticise himself rather, what\nhe does with his victuals!\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\nThe English\n\n\nAnd yet, with all thy theoretic platitudes, what a depth of\npractical sense in thee, great England!  A depth of sense, of\njustice, and courage;  in which, under all emergencies and world-\nbewilderments, and under this most complex of emergencies we now\nlive in, there is still hope, there is still assurance!\n\nThe English are a dumb people.  They can do great acts, but not\ndescribe them.  Like the old Romans, and some few others, _their_\nEpic Poem is written on the Earth's surface:  England her Mark!\nIt is complained that they have no artists:  one Shakspeare\nindeed;  but for Raphael only a Reynolds;  for Mozart nothing but\na Mr. Bishop:  not a picture, not a song.  And yet they did\nproduce one Shakspeare:  consider how the element of Shakspearean\nmelody does lie imprisoned in their nature;  reduced to unfold\nitself in mere Cotton-mills, Constitutional Governments, and such\nlike;--all the more interesting when it does become visible, as\neven in such unexpected shapes it succeeds in doing!  Goethe\nspoke of the Horse, how impressive, almost affecting it was that\nan animal of such qualities should stand obstructed so;  its\nspeech nothing but an inarticulate neighing, its handiness mere\n_hoof_iness, the fingers all constricted, tied together, the\nfingernails coagulated into a mere hoof, shod with iron.  The\nmore significant, thinks he, are those eye-flashings of the\ngenerous noble quadruped;  those prancings, curvings of the neck\nclothed with thunder.\n\n\nA Dog of Knowledge has _free_ utterance;  but the Warhorse is\nalmost mute, very far from free!  It is even so.  Truly, your\nfreest utterances are not by any means always the best:  they are\nthe worst rather;  the feeblest, trivialest;  their meaning\nprompt, but small, ephemeral.  Commend me to the silent English,\nto the silent Romans.  Nay, the silent Russians too I believe to\nbe worth something:  are they not even now drilling, under much\nobloquy, an immense semi-barbarous half-world from Finland to\nKamtschatka, into rule, subordination, civilisation,--really in\nan old Roman fashion; speaking no word about it;  quietly hearing\nall manner of vituperative Able Editors speak!  While your ever-\ntalking, ever-gesticulating French, for example, what are they at\nthis moment drilling?--Nay, of all animals, the freest of\nutterance, I should judge, is the genus Simia:_  go into the\nIndian woods, say all Travelers, and look what a brisk, adroit,\nunresting Ape-population it is!\n\n\nThe spoken Word, the written Poem, is said to be an epitome of\nthe man;  how much more the done Work.  Whatsoever of morality\nand of intelligence;  what of patience, perseverance,\nfaithfulness, of method, insight, ingenuity, energy;  in a word,\nwhatsoever of Strength the man had in him will lie written in the\nWork he does.  To work:  why, it is to try himself against\nNature, and her everlasting unerring Laws;  these will tell a\ntrue verdict as to the man.  So much of virtue and of faculty did\n_we_ find in him;  so much and no more!  He had such capacity of\nharmonising himself with _me_ and my unalterable ever-veracious\nLaws;  of cooperating and working as _I_ bade him;--and has\nprospered, and has not prospered, as you see!--Working as great\nNature bade him:  does not that mean virtue of a kind;  nay, of\nall kinds?  Cotton can be spun and sold, Lancashire operatives\ncan be got to spin it, and at length one has the woven webs and\nsells them, by following Nature's regulations in that matter:  by\nnot following Nature's regulations, you have them not.  You have\nthem not;--there is no Cotton-web to sell:  Nature finds a bill\nagainst you;  your 'Strength' is not Strength, but Futility!  Let\nfaculty be honoured, so far as it is faculty.  A man that can\nsucceed in working is to me always a man.\n\nHow one loves to see the burly figure of him, this thick-skinned,\nseemingly opaque, perhaps sulky, almost stupid Man of Practice,\npitted against some light--adroit Man of Theory, all equipt with\nclear logic, and able anywhere to give you Why for Wherefore! The\nadroit Man of Theory, so light of movement, clear of utterance,\nwith his bow full-bent and quiver full of arrow-arguments,--\nsurely he will strike down the game, transfix everywhere the\nheart of the matter;  triumph everywhere, as he proves that he\nshall and must do?  To your astonishment, it turns out oftenest\nNo.  The cloudy-browed, thick-soled, opaque Practicality, with no\nlogic-utterance, in silence mainly, with here and there a low\ngrunt or growl, has in him what transcends all logic-utterance:\na Congruity with the Unuttered!  The Speakable, which lies atop,\nas a superficial film, or outer skin, is his or is not his:  but\nthe Doable, which reaches down to the World's centre, you find\nhim there!\n\nThe rugged Brindleys has little to say for himself;  the rugged\nBrindley, when difficulties accumulate on him, retires silent,\n'generally to his bed;'  retires 'sometimes for three days\ntogether to his bed, that he may be in perfect privacy there,'\nand ascertain in his rough head how the difficulties can be\novercome.  The ineloquent Brindley, behold he _has_ chained seas\ntogether;  his ships do visibly float over valleys, invisibly\nthrough the hearts of mountains;  the Mersey and the Thames, the\nHumber and the Severn have shaken hands:  Nature most audibly\nanswers, Yea!  The man of Theory twangs his full-bent bow:\nNature's Fact ought to fall stricken, but does not:  his logic-\narrow glances from it as from a scaly dragon, and the obstinate\nFact keeps walking its way.  How singular!  At bottom, you will\nhave to grapple closer with the dragon;  take it home to you, by\nreal faculty, not by seeming faculty;  try whether you are\nstronger or it is stronger.  Close with it, wrestle it:  sheer\nobstinate toughness of muscle;  but much more, what we call\ntoughness of heart, which will mean persistance hopeful and even\ndesperate, unsubduable patience, composed candid openness,\nclearness of mind:  all this shall be 'strength' in wrestling\nyour dragon;  the whole man's real strength is in this work, we\nshall get the measure of him here.\n\nOf all the Nations in the world at present we English are the\nstupidest in speech, the wisest in action.  As good as a 'dumb'\nNation, I say, who cannot speak, and have never yet spoken,--\nspite of the Shakspeares and Miltons who skew us what\npossibilities there are!--O Mr. Bull, I look in that surly face\nof thine with a mixture of pity and laughter, yet also with\nwonder and veneration.  Thou complainest not, my illustrious\nfriend;  and yet I believe the heart of thee is full of sorrow,\nof unspoken sadness, seriousness,--profound melancholy (as some\nhave said) the basis of thy being.  Unconsciously, for thou\nspeakest of nothing, this great Universe is great to thee.  Not\nby levity of floating, but by stubborn force of swimming, shalt\nthou make thy way.  The Fates sing of thee that thou shalt many\ntimes be thought an ass and a dull ox, and shalt with a god-like\nindifference believe it.  My friend,--and it is all untrue,\nnothing ever falser in point of fact!  Thou art of those great\nones whose greatness the small passer-by does not discern.  Thy\nvery stupidity is wiser than their wisdom.  A grand _vis\ninertiae_ is in thee;  how many grand qualities unknown to small\nmen!  Nature alone knows thee, acknowledges the bulk and strength\nof thee:  thy Epic, unsung in words, is written in huge\ncharacters on the face of this Planet,--sea-moles, cotton-trades,\nrailways, fleets and cities, Indian Empires, Americas, New-\nHollands;  legible throughout the Solar System!\n\nBut the dumb Russians too, as I said, they, drilling all wild\nAsia and wild Europe into military rank and file, a terrible yet\nhitherto a prospering enterprise, are still dumber.  The old\nRomans also could not _speak,_ for many centuries:--not till the\nworld was theirs;  and so many speaking Greekdoms, their logic-\narrows all spent, had been absorbed and abolished.  The logic-\narrows, how they glanced futile from obdurate thick-skinned\nFacts;  Facts to be wrestled down only by the real vigour of\nRoman thews!--As for me, I honour, in these loud-babbling days,\nall the Silent rather.  A grand Silence that of Romans;--nay the\ngrandest of all, is it not that of the gods!  Even Triviality,\nImbecility, that can sit silent, how respectable is it in\ncomparison!  The 'talent of silence' is our fundamental one.\nGreat honour to him whose Epic is a melodious hexameter Iliad;\nnot a jingling Sham-Iliad, nothing true in it but the hexameters\nand forms merely.  But still greater honour, if his Epic be a\nmighty Empire slowly built together, a mighty Series of Heroic\nDeeds,--a mighty Conquest over Chaos;  _which_ Epic the 'Eternal\nMelodies' have, and must have, informed and dwelt in, as it sung\nitself!  There is no mistaking that latter Epic.  Deeds are\ngreater than Words.  Deeds have such a life, mute but undeniable,\nand grow as living trees and fruit-trees do;  they people the\nvacuity of Time, and make it green and worthy.  Why should the\noak prove logically that it ought to grow, and will grow?  Plant\nit, try it;  what gifts of diligent judicious assimilation and\nsecretion it has, of progress and resistance, of _force_ to grow,\nwill then declare themselves.  My much-honoured, illustrious,\nextremely inarticulate Mr. Bull!--\n\nAsk Bull his spoken opinion of any matter,--oftentimes the force\nof dulness can no farther go.  You stand silent, incredulous, as\nover a platitude that borders on the Infinite.  The man's\nChurchisms, Dissenterisms, Puseyisms, Benthamisms, College\nPhilosophies, Fashionable Literatures, are unexampled in this\nworld.  Fate's prophecy is fulfilled;  you call the man an ox and\nan ass.  But set him once to work,--respectable man!  His spoken\nsense is next to nothing, nine-tenths of it palpable _nonsense:_\nbut his unspoken sense, his inner silent feeling of what is true,\nwhat does agree with fact, what is doable and what is not\ndoable,--this seeks its fellow in the world.  A terrible worker;\nirresistible against marshes, mountains, impediments, disorder,\nin civilisation;  everywhere vanquishing disorder, leaving it\nbehind him as method and order.  He 'retires to his bed three\ndays,' and considers!\n\nNay withal, stupid as he is, our dear John,--ever, after infinite\ntumblings, and spoken platitudes innumerable from barrelheads and\nparliament-benches, he does settle down somewhere about the just\nconclusion;  you are certain that his jumblings and tumblings\nwill end, after years or centuries, in the stable equilibrium.\nStable equilibrium, I say;  centre-of-gravity lowest;--not the\nunstable, with centre-of-gravity highest, as I have known it done\nby quicker people!  For indeed, do but jumble and tumble\nsufficiently, you avoid that worst fault, of settling with your\ncentre-of-gravity highest;  your centre-of-gravity is certain to\ncome lowest, and to stay there.  If slowness, what we in our\nimpatience call 'stupidity,' be the price of stable equilibrium\nover unstable, shall we grudge a little slowness?  Not the least\nadmirable quality of Bull is, after all, that of remaining\ninsensible to logic;  holding out for considerable periods, ten\nyears or more, as in this of the Corn-Laws, after all arguments\nand shadow of arguments have faded away from him, till the very\nurchins on the street titter at the arguments he brings.  Logic,\n--[Greek] the 'Art of Speech,'--does indeed speak so and so;\nclear enough:  nevertheless Bull still shakes his head;  will see\nwhether nothing else _illogical,_ not yet 'spoken,' not yet able\nto be 'spoken,' do not lie in the business, as there so often\ndoes!--My firm belief is, that, finding himself now enchanted,\nhand-shackled, foot-shackled, in Poor-Law Bastilles and\nelsewhere, he will retire three days to his bed, and _arrive_ at\na conclusion or two!  His three-years total stagnation of trade,\nalas, is not that a painful enough 'lying in bed to consider\nhimself?'  Poor Bull!\n\nBull is a born Conservative;  for this too I inexpressibly honour\nhim.  All great Peoples are conservative;  slow to believe in\nnovelties;  patient of much error in actualities;  deeply and\nforever certain of the greatness that is in LAW, in Custom once\nsolemnly established, and now long recognised as just and final.\n--True, O Radical Reformer, there is no Custom that can, properly\nspeaking, be final;  none.  And yet thou seest _Customs_ which,\nin all civilised countries, are accounted final;  nay, under the\nOld Roman name of _Mores,_ are accounted _Morality,_ Virtue, Laws\nof God Himself.  Such, I assure thee, not a few of them are;\nsuch almost all of them once were.  And greatly do I respect the\nsolid character,--a blockhead, thou wilt say;  yes, but a well-\nconditioned blockhead, and the best-conditioned,--who esteems all\n'Customs once solemnly acknowledged' to be ultimate, divine, and\nthe rule for a man to walk by, nothing doubting, not inquiring\nfarther.  What a time of it had we, were all men's life and trade\nstill, in all parts of it, a problem, a hypothetic seeking, to be\nsettled by painful Logics and Baconian Inductions!  The Clerk in\nEastcheap cannot spend the day in verifying his Ready-Reckoner;\nhe must take it as verified, true and indisputable;  or his Book-\nkeeping by Double Entry will stand still.  \"Where is your Posted\nLedger?\" asks the Master at night.--\"Sir,\" answers the other, \"I\nwas verifying my Ready-Reckoner, and find some errors.  The\nLedger is--!\"--Fancy such a thing!\n\nTrue, all turns on your Ready-Reckoner being moderately correct,\n--being _not_ insupportably incorrect!  A Ready-Reckoner which has\nled to distinct entries in your Ledger such as these:\n_'Creditor_ an English People by fifteen hundred years of good\nLabour;  and _Debtor_ to lodging in enchanted Poor-Law Bastilles:\n_Creditor_ by conquering the largest Empire the Sun ever saw;\nand _Debtor_ to Donothingism and \"Impossible\" written on all\ndepartments of the government thereof:  _Creditor_ by mountains\nof gold ingots earned;  and _Debtor_ to No Bread purchasable by\nthem:'--_such_ Ready-Reckoner, methinks, is beginning to be\nsuspect;  nay is ceasing, and has ceased, to be suspect!  Such\nReady-Reckoner is a Solecism in Eastcheap;  and must, whatever be\nthe press of business, and will and shall be rectified a little.\nBusiness can go on no longer with _it._  The most Conservative\nEnglish People, thickest-skinned, most patient of Peoples, is\ndriven alike by its Logic and its Unlogic, by things 'spoken,'\nand by things not yet spoken or very speakable, but only felt and\nvery unendurable, to be wholly a Reforming People.  Their Life as\nit is has ceased to be longer possible for them.\n\nUrge not this noble silent People;  rouse not the Berserkir-rage\nthat lies in them!  Do you know their Cromwells, Hampdens, their\nPyms and Bradshaws?  Men very peaceable, but men that can be made\nvery terrible!  Men who, like their old Teutsch Fathers in\nAgrippa's days, 'have a soul that despises death;'  to whom\n'death,' compared with falsehoods and injustices, is light;--'in\nwhom there is a range unconquerable by the immortal gods!'\nBefore this, the English People have taken very preternatural-\nlooking Spectres by the beard;  saying virtually:  \"And if thou\n_wert_ 'preternatural?'  Thou with thy 'divine-rights' grown\ndiabolic wrongs?  Thou,--not even 'natural;'  decapitable;\ntotally extinguishable!\"--Yes, just so godlike as this People's\npatience was, even so godlike will and must its impatience be.\nAway, ye scandalous Practical Solecisms, children actually of the\nPrince of Darkness;  ye have near broken our hearts;  we can and\nwill endure you no longer.  Begone, we say;  depart, while the\nplay is good!  By the Most High God, whose sons and born\nmissionaries true men are, ye shall not continue here!  You and\nwe have become incompatible;  can inhabit one house no longer.\nEither you must go, or we.  Are ye ambitious to try _which_ it\nshall be?\n\nO my Conservative friends, who still specially name and struggle\nto approve yourselves 'Conservative,' would to Heaven I could\npersuade you of this world-old fact, than which Fate is not\nsurer, That Truth and justice alone are _capable_ of being\n'conserved' and preserved!  The thing which is unjust, which is\nnot according to God's Law, will you, in a God's Universe, try to\nconserve that?  It is so old, say you?  Yes, and the hotter haste\nought _you,_ of all others, to be in to let it grow no older!  If\nbut the faintest whisper in your hearts intimate to you that it\nis not fair,--hasten, for the sake of Conservatism itself, to\nprobe it rigorously, to cast it forth at once and forever if\nguilty.  How will or can you preserve _it,_ the thing that is not\nfair?  'Impossibility' a thousandfold is marked on that.  And ye\ncall yourselves Conservatives, Aristocracies:--ought not honour\nand nobleness of mind, if they had departed from all the Earth\nelsewhere, to find their last refuge with you?  Ye unfortunate!\n\nThe bough that is dead shall be cut away, for the sake of the\ntree itself.  Old?  Yes, it is too old.  Many a weary winter has\nit swung and creaked there, and gnawed and fretted, with its dead\nwood, the organic substance and still living fibre of this good\ntree;  many a long summer has its ugly naked brown defaced the\nfair green umbrage;  every day it has done mischief, and that\nonly:  off with it, for the tree's sake, if for nothing more;\nlet the Conservatism that would preserve cut _it_ away.  Did no\nwood-forester apprise you that a dead bough with its dead root\nleft sticking there is extraneous, poisonous;  is as a dead iron\nspike, some horrid rusty ploughshare driven into the living\nsubstance;--nay is far worse;  for in every windstorm\n('commercial crisis' or the like), it frets and creaks, jolts\nitself to and fro, and cannot lie quiet as your dead iron\nspike would!\n\nIf I were the Conservative Party of England (which is another\nbold figure of speech), I would not for a hundred thousand pounds\nan hour allow those Corn-Laws to continue!  Potosi and Golconda\nput together would not purchase my assent to them.  Do you count\nwhat treasuries of bitter indignation they are laying up for you\nin every just English heart?  Do you know what questions, not as\nto Corn-prices and Sliding-scales alone, they are _forcing_ every\nreflective Englishman to ask himself?  Questions insoluble, or\nhitherto unsolved;  deeper than any of our Logic-plummets\nhitherto will sound:  questions deep enough,--which it were\nbetter that we did not name even in thought!  You are forcing us\nto think of them, to begin uttering them.  The utterance of them\nis begun;  and where will it be ended, think you?  When two\nmillions of one's brother-men sit in Workhouses, and five\nmillions, as is insolently said, 'rejoice in potatoes,' there are\nvarious things that must be begun, let them end where they can.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\nTwo Centuries\n\nThe Settlement effected by our 'Healing Parliament' in the Year\nof Grace 1660, though accomplished under universal acclamations\nfrom the four corners of the British Dominions, turns out to have\nbeen one of the mournfulest that ever took place in this land of\nours.  It called and thought itself a Settlement of brightest\nhope and fulfilment, bright as the blaze of universal tar-barrels\nand bonfires could make it:  and we find it now, on looking back\non it with the insight which trial has yielded, a Settlement as\nof despair.  Considered well, it was a settlement to govern\nhenceforth without God, with only some decent Pretence of God.\n\nGoverning by the Christian Law of God had been found a thing of\nbattle, convulsion, confusion, an infinitely difficult thing:\nwherefore let us now abandon it, and govern only by so much of\nGod's Christian Law as--as may prove quiet and convenient for us.\nWhat is the end of Government?  To guide men in the way wherein\nthey should go;  towards their true good in this life, the portal\nof infinite good in a life to come?  To guide men in such way,\nand ourselves in such way, as the Maker of men, whose eye is upon\nus, will sanction at the Great Day?--Or alas, perhaps at bottom\n_is_ there no Great Day, no sure outlook of any life to come;\nbut only this poor life, and what of taxes, felicities, Nell-\nGwyns and entertainments, we can manage to muster here?  In that\ncase, the end of Government will be, To suppress all noise and\ndisturbance, whether of Puritan preaching, Cameronian psalm-\nsinging, thieves'-riot, murder, arson, or what noise soever, and\n--be careful that supplies do not fail!  A very notable\nconclusion, if we will think of it;  and not without an abundance\nof fruits for us.  Oliver Cromwell's body hung on the Tyburn-\ngallows, as the type of Puritanism found futile, inexecutable,\nexecrable,--yes, that gallows-tree has been a fingerpost into\nvery strange country indeed.  Let earnest Puritanism die;  let\ndecent Formalism, whatsoever cant it be or grow to, live!  We\nhave had a pleasant journey in that direction;  and are--arriving\nat our inn?\n\nTo support the Four Pleas of the Crowns and keep Taxes coming in:\nin very sad seriousness, has not this been, ever since, even in\nthe best times, almost the one admitted end and aim of\nGovernment?  Religion, Christian Church, Moral Duty;  the fact\nthat man had a soul at all;  that in man's life there was any\neternal truth or justice at all,--has been as good as left\nquietly out of sight.  Church indeed,--alas, the endless talk and\nstruggle we have had of High-Church, Low-Church, Church-\nExtension, Church-in-Danger:  we invite the Christian reader to\nthink whether it has not been a too miserable screech-owl\nphantasm of talk and struggle, as for a 'Church,'--which one had\nrather not define at present!\n\nBut now in these godless two centuries, looking at England and\nher efforts and doings, if we ask, What of England's doings the\nLaw of Nature had accepted, Nature's King had actually furthered\nand pronounced to have truth in them,--where is our answer?\nNeither the 'Church' of Hurd and Warburton, nor the Anti-church\nof Hume and Paine;  not in any shape the Spiritualism of England:\nall this is already seen, or beginning to be seen, for what it\nis;  a thing that Nature does _not_ own.  On the one side is\ndreary Cant, with a _reminiscence_ of things noble and divine;\non the other is but acrid Candour, with a _prophecy_ of things\nbrutal, infernal.  Hurd and Warburton are sunk into the sere and\nyellow leaf;  no considerable body of true-seeing men looks\nthitherward for healing:  the Paine-and-Hume Atheistic theory, of\n'things well let alone,' with Liberty, Equality and the like, is\nalso in these days declaring itself naught, unable to keep the\nworld from taking fire.\n\nThe theories and speculations of both these parties, and, we may\nsay, of all intermediate parties and persons, prove to be things\nwhich the Eternal Veracity did not accept;  things superficial,\nephemeral, which already a near Posterity, finding them already\ndead and brown-leafed, is about to suppress and forget.  The\nSpiritualism of England, for those godless years, is, as it were,\nall forgettable.  Much has been written:  but the perennial\nScriptures of Mankind have had small accession:  from all English\nBooks, in rhyme or prose, in leather binding or in paper\nwrappage, how many verses have been added to these?  Our most\nmelodious Singers have sung as from the throat outwards:  from\nthe inner Heart of Man, from the great Heart of Nature, through\nno Pope or Philips, has there come any tone.  The Oracles have\nbeen dumb.  In brief, the Spoken Word of England has not been\ntrue.  The Spoken Word of England turns out to have been trivial;\nof short endurance;  not valuable, not available as a Word,\nexcept for the passing day.  It has been accordant with\ntransitory Semblance;  discordant with eternal Fact.  It has been\nunfortunately not a Word, but a Cant;  a helpless involuntary\nCant, nay too often a cunning voluntary one:  either way, a very\nmournful Cant;  the Voice not of Nature and Fact, but of\nsomething other than these.\n\nWith all its miserable shortcomings, with its wars,\ncontroversies, with its trades-unions, famine-insurrections,--it\nis her Practical Material Work alone that England has to shew for\nherself!  This, and hitherto almost nothing more;  yet actually\nthis.  The grim inarticulate veracity of the English People,\nunable to speak its meaning in words, has turned itself silently\non things;  and the dark powers of Material Nature have answered:\nYes, this at least is true, this is not false!  So answers\nNature.  Waste desert-shrubs of the Tropical swamps have become\nCotton-trees;  and here, under my furtherance, are verily woven\nshirts,--hanging unsold, undistributed, but capable to be\ndistributed, capable to cover the bare backs of my children of\nmen.  Mountains, old as the Creation, I have permitted to be\nbored through:  bituminous fuel-stores, the wreck of forests that\nwere green a million years ago,--I have opened them from my\nsecret rock-chambers, and they are yours, ye English.  Your huge\nfleets, steamships, do sail the sea:  huge Indias do obey you;\nfrom huge _New_ Englands and Antipodal Australias, comes profit\nand traffic to this Old England of mine!  So answers Nature.  The\nPractical Labour of England is _not_ a chimerical Triviality:  it\nis a Fact, acknowledged by all the Worlds;  which no man and no\ndemon will contradict.  It is, very audibly, though very\ninarticulately as yet, the one God's Voice we have heard in these\ntwo atheistic centuries.\n\n\nAnd now to observe with what bewildering obscurations and\nimpediments all this as yet stands entangled, and is yet\nintelligible to no man!  How, with our gross Atheism, we hear it\nnot to be the Voice of God to us, but regard it merely as a Voice\nof earthly Profit-and-Loss.  And have a Hell in England,--the\nHell of not making money.  And coldly see the all-conquering\nvaliant Sons of Toil sit enchanted, by the million, in their\nPoor-Law Bastille, as if this were Nature's Law;--mumbling to\nourselves some vague janglement of Laissez-faire, Supply-and-\ndemand, Cash-payment the one nexus of man to man:  Free-trade,\nCompetition, and Devil take the hindmost, our latest Gospel\nyet preached!\n\nAs if, in truth, there were no God of Labour;  as if godlike\nLabour and brutal Mammonism were convertible terms.  A serious,\nmost earnest Mammonism grown Midas-eared;  an unserious\nDilettantism, earnest about nothing, grinning with inarticulate\nincredulous incredible jargon about all things, as the\n_enchanted_ Dilettanti do by the Dead Sea!  It is mournful\nenough, for the present hour;  were there not an endless hope in\nit withal.  Giant LABOUR, truest emblem there is of God the\nWorld-Worker, Demiurgus, and Eternal Maker;  noble LABOUR, which\nis yet to be the King of this Earth, and sit on the highest\nthrone,--staggering hitherto like a blind irrational giant,\nhardly allowed to have his common place on the street-pavements;\nidle Dilettantism, Dead-Sea Apism, crying out, \"Down with him, he\nis dangerous!\"\n\nLabour must become a seeing rational giant, with a soul in the\nbody of him, and take his place on the throne of things,--leaving\nhis Mammonism, and several other adjuncts, on the lower steps of\nsaid throne.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII\n\nOver-Production\n\n\nBut what will reflective readers say of a Governing Class, such\nas ours, addressing its Workers with an indictment of\n'Overproduction!'  Over-production:  runs it not so?  \"Ye\nmiscellaneous, ignoble manufacturing individuals, ye have\nproduced too much!  We accuse you of making above two-hundred\nthousand shirts for the bare backs of mankind.  Your trousers\ntoo, which you have made, of fustian, of cassimere, of Scotch-\nplaid, of jane, nankeen and woollen broadcloth, are they not\nmanifold?  Of hats for the human head, of shoes for the human\nfoot, of stools to sit on, spoons to eat with--Nay, what say we\nhats or shoes?  You produce gold-watches, jewelleries, silver-\nforks and epergnes, commodes, chiffoniers, stuffed sofas--\nHeavens, the Commercial Bazaar and multitudinous Howel-and-\nJameses cannot contain you.  You have produced, produced;--he\nthat seeks your indictment, let him look around.  Millions of\nshirts, and empty pairs of breeches, hang there in judgment\nagainst you.  We accuse you of over-producing:  you are\ncriminally guilty of producing shirts, breeches, hats, shoes and\ncommodities, in a frightful overabundance.  And now there is a\nglut, and your operatives cannot be fed!\"\n\nNever surely, against an earnest Working Mammonism was there\nbrought, by Game-preserving aristocratic Dilettantism, a stranger\naccusation, since this world began.  My lords and gentlemen,--\nwhy, it was _you_ that were appointed, by the fact and by the\ntheory of your position on the Earth, to 'make and administer\nLaws,'--that is to say, in a world such as ours, to guard against\n'gluts;'  against honest operatives, who had done their work,\nremaining unfed!  I say, _you_ were appointed to preside over the\nDistribution and Apportionment of the Wages of Work done;  and to\nsee well that there went no labourer without his hire, were it of\nmoney-coins, were it of hemp gallows-ropes:  that function was\nyours, and from immemorial time has been;  yours, and as yet no\nother's.  These poor shirt-spinners have forgotten much, which by\nthe virtual unwritten law of their position they should have\nremembered:  but by any written recognised law of their position,\nwhat have they forgotten?  They were set to make shirts.  The\nCommunity with all its voices commanded them, saying, \"Make\nshirts;\"--and there the shirts are!  Too many shirts?  Well, that\nis a novelty, in this intemperate Earth, with its nine-hundred\nmillions of bare backs!  But the Community commanded you, saying,\n\"See that the shirts are well apportioned, that our Human Laws be\nemblem of God's Laws;\"--and where is the apportionment?  Two\nmillion shirtless or ill-shirted workers sit enchanted in\nWorkhouse Bastilles, five million more (according to some) in\nUgolino Hunger-cellars;  and for remedy, you say, what say you?--\n\"Raise _our_ rents!\"  I have not in my time heard any stranger\nspeech, not even on the Shores of the Dead Sea.  You continue\naddressing those poor shirt-spinners and over-producers, in\nreally a _too_ triumphant manner:\n\n\"Will you bandy accusations, will you accuse us of\noverproduction?  We take the Heavens and the Earth to witness\nthat we have produced nothing at all.  Not from us proceeds this\nfrightful _over_plus of shirts.  In the wide domains of created\nNature, circulates no shirt or thing of our producing.  Certain\nfox-brushes nailed upon our stable-door, the fruit of fair\naudacity at Melton Mowbray;  these we have produced, and they are\nopenly nailed up there.  He that accuses us of producing, let him\nshew himself, let him name what and when.  We are innocent of\nproducing;--ye ungrateful, what mountains of things have we not,\non the contrary, had to 'consume,' and make away with!  Mountains\nof those your heaped manufactures, wheresoever edible or\nwearable, have they not disappeared before us, as if we had the\ntalent of ostriches, of cormorants, and a kind of divine faculty\nto eat?  Ye ungrateful!--and did you not grow under the shadow of\nour wings?  Are not your filthy mills built on these fields of\nours;  on this soil of England, which belongs to--whom think you?\nAnd we shall not offer you our own wheat at the price that\npleases us, but that partly pleases you?  A precious notion!\nWhat would become of you, if we chose, at any time, to decide on\ngrowing no wheat more?\"\n\nYes, truly, here is the ultimate rock-basis of all Corn-Laws;\nwhereon, at the bottom of much arguing, they rest, as securely as\nthey can:  What would become of you, if we decided, some day, on\ngrowing no more wheat at all? If we chose to grow only partridges\nhenceforth, and a modicum of wheat for our own uses?  Cannot we\ndo what we like with our own?--Yes, indeed!  For my share, if I\ncould melt Gneiss Rock, and create Law of Gravitation;  if I\ncould stride out to the Doggerbank, some morning, and striking\ndown my trident there into the mudwaves, say, \"Be land, be\nfields, meadows, mountains and fresh-rolling streams!\" by Heaven,\nI should incline to have the letting of _that_ land in\nperpetuity, and sell the wheat of it, or burn the wheat of it,\naccording to my own good judgment!  My Corn-Lawing friends, you\naffright me.\n\n\nTo the 'Millo-cracy' so-called, to the Working Aristocracy,\nsteeped too deep in mere ignoble Mammonism, and as yet all\nunconscious of its noble destinies, as yet but an irrational or\nsemirational giant, struggling to awake some soul in itself,--the\nworld will have much to say, reproachfully, reprovingly,\nadmonishingly.  But to the Idle Aristocracy, what will the world\nhave to say?  Things painful and not pleasant!\n\nTo the man who _works,_ who attempts, in never so ungracious\nbarbarous a way, to get forward with some work, you will hasten\nout with furtherances, with encouragements, corrections;  you\nwill say to him:  \"Welcome, thou art ours;  our care shall be of\nthee.\"  To the idler, again, never so gracefully going idle,\ncoming forward with never so many parchments, you will not hasten\nout;  you will sit still, and be disinclined to rise.  You will\nsay to him:  \"Not welcome, O complex Anomaly;  would thou hadst\nstaid out of doors:  for who of mortals knows what to do with\nthee?  Thy parchments:  yes, they are old, of venerable\nyellowness;  and we too honour parchment, old-established\nsettlements, and venerable use and wont.  Old parchments in very\ntruth:--yet on the whole, if thou wilt remark, they are young to\nthe Granite Rocks, to the Groundplan of God's Universe!  We\nadvise thee to put up thy parchments;  to go home to thy place,\nand make no needless noise whatever.  Our heart's wish is to save\nthee:  yet there as thou art, hapless Anomaly, with nothing but\nthy yellow parchments, noisy futilities, and shotbelts and fox-\nbrushes, who of gods or men can avert dark Fate?  Be counselled,\nascertain if no work exist for thee on God's Earth;  if thou find\nno commanded-duty there but that of going gracefully idle?  Ask,\ninquire earnestly, with a half-frantic earnestness;  for the\nanswer means Existence or Annihilation to thee.  We apprise thee\nof the world-old fact, becoming sternly disclosed again in these\ndays, That he who cannot work in this Universe cannot get existed\nin it:  had he parchments to thatch the face of the world, these,\ncombustible fallible sheepskin, cannot avail him.  Home, thou\nunfortunate;  and let us have at least no noise from thee!\"\n\nSuppose the unfortunate Idle Aristocracy, as the unfortunate\nWorking one has done, were to 'retire three days to _its_ bed,'\nand consider itself there, what o'clock it had become?--\n\nHow have we to regret not only that men have 'no religion,' but\nthat they have next to no reflection;  and go about with heads\nfull of mere extraneous noises, with eyes wide-open but\nvisionless,--for most part, in the somnambulist state!\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\n\nUnworking Aristocracy\n\n\nIt is well said, 'Land is the right basis of an Aristocracy;'\nwhoever possesses the Land, he, more emphatically than any other,\nis the Governor, Viceking of the people on the Land.  It is in\nthese days as it was in those of Henry Plantagenet and Abbot\nSamson;  as it will in all days be.  The Land is _Mother_ of us\nall;  nourishes, shelters, gladdens, lovingly enriches us all;\nin how many ways, from our first wakening to our last sleep on\nher blessed mother-bosom, does she, as with blessed mother-arms,\nenfold us all!\n\nThe Hill I first saw the Sun rise over, when the Sun and I and\nall things were yet in their auroral hour, who can divorce me\nfrom it?  Mystic, deep as the world's centre, are the roots I\nhave struck into my Native Soil;  no _tree_ that grows is rooted\nso.  From noblest Patriotism to humblest industrial Mechanism;\nfrom highest dying for your country, to lowest quarrying and\ncoal-boring for it, a Nation's Life depends upon its Land.  Again\nand again we have to say, there can be no true Aristocracy but\nmust possess the Land.\n\nMen talk of 'selling' Land.  Land, it is true, like Epic Poems\nand even higher things, in such a trading world, has to be\npresented in the market for what it will bring, and as we say be\n'sold:'  but the notion of 'selling,' for certain bits of metal,\nthe _Iliad_ of Homer, how much more the _Land_ of the World-\nCreator, is a ridiculous impossibility!  We buy what is saleable\nof it;  nothing more was ever buyable.  Who can, or could, sell\nit to us?  Properly speaking, the Land belongs to these two:  To\nthe Almighty God;  and to all His Children of Men that have ever\nworked well on it, or that shall ever work well on it.  No\ngeneration of men can or could, with never such solemnity and\neffort, sell Land on any other principle:  it is not the property\nof any generation, we say, but that of all the past generations\nthat have worked on it, and of all the future ones that shall\nwork on it.  Again, we hear it said, The soil of England, or of\nany country, is properly worth nothing, except the labour\nbestowed on it:  This, speaking even in the language of\nEastcheap, is not correct.  The rudest space of country equal in\nextent to England, could a whole English Nation, with all their\nhabitudes, arrangements, skills, with whatsoever they do carry\nwithin the skins of them, and cannot be stript of, suddenly take\nwing, and alight on it,--would be worth a very considerable\nthing!  Swiftly, within year and day, this English Nation, with\nits multiplex talents of ploughing, spinning, hammering, mining,\nroad-making and trafficking, would bring a handsome value out of\nsuch a space of country.  On the other hand, fancy what an\nEnglish Nation, once 'on the wing,' could have done with itself,\nhad there been simply no soil, not even an inarable one, to\nalight on?  Vain all its talents for ploughing, hammering, and\nwhatever else;  there is no Earth-room for this Nation with its\ntalents:  this Nation will have to keep hovering on the wing,\ndolefully shrieking to and fro;  and perish piecemeal;  burying\nitself, down to the last soul of it, in the waste unfirmamented\nseas.  Ah yes, soil, with or without ploughing, is the gift of\nGod.  The soil of all countries belongs evermore, in a very\nconsiderable degree, to the Almighty Maker!  The last stroke of\nlabour bestowed on it is not the making of its value, but only\nthe increasing thereof.\n\nIt is very strange, the degree to which these truisms are\nforgotten in our days;  how, in the ever-whirling chaos of\nFormulas, we have quietly lost sight of Fact,--which it is so\nperilous not to keep forever in sight!  Fact, if we do not see\nit, will make us _feel_ it by and by!--From much loud controversy\nand Corn-Law debating there rises, loud though inarticulate, once\nmore in these years, this very question among others, Who made\nthe Land of England?  Who made it, this respectable English Land,\nwheat-growing, metalliferous, carboniferous, which will let\nreadily hand over head for seventy millions or upwards, as it\nhere lies:  who did make it?--\"We!\" answer the much-_consuming_\nAristocracy;  \"We!\" as they ride in, moist with the sweat of\nMelton Mowbray:  \"It is we that made it; or are the heirs,\nassigns and representatives of those who did!\"--My brothers, You?\nEverlasting honour to you, then;  and Corn-Laws as many as you\nwill, till your own deep stomachs cry Enough, or some voice of\nhuman pity for our famine bids you Hold!  Ye are as gods, that\ncan create soil.  Soil-creating gods there is no withstanding.\nThey have the might to sell wheat at what price they list;  and\nthe right, to all lengths, and famine-lengths,--if they be\npitiless infernal gods!  Celestial gods, I think, would stop\nshort of the famine-price;  but no infernal nor any kind of god\ncan be bidden stop!--Infatuated mortals, into what questions are\nyou driving every thinking man in England?\n\nI say, you did _not_ make the Land of England;  and, by the\npossession of it, you _are_ bound to furnish guidance and\ngovernance to England!  That is the law of your position on this\nGod's-Earth;  an everlasting act of Heaven's Parliament, not\nrepealable in St. Stephen's or elsewhere!  True government and\nguidance;  not no-government and Laissez-faire;  how much less,\nmisgovernment and Corn-Law!  There is not an imprisoned Worker\nlooking out from these Bastilles but appeals, very audibly in\nHeaven's High Courts, against you, and me, and every one who is\nnot imprisoned, \"Why am I here?\"  His appeal is audible in\nHeaven;  and will become audible enough on Earth too, if it\nremain unheeded here.  His appeal is against you, foremost of\nall;  you stand in the front-rank of the accused;  you, by the\nvery place you hold, have first of all to answer him and Heaven!\n\n\nWhat looks maddest, miserablest in these mad and miserable Corn-\nLaws is independent altogether of their 'effect on wages,' their\neffect on 'increase of trade,' or any other such effect:  it is\nthe continual maddening proof they protrude into the faces of all\nmen, that our Governing Class, called by God and Nature and the\ninflexible law of Fact, either to do something towards governing,\nor to die and be abolished,--have not yet learned even to sit\nstill, and do no mischief!  For no Anti-Corn-Law League yet asks\nmore of them than this;--Nature and Fact, very imperatively,\nasking so much more of them.  Anti-Corn-Law League asks not, Do\nsomething;  but, Cease your destructive misdoing, Do ye nothing!\n\nNature's message will have itself obeyed:  messages of mere Free-\nTrade, Anti-Corn-Law League and Laissez-faire, will then need\nsmall obeying!--Ye fools, in name of Heaven, work, work, at the\nArk of Deliverance for yourselves and us, while hours are still\ngranted you!  No:  instead of working at the Ark, they say, \"We\ncannot get our hands kept rightly warm;\"  and _sit obstinately\nburning the planks._  No madder spectacle at present exhibits\nitself under this Sun.\n\n\nThe Working Aristocracy;  Mill-owners, Manufacturers, Commanders\nof Working Men:  alas, against them also much shall be brought in\naccusation;  much,--and the freest Trade in Corn, total abolition\nof Tariffs, and uttermost 'Increase of Manufactures' and\n'Prosperity of Commerce,' will permanently mend no jot of it.\nThe Working Aristocracy must strike into a new path;  must\nunderstand that money alone is _not_ the representative either of\nman's success in the world, or of man's duties to man;  and\nreform their own selves from top to bottom, if they wish England\nreformed.  England will not be habitable long, unreformed.\n\nThe Working Aristocracy--Yes, but on the threshold of all this,\nit is again and again to be asked, What of the Idle Aristocracy?\nAgain and again, what shall we say of the Idle Aristocracy, the\nOwners of the Soil of England;  whose recognised function is that\nof handsomely consuming the rents of England, shooting the\npartridges of England, and as an agreeable amusement (if the\npurchase-money and other conveniences serve), dilettante-ing in\nParliament and Quarter-Sessions for England?  We will say\nmournfully, in the presence of Heaven and Earth,--that we stand\nspeechless, stupent, and know not what to say!  That a class of\nmen entitled to live sumptuously on the marrow of the earth;\npermitted simply, nay entreated, and as yet entreated in vain, to\ndo nothing at all in return, was never heretofore seen on the\nface of this Planet.  That such a class is transitory,\nexceptional, and, unless Nature's Laws fall dead, cannot\ncontinue.  That it has continued now a moderate while;  has, for\nthe last fifty years, been rapidly attaining its state of\nperfection.  That it will have to find its duties and do them;\nor else that it must and will cease to be seen on the face of\nthis Planet, which is a Working one, not an Idle one.\n\nAlas, alas, the Working Aristocracy, admonished by Trades-unions,\nChartist conflagrations, above all by their own shrewd sense kept\nin perpetual communion with the fact of things, will assuredly\nreform themselves, and a working world will still be possible:--\nbut the fate of the Idle Aristocracy, as one reads its horoscope\nhitherto in Corn-Laws and such like, is an abyss that fills one\nwith despair.  Yes, my rosy fox-hunting brothers, a terrible\n_Hippocratic look_ reveals itself (God knows, not to my joy)\nthrough those fresh buxom countenances of yours.  Through your\nCorn-Law Majorities, Sliding-Scales, Protecting-Duties, Bribery-\nElections and triumphant Kentish-fires a thinking eye discerns\nghastly images of ruin, too ghastly for words;  a handwriting as\nof MENE, MENE? Men and brothers, on your Sliding-scale you seem\nsliding, and to have slid,--you little know whither!  Good God!\ndid not a French Donothing Aristocracy, hardly above half a\ncentury ago, declare in like manner, and in its featherhead\nbelieve in like manner, \"We cannot exist, and continue to dress\nand parade ourselves, on the just rent of the soil of France;\nbut we must have farther payment than rent of the soil, we must\nbe exempted from taxes too,\"--we must have a Corn-Law to extend\nour rent?  This was in 1789:  in four years more--Did you look\ninto the Tanneries of Meudon, and the long-naked making for\nthemselves breeches of human skins!  May the merciful Heavens\navert the omen;  may we be wiser, that so we be less wretched.\n\n\nA High Class without duties to do is like a tree planted on\nprecipices;  from the roots of which all the earth has been\ncrumbling.  Nature owns no man who is not a Martyr withal.  Is\nthere a man who pretends to live luxuriously housed up;  screened\nfrom all work, from want, danger, hardship, the victory over\nwhich is what we name work;--he himself to sit serene, amid down-\nbolsters and appliances, and have all his work and battling done\nby other men?  And such man calls himself a _noble_-man?  His\nfathers worked for him, he says;  or successfully gambled for\nhim:  here _he_ sits;  professes, not in sorrow but in pride,\nthat he and his have done no work, time out of mind.  It is the\nlaw of the land, and is thought to be the law of the Universe,\nthat he, alone of recorded men, shall have no task laid on him,\nexcept that of eating his cooked victuals, and not flinging\nhimself out of window.  Once more I will say, there was no\nstranger spectacle ever shewn under this Sun.  A veritable fact\nin our England of the Nineteenth Century.  His victuals he does\neat:  but as for keeping in the inside of the window,--have not\nhis friends, like me, enough to do?  Truly, looking at his Corn-\nLaws, Game-Laws, Chandos-Clauses, Bribery-Elections and much\nelse, you do shudder over the tumbling and plunging he makes,\nheld back by the lappelles and coatskirts;  only a thin fence of\nwindow-glass before him,--and in the street mere horrid iron\nspikes!  My sick brother, as in hospital-maladies men do, thou\ndreamest of Paradises and Eldorados, which are far from thee.\n'Cannot I do what I like with my own?'  Gracious Heaven, my\nbrother, this that thou seest with those sick eyes is no firm\nEldorado, and Corn-Law Paradise of Donothings, but a dream of thy\nown fevered brain.  It is a glass-window, I tell thee, so many\nstories from the street;  where are iron spikes and the law\nof gravitation!\n\nWhat is the meaning of nobleness, if this be 'noble?'  In a\nvaliant suffering for others, not in a slothful making others\nsuffer for us, did nobleness ever lie.  The chief of men is he\nwho stands in the van of men;  fronting the peril which frightens\nback all others;  which, if it be not vanquished, will devour the\nothers.  Every noble crown is, and on Earth will forever be, a\ncrown of thorns.  The Pagan Hercules, why was he accounted a\nhero?  Because he had slain Nemean Lions, cleansed Augean\nStables, undergone Twelve Labours only not too heavy for a god.\nIn modern, as in ancient and all societies, the Aristocracy, they\nthat assume the functions of an Aristocracy, doing them or not,\nhave taken the post of honour;  which is the post of difficulty,\nthe post of danger,--of death, if the difficulty be not overcome.\n_Il faut payer de sa vie._  Why was our life given us, if not\nthat we should manfully give it?  Descend, O Donothing Pomp;\nquit thy down-cushions;  expose thyself to learn what wretches\nfeel, and how to cure it!  The Czar of Russia became a dusty\ntoiling shipwright;  worked with his axe in the Docks of Saardam;\nand his aim was small to thine.  Descend thou:  undertake this\nhorrid 'living chaos of Ignorance and Hunger' weltering round thy\nfeet;  say, \"I will heal it, or behold I will die foremost in\nit.\"  Such is verily the law.  Everywhere and everywhen a man has\nto _'pay_ with his life;'  to do his work, as a soldier does, at\nthe expense of life.  In no Piepowder earthly Court can you sue\nan Aristocracy to do its work, at this moment:  but in the Higher\nCourt, which even it calls 'Court of Honour,' and which is the\nCourt of Necessity withal, and the eternal Court of the Universe,\nin which all Fact comes to plead, and every Human Soul is an\napparitor,--the Aristocracy is answerable, and even now\nanswering, _there._\n\n\nParchments?  Parchments are venerable:  but they ought at all\ntimes to represent, as near as they by possibility can, the\nwriting of the Adamant Tablets;  otherwise they are not so\nvenerable!  Benedict the Jew in vain pleaded parchments;  his\nusuries were too many.  The King said, \"Go to, for all thy\nparchments, thou shalt pay just debt;  down with thy dust, or\nobserve this tooth-forceps!\"  Nature, a far juster Sovereign, has\nfar terribler forceps.  Aristocracies, actual and imaginary,\nreach a time when parchment pleading does not avail them.  \"Go\nto, for all thy parchments, thou shalt pay due debt!\" shouts the\nUniverse to them, in an emphatic manner.  They refuse to pay,\nconfidently pleading parchment:  their best grinder-tooth, with\nhorrible agony, goes out of their jaw.  Wilt thou pay now?  A\nsecond grinder, again in horrible agony, goes:  a second, and a\nthird, and if need be, all the teeth and grinders, and the life\nitself with them;--and _then_ there is free payment, and an\nanatomist-subject into the bargain!\n\nReform Bills, Corn-Law Abrogation Bills, and then Land-Tax Bill,\nProperty-Tax Bill, and still dimmer list of _etceteras;_  grinder\nafter grinder:---my lords and gentlemen, it were better for\nyou to arise, and begin doing your work, than sit there and\nplead parchments!\n\n\nWe write no Chapter on the Corn-Laws, in this place;  the Corn-\nLaws are too mad to have a Chapter.  There is a certain\nimmorality, when there is not a necessity, in speaking about\nthings finished;  in chopping into small pieces the already\nslashed and slain.  When the brains are out, why does not a\nSolecism die!  It is at its own peril if it refuse to die;  it\nought to make all conceivable haste to die, and get itself\nburied!  The trade of Anti-Corn-Law Lecturer in these days, still\nan indispensable, is a highly tragic one.\n\nThe Corn-Laws will go, and even soon go:  would we were all as\nsure of the Millennium as they are of going!  They go swiftly in\nthese present months;  with an increase of velocity, an ever-\ndeepening, ever-widening sweep of momentum, truly notable.  It is\nat the Aristocracy's own damage and peril, still more than at any\nother's whatsoever, that the Aristocracy maintains them;--at a\ndamage, say only, as above computed, of a 'hundred thousand\npounds an hour!'  The Corn-Laws keep all the air hot:  fostered\nby their fever-warmth, much that is evil, but much also, how\nmuch that is good and indispensable, is rapidly coming to life\namong us!\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX\n\nWorking Aristocracy\n\n\nA poor Working Mammonism getting itself 'strangled in the\npartridge-nets of an Unworking Dilettantism,' and bellowing\ndreadfully, and already black in the face, is surely a disastrous\nspectacle!  But of a Midas-eared Mammonism, which indeed at\nbottom all pure Mammonisms are, what better can you expect?  No\nbetter;--if not this, then something other equally disastrous, if\nnot still more disastrous.  Mammonisms, grown asinine, have to\nbecome human again, and rational;  they have, on the whole, to\ncease to be Mammonisms, were it even on compulsion, and pressure\nof the hemp round their neck!--My friends of the Working\nAristocracy, there are now a great many things which you also, in\nyour extreme need, will have to consider.\n\n\nThe Continental people, it would seem, are 'exporting our\nmachinery, beginning to spin cotton and manufacture for\nthemselves, to cut us out of this market and then out of that!'\nSad news indeed;  but irremediable;--by no means the saddest\nnews.  The saddest news is, that we should find our National\nExistence, as I sometimes hear it said, depend on selling\nmanufactured cotton at a farthing an ell cheaper than any other\nPeople.  A most narrow stand for a great Nation to base itself\non!  A stand which, with all the Corn-Law Abrogations\nconceivable, I do not think will be capable of enduring.\n\nMy friends, suppose we quitted that stand;  suppose we came\nhonestly down from it, and said:  \"This is our minimum of\ncottonprices.  We care not, for the present, to make cotton any\ncheaper.  Do you, if it seem so blessed to you, make cotton\ncheaper.  Fill your lungs with cotton-fuzz, your hearts with\ncopperas-fumes, with rage and mutiny;  become ye the general\ngnomes of Europe, slaves of the lamp!\"--I admire a Nation which\nfancies it will die if it do not undersell all other Nations, to\nthe end of the world.  Brothers, we will cease to _under_sell\nthem;  we will be content to _equal_-sell them;  to be happy\nselling equally with them!  I do not see the use of underselling\nthem.  Cotton-cloth is already two-pence a yard or lower;  and\nyet bare backs were never more numerous among us.  Let inventive\nmen cease to spend their existence incessantly contriving how\ncotton can be made cheaper;  and try to invent, a little, how\ncotton at its present cheapness could be somewhat justlier\ndivided among us!  Let inventive men consider, Whether the Secret\nof this Universe, and of Man's Life there, does, after all, as we\nrashly fancy it, consist in making money?  There is One God,\njust, supreme, almighty:  but is Mammon the name of him?--With a\nHell which means 'Failing to make money,' I do not think there is\nany Heaven possible that would suit one well;  nor so much as an\nEarth that can be habitable long!  In brief, all this Mammon-\nGospel, of Supply-and-demand, Competition, Laissez-faire, and\nDevil take the hindmost, begins to be one of the shabbiest\nGospels ever preached on Earth;  or altogether the shabbiest.\nEven with Dilettante partridge-nets, and at a horrible\nexpenditure of pain, who shall regret to see the entirely\ntransient, and at best somewhat despicable life strangled out of\n_it?_  At the best, as we say, a somewhat despicable, unvenerable\nthing, this same 'Laissez-faire;'  and now, at the worst, fast\ngrowing an altogether detestable one!\n\n\"But what is to be done with our manufacturing population, with\nour agricultural, with our ever-increasing population?\" cry\nmany.--Aye, what?  Many things can be done with them, a hundred\nthings, and a thousand things,--had we once got a soul, and begun\nto try.  This one thing, of doing for them by 'underselling all\npeople,' and filling our own bursten pockets and appetites by the\nroad;  and turning over all care for any 'population,' or human\nor divine consideration except cash only, to the winds, with a\n\"Laissez-faire\" and the rest of it:  this is evidently not the\nthing.  'Farthing cheaper per yard:'  no great Nation can stand\non the apex of such a pyramid;  screwing itself higher and\nhigher;  balancing itself on its great-toe!  Can England not\nsubsist without being _above_ all people in working?  England\nnever deliberately purposed such a thing.  If England work better\nthan all people, it shall be well.  England, like an honest\nworker, will work as well as she can;  and hope the gods may\nallow her to live on that basis.  Laissez-faire and much else\nbeing once well dead, how many 'impossibles' will become\npossible!  They are 'impossible,' as cotton-cloth at two-pence an\nell was--till men set about making it.  The inventive genius of\ngreat England will not forever sit patient with mere wheels and\npinions, bobbins, straps and billy-rollers whirring in the head\nof it.  The inventive genius of England is not a Beaver's, or a\nSpinner's or Spider's genius:  it is a _Man's_ genius, I hope,\nwith a God over him!\n\nSupply-and-demand?  One begins to be weary of such work.  Leave\nall to egoism, to ravenous greed of money, of pleasure, of\napplause:--it is the Gospel of Despair!  Man is a Patent-\nDigester, then:  only give him Free Trade, Free digesting-room;\nand each of us digest what he can come at, leaving the rest to\nFate!  My unhappy brethren of the Working Mammonism, my unhappier\nbrethren of the Idle Dilettantism, no world was ever held\ntogether in that way for long.  A world of mere Patent-Digesters\nwill soon have nothing to digest:  such world ends, and by Law of\nNature must end, in 'over-population;'  in howling universal\nfamine, 'impossibility,' and suicidal madness, as of endless dog-\nkennels run rabid.  Supply-and-demand shall do its full part, and\nFree Trade shall be free as air;--thou of the shotbelts, see thou\nforbid it not, with those paltry, _worse_ than 'Mammonish'\nswindleries and Sliding-scales of thine, which are seen to be\nswindleries for all thy canting, which in times like ours are\nvery scandalous to see!  And Trade never so well freed, and all\nTariffs settled or abolished, and Supply-and-demand in full\noperation,--let us all know that we have yet done nothing;  that\nwe have merely cleared the ground for doing.\n\nYes, were the Corn-Laws ended tomorrow, there is nothing yet\nended;  there is only room made for all manner of things\nbeginning.  The Corn-Laws gone, and Trade made free, it is as\ngood as certain this paralysis of industry will pass away.  We\nshall have another period of commercial enterprise, of victory\nand prosperity;  during which, it is likely, much money will\nagain be made, and all the people may, by the extant methods,\nstill for a space of years, be kept alive and physically fed.\nThe strangling band of Famine will be loosened from our necks;\nwe shall have room again to breathe;  time to bethink ourselves,\nto repent and consider!  A precious and thrice-precious space of\nyears;  wherein to struggle as for life in reforming our foul\nways;  in alleviating, instructing, regulating our people;\nseeking, as for life, that something like spiritual food be\nimparted them, some real governance and guidance be provided\nthem!  It will be a priceless time.  For our new period or\nparoxysm of commercial prosperity will and can, on the old\nmethods of 'Competition and Devil take the hindmost,' prove but a\nparoxysm:  a new paroxysm,--likely enough, if we do not use it\nbetter, to be our _last._  In this, of itself, is no salvation.\nIf our Trade in twenty years, 'flourishing' as never Trade\nflourished, could double itself;  yet then also, by the old\nLaissez-faire method, our Population is doubled:  we shall\nthen be as we are, only twice as many of us, twice and ten\ntimes as unmanageable!\n\n\nAll this dire misery, therefore; all this of our poor Workhouse\nWorkmen, of our Chartisms, Trades-strikes, Corn-Laws, Toryisms,\nand the general downbreak of Laissez-faire in these days,--may we\nnot regard it as a voice from the dumb bosom of Nature, saying to\nus:  Behold!  Supply-and-demand is not the one Law of Nature;\nCash-payment is not the sole nexus of man with man,--how far from\nit!  Deep, far deeper than Supply-and-demand, are Laws,\nObligations sacred as Man's Life itself:  these also, if you will\ncontinue to do work, you shall now learn and obey.  He that will\nlearn them, behold Nature is on his side, he shall yet work and\nprosper with noble rewards.  He that will not learn them, Nature\nis against him;  he shall not be able to do work in Nature's\nempire,--not in hers.  Perpetual mutiny, contention, hatred,\nisolation, execration shall wait on his footsteps, till all men\ndiscern that the thing which he attains, however golden it look\nor be, is not success, but the want of success.\n\nSupply-and-demand,--alas!  For what noble work was there ever yet\nany audible 'demand' in that poor sense?  The man of Macedonia,\nspeaking in vision to an Apostle Paul, \"Come over and help us,\"\ndid not specify what rate of wages he would give!  Or was the\nChristian Religion itself accomplished by Prize-Essays,\nBridgewater Bequests, and a 'minimum of Four thousand five\nhundred a year?''  No demand that I heard of was made then,\naudible in any Labour-market, Manchester Chamber of Commerce, or\nother the like emporium and hiring establishment;  silent were\nall these from any whisper of such demand;--powerless were all\nthese to 'supply' it, had the demand been in thunder and\nearthquake, with gold Eldorados and Mahometan Paradises for the\nreward.  Ah me, into what waste latitudes, in this Time-Voyage,\nhave we wandered;  like adventurous Sindbads;--where the men go\nabout as if by galvanism, with meaningless glaring eyes, and have\nno soul, but only a beaver-faculty and stomach!  The haggard\ndespair of Cotton-factory, Coal-mine operatives, Chandos Farm-\nlabourers, in these days, is painful to behold;  but not so\npainful, hideous to the inner sense, as the brutish god-\nforgetting Profit-and-Loss Philosophy, and Life-theory, which we\nhear jangled on all hands of us, in senate-houses, spouting-\nclubs, leading-articles, pulpits and platforms, everywhere as the\nUltimate Gospel and candid Plain-English of Man's Life, from the\nthroats and pens and thoughts of all but all men!--\n\nEnlightened Philosophies, like Moliere Doctors, will tell you:\n\"Enthusiasms, Self-sacrifice, Heaven, Hell and such like:  yes,\nall that was true enough for old stupid times;  all that used to\nbe true:  but we have changed all that, _nous avons change tout\ncela!\"_  Well; if the heart be got round now into the right side,\nand the liver to the left;  if man have no heroism in him deeper\nthan the wish to eat, and in his soul there dwell now no Infinite\nof Hope and Awe, and no divine Silence can become imperative\nbecause it is not Sinai Thunder, and no tie will bind if it be\nnot that of Tyburn gallows-ropes,--then verily you have changed\nall that;  and for it, and for you, and for me, behold the Abyss\nand nameless Annihilation is ready.  So scandalous a beggarly\nUniverse deserves indeed nothing else;  I cannot say I would save\nit from Annihilation.  Vacuum, and the serene Blue, will be much\nhandsomer;  easier too for all of us.  I, for one, decline living\nas a Patent-Digester.  Patent-Digester, Spinning-Mule, Mayfair\nClothes-Horse:  many thanks, but your Chaosships will have the\ngoodness to excuse me!\n\n\n\n\nChapter X\n\nPlugson of Undershot\n\n\nOne thing I do know:  Never, on this Earth, was the relation of\nman to man long carried on by Cash-payment alone.  If, at any\ntime, a philosophy of Laissez-faire, Competition and Supply-and-\ndemand, start up as the exponent of human relations, expect that\nit will soon end.\n\nSuch philosophies will arise:  for man's philosophies are usually\nthe 'supplement of his practice;'  some ornamental Logic-varnish,\nsome outer skin of Articulate Intelligence, with which he strives\nto render his dumb Instinctive Doings presentable when they are\ndone.  Such philosophies will arise;  be preached as Mammon-\nGospels, the ultimate Evangel of the World;  be believed, with\nwhat is called belief, with much superficial bluster, and a kind\nof shallow satisfaction real in its way:--but they are ominous\ngospels!  They are the sure, and even swift, forerunner of great\nchanges.  Expect that the old System of Society is done, is dying\nand fallen into dotage, when it begins to rave in that fashion.\nMost Systems that I have watched the death of, for the last three\nthousand years, have gone just so.  The Ideal, the True and Noble\nthat was in them having faded out, and nothing now remaining but\nnaked Egoism, vulturous Greediness, they cannot live;  they are\nbound and inexorably ordained by the oldest Destinies, Mothers of\nthe Universe, to die.  Curious enough:  they thereupon, as I have\npretty generally noticed, devise some light comfortable kind of\n'wine-and-walnuts philosophy' for themselves, this of Supply-and-\ndemand or another;  and keep saying, during hours of mastication\nand rumination, which they call hours of meditation:  \"Soul, take\nthy ease, it is all _well_ that thou art a vulture-soul;\"\n--and pangs of dissolution come upon them, oftenest before they\nare aware!\n\nCash-payment never was, or could except for a few years be, the\nunion-bond of man to man.  Cash never yet paid one man fully his\ndeserts to another;  nor could it, nor can it, now or henceforth\nto the end of the world.  I invite his Grace of Castle-Rackrent\nto reflect on this;--does he think that a Land Aristocracy when\nit becomes a Land Auctioneership can have long to live?  Or that\nSliding-scales will increase the vital stamina of it?  The\nindomitable Plugson too, of the respected Firm of Plugson, Hunks\nand Company, in St. Dolly Undershot, is invited to reflect on\nthis;  for to him also it will be new, perhaps even newer.\nBookkeeping by double entry is admirable, and records several\nthings in an exact manner.  But the Mother-Destinies also keep\ntheir Tablets;  in Heaven's Chancery also there goes on a\nrecording;  and things, as my Moslem friends say, are 'written on\nthe iron leaf.'\n\nYour Grace and Plugson, it is like, go to Church occasionally:\ndid you never in vacant moments, with perhaps a dull parson\ndroning to you, glance into your New Testament, and the cash-\naccount stated four times over, by a kind of quadruple entry,--in\nthe Four Gospels there?  I consider that a cash-account, and\nbalance-statement of work done and wages paid, worth attending\nto.  Precisely _such,_ though on a smaller scale, go on at all\nmoments under this Sun;  and the statement and balance of them in\nthe Plugson Ledgers and on the Tablets of Heaven's Chancery are\ndiscrepant exceedingly;--which ought really to teach, and to have\nlong since taught, an indomitable common-sense Plugson of\nUndershot, much more an unattackable _un_common-sense Grace of\nRackrent, a thing or two!--In brief, we shall have to dismiss the\nCash-Gospel rigorously into its own place:  we shall have to\nknow, on the threshold, that either there is some infinitely\ndeeper Gospel, subsidiary, explanatory and daily and hourly\ncorrective, to the Cash one;  or else that the Cash one itself\nand all others are fast traveling!\n\n\nFor all human things do require to have an Ideal in them;  to\nhave some Soul in them, as we said, were it only to keep the Body\nunputrefied.  And wonderful it is to see how the Ideal or Soul,\nplace it in what ugliest Body you may, will irradiate said Body\nwith its own nobleness;  will gradually, incessantly, mould,\nmodify, new-form or reform said ugliest Body, and make it at last\nbeautiful, and to a certain degree divine!--O, if you could\ndethrone that Brute-god Mammon, and put a Spirit-god in his\nplace!  One way or other, he must and will have to be dethroned.\nFighting, for example, as I often say to myself, Fighting with\nsteel murder-tools is surely a much uglier operation than\nWorking, take it how you will.  Yet even of Fighting, in\nreligious Abbot Samson's days, see what a Feudalism there had\ngrown,--a 'glorious Chivalry,' much besung down to the present\nday.  Was not that one of the 'impossiblest' things?  Under the\nsky is no uglier spectacle than two men with clenched teeth, and\nhellfire eyes, hacking one another's flesh;  converting precious\nliving bodies, and priceless living souls, into nameless masses\nof putrescence, useful only for turnip-manure.  How did a\nChivalry ever come out of that;  how anything that was not\nhideous, scandalous, infernal?  It will be a question worth\nconsidering by and by.\n\nI remark, for the present, only two things:  first, that the\nFighting itself was not, as we rashly suppose it, a Fighting\nwithout cause, but more or less with cause.  Man is created to\nfight;  he is perhaps best of all definable as a born soldier;\nhis life 'a battle and a march,' under the right General.  It is\nforever indispensable for a man to fight:  now with Necessity,\nwith Barrenness, Scarcity, with Puddles, Bogs, tangled Forests,\nunkempt Cotton;--now also with the hallucinations of his poor\nfellow Men.  Hallucinatory visions rise in the head of my poor\nfellow man;  make him claim over me rights which are not his.\nAll Fighting, as we noticed long ago, is the dusty conflict of\nstrengths each thinking itself the strongest, or, in other words,\nthe justest;--of Mights which do in the long-run, and forever\nwill in this just Universe in the long-run, mean Rights.  In\nconflict the perishable part of them, beaten sufficiently, flies\noff into dust:  this process ended, appears the imperishable, the\ntrue and exact.\n\nAnd now let us remark a second thing:  how, in these baleful\noperations, a noble devout-hearted Chevalier will comfort\nhimself, and an ignoble godless Bucanier and Chactaw Indian.\nVictory is the aim of each.  But deep in the heart of the noble\nman it lies forever legible, that, as an Invisible just God made\nhim, so will and must God's justice and this only, were it never\nso invisible, ultimately prosper in all controversies and\nenterprises and battles whatsoever.  What an Influence;  ever-\npresent,--like a Soul in the rudest Caliban of a body;  like a\nray of Heaven, and illuminative creative _Fiat-Lux,_ in the\nwastest terrestrial Chaos!  Blessed divine Influence, traceable\neven in the horror of Battlefields and garments rolled in blood:\nhow it ennobles even the Battlefield;  and, in place of a Chactaw\nMassacre, makes it a Field of Honour!  A Battlefield too is\ngreat.  Considered well, it is a kind of Quintessence of Labour;\nLabour distilled into its utmost concentration;  the significance\nof years of it compressed into an hour.  Here too thou shalt be\nstrong, and not in muscle only, if thou wouldst prevail.  Here\ntoo thou shalt be strong of heart, noble of soul;  thou shalt\ndread no pain or death, thou shalt not love ease or life;  in\nrage, thou shalt remember mercy, justice;--thou shalt be a Knight\nand not a Chactaw, if thou wouldst prevail!  It is the rule of\nall battles, against hallucinating fellow Men, against unkempt\nCotton, or whatsoever battles they may be which a man in this\nworld has to fight.\n\nHowel Davies' dyes the West Indian Seas with blood, piles his\ndecks with plunder;  approves himself the expertest Seaman, the\ndaringest Seafighter:  but he gains no lasting victory, lasting\nvictory is not possible for him.  Not, had he fleets larger than\nthe combined British Navy all united with him in bucaniering.\nHe, once for all, cannot prosper in his duel.  He strikes down\nhis man:  yes;  but his man, or his man's representative, has no\nnotion to lie struck down;  neither, though slain ten times, will\nhe keep so lying;--nor has the Universe any notion to keep him so\nlying!  On the contrary, the Universe and he have, at all\nmoments, all manner of motives to start up again, and desperately\nfight again.  Your Napoleon is flung out, at last, to St. Helena;\nthe latter end of him sternly compensating the beginning.  The\nBucanier strikes down a man, a hundred or a million men:  but\nwhat profits it?  He has one enemy never to be struck down;  nay\ntwo enemies:  Mankind and the Maker of Men.  On the great scale\nor on the small, in fighting of men or fighting of difficulties,\nI will not embark my venture with Howel Davies:  it is not the\nBucanier, it is the Hero only that can gain victory, that can do\nmore than seem to succeed.  These things will deserve meditating;\nfor they apply to all battle and soldiership, all struggle and\neffort whatsoever in this Fight of Life.  It is a poor Gospel,\nCash-Gospel or whatever name it have, that does not, with clear\ntone, uncontradictable, carrying conviction to all hearts,\nforever keep men in mind of these things.\n\nUnhappily, my indomitable friend Plugson of Undershot has, in a\ngreat degree, forgotten them;--as, alas, all the world has;  as,\nalas, our very Dukes and Soul-Overseers have, whose special trade\nit was to remember them!  Hence these tears.--Plugson, who has\nindomitably spun Cotton merely to gain thousands of pounds, I\nhave to call as yet a Bucanier and Chactaw;  till there come\nsomething better, still more indomitable from him.  His hundred\nThousand-pound Notes, if there be nothing other, are to me but as\nthe hundred Scalps in a Chactaw wigwam.  The blind Plugson:  he\nwas a Captain of Industry, born member of the Ultimate genuine\nAristocracy of this Universe, could he have known it!  These\nthousand men that span and toiled round him, they were a regiment\nwhom he had enlisted, man by man;  to make war on a very genuine\nenemy:  Bareness of back, and disobedient Cotton-fibre, which\nwill not, unless forced to it, consent to cover bare backs.  Here\nis a most genuine enemy;  over whom all creatures will wish him\nvictory.  He enlisted his thousand men;  said to them, \"Come,\nbrothers, let us have a dash at Cotton!\"  They follow with\ncheerful shout;  they gain such a victory over Cotton as the\nEarth has to admire and clap hands at:  but, alas, it is yet only\nof the Bucanier or Chactaw sort,--as good as no victory!  Foolish\nPlugson of St. Dolly Undershot:  does he hope to become\nillustrious by hanging up the scalps in his wigwam, the hundred\nthousands at his banker's, and saying, Behold my scalps?  Why,\nPlugson, even thy own host is all in mutiny:  Cotton is\nconquered;  but the 'bare backs'--are worse covered than ever!\nIndomitable Plugson, thou must cease to be a Chactaw;  thou and\nothers;  thou thyself, if no other!\n\nDid William the Norman Bastard, or any of his Taillefers,\n_Ironcutters,_ manage so?  Ironcutter, at the end of the\ncampaign, did not turn off his thousand fighters, but said to\nthem:  \"Noble fighters, this is the land we have gained;  be I\nLord in it,--what we will call _Law-ward,_ maintainer and\n_keeper_ of Heaven's _Laws:_  be I _Law-ward,_ or in brief\northoepy _Lord_ in it, and be ye Loyal Men around me in it;  and\nwe will stand by one another, as soldiers round a captain, for\nagain we shall have need of one another!\"  Plugson, bucanier-\nlike, says to them:  \"Noble spinners, this is the Hundred\nThousand we have gained, wherein I mean to dwell and plant\nvineyards;  the hundred thousand is mine, the three and sixpence\ndaily was yours:  adieu, noble spinners;  drink my health with\nthis groat each, which I give you over and above!\"  The entirely\nunjust Captain of Industry, say I;  not Chevalier, but Bucanier!\n'Commercial Law' does indeed acquit him;  asks, with wide eyes,\nWhat else?  So too Howel Davies asks, Was it not according to the\nstrictest Bucanier Custom?  Did I depart in any jot or tittle\nfrom the Laws of the Bucaniers?\n\nAfter all, money, as they say, is miraculous.  Plugson wanted\nvictory;  as Chevaliers and Bucaniers, and all men alike do.  He\nfound money recognised, by the whole world with one assent, as\nthe true symbol, exact equivalent and synonym of victory;--and\nhere we have him, a grim-browed, indomitable Bucanier, coming\nhome to us with a 'victory,' which the whole world is _ceasing_\nto clap hands at!  The whole world, taught somewhat impressively,\nis beginning to recognise that such victory is but half a\nvictory;  and that now, if it please the Powers, we must--have\nthe other half!\n\nMoney is miraculous.  What miraculous facilities has it yielded,\nwill it yield us;  but also what never-imagined confusions,\nobscurations has it brought in;  down almost to total extinction\nof the moral-sense in large masses of mankind!  'Protection of\nproperty,' of what is _'mine,'_ means with most men protection of\nmoney,--the thing which, had I a thousand padlocks over it, is\nleast of all _mine;_  is, in a manner, scarcely worth calling\nmine!  The symbol shall be held sacred, defended everywhere with\ntipstaves, ropes and gibbets;  the thing signified shall be\ncomposedly cast to the dogs.  A human being who has worked with\nhuman beings clears all scores with them, cuts himself with\ntriumphant completeness forever loose from them, by paying down\ncertain shillings and pounds.  Was it not the wages I promised\nyou?  There they are, to the last sixpence,--according to the\nLaws of the Bucaniers!--Yes, indeed;--and, at such times, it\nbecomes imperatively necessary to ask all persons, bucaniers and\nothers, Whether these same respectable Laws of the Bucaniers are\nwritten on God's eternal Heavens at all, on the inner Heart of\nMan at all;  or on the respectable Bucanier Logbook merely, for\nthe convenience of bucaniering merely?  What a question;--whereat\nWestminster Hall shudders to its driest parchment;  and on the\ndead wigs each particular horsehair stands on end!\n\nThe Laws of Laissez-faire, O Westminster, the laws of industrial\nCaptain and industrial Soldier, how much more of idle Captain and\nindustrial Soldier, will need to be remodelled, and modified, and\nrectified in a hundred and a hundred ways,--and _not_ in the\nSliding-scale direction, but in the totally opposite one!  With\ntwo million industrial Soldiers already sitting in Bastilles, and\nfive million pining on potatoes, methinks Westminster cannot\nbegin too soon!--A man has other obligations laid on him, in\nGod's Universe, than the payment of cash:  these also\nWestminster, if it will continue to exist and have board-wages,\nmust contrive to take some charge of:--by Westminster or by\nanother, they must and will be taken charge of;  be, with\nwhatever difficulty, got articulated, got enforced, and to a\ncertain approximate extent, put in practice.  And, as I say, it\ncannot be too soon!  For Mammonism, left to itself, has become\nMidas-eared;  and with all its gold mountains, sits starving for\nwant of bread:  and Dilettantism with its partridge-nets, in this\nextremely earnest Universe of ours, is playing somewhat too high\na game.  'A man by the very look of him promises so much:'  yes;\nand by the rent-roll of him does he promise nothing?--\n\n\nAlas, what a business will this be, which our Continental\nfriends, groping this long while somewhat absurdly about it and\nabout it, call 'Organisation of Labour;'--which must be taken out\nof the hands of absurd windy persons, and put into the hands of\nwise, laborious, modest and valiant men, to begin with it\nstraightway:  to proceed with it, and succeed in it more and\nmore, if Europe, at any rate if England, is to continue habitable\nmuch longer.  Looking at the kind of most noble Corn-Law Dukes or\nPractical _Duces_ we have, and also of right reverend Soul-\nOverseers, Christian Spiritual _Duces_ 'on a minimum of four\nthousand five hundred,' one's hopes are a little chilled.\nCourage, nevertheless;  there are many brave men in England!  My\nindomitable Plugson,--nay is there not even in thee some hope?\nThou art hitherto a Bucanier, as it was written and prescribed\nfor thee by an evil world:  but in that grim brow, in that\nindomitable heart which _can_ conquer Cotton, do there not\nperhaps lie other ten times nobler conquests?\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI\n\nLabour\n\n\nFor there is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in Work.\nWere he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there\nis always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works:  in\nIdleness alone is there perpetual despair.  Work, never so\nMammonish, mean, is in communication with Nature;  the real\ndesire to get Work done will itself lead one more and more to\ntruth, to Nature's appointments and regulations, which are truth.\nThe latest Gospel in this world is, Know thy work and do it.\n'Know thyself:'  long enough has that poor 'self' of thine\ntormented thee;  thou wilt never get to 'know' it, I believe!\nThink it not thy business, this of knowing thyself;  thou art an\nunknowable individual:  know what thou canst work at;  and work\nat it, like a Hercules!  That will be thy better plan.\n\nIt has been written, 'an endless significance lies in Work;'  a\nman perfects himself by working.  Foul jungles are cleared away,\nfair seedfields rise instead, and stately cities;  and withal the\nman himself first ceases to be a jungle and foul unwholesome\ndesert thereby.  Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of\nLabour, the whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real\nharmony, the instant he sets himself to work!  Doubt, Desire,\nSorrow, Remorse, Indignation, Despair itself, all these like\nhelldogs lie beleaguering the soul of the poor dayworker, as of\nevery man:  but he bends himself with free valour against his\ntask, and all these are stilled, all these shrink murmuring far\noff into their caves.  The man is now a man.  The blessed glow\nof Labour in him, is it not as purifying fire, wherein all\npoison is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself there is made\nbright blessed flame!\n\nDestiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us.  A\nformless Chaos, once set it _revolving,_ grows round and ever\nrounder;  ranges itself, by mere force of gravity, into strata,\nspherical courses;  is no longer a Chaos, but a round compacted\nWorld.  What would become of the Earth, did she cease to revolve?\nIn the poor old Earth, so long as she revolves, all inequalities,\nirregularities disperse themselves;  all irregularities are\nincessantly becoming regular.  Hast thou looked on the Potter's\nwheel,--one of the venerablest objects;  old as the Prophet\nEzechiel and far older?  Rude lumps of clay, how they spin\nthemselves up, by mere quick whirling, into beautiful circular\ndishes.  And fancy the most assiduous Potter, but without his\nwheel;  reduced to make dishes, or rather amorphous botches, by\nmere kneading and baking!  Even such a Potter were Destiny, with\na human soul that would rest and lie at ease, that would not work\nand spin!  Of an idle unrevolving man the kindest Destiny, like\nthe most assiduous Potter without wheel, can bake and knead\nnothing other than a botch;  let her spend on him what expensive\ncolouring, what gilding and enamelling she will, he is but a\nbotch.  Not a dish;  no, a bulging, kneaded, crooked, shambling,\nsquint-cornered, amorphous botch,--a mere enamelled vessel of\ndishonour!  Let the idle think of this.\n\nBlessed is he who has found his work;  let him ask no other\nblessedness.  He has a work, a life-purpose;  he has found it,\nand will follow it!  How, as a free-flowing channel, dug and torn\nby noble force through the sour mud-swamp of one's existence,\nlike an ever-deepening river there, it runs and flows;--draining\noff the sour festering water, gradually from the root of the\nremotest grass-blade;  making, instead of pestilential swamp, a\ngreen fruitful meadow with its clear-flowing stream.  How blessed\nfor the meadow itself, let the stream and _its_ value be great or\nsmall!  Labour is Life:  from the inmost heart of the Worker\nrises his god-given Force, the sacred celestial Life-essence\nbreathed into him by Almighty God;  from his inmost heart awakens\nhim to all nobleness,--to all knowledge, 'self-knowledge' and\nmuch else, so soon as Work fitly begins.  Knowledge?  The\nknowledge that will hold good in working, cleave thou to that;\nfor Nature herself accredits that, says Yea to that.  Properly\nthou hast no other knowledge but what thou hast got by working:\nthe rest is yet all a hypothesis of knowledge;  a thing to be\nargued of in schools, a thing floating in the clouds, in endless\nlogic-vortices, till we try it and fix it.  'Doubt, of whatever\nkind, can be ended by Action alone.'\n\n\nAnd again, hast thou valued Patience, Courage, Perseverance,\nOpenness to light;  readiness to own thyself mistaken, to do\nbetter next time?  All these, all virtues, in wrestling with the\ndim brute Powers of Fact, in ordering of thy fellows in such\nwrestle, there and elsewhere not at all, thou wilt continually\nlearn.  Set down a brave Sir Christopher in the middle of black\nruined Stoneheaps, of foolish unarchitectural Bishops, redtape\nOfficials, idle Nell-Gwyn Defenders of the Faith;  and see\nwhether he will ever raise a Paul's Cathedral out of all that,\nyea or no!  Rough, rude, contradictory are all things and\npersons, from the mutinous masons and Irish hodmen, up to the\nidle Nell-Gwyn Defenders, to blustering redtape Officials,\nfoolish unarchitectural Bishops.  All these things and persons\nare there not for Christopher's sake and his Cathedral's;  they\nare there for their own sake mainly!  Christopher will have to\nconquer and constrain all these,--if he be able.  All these are\nagainst him.  Equitable Nature herself, who carries her\nmathematics and architectonics not on the face of her, but deep\nin the hidden heart of her,--Nature herself is but partially for\nhim; will be wholly against him, if he constrain her not!  His\nvery money, where is it to come from?  The pious munificence of\nEngland lies far-scattered, distant, unable to speak, and say, \"I\nam here;\"--must be spoken to before it can speak.  Pious\nmunificence, and all help, is so silent, invisible like the gods;\nimpediment, contradictions manifold are so loud and near!  O\nbrave Sir Christopher, trust thou in those, notwithstanding, and\nfront all these;  understand all these;  by valiant patience,\nnoble effort, insight, by man's strength, vanquish and compel all\nthese,--and, on the whole, strike down victoriously the last\ntopstone of that Paul's Edifice;  thy monument for certain\ncenturies, the stamp 'Great Man' impressed very legibly on\nPortland-stone there!--Yes, all manner of help, and pious\nresponse from Men or Nature, is always what we call silent;\ncannot speak or come to light, till it be seen, till it be spoken\nto.  Every noble work is at first impossible.  In very truth, for\nevery noble work the possibilities will lie diffused through\nImmensity;  inarticulate, undiscoverable except to faith.  Like\nGideon thou shalt spread out thy fleece at the door of thy tent;\nsee whether under the wide arch of Heaven there be any bounteous\nmoisture, or none.  Thy heart and life-purpose shall be as a\nmiraculous Gideon's fleece, spread out in silent appeal to\nHeaven;  and from the kind Immensities, what from the poor unkind\nLocalities and town and country Parishes there never could,\nblessed dew-moisture to suffice thee shall have fallen!\n\nWork is of a religious nature:--work is of a _brave_ nature;\nwhich it is the aim of all religion to be.  'All work of man is\nas the swimmer's:'  a waste ocean threatens to devour him;  if he\nfront it not bravely, it will keep its word.  By incessant wise\ndefiance of it, lusty rebuke and buffet of it, behold how it\nloyally supports him, bears him as its conqueror along.  'It\nis so,' says Goethe, with all things that man undertakes in\nthis world.'\n\nBrave Sea-captain, Norse Sea-king,--Columbus, my hero, royalest\nSea-king of all!  It is no friendly environment this of thine, in\nthe waste deep waters;  around thee mutinous discouraged souls,\nbehind thee disgrace and ruin, before thee the unpenetrated veil\nof Night.  Brother, these wild water-mountains, bounding from\ntheir deep bases (ten miles deep, I am told), are not entirely\nthere on thy behalf!  Meseems _they_ have other work than\nfloating thee forward:--and the huge Winds, that sweep from Ursa\nMajor to the Tropics and Equators, dancing their giant-waltz\nthrough the kingdoms of Chaos and Immensity, they care little\nabout filling rightly or filling wrongly the small shoulder-of-\nmutton sails in this cockle-skiff of thine!  Thou art not among\narticulate-speaking friends, my brother;  thou art among\nimmeasurable dumb monsters, tumbling, howling wide as the world\nhere.  Secret, far off, invisible to all hearts but thine, there\nlies a help in them:  see how thou wilt get at that.  Patiently\nthou wilt wait till the mad Southwester spend itself, saving\nthyself by dexterous science of defence, the while;  valiantly,\nwith swift decision, wilt thou strike in, when the favouring\nEast, the Possible, springs up.  Mutiny of men thou wilt sternly\nrepress;  weakness, despondency, thou wilt cheerily encourage:\nthou wilt swallow down complaint, unreason, weariness, weakness\nof others and thyself;--how much wilt thou swallow down!  There\nshall be a depth of Silence in thee, deeper than this Sea, which\nis but ten miles deep:  a Silence unsoundable;  known to God\nonly.  Thou shalt be a Great Man.  Yes, my World-Soldier, thou of\nthe World Marine-service,--thou wilt have to be _greater_ than\nthis tumultuous unmeasured World here round thee is:  thou, in\nthy strong soul, as with wrestler's arms, shalt embrace it,\nharness it down;  and make it bear thee on,--to new Americas, or\nwhither God wills!\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII\n\nReward\n\n\n'Religion,' I said;  for properly speaking, all true Work is\nReligion:  and whatsoever Religion is not Work may go and dwell\namong the Brahmins, Antinomians, Spinning Dervishes, or where it\nwill;  with me it shall have no harbour.  Admirable was that of\nthe old Monks, _'Laborare est Orare,_ Work is Worship.'\n\nOlder than all preached Gospels was this unpreached,\ninarticulate, but ineradicable, forever-enduring Gospel:  Work,\nand therein have well-being.  Man, Son of Earth and of Heaven,\nlies there not, in the innermost heart of thee, a Spirit of\nactive Method, a Force for Work;--and burns like a painfully\nsmouldering fire, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it, till\nthou write it down in beneficent Facts around thee!  What is\nimmethodic, waste, thou shalt make methodic, regulated, arable;\nobedient and productive to thee.  Wheresoever thou findest\nDisorder, there is thy eternal enemy;  attack him swiftly, subdue\nhim;  make Order of him, the subject not of Chaos, but of\nIntelligence, Divinity and Thee!  The thistle that grows in thy\npath, dig it out, that a blade of useful grass, a drop of\nnourishing milk, may grow there instead.  The waste cotton-shrub,\ngather its waste white down, spin it, weave it;  that, in place\nof idle litter, there may be folded webs, and the naked skin of\nman be covered.\n\nBut above all, where thou findest Ignorance, Stupidity, Brute-\nmindedness,--yes, there, with or without Church-tithes and\nShovel-hat, with or without Talfourd-Mahon Copyrights, or were it\nwith mere dungeons and gibbets and crosses, attack it, I say;\nsmite it wisely, unweariedly, and rest not while thou livest and\nit lives;  but smite, smite, in the name of God!  The Highest\nGod, as I understand it, does audibly so command thee;  still\naudibly, if thou have ears to hear.  He, even He, with his\n_un_spoken voice, awfuler than any Sinai thunders or syllabled\nspeech of Whirlwinds;  for the SILENCE of deep Eternities, of\nWorlds from beyond the morning-stars, does it not speak to thee?\nThe unborn Ages;  the old Graves, with their long-mouldering\ndust, the very tears that wetted it now all dry,--do not these\nspeak to thee, what ear hath not heard?  The deep Death-kingdoms,\nthe Stars in their never-resting courses, all Space and all Time,\nproclaim it to thee in continual silent admonition.  Thou too, if\never man should, shalt work while it is called Today.  For the\nNight cometh, wherein no man can work.\n\nAll true Work is sacred;  in all true Work, were it but true\nhand-labour, there is something of divineness.  Labour, wide as\nthe Earth, has its summit in Heaven.  Sweat of the brow;  and up\nfrom that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart;  which\nincludes all Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, all\nSciences, all spoken Epics, all acted Heroisms, Martyrdoms,--up\nto that 'Agony of bloody sweat,' which all men have called\ndivine!  O brother, if this is not 'worship,' then I say, the\nmore pity for worship;  for this is the noblest thing yet\ndiscovered under God's sky.  Who art thou that complainest of thy\nlife of toil?  Complain not.  Look up, my wearied brother;  see\nthy fellow Workmen there, in God's Eternity;  surviving there,\nthey alone surviving:  sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial\nBodyguard of the Empire of Mankind.  Even in the weak Human\nMemory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods;  they\nalone surviving;  peopling, they alone, the unmeasured solitudes\nof Time!  To thee Heaven, though severe, is _not_ unkind;  Heaven\nis kind,--as a noble Mother;  as that Spartan Mother, saying\nwhile she gave her son his shield, \"With it, my son, or upon it!\"\nThou too shalt return _home_ in honour;  to thy far-distant Home,\nin honour;  doubt it not,--if in the battle thou keep thy shield!\nThou, in the Eternities and deepest Death-kingdoms, art not an\nalien;  thou everywhere art a denizen!  Complain not;  the very\nSpartans did not _complain._\n\nAnd who art thou that braggest of thy life of Idleness;\ncomplacently shewest thy bright gilt equipages;  sumptuous\ncushions;  appliances for folding of the hands to mere sleep?\nLooking up, looking down, around, behind or before, discernest\nthou, if it be not in Mayfair alone, any _idle_ hero, saint, god,\nor even devil?  Not a vestige of one.  In the Heavens, in the\nEarth, in the Waters, under the Earth, is none like unto thee.\nThou art an original figure in this Creation;  a denizen in\nMayfair alone, in this extraordinary Century or Half-Century\nalone!  One monster there is in the world:  the idle man. What is\nhis 'Religion?'  That Nature is a Phantasm, where cunning,\nbeggary or thievery may sometimes find good victual.  That God is\na lie;  and that Man and his Life are a lie.--Alas, alas, who of\nus _is_ there that can say, I have worked?  The faithfulest of us\nare unprofitable servants;  the faithfulest of us know that best.\nThe faithfulest of us may say, with sad and true old Samuel,\n\"Much of my life has been trifled away!\"  But he that has, and\nexcept 'on public occasions' professes to have, no function but\nthat of going idle in a graceful or graceless manner;  and of\nbegetting sons to go idle;  and to address Chief Spinners and\nDiggers, who at least _are_ spinning and digging, \"Ye scandalous\npersons who produce too much\"--My Corn-Law friends, on what\nimaginary still richer Eldorados, and true iron-spikes with law\nof gravitation, are ye rushing!\n\n\nAs to the Wages of Work there might innumerable things be said;\nthere will and must yet innumerable things be said and spoken, in\nSt. Stephen's and out of St. Stephen's;  and gradually not a few\nthings be ascertained and written, on Law-parchment, concerning\nthis very matter:--'Fair day's-wages for a fair day's-work' is\nthe most unrefusable demand!  Money-wages 'to the extent of\nkeeping your worker alive that he may work more;'  these, unless\nyou mean to dismiss him straightway out of this world, are\nindispensable alike to the noblest Worker and to the least noble!\n\nOne thing only I will say here, in special reference to the\nformer class, the noble and noblest;  but throwing light on all\nthe other classes and their arrangements of this difficult\nmatter:  The 'wages' of every noble Work do yet lie in Heaven or\nelse Nowhere.  Not in Bank-of-England bills, in Owen's Labour-\nbank, or any the most improved establishment of banking and\nmoney-changing, needest thou, heroic soul, present thy account of\nearnings.  Human banks and labour-banks know thee not;  or know\nthee after generations and centuries have passed away, and thou\nart clean gone from 'rewarding,'--all manner of bank-drafts,\nshoptills, and Downing-street Exchequers lying very invisible, so\nfar from thee!  Nay, at bottom, dost thou need any reward?  Was\nit thy aim and life-purpose to be filled with good things for thy\nheroism;  to have a life of pomp and ease, and be what men call\n'happy,' in this world, or in any other world?  I answer for thee\ndeliberately, No.  The whole spiritual secret of the new epoch\nlies in this, that thou canst answer for thyself, with thy whole\nclearness of head and heart, deliberately, No.\n\nMy brother, the brave man has to give his Life away.  Give it, I\nadvise thee;--thou dost not expect to _sell_ thy Life in an\nadequate manner?  What price, for example, would content thee?\nThe just price of thy LIFE to thee,--why, God's entire Creation\nto thyself, the whole Universe of Space, the whole Eternity of\nTime, and what they hold:  that is the price which would content\nthee;  that, and if thou wilt be candid, nothing short of that!\nIt is thy all;  and for it thou wouldst have all.  Thou art an\nunreasonable mortal;--or rather thou art a poor _infinite_\nmortal, who, in thy narrow clay-prison here, _seemest_ so\nunreasonable!  Thou wilt never sell thy Life, or any part of thy\nLife, in a satisfactory manner.  Give it, like a royal heart;\nlet the price be Nothing:  thou _hast_ then, in a certain sense,\ngot All for it!  The heroic man,--and is not every man, God be\nthanked, a potential hero?--has to do so, in all times and\ncircumstances.  In the most heroic age, as in the most unheroic,\nhe will have to say, as Burns said proudly and humbly of his\nlittle Scottish Songs, little dewdrops of Celestial Melody in an\nage when so much was unmelodious:  \"By Heaven, they shall either\nbe invaluable or of no value;  I do not need your guineas for\nthem!\"  It is an element which should, and must, enter deeply\ninto all settlements of wages here below.  They never will be\n'satisfactoy' otherwise;  they cannot, O Mammon Gospel, they\nnever can!  Money for my little piece of work 'to the extent that\nwill allow me to keep working;'  yes, this,--unless you mean that\nI shall go my ways _before_ the work is all taken out of me:  but\nas to 'wages'--!--\n\nOn the whole, we do entirely agree with those old Monks,\n_Laborare est Orare._  In a thousand senses, from one end of it\nto the other, true Work is Worship.  He that works, whatsoever be\nhis work, he bodies forth the form of Things Unseen;  a small\nPoet every Worker is.  The idea, were it but of his poor Delf\nPlatter, how much more of his Epic Poem, is as yet 'seen,'\nhalfseen, only by himself;  to all others it is a thing unseen,\nimpossible;  to Nature herself it is a thing unseen, a thing\nwhich never hitherto was;--very 'impossible,' for it is as yet a\nNo-thing!  The Unseen Powers had need to watch over such a man;\nhe works in and for the Unseen.  Alas, if he look to the Seen\nPowers only, he may as well quit the business;  his No-thing will\nnever rightly issue as a Thing, but as a Deceptivity, a Sham-\nthing,--which it had better not do!\n\nThy No-thing of an Intended Poem, O Poet who hast looked merely\nto reviewers, copyrights, booksellers, popularities, behold it\nhas not yet become a Thing;  for the truth is not in it!  Though\nprinted, hot-pressed, reviewed, celebrated, sold to the twentieth\nedition:  what is all that?  The Thing, in philosophical\nuncommercial language, is still a No-thing, mostly semblance, and\ndeception of the sight;--benign Oblivion incessantly gnawing at\nit, impatient till chaos to which it belongs do reabsorb it!--\n\nHe who takes not counsel of the Unseen and Silent, from him will\nnever come real visibility and speech.  Thou must descend to the\n_Mothers,_ to the _Manes,_ and Hercules-like long suffer and\nlabour there, wouldst thou emerge with victory into the sunlight.\nAs in battle and the shock of war,--for is not this a battle?--\nthou too shalt fear no pain or death, shalt love no ease or life;\nthe voice of festive Lubberlands, the noise of greedy Acheron\nshall alike lie silent under thy victorious feet.  Thy work, like\nDante's, shall 'make thee lean for many years.'  The world and\nits wages, its criticisms, counsels, helps, impediments, shall be\nas a waste ocean-flood;  the chaos through which thou art to swim\nand sail.  Not the waste waves and their weedy gulf-streams,\nshalt thou take for guidance:  thy star alone,--'Se to segui tua\nstella!'  Thy star alone, now clear-beaming over Chaos, nay now\nby fits gone out, disastrously eclipsed:  this only shalt thou\nstrive to follow.  O, it is a business, as I fancy, that of\nweltering your way through Chaos and the murk of Hell!  Green-\neyed dragons watching you, three-headed Cerberuses,--not without\nsympathy of their sort!  \"Eccovi l'uom ch'e stato all'Inferno.\"\nFor in fine, as Poet Dryden says, you do walk hand in hand with\nsheer Madness, all the way,--who is by no means pleasant company!\nYou look fixedly into Madness, and her undiscovered, boundless,\nbottomless Night-empire;  that you may extort new Wisdom out of\nit, as an Eurydice from Tartarus.  The higher the Wisdom, the\ncloser was its neighbourhood and kindred with mere Insanity;\nliterally so;--and thou wilt, with a speechless feeling, observe\nhow highest Wisdom, struggling up into this world, has oftentimes\ncarried such tinctures and adhesions of Insanity still cleaving\nto it hither!\n\nAll Works, each in their degree, are a making of Madness sane;--\ntruly enough a religious operation;  which cannot be carried on\nwithout religion.  You have not work otherwise;  you have eye-\nservice, greedy grasping of wages, swift and ever swifter\nmanufacture of semblances to get hold of wages.  Instead of\nbetter felt-hats to cover your head, you have bigger lath-and-\nplaster hats set traveling the streets on wheels.  Instead of\nheavenly and earthly Guidance for the souls of men, you have\n'Black or White Surplice' Controversies, stuffed hair-and-leather\nPopes;--terrestrial _Law-wards,_ Lords and Law-bringers,\n'organising Labour' in these years, by passing Corn-Laws.  With\nall which, alas, this distracted Earth is now full, nigh to\nbursting.  Semblances most smooth to the touch and eye;  most\naccursed nevertheless to body and soul.  Semblances, be they of\nSham-woven Cloth or of Dilettante Legislation, which are _not_\nreal wool or substance, but Devil's-dust, accursed of God and\nman!  No man has worked, or can work, except religiously;  not\neven the poor day-labourer, the weaver of your coat, the sewer of\nyour shoes.  All men, if they work not as in a Great Taskmaster's\neye, will work wrong, work unhappily for themselves and you.\n\n\nIndustrial work, still under bondage to Mammon, the rational soul\nof it not yet awakened, is a tragic spectacle.  Men in the\nrapidest motion and self-motion;  restless, with convulsive\nenergy, as if driven by Galvanism, as if possessed by a Devil;\ntearing asunder mountains,--to no purpose, for Mammonism is\nalways Midas-eared!  This is sad, on the face of it.  Yet\ncourage:  the beneficent Destinies, kind in their sternness, are\napprising us that this cannot continue.  Labour is not a devil,\neven while encased in Mammonism;  Labour is ever an imprisoned\ngod, writhing unconsciously or consciously to escape out of\nMammonism!  Plugson of Undershot, like Taillefer of Normandy,\nwants victory;  how much happier will even Plugson be to have a\nChivalrous victory than a Chactaw one.  The unredeemed ugliness\nis that of a slothful People.  Shew me a People energetically\nbusy;  heaving, struggling, all shoulders at the wheel;  their\nheart pulsing, every muscle swelling, with man's energy and\nwill;--I Shew you a People of whom great good is already\npredicable;  to whom all manner of good is yet certain, if their\nenergy endure.  By very working, they will learn;  they have,\nAntaeus-like, their foot on Mother Fact:  how can they but learn?\n\nThe vulgarest Plugson of a Master-Worker, who can command Workers\nand get work out of them, is already a considerable man.  Blessed\nand thrice-blessed symptoms I discern of Master-Workers who are\nnot vulgar men;  who are Nobles, and begin to feel that they must\nact as such:  all speed to these, they are England's hope at\npresent!  But in this Plugson himself, conscious of almost no\nnobleness whatever, how much is there!  Not without man's\nfaculty, insight, courage, hard energy, is this rugged figure.\nHis words none of the wisest;  but his actings cannot be\naltogether foolish.  Think, how were it, stoodst thou suddenly in\nhis shoes!  He has to command a thousand men.  And not imaginary\ncommanding;  no, it is real, incessantly practical.  The evil\npassions of so many men (with the Devil in them, as in all of us)\nhe has to vanquish;  by manifold force of speech and of silence,\nto repress or evade.  What a force of silence, to say nothing of\nthe others, is in Plugson!  For these his thousand men he has to\nprovide raw-material, machinery, arrangement, house-room;  and\never at the week's end, wages by due sale.  No Civil-List, or\nGoulburn-Baring Budget has he to fall back upon, for paying of\nhis regiment;  he has to pick his supplies from this confused\nface of the whole Earth and Contemporaneous History, by his\ndexterity alone.  There will be dry eyes if he fail to do it!--He\nexclaims, at present, 'black in the face,' near strangled with\nDilettante Legislation:  \"Let me have elbow-room, throat-room,\nand I will not fail!  No, I will spin yet, and conquer like a\ngiant:  what 'sinews of war' lie in me, untold resources towards\nthe Conquest of this Planet, if instead of hanging me, you\nhusband them, and help me!\"--My indomitable friend, it is _true;_\nand thou shalt and must be helped.\n\nThis is not a man I would kill and strangle by Corn-Laws, even if\nI could!  No, I would fling my Corn-Laws and Shotbelts to the\nDevil;  and try to help this man.  I would teach him, by noble\nprecept and law-precept, by noble example most of all, that\nMammonism was not the essence of his or of my station in God's\nUniverse;  but the adscititious excrescence of it;  the gross,\nterrene, godless embodiment of it;  which would have to become,\nmore or less, a godlike one.  By noble _real_ legislation, by\ntrue _noble's_-work, by unwearied, valiant, and were it wageless\neffort, in my Parliament and in my Parish, I would aid,\nconstrain, encourage him to effect more or less this blessed\nchange.  I should know that it would have to be effected;  that\nunless it were in some measure effected, he and I and all of us,\nI first and soonest of all, were doomed to perdition!--Effected\nit will be;  unless it were a Demon that made this Universe;\nwhich I, for my own part, do at no moment, under no form, in the\nleast believe.\n\nMay it please your Serene Highnesses, your Majesties, Lordships\nand Law-wardships, the proper Epic of this world is not now 'Arms\nand the Man;'  how much less, 'Shirt-frills and the Man:'  no, it\nis now 'Tools and the Man:'  that, henceforth to all time is now\nour Epic;--and you, first of all others, I think, were wise to\ntake note of that!\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII\n\nDemocracy\n\n\nIf the Serene Highnesses and Majesties do not take note of that,\nthen, as I perceive, _that_ will take note of itself!  The time\nfor levity, insincerity, and idle babble and play-acting, in all\nkinds, is gone by;  it is a serious, grave time.  Old long-vexed\nquestions, not yet solved in logical words or parliamentary laws,\nare fast solving themselves in facts, somewhat unblessed to\nbehold!  This largest of questions, this question of Work and\nWages, which ought, had we heeded Heaven's voice, to have begun\ntwo generations ago or more, cannot be delayed longer without\nhearing Earth's voice.  'Labour' will verily need to be somewhat\n'organised,' as they say,--God knows with what difficulty.  Man\nwill actually need to have his debts and earnings a little better\npaid by man;  which, let Parliaments speak of them or be silent\nof them, are eternally his due from man, and cannot, without\npenalty and at length not without death-penalty, be withheld.\nHow much ought to cease among us straightway;  how much ought to\nbegin straightway, while the hours yet are!\n\nTruly they are strange results to which this of leaving all to\n'Cash;'  of quietly shutting up the God's Temple, and gradually\nopening wide-open the Mammon's Temple, with 'Laissez-faire, and\nEvery man for himself,'--have led us in these days!  We have\nUpper, speaking Classes, who indeed do 'speak' as never man spake\nbefore;  the withered flimsiness, the godless baseness and\nbarrenness of whose Speech might of itself indicate what kind of\nDoing and practical Governing went on under it!  For Speech is\nthe gaseous element out of which most kinds of Practice and\nPerformance, especially all kinds of moral Performance, condense\nthemselves, and take shape;  as the one is, so will the other be.\nDescending, accordingly, into the Dumb Class in its Stockport\nCellars and Poor-Law Bastilles, have we not to announce that they\nalso are hitherto unexampled in the History of Adam's Posterity?\n\nLife was never a May-game for men:  in all times the lot of the\ndumb millions born to toil was defaced with manifold sufferings,\ninjustices, heavy burdens, avoidable and unavoidable;  not play\nat all, but hard work that made the sinews sore, and the heart\nsore.  As bond-slaves, _villani, bordarii, sochemanni,_ nay\nindeed as dukes, earls and kings, men were oftentimes made weary\nof their life;  and had to say, in the sweat of their brow and of\ntheir soul, Behold it is not sport, it is grim earnest, and our\nback can bear no more!  Who knows not what massacrings and\nharryings there have been;  grinding, long-continuing, unbearable\ninjustices,--till the heart had to rise in madness, and some _\"Eu\nSachsen, nimith euer sachses,_ You Saxons, out with your gully-\nknives then!\"  You Saxons, some 'arrestment,' partial 'arrestment\nof the Knaves and Dastards' has become indispensable!--The page\nof Dryasdust is heavy with such details.\n\nAnd yet I will venture to believe that in no time, since the\nbeginnings of Society, was the lot of those same dumb millions of\ntoilers so entirely unbearable as it is even in the days now\npassing over us.  It is not to die, or even to die of hunger,\nthat makes a man wretched;  many men have died;  all men must\ndie,--the last exit of us all is in a Fire-Chariot of Pain.  But\nit is to live miserable we know not why;  to work sore and yet\ngain nothing;  to be heart-worn, weary, yet isolated, unrelated,\ngirt in with a cold universal Laissez-faire:  it is to die slowly\nall our life long, imprisoned in a deaf, dead, Infinite\nInjustice, as in the accursed iron belly of a Phalaris' Bull!\nThis is and remains forever intolerable to all men whom God\nhas made.  Do we wonder at French Revolutions, Chartisms,\nRevolts of Three Days?  The times, if we will consider them,\nare really unexampled.\n\nNever before did I hear of an Irish Widow reduced to 'prove her\nsisterhood by dying of typhus-fever and infecting seventeen\npersons,'--saying in such undeniable way, \"You see, I was your\nsister!\"  Sisterhood, brotherhood was often forgotten;  but not\ntill the rise of these ultimate Mammon and Shotbelt Gospels, did\nI ever see it so expressly denied.  If no pious Lord or _Law-\nward_ would remember it, always some pious Lady (_'Hlaf-dig,'_\nBenefactress, _'Loaf-giveress,'_ they say she is,--blessings on\nher beautiful heart!) was there, with mild mother-voice and hand,\nto remember it;  some pious thoughtful _Elder,_ what we now call\n'Prester,' _Presbyter_ or 'Priest,' was there to put all men in\nmind of it, in the name of the God who had made all.\n\nNot even in Black Dahomey was it ever, I think, forgotten to the\ntyphus-fever length.  Mungo Park, resourceless, had sunk down to\ndie under the Negro Village-Tree, a horrible White object in the\neyes of all.  But in the poor Black Woman, and her daughter who\nstood aghast at him, whose earthly wealth and funded capital\nconsisted of one small calabash of rice, there lived a heart\nricher than _'Laissez-faire:'_  they, with a royal munificence,\nboiled their rice for him;  they sang all night to him, spinning\nassiduous on their cotton distaffs, as he lay to sleep:  \"Let us\npity the poor white man;  no mother has he to fetch him milk, no\nsister to grind him corn!\"  Thou poor black Noble One,--thou\n_Lady_ too:  did not a God make thee too;  was there not in thee\ntoo something of a God!--\n\n\nGurth born thrall of Cedric the Saxon has been greatly pitied by\nDryasdust and others.  Gurth with the brass collar round his\nneck, tending Cedric's pigs in the glades of the wood, is not\nwhat I call an exemplar of human felicity:  but Gurth, with the\nsky above him, with the free air and tinted boscage and umbrage\nround him, and in him at least the certainty of supper and social\nlodging when he came home;  Gurth to me seems happy, in\ncomparison with many a Lancashire and Buckinghamshire man, of\nthese days, not born thrall of anybody!  Gurth's brass collar did\nnot gall him:  Cedric _deserved_ to be his Master.  The pigs were\nCedric's, but Gurth too would get his parings of them.  Gurth had\nthe inexpressible satisfaction of feeling himself related\nindissolubly, though in a rude brass-collar way, to his fellow-\nmortals in this Earth.  He had superiors, inferiors, equals.--\nGurth is now 'emancipated' long since;  has what we call\n'Liberty.'  Liberty, I am told, is a Divine thing.  Liberty when\nit becomes the 'Liberty to die by starvation' is not so divine!\n\nLiberty?  The true liberty of a man, you would say, consisted in\nhis finding out, or being forced to find out the right path, and\nto walk thereon.  To learn, or to be taught, what work he\nactually was able for;  and then, by permission, persuasion, and\neven compulsion, to set about doing of the same!  That is his\ntrue blessedness, honour, 'liberty' and maximum of wellbeing:  if\nliberty be not that, I for one have small care about liberty.\nYou do not allow a palpable madman to leap over precipices;  you\nviolate his liberty, you that are wise;  and keep him, were it in\nstrait-waistcoats, away from the precipices!  Every stupid, every\ncowardly and foolish man is but a less palpable madman:  his true\nliberty were that a wiser man, that any and every wiser man,\ncould, by brass collars, or in whatever milder or sharper way,\nlay hold of him when he was going wrong, and order and compel him\nto go a little righter.  O if thou really art my _Senior,_\nSeigneur, my _Elder,_ Presbyter or Priest,--if thou art in very\ndeed my Wiser, may a beneficent instinct lead and impel thee to\n'conquer' me, to command me!  If thou do know better than I what\nis good and right, I conjure thee in the name of God, force me to\ndo it;  were it by never such brass collars, whips and handcuffs,\nleave me not to walk over precipices!  That I have been called,\nby all the Newspapers, a 'free man' will avail me little, if my\npilgrimage have ended in death and wreck.  O that the Newspapers\nhad called me slave, coward, fool, or what it pleased their sweet\nvoices to name me, and I had attained not death, but life!--\nLiberty requires new definitions.\n\nA conscious abhorrence and intolerance of Folly, of Baseness;\nStupidity, Poltroonery and all that brood of things, dwells deep\nin some men:  still deeper in others an unconscious abhorrence\nand intolerance, clothed moreover by the beneficent Supreme\nPowers in what stout appetites, energies, egoisms so-called, are\nsuitable to it;--these latter are your Conquerors, Romans,\nNormans Russians, Indo-English;  Founders of what we call\nAristocracies:  Which indeed have they not the most 'divine\nright' to found;--being themselves very truly [greek], BRAVEST,\nBEST; and conquering generally a confused rabble of WORST, or at\nlowest;  clearly enough, of WORSE?  I think their divine right,\ntried, with affirmatory verdict, in the greatest Law-Court known\nto me, was good!  A class of men who are dreadfully exclaimed\nagainst by Dryasdust;  of whom nevertheless beneficent Nature has\noftentimes had need;  and may, alas, again have need.\n\nWhen, across the hundredfold poor scepticisms, trivialisms, and\nconstitutional cobwebberies of Dryasdust, you catch any\nglimpse of a William the Conqueror, a Tancred of Hauteville or\nsuch like,--do you not discern veritably some rude outline of a\ntrue God-made King;  whom not the Champion of England cased in\ntin, but all Nature and the Universe were calling to the throne?\nIt is absolutely necessary that he get thither.  Nature does not\nmean her poor Saxon children to perish, of obesity, stupor or\nother malady, as yet:  a stern Ruler and Line of Rulers therefore\nis called in,--a stern but most beneficent _Perpetual House-\nSurgeon_ is called in, by Nature, and even the appropriate fees\nare provided for him!  Dryasdust talks lamentably about Hereward\nand the Fen Counties;  fate of Earl Waltheof;  Yorkshire and the\nNorth reduced to ashes;  all which is undoubtedly lamentable.\nBut even Dryasdust apprises me of one fact:  'A child;  in this\nWilliam's reign, might have carried a purse of gold from end to\nend of England.  My erudite friend, it is a fact which outweighs\na thousand!  Sweep away thy constitutional, sentimental and other\ncobwebberies;  look eye to eye, if thou still have any eye, in\nthe face of this big burly William Bastard:  thou wilt see a\nfellow of most flashing discernment, of most strong lionheart;--\nin whom, as it were, within a frame of oak and iron, the gods\nhave planted the soul of 'a man of genius!'  Dost thou call that\nnothing?  I call it an immense thing!--Rage enough was in this\nWillelmus Conquestor, rage enough for his occasions;--and yet the\nessential element of him, as of all such men, is not scorching\n_fire,_ but shining illuminative _light._  Fire and light are\nstrangely interchangeable;  nay, at bottom, I have found them\ndifferent forms of the same most godlike 'elementary substance'\nin our world:  a thing worth stating in these days.  The\nessential element of this Conquestor is, first of all, the most\nsun-eyed perception of what is really what on this God's-Earth;--\nwhich, thou wilt find, does mean at bottom 'Justice,' and\n'Virtues' not a few:  _Conformity_ to what the Maker has seen\ngood to make;  that, I suppose, will mean Justice and a Virtue\nor two?--\n\nDost thou think Willelmus Conquestor would have tolerated ten\nyears' jargon, one hour's jargon, on the propriety of killing\nCotton-manufactures by partridge Corn-Laws?  I fancy, this was\nnot the man to knock out of his night's-rest with nothing but a\nnoisy bedlamism in your mouth!  \"Assist us still better to bush\nthe partridges;  strangle Plugson who spins the shirts?\"--_\"Par\nla Splendeur de Dieu!\"_--Dost thou think Willelmus Conquestor, in\nthis new time, with Steam-engine Captains of Industry on one hand\nof him, and Joe-Manton Captains of Idleness on the other, would\nhave doubted which _was_ really the BEST;  which did deserve\nstrangling, and which not?\n\nI have a certain indestructible regard for Willelmus Conquestor.\nA resident House-Surgeon, provided by Nature for her beloved\nEnglish People, and even furnished with the requisite 'fees,' as\nI said;  for he by no means felt himself doing Nature's work,\nthis Willelmus, but his own work exclusively!  And his own work\nwithal it was;  informed _'par la Splendeur de Dieu.'_--I say, it\nis necessary to get the work out of such a man, however harsh\nthat be!  When a world, not yet doomed for death, is rushing down\nto ever-deeper Baseness and Confusion, it is a dire necessity of\nNature's to bring in her ARISTOCRACIES, her BEST, even by\nforcible methods.  When their descendants or representatives\ncease entirely to _be_ the Best, Nature's poor world will very\nsoon rush down again to Baseness;  and it becomes a dire\nnecessity of Nature's to cast them out.  Hence French\nRevolutions, Five-point Charters, Democracies, and a mournful\nlist of _Etceteras,_ in these our afflicted times.\n\nTo what extent Democracy has now reached, how it advances\nirresistible with ominous, ever-increasing speed, he that will\nopen his eyes on any province of human affairs may discern.\nDemocracy is everywhere the inexorable demand of these ages,\nswiftly fulfilling itself.  From the thunder of Napoleon battles,\nto the jabbering of Open-vestry in St. Mary Axe, all things\nannounce Democracy.  A distinguished man, whom some of my readers\nwill hear again with pleasure, thus writes to me what in these\ndays he notes from the Wahngasse of Weissnichtwo, where our\nLondon fashions seem to be in full vogue.  Let us hear the Herr\nTeufelsdrockh again, were it but the smallest word!\n\n'Democracy, which means despair of finding any Heroes to govern\nyou, and contented putting up with the want of them,--alas, thou\ntoo, _mein Lieber,_ seest well how close it is of kin to\n_Atheism,_ and other sad _Isms:_ he who discovers no God\nwhatever, how shall he discover Heroes, the visible Temples of\nGod?--Strange enough meanwhile it is, to observe with what\nthoughtlessness, here in our rigidly Conservative Country, men\nrush into Democracy with full cry.  Beyond doubt, his Excellenz\nthe Titular-Herr Ritter Kauderwalsch von Pferdefuss-Quacksalber,\nhe our distinguished Conservative Premier himself, and all but\nthe thicker-headed of his Party, discern Democracy to be\ninevitable as death, and are even desperate of delaying it much!\n\n'You cannot walk the streets without beholding Democracy announce\nitself:  the very Tailor has become, if not properly\nSansculottic, which to him would be ruinous, yet a Tailor\nunconsciously symbolising, and prophesying with his scissors, the\nreign of Equality.  What now is our fashionable coat?  A thing of\nsuperfinest texture, of deeply meditated cut;  with Malineslace\ncuffs;  quilted with gold;  so that a man can carry, without\ndifficulty, an estate of land on his back?  _Keineswegs,_ By no\nmanner of means!  The Sumptuary Laws have fallen into such a\nstate of desuetude as was never before seen.  Our fashionable\ncoat is an amphibium between barn-sack and drayman's doublet.\nThe cloth of it is studiously coarse;  the colour a speckled\nsootblack or rust-brown grey;--the nearest approach to a\nPeasant's.  And for shape,--thou shouldst see it!  The last\nconsummation of the year now passing over us is definable as\nThree Bags:  a big bag for the body, two small bags for the arms,\nand by way of collar a hem!  The first Antique Cheruscan who, of\nfelt-cloth or bear's-hide, with bone or metal needle, set about\nmaking himself a coat, before Tailors had yet awakened out of\nNothing,--did not he make it even so?  A loose wide poke for\nbody, with two holes to let out the arms;  this was his original\ncoat:  to which holes it was soon visible that two small loose\npokes, or sleeves, easily appended, would be an improvement.\n\n'Thus has the Tailor-art, so to speak, overset itself, like most\nother things;  changed its centre-of-gravity;  whirled suddenly\nover from zenith to nadir.  Your Stulz, with huge Somerset,\nvaults from his high shopboard down to the depths of primal\nsavagery,--carrying much along with him!  For I will invite thee\nto reflect that the Tailor, as topmost ultimate froth of Human\nSociety, is indeed swift-passing, evanescent, slippery to\ndecipher;  yet significant of much, nay of all.  Topmost\nevanescent froth, he is churned up from the very lees, and from\nall intermediate regions of the liquor.  The general outcome he,\nvisible to the eye, of what men aimed to do, and were obliged and\nenabled to do, in this one public department of symbolising\nthemselves to each other by covering of their skins.  A smack of\nall Human Life lies in the Tailor:  its wild struggles towards\nbeauty, dignity, freedom, victory;  and how, hemmed in by Sedan\nand Huddersfield, by Nescience, Dulness, Prurience, and other sad\nnecessities and laws of Nature, it has attained just to this:\nGrey Savagery of Three Sacks with a hem!\n\n'When the very Tailor verges towards Sansculottism, is it not\nominous?  The last Divinity of poor mankind dethroning himself;\nsinking _his_ taper too, flame downmost, like the Genius of Sleep\nor of Death;  admonitory that Tailor-time shall be no more!--For\nlittle as one could advise Sumptuary Laws at the present epoch,\nyet nothing is clearer than that where ranks do actually exist,\nstrict division of costumes will also be enforced;  that if we\never have a new Hierarchy and Aristocracy, acknowledged veritably\nas such, for which I daily pray Heaven, the Tailor will reawaken;\nand be, by volunteering and appointment, consciously and\nunconsciously, a safeguard of that same.'--Certain farther\nobservations, from the same invaluable pen, on our never-ending\nchanges of mode, our 'perpetual nomadic and even ape-like\nappetite for change and mere change' in all the equipments of our\nexistence, and the 'fatal revolutionary character' thereby\nmanifested, we suppress for the present.  It may be admitted that\nDemocracy, in all meanings of the word, is in full career;\nirresistible by any Ritter Kauderwalsch or other Son of Adam, as\ntimes go.  'Liberty' is a thing men are determined to have.\n\n\nBut truly, as I had to remark in the meanwhile, 'the liberty of\nnot being oppressed by your fellow man' is an indispensable, yet\none of the most insignificant fractional parts of Human Liberty.\nNo man oppresses thee, can bid thee fetch or carry, come or go,\nwithout reason shewn.  True;  from all men thou art emancipated:\nbut from Thyself and from the Devil--?  No man, wiser, unwiser,\ncan make thee come or go:  but thy own futilities, bewilderments,\nthy false appetites for Money, Windsor Georges and such like?  No\nman oppresses thee, O free and independent Franchiser:  but does\nnot this stupid Porter-pot oppress thee?  No Son of Adam can bid\nthee come or go;  but this absurd Pot of Heavy-wet, this can and\ndoes!  Thou art the thrall not of Cedric the Saxon, but of thy\nown brutal appetites, and this scoured dish of liquor.  And thou\npratest of thy liberty?  Thou entire blockhead!\n\nHeavy-wet and gin:  alas, these are not the only kinds of\nthraldom.  Thou who walkest in a vain shew, looking out with\nornamental dilettante sniff and serene supremacy at all Life and\nall Death;  and amblest jauntily;  perking up thy poor talk into\ncrotchets, thy poor conduct into fatuous somnambulisms;--and art\nas an 'enchanted Ape' under God's sky, where thou mightest have\nbeen a man, had proper Schoolmasters and Conquerors, and\nConstables with cat-o'-nine tails, been vouchsafed thee:  dost\nthou call that 'liberty?'  Or your unreposing Mammon-worshipper,\nagain, driven, as if by Galvanisms, by Devils and Fixed-Ideas,\nwho rises early and sits late, chasing the impossible;  straining\nevery faculty 'to fill himself with the east wind '--how merciful\nwere it, could you, by mild persuasion or by the severest tyranny\nso-called, check him in his mad path, turn him into a wiser one!\nAll painful tyranny, in that case again, were but mild 'surgery;'\nthe pain of it cheap, as health and life, instead of galvanism\nand fixed-idea, are cheap at any price.\n\nSure enough, of all paths a man could strike into, there is, at\nany given moment, a _best path_ for every man;  a thing which,\nhere and now, it were of all things wisest for him to do;--which\ncould he be but led or driven to do, he were then doing 'like a\nman,' as we phrase it;  all men and gods agreeing with him, the\nwhole Universe virtually exclaiming Well-done to him!  His\nsuccess, in such case, were complete;  his felicity a maximum.\nThis path, to find this path and walk in it, is the one thing\nneedful for him.  Whatsoever forwards him in that, let it come to\nhim even in the shape of blows and spurnings, is liberty:\nwhatsoever hinders him, were it wardmotes, open-vestries,\npollbooths, tremendous cheers, rivers of heavy-wet, is slavery.\n\nThe notion that a man's liberty consists in giving his vote at\nelection-hustings, and saying, \"Behold now I too have my twenty-\nthousandth part of a Talker in our National Palaver;  will not\nall the gods be good to me?\"--is one of the pleasantest!  Nature\nnevertheless is kind at present;  and puts it into the heads of\nmany, almost of all.  The liberty especially which has to\npurchase itself by social isolation, and each man standing\nseparate from the other, having 'no business with him' but a\ncash-account:  this is such a liberty as the Earth seldom saw;--\nas the Earth will not long put up with, recommend it how you may.\nThis liberty turns out, before it have long continued in action,\nwith all men flinging up their caps round it, to be, for the\nWorking Millions a liberty to die by want of food;  for the Idle\nThousands and Units, alas, a still more fatal liberty to live in\nwant of work;  to have no earnest duty to do in this God's-World\nany more.  What becomes of a man in such predicament?  Earth's\nLaws are silent;  and Heaven's speak in a voice which is not\nheard.  No work, and the ineradicable need of work, give rise to\nnew very wondrous life-philosophies, new very wondrous life-\npractices!  Dilettantism, Pococurantism, Beau-Brummelism, with\nperhaps an occasional, half-mad, protesting burst of Byronism,\nestablish themselves:  at the end of a certain period,--if you go\nback to 'the Dead Sea,' there is, say our Moslem friends, a very\nstrange 'Sabbath-day' transacting itself there!--Brethren, we\nknow but imperfectly yet, after ages of Constitutional\nGovernment, what Liberty is and Slavery is.\n\nDemocracy, the chase of Liberty in that direction, shall go its\nfull course;  unrestrainable by him of Pferdefuss-Quacksalber, or\nany of _his_ household.  The Toiling Millions of Mankind, in most\nvital need and passionate instinctive desire of Guidance, shall\ncast away False-Guidance;  and hope, for an hour, that No-\nGuidance will suffice them:  but it can be for an hour only.  The\nsmallest item of human Slavery is the oppression of man by his\nMock-Superiors;  the palpablest, but I say at bottom the\nsmallest.  Let him shake off such oppression, trample it\nindignantly under his feet;  I blame him not, I pity and commend\nhim.  But oppression by your Mock-Superiors well shaken off, the\ngrand problem yet remains to solve:  That of finding government\nby your Real-Superiors!  Alas, how shall we ever learn the\nsolution of that, benighted, bewildered, sniffing, sneering,\ngodforgetting unfortunates as we are?  It is a work for\ncenturies;  to be taught us by tribulations, confusions,\ninsurrections, obstructions;  who knows if not by conflagration\nand despair!  It is a lesson inclusive of all other lessons;  the\nhardest of all lessons to learn.\n\nOne thing I do know:  Those Apes chattering on the branches by\nthe Dead Sea never got it learned;  but chatter there to this\nday.  To them no Moses need come a second time;  a thousand\nMoseses would be but so many painted Phantasms, interesting\nFellow-Apes of new strange aspect,--whom they would 'invite to\ndinner,' be glad to meet with in lion-soirees.  To them the voice\nof Prophecy, of heavenly monition, is quite ended.  They chatter\nthere, all Heaven shut to them, to the end of the world.  The\nunfortunates!  O, what is dying of hunger, with honest tools in\nyour hand, with a manful purpose in your heart, and much real\nlabour lying round you done, in comparison?  You honestly quit\nyour tools;  quit a most muddy confused coil of sore work, short\nrations, of sorrows, dispiritments and contradictions, having now\nhonestly done with it all;--and await, not entirely in a\ndistracted manner, what the Supreme Powers, and the Silences and\nthe Eternities may have to say to you.\n\nA second thing I know:  This lesson will have to be learned,--\nunder penalties!  England will either learn it, or England also\nwill cease to exist among Nations.  England will either learn to\nreverence its Heroes, and discriminate them from its Sham-Heroes\nand Valets and gaslighted Histrios;  and to prize them as the\naudible God's-voice, amid all inane jargons and temporary market-\ncries, and say to them with heart-loyalty, \"Be ye King and\nPriest, and Gospel and Guidance for us:\"  or else England will\ncontinue to worship new and ever-new forms of Quackhood,--and so,\nwith what resiliences and reboundings matters little, go down to\nthe Father of Quacks!  Can I dread such things of England?\nWretched, thick-eyed, gross-hearted mortals, why will ye worship\nlies, and 'Stuffed Clothes-suits, created by the ninth-parts of\nmen!'  It is not your purses that suffer;  your farm-rents, your\ncommerces, your mill-revenues, loud as ye lament over these;  no,\nit is not these alone, but a far deeper than these:  it is your\nSouls that lie dead, crushed down under despicable Nightmares,\nAtheisms, Brain-fumes;  and are not Souls at all, but mere\nsuccedanea for _salt_ to keep your bodies and their appetites\nfrom putrefying!  Your cotton-spinning and thrice-miraculous\nmechanism, what is this too, by itself, but a larger kind of\nAnimalism?  Spiders can spin, Beavers can build and shew\ncontrivance;  the Ant lays up accumulation of capital, and has,\nfor aught I know, a Bank of Antland.  If there is no soul in man\nhigher than all that, did it reach to sailing on the cloud-rack\nand spinning sea-sand;  then I say, man is but an animal, a more\ncunning kind of brute:  he has no soul, but only a succedaneum\nfor salt.  Whereupon, seeing himself to be truly of the beasts\nthat perish, he ought to admit it, I think;--and also straightway\nuniversally kill himself;  and so, in a manlike manner, at least,\n_end,_ and wave these bruteworlds _his_ dignified farewell!--\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV\n\nSir Jabesh Windbag\n\n\nOliver Cromwell, whose body they hung on their Tyburn Gallows\nbecause he had found the Christian Religion inexecutable in this\ncountry, remains to me by far the remarkablest Governor we have\nhad here for the last five centuries or so.  For the last five\ncenturies, there has been no Governor among us with anything like\nsimilar talent;  and for the last two centuries, no Governor, we\nmay say, with the possibility of similar talent,--with an idea in\nthe heart of him capable of inspiring similar talent, capable of\ncoexisting therewith.  When you consider that Oliver believed in\na God, the difference between Oliver's position and that of any\nsubsequent Governor of this Country becomes, the more you reflect\non it, the more immeasurable!\n\nOliver, no volunteer in Public Life, but plainly a ballotted\nsoldier strictly ordered thither, enters upon Public Life;\ncomports himself there like a man who carried his own life itself\nin his hand;  like a man whose Great Commander's eye was always\non him.  Not without results.  Oliver, well-advanced in years,\nfinds now, by Destiny and his own Deservings, or as he himself\nbetter phrased it, by wondrous successive 'Births of Providence,'\nthe Government of England put into his hands.  In senate-house\nand battle-field, in counsel and in action, in private and in\npublic, this man has proved himself a man:  England and the voice\nof God, through waste awful whirlwinds and environments, speaking\nto his great heart, summon him to assert formally, in the way of\nsolemn Public Fact and as a new piece of English Law, what\ninformally and by Nature's eternal Law needed no asserting, That\nhe, Oliver, was the Ablest-Man of England, the King of England;\nthat he, Oliver, would undertake governing England.  His way of\nmaking this same 'assertion,' the one way he had of making it,\nhas given rise to immense criticism:  but the assertion itself in\nwhat way soever 'made,' is it not somewhat of a solemn one,\nsomewhat of a tremendous one!\n\nAnd now do but contrast this Oliver with my right honourable\nfriend Sir Jabesh Windbag, Mr. Facing-both-ways, Viscount\nMealymouth, Earl of Windlestraw, or what other Cagliostro,\nCagliostrino, Cagliostraccio, the course of Fortune and\nParliamentary Majorities has constitutionally guided to that\ndignity, any time during these last sorrowful hundred-and-fifty\nyears!  Windbag, weak in the faith of a God, which he believes\nonly at Church on Sundays, if even then;  strong only in the\nfaith that Paragraphs and Plausibilities bring votes;  that Force\nof Public Opinion, as he calls it, is the primal Necessity of\nThings, and highest God we have:--Windbag, if we will consider\nhim, has a problem set before him which may be ranged in the\nimpossible class.  He is a Columbus minded to sail to the\nindistinct country of NOWHERE, to the indistinct country of\nWHITHERWARD, by the _friendship_ of those same waste-tumbling\nWater-Alps and howling waltz of All the Winds;  not by conquest\nof them and in spite of them, but by friendship of them, when\nonce _they_ have made up their mind!  He is the most original\nColumbus I ever saw.  Nay, his problem is not an impossible one:\nhe will infallibly _arrive_ at that same country of NOWHERE;  his\nindistinct Whitherward will be a _Thither_ward!  In the Ocean\nAbysses and Locker of Davy Jones, there certainly enough do he\nand _his_ ship's company, and all their cargo and navigatings, at\nlast find lodgement.\n\nOliver knew that his America lay THERE, Westward Ho;--and it was\nnot entirely by _friendship_ of the Water-Alps, and yeasty insane\nFroth-Oceans, that he meant to get thither!  He sailed\naccordingly;  had compass-card, and Rules of Navigation,--older\nand greater than these Froth-Oceans, old as the Eternal God!  Or\nagain, do but think of this.  Windbag in these his probable five\nyears of office has to prosper and get Paragraphs:  the\nParagraphs of these five years must be his salvation, or he is a\nlost man;  redemption nowhere in the Worlds or in the Times\ndiscoverable for him.  Oliver too would like his Paragraphs;\nsuccesses, popularities in these five years are not undesirable\nto him:  but mark, I say, this enormous circumstance:  _after_\nthese five years are gone and done, comes an Eternity for Oliver!\nOliver has to appear before the Most High judge:  the utmost flow\nof Paragraphs, the utmost ebb of them, is now, in strictest\narithmetic, verily no matter at all;  its exact value _zero;_  an\naccount altogether erased!  Enormous;--which a man, in these\ndays, hardly fancies with an effort!  Oliver's Paragraphs are all\ndone, his battles, division-lists, successes all summed:  and now\nin that awful unerring Court of Review, the real question first\nrises, Whether he has succeeded at all;  whether he has not been\ndefeated miserably forevermore?  Let him come with world-wide\n_Io-Paens,_ these avail him not.  Let him come covered over with\nthe world's execrations, gashed with ignominious death-wounds,\nthe gallows-rope about his neck:  what avails that?  The word\nis, Come thou brave and faithful;  the word is, Depart thou\nquack and accursed!\n\nO Windbag, my right honourable friend, in very truth I pity thee.\nI say, these Paragraphs, and low or loud votings of thy poor\nfellow-blockheads of mankind, will never guide thee in any\nenterprise at all.  Govern a country on such guidance?  Thou\ncanst not make a pair of shoes, sell a pennyworth of tape, on\nsuch.  No, thy shoes are vamped up falsely to meet the market;\nbehold, the leather only _seemed_ to be tanned;  thy shoes melt\nunder me to rubbishy pulp, and are not veritable mud-defying\nshoes, but plausible vendible similitudes of shoes,--thou\nunfortunate, and I!  O my right honourable friend, when the\nParagraphs flowed in, who was like Sir Jabesh?  On the swelling\ntide he mounted;  higher, higher, triumphant, heaven-high.  But\nthe Paragraphs again ebbed out, as unwise Paragraphs needs must:\nSir Jabesh lies stranded, sunk and forever sinking in ignominious\nooze;  the Mud-nymphs, and ever-deepening bottomless Oblivion,\nhis portion to eternal time.  'Posterity?'  Thou appealest to\nPosterity, thou?  My right honourable friend, what will Posterity\ndo for thee!  The voting of Posterity, were it continued through\ncenturies in thy favour, will be quite inaudible, extra-forensic,\nwithout any effect whatever.  Posterity can do simply nothing for\na man;  nor even seem to do much, if the man be not brainsick.\nBesides, to tell thee truth, the bets are a thousand to one,\nPosterity will not hear of thee, my right honourable friend!\nPosterity, I have found, has generally his own Windbags\nsufficiently trumpeted in all market-places, and no leisure to\nattend to ours.  Posterity, which has made of Norse Odin a\nsimilitude, and of Norman William a brute monster, what will or\ncan it make of English Jabesh?  O Heavens, 'Posterity!'\n\n\"These poor persecuted Scotch Covenanters,\" said I to my inquiring\nFrenchman, in such stinted French as stood at command, _\"ils\ns'en appelaient a\"_--_\"A la Posterite,\"_ interrupted he, helping\nme out.--_\"Ah, Monsieur, non, mille fois non!_  They appealed to\nthe Eternal God;  not to Posterity at all!  _C'etait different.\"_\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV\n\nMorrison Again\n\n\nNevertheless, O Advanced Liberal, one cannot promise thee any\n'New Religion,' for some time;  to say truth, I do not think we\nhave the smallest chance of any!  Will the candid reader, by way\nof closing this Book Third, listen to a few transient remarks on\nthat subject?\n\nCandid readers have not lately met with any man who had less\nnotion to interfere with their Thirty-Nine, or other Church-\nArticles;  wherewith, very helplessly as is like, they may have\nstruggled to form for themselves some not inconceivable\nhypothesis about this Universe, and their own Existence there.\nSuperstition, my friend, is far from me;  Fanaticism, for any\n_Fanum_ likely to arise soon on this Earth, is far.  A man's\nChurch-Articles are surely articles of price to him;  and in\nthese times one has to be tolerant of many strange 'Articles,'\nand of many still stranger 'No-articles,' which go about\nplacarding themselves in a very distracted manner,--the numerous\nlong placard-poles, and questionable infirm paste-pots,\ninterfering with one's peaceable thoroughfare sometimes!\n\nFancy a man, moreover, recommending his fellow men to believe in\nGod, that so Chartism might abate, and the Manchester Operatives\nbe got to spin peaceably!  The idea is more distracted than any\nplacard-pole seen hitherto in a public thoroughfare of men! My\nfriend, if thou ever do come to believe in God, thou wilt find\nall Chartism, Manchester riot, Parliamentary incompetence,\nMinistries of Windbag, and the wildest Social Dissolutions, and\nthe burning up of this entire Planet, a most small matter in\ncomparison.  Brother, this Planet, I find, is but an\ninconsiderable sandgrain in the continents of Being:  this\nPlanet's poor temporary interests, thy interests and my interests\nthere, when I look fixedly into that eternal Light-Sea and Flame-\nSea with _its_ eternal interests, dwindle literally into Nothing;\nmy speech of it is--silence for the while.  I will as soon think\nof making Galaxies and Star Systems to guide little herring-\nvessels by, as of preaching Religion that the Constable may\ncontinue possible.  O my Advanced-Liberal friend, this new second\nprogress, of proceeding 'to invent God,' is a very strange one!\nJacobinism unfolded into Saint-Simonism bodes innumerable blessed\nthings;  but the thing itself might draw tears from a Stoic!--As\nfor me, some twelve or thirteen New Religions, heavy Packets,\nmost of them unfranked, having arrived here from various parts of\nthe world, in a space of six calendar months, I have instructed\nmy invaluable friend the Stamped Postman to introduce no more of\nthem, if the charge exceed one penny.\n\n\nHenry of Essex, duelling in that Thames Island, near to Reading\nAbbey, had a religion.  But was it in virtue of his seeing armed\nPhantasms of St. Edmund 'on the rim of the horizon,' looking\nminatory on him?  Had that, intrinsically, anything to do with\nhis religion at all?  Henry of Essex's religion was the Inner\nLight or Moral Conscience of his own soul;  such as is vouchsafed\nstill to all souls of men;--which Inner Light shone here 'through\nsuch intellectual and other media' as there were;  producing\n'Phantasms,' Kircherean Visual-Spectra, according to\ncircumstances!  It is so with all men.  The clearer my Inner\nLight may shine, through the _less_ turbid media;  the _fewer_\nPhantasms it may produce,--the gladder surely shall I be, and not\nthe sorrier!  Hast thou reflected, O serious reader, Advanced-\nLiberal or other, that the one end, essence, use of all religion\npast, present and to come, was this only:  To keep that same\nMoral Conscience or Inner Light of ours alive and shining--which\ncertainly the 'Phantasms' and the 'turbid media' were not\nessential for!  All religion was here to remind us, better or\nworse, of what we already know better or worse, of the quite\n_infinite_ difference there is between a Good man and a Bad;  to\nbid us love infinitely the one, abhor and avoid infinitely the\nother,--strive infinitely to _be_ the one, and not to be the\nother.  'All religion issues in due Practical Hero-worship:  He\nthat has a soul unasphyxied will never want a religion;  he that\nhas a soul asphyxied, reduced to a succedaneum for salt, will\nnever find any religion, though you rose from the dead to preach\nhim one.\n\nBut indeed, when men and reformers ask for 'a religion,' it is\nanalogous to their asking, 'What would you have us to do?' and\nsuch like.  They fancy that their religion too shall be a kind of\nMorrison's Pill, which they have only to swallow once, and all\nwill be well.  Resolutely once gulp down your Religion, your\nMorrison's Pill, you have it all plain sailing now;  you can\nfollow your affairs, your no-affairs, go along money-hunting,\npleasure-hunting, dilettanteing, dangling, and miming and\nchattering like a Dead-Sea Ape:  your Morrison will do your\nbusiness for you.  Men's notions are very strange!--Brother, I\nsay there is not, was not, nor will ever be, in the wide circle\nof Nature, any Pill or Religion of that character.  Man cannot\nafford thee such;  for the very gods it is impossible.  I advise\nthee to renounce Morrison;  once for all, quit hope of the\nUniversal Pill.  For body, for soul, for individual or society,\nthere has not any such article been made.  _Non extat._  In\nCreated Nature it is not, was not, will not be.  In the void\nimbroglios of Chaos only, and realms of Bedlam, does some shadow\nof it hover, to bewilder and bemock the poor inhabitants _there._\n\nRituals, Liturgies, Creeds, Hierarchies: all this is not\nreligion;  all this, were it dead as Odinism, as Fetishism, does\nnot kill religion at all!  It is Stupidity alone, with never so\nmany rituals, that kills religion.  Is not this still a World?\nSpinning Cotton under Arkwright and Adam Smith;  founding Cities\nby the Fountain of Juturna, on the Janiculum Mount;  tilling\nCanaan under Prophet Samuel and Psalmist David, man is ever man;\nthe missionary of Unseen Powers;  and great and victorious, while\nhe continues true to his mission;  mean, miserable, foiled, and\nat last annihilated and trodden out of sight and memory, when he\nproves untrue.  Brother, thou art a Man, I think;  thou are not a\nmere building Beaver, or two-legged Cotton-Spider;  thou hast\nverily a Soul in thee, asphyxied or otherwise!  Sooty\nManchester,--it too is built on the infinite Abysses;\noverspanned by the skyey Firmaments;  and there is birth in it,\nand death in it;--and it is every whit as wonderful, as fearful,\nunimaginable, as the oldest Salem or Prophetic City.  Go or\nstand, in what time, in what place we will, are there not\nImmensities, Eternities over us, around us, in us:\n\n     'Solemn before us,\n     Veiled, the dark Portal,\n     Goal of all mortal:--\n     Stars silent rest o'er us,\n     Graves under us silent'\n\nBetween _these_ two great Silences, the hum of all our spinning\ncylinders, Trades-Unions, Anti-Corn-Law Leagues and Carlton Clubs\ngoes on.  Stupidity itself ought to pause a little, and consider\nthat.  I tell thee, through all thy Ledgers, Supply-and-demand\nPhilosophies, and daily most modern melancholy Business and Cant,\nthere does shine the presence of a Primeval Unspeakable;  and\nthou wert wise to recognise, not with lips only, that same!\n\nThe Maker's Laws, whether they are promulgated in Sinai Thunder,\nto the ear or imagination, or quite otherwise promulgated, are\nthe Laws of God;  transcendant, everlasting, imperatively\ndemanding obedience from all men.  This, without any thunder, or\nwith never so much thunder, thou, if there be any soul left in\nthee, canst know of a truth.  The Universe, I say, is made by\nLaw;  the great Soul of the World is just and not unjust.  Look\nthou, if thou have eyes or soul left, into this great shoreless\nIncomprehensible:  in the heart of its tumultuous Appearances,\nEmbroilments, and mad Time-vortexes, is there not, silent,\neternal, an All-just, an All-beautiful;  sole Reality and\nultimate controlling Power of the whole?  This is not a figure of\nspeech;  this is a fact.  The fact of Gravitation known to all\nanimals, is not surer than this inner Fact, which may be known to\nall men.  He who knows this, it will sink, silent, awful,\nunspeakable, into his heart.  He will say with Faust:  \"Who\n_dare_ name HIM?\"  Most rituals or 'namings' he will fall in with\nat present, are like to be 'namings'--which shall be nameless!\nIn silence, in the Eternal Temple, let him worship, if there be\nno fit word.  Such knowledge, the crown of his whole spiritual\nbeing, the life of his life, let him keep and sacredly walk by.\nHe has a religion.  Hourly and daily, for himself and for the\nwhole world, a faithful, unspoken, but not ineffectual prayer\nrises, \"Thy will be done.\"  His whole work on Earth is an\nemblematic spoken or acted prayer, Be the will of God done on\nEarth,--not the Devil's will, or any of the Devil's servants'\nwills!  He has a religion, this man;  an everlasting Loadstar\nthat beams the brighter in the Heavens, the darker here on Earth\ngrows the night around him.  Thou, if thou know not this, what\nare all rituals, liturgies, mythologies, mass-chantings, turnings\nof the rotatory calabash?  They are as nothing;  in a good many\nrespects they are as _less._  Divorced from this, getting half-\ndivorced from this, they are a thing to fill one with a kind of\nhorror;  with a sacred inexpressible pity and fear.  The most\ntragical thing a human eye can look on.  It was said to the\nProphet, \"Behold, I will shew thee worse things than these:\nwomen weeping to Thammuz.\"  That was the acme of the Prophet's\nvision,--then as now.\n\nRituals, Liturgies, Credos, Sinai Thunder:  I know more or less\nthe history of these;  the rise, progress, decline and fall of\nthese.  Can thunder from all the thirty-two azimuths, repeated\ndaily for centuries of years, make God's Laws more godlike to me?\nBrother, No.  Perhaps I am grown to be a man now;  and do not\nneed the thunder and the terror any longer!  Perhaps I am above\nbeing frightened;  perhaps it is not Fear, but Reverence alone,\nthat shall now lead me!--Revelations, Inspirations?  Yes:  and\nthy own god-created Soul;  dost thou not call that a\n`revelation?'  Who made THEE?  Where didst Thou come from?  The\nVoice of Eternity, if thou be not a blasphemer and poor asphyxied\nmute, speaks with that tongue of thine!  _Thou_ art the latest\nBirth of Nature;  it is 'the Inspiration of the Almighty' that\ngiveth thee understanding!  My brother, my brother!--\n\nUnder baleful Atheisms, Mammonisms, Joe-Manton Dilettantisms,\nwith their appropriate Cants and Idolisms, and whatsoever\nscandalous rubbish obscures and all but extinguishes the soul of\nman,--religion now is;  its Laws, written if not on stone tables,\nyet on the Azure of Infinitude, in the inner heart of God's\nCreation, certain as Life, certain as Death!  I say the Laws are\nthere, and thou shalt not disobey them.  It were better for thee\nnot.  Better a hundred deaths than yes.  Terrible 'penalties'\nwithal, if thou still need 'penalties,' are there for disobeying.\nDost thou observe, O redtape Politician, that fiery infernal\nPhenomenon, which men name FRENCH REVOLUTION, sailing, unlooked-\nfor, unbidden;  through thy inane Protocol Dominion:--far-seen,\nwith splendour not of Heaven?  Ten centuries will see it.  There\nwere Tanneries at Meudon for human skins.  And Hell, very truly\nHell, had power over God's upper Earth for a season.  The\ncruelest Portent that has risen into created Space these ten\ncenturies:  let us hail it, with awestruck repentant hearts, as\nthe voice once more of a God, though of one in wrath.  Blessed be\nthe God's-voice;  for _it_ is true, and Falsehoods have to cease\nbefore it!  But for that same preternatural quasi-infernal\nPortent;  one could not know what to make of this wretched world,\nin these days' at all.  The deplorablest quack-ridden, and now\nhunger-ridden, downtrodden Despicability and _Flebile Ludibrium,_\nof redtape Protocols, rotatory Calabashes, Poor-Law Bastilles:\nwho is there that could think of _its_ being fated to continue?--\n\nPenalties enough, my brother!  This penalty inclusive of all:\nEternal Death to thy own hapless Self, if thou heed no other.\nEternal Death, I say,--with many meanings old and new, of which\nlet this single one suffice us here:  The eternal impossibility\nfor thee to _be_ aught but a Chimera, and swift-vanishing\ndeceptive Phantasm, in God's Creation;--swift-vanishing, never to\nreappear:  why should it reappear!  Thou hadst one chance, thou\nwilt never have another.  Everlasting ages will roll on, and no\nother be given thee.  The foolishest articulate-speaking soul now\nextant, may not he say to himself:  \"A whole Eternity I waited to\nbe born;  and now I have a whole Eternity waiting to see what I\nwill do when born!\"  This is not Theology, this is Arithmetic.\nAnd thou but half-discernest this;  thou but half-believest it?\nAlas, on the shores of the Dead Sea on Sabbath, there goes on\na Tragedy!--\n\nBut we will leave this of 'Religion;'  of which, to say truth, it\nis chiefly profitable in these unspeakable days to keep silence.\nThou needest no 'New Religion;'  nor art thou like to get any.\nThou hast already more 'religion' than thou makest use of.  This\nday, thou knowest ten commanded duties, seest in thy mind ten\nthings which should be done, for one that thou doest!  Do one of\nthem;  this of itself will skew thee ten others which can and\nshall be done.  \"But my future fate?\"  Yes, thy future fate,\nindeed?  Thy future fate, while thou makest _it_ the chief\nquestion, seems to me--extremely questionable!  I do not think it\ncan be good.  Norse Odin, immemorial centuries ago, did not he,\nthough a poor Heathen, in the dawn of Time, teach us that, for\nthe Dastard there was and could be no good fate;  no harbour\nanywhere, save down with Hela, in the pool of Night!  Dastards,\nKnaves, are they that lust for Pleasure, that tremble at Pain.\nFor this world and for the next, Dastards are a class of\ncreatures made to be 'arrested;'  they are good for nothing else,\ncan look for nothing else.  A greater than Odin has been here.  A\ngreater than Odin has taught us--not a greater Dastardism, I\nhope!  My brother, thou must pray for a _soul;_  struggle, as\nwith life-and-death energy, to get back thy soul!  Know that\n'religion' is no Morrison's Pill from without, but a reawakening\nof thy own Self from within:--and, above all, leave me alone of\nthy 'religions' and 'new religions' here and elsewhere!  I am\nweary of this sick croaking for a Morrison's-Pill religion;  for\nany and for every such.  I want none such;  and discern all such\nto be impossible.  The resuscitation of old liturgies fallen\ndead;  much more, the manufacture of new liturgies that will\nnever be alive:  how hopeless Stylitisms, eremite fanaticisms and\nfakeerisms;  spasmodic agonistic posturemakings, and narrow,\ncramped, morbid, if forever noble wrestlings:  all this is not a\nthing desirable to me.  It is a thing the world _has_ done once,\n--when its beard was not grown as now!\n\n\nAnd yet there is, at worst, one Liturgy which does remain forever\nunexceptionable:  that of _Praying_ (as the old Monks did withal)\n_by Working._  And indeed the Prayer which accomplished itself in\nspecial chapels at stated hours, and went not with a man, rising\nup from all his Work and Action, at all moments sanctifying the\nsame,--what was it ever good for?  'Work is Worship:'  yes, in a\nhighly considerable sense,--which, in the present state of all\n'worship,' who is there that can unfold!  He that understands it\nwell, understands the Prophecy of the whole Future;  the last\nEvangel, which has included all others.  Its cathedral the Dome\nof Immensity,--hast thou seen it? coped with the star-galaxies;\npaved with the green mosaic of land and ocean;  and for altar,\nverily, the Star-throne of the Eternal!  Its litany and psalmody\nthe noble acts, the heroic work and suffering, and true Heart-\nutterance of all the Valiant of the Sons of Men.  Its choir-music\nthe ancient Winds and Oceans, and deep-toned, inarticulate, but\nmost speaking voices of Destiny and History,--supernal ever as of\nold.  Between two great Silences:\n\n     'Stars silent rest o  o'er us,\n     Graves under us silent!'\n\nBetween which two great Silences, do not, as we said, all human\nNoises, in the naturalest times, most preternaturally march\nand roll?--\n\nI will insert this also, in a lower strain, from Sauerteig's\n_Aesthetische Springwurzel._   'Worship?' says he:  'Before that\ninane tumult of Hearsay filled men's heads, while the world lay\nyet silent, and the heart true and open, many things were\nWorship! To the primeval man whatsoever good came, descended on\nhim (as, in mere fact, it ever does) direct from God;  whatsoever\nduty lay visible for him, this a Supreme God had prescribed.  To\nthe present hour I ask thee, Who else?  For the primeval man, in\nwhom dwelt Thought, this Universe was all a Temple;  Life\neverywhere a Worship.\n\n'What Worship, for example, is there not in mere Washing!\nPerhaps one of the most moral things a man, in common cases, has\nit in his power to do.  Strip thyself, go into the bath, or were\nit into the limpid pool and running brook, and there wash and be\nclean;  thou wilt step out again a purer and a better man.  This\nconsciousness of perfect outer pureness, that to thy skin there\nnow adheres no foreign speck of imperfection, how it radiates in\non thee, with cunning symbolic influences, to thy very soul!\nThou hast an increase of tendency towards all good things\nwhatsoever.  The oldest Eastern Sages, with joy and holy\ngratitude, had felt it so,--and that it was the Maker's gift and\nwill.  Whose else is it?  It remains a religious duty, from\noldest times, in the East.--Nor could Herr Professor Strauss,\nwhen I put the question, deny that for us at present it is still\nsuch here in the West!  To that dingy fuliginous Operative,\nemerging from his soot-mill, what is the first duty I will\nprescribe, and offer help towards?  That he clean the skin of\nhim.  _Can_ he pray, by any ascertained method?  One knows not\nentirely:--but with soap and a sufficiency of water, he can wash.\nEven the dull English feel something of this;  they have a\nsaying, \"Cleanliness is near of kin to Godliness:\"--yet never, in\nany country, saw I operative men worse washed, and, in a climate\ndrenched with the softest cloud-water, such a scarcity of\nbaths!'--Alas, Sauerteig, our 'operative men' are at present\nshort even of potatoes:  what 'duty' can you prescribe to them!\n\nOr let us give a glance at China.  Our new friend, the Emperor\nthere, is Pontiff of three hundred million men;  who do all live\nand work, these many centuries now;  authentically patronised by\nHeaven so far;  and therefore must have some 'religion' of a\nkind. T his Emperor-Pontiff has, in fact, a religious belief of\ncertain Laws of Heaven;  observes, with a religious rigour, his\n'three thousand punctualities,' given out by men of insight, some\nsixty generations since, as a legible transcript of the same,--\nthe Heavens do seem to say, not totally an incorrect one.  He has\nnot much of a ritual, this Pontiff-Emperor;  believes, it is\nlikest, with the old Monks, that 'Labour is Worship.'  His most\npublic Act of Worship, it appears, is the drawing solemnly at a\ncertain day, on the green bosom of our Mother Earth, when the\nHeavens, after dead black winter, have again with their vernal\nradiances awakened her, a distinct red Furrow with the Plough,--\nsignal that all the Ploughs of China are to begin ploughing and\nworshipping!  It is notable enough.  He, in sight of the Seen and\nUnseen Powers, draws his distinct red Furrow there;  saying, and\npraying, in mute symbolism, so many most eloquent things!\n\nIf you ask this Pontiff, \"Who made him?  What is to become of him\nand us?\" he maintains a dignified reserve;  waves his hand and\npontiff-eyes over the unfathomable deep of Heaven, the 'Tsien,'\nthe azure kingdoms of Infinitude;  as if asking, \"is it doubtful\nthat we are right _well_ made?  Can aught that is _wrong_ become\nof us?\"--He and his three hundred millions (it is their chief\n'punctuality') visit yearly the Tombs of their Fathers;  each man\nthe Tomb of his Father and his Mother:  alone there, in silence,\nwith what of 'worship' or of other thought there may be, pauses\nsolemnly each man;  the divine Skies all silent over him;  the\ndivine Graves, and this divinest Grave, all silent under him;\nthe pulsings of his own soul, if he have any soul, alone audible.\nTruly it may be a kind of worship!  Truly, if a man cannot get\nsome glimpse into the Eternities, looking through this portal,--\nthrough what other need he try it?\n\nOur friend the Pontiff-Emperor permits cheerfully, though with\ncontempt, all manner of Buddhists, Bonzes, Talapoins and such\nlike, to build brick Temples, on the voluntary principle;  to\nworship with what of chantings, paper-lanterns and tumultuous\nbrayings, pleases them;  and make night hideous, since they find\nsome comfort in so doing.  Cheerfully, though with contempt.  He\nis a wiser Pontiff than many persons think!  He is as yet the one\nChief Potentate or Priest in this Earth who has made a distinct\nsystematic attempt at what we call the ultimate result of all\nreligion, _'Practical_ Hero-worship:'  he does incessantly, with\ntrue anxiety, in such way as he can, search and sift (it would\nappear) his whole enormous population for the Wisest born among\nthem;  by which Wisest, as by born Kings, these three hundred\nmillion men are governed.  The Heavens, to a certain extent, do\nappear to countenance him.  These three hundred millions actually\nmake porcelain, souchong tea, with innumerable other things;  and\nfight, under Heaven's flag, against Necessity;--and have fewer\nSeven-Years Wars, Thirty-Years Wars, French-Revolution Wars, and\ninfernal fightings with each other, than certain millions\nelsewhere have!\n\n\nNay, in our poor distracted Europe itself, in these newest times,\nhave there not religious voices risen,--with a religion new and\nyet the oldest;  entirely indisputable to all hearts of men?\nSome I do know, who did not call or think themselves 'Prophets,'\nfar enough from that;  but who were, in very truth, melodious\nVoices from the eternal Heart of Nature once again;  souls\nforever venerable to all that have a soul.  A French Revolution\nis one phenomenon;  as complement and spiritual exponent thereof,\na Poet Goethe and German Literature is to me another.  The old\nSecular or Practical World, so to speak, having gone up in fire,\nis not here the prophecy and dawn of a new Spiritual World,\nparent of far nobler, wider, new Practical Worlds?  A Life of\nAntique devoutness, Antique veracity and heroism, has again\nbecome possible, is again _seen_ actual there, for the most\nmodern man.  A phenomenon, as quiet as it is, comparable for\ngreatness to no other!  'The great event for the world is, now as\nalways, the arrival in it of a new Wise Man.'  Touches there are,\nbe the Heavens ever thanked, of new Sphere-melody;  audible once\nmore, in the infinite jargoning discords and poor scrannel-\npipings of the thing called Literature;--priceless there, as the\nvoice of new Heavenly Psalms!  Literature, like the old Prayer-\nCollections of the first centuries, were it 'well selected from\nand burnt,' contains precious things.  For Literature, with all\nits printing-presses, puffing-engines and shoreless deafening\ntriviality, is yet 'the Thought of Thinking Souls.'  A sacred\n'religion,' if you like the name, does live in the heart of that\nstrange froth-ocean, not wholly froth, which we call Literature;\nand will more and more disclose itself therefrom;--not now as\nscorching Fire:  the red smoky scorching Fire has purified itself\ninto white sunny Light.  Is not Light grander than Fire?  It is\nthe same element in a state of purity.\n\nMy ingenuous readers, we will march out of this Third Book with a\nrhythmic word of Goethe's on our tongue;  a word which perhaps\nhas already sung itself, in dark hours and in bright, through\nmany a heart.  To me, finding it devout yet wholly credible and\nveritable, full of piety yet free of cant;  to me joyfully\nfinding much in it, and joyfully missing so much in it, this\nlittle snatch of music, by the greatest German Man, sounds like a\nstanza in the grand _Road-Song_ and _Marching-Song_ of our great\nTeutonic Kindred, wending, wending, valiant and victorious,\nthrough the undiscovered Deeps of Time!  He calls it _Mason-\nLodge,_--not Psalm or Hymn:\n\n     The Mason's ways are\n     A type of Existence,\n     And his persistance\n     Is as the days are\n     Of men in this world.\n\n     The Future hides in it\n     Good hap and sorrow;\n     We press still thorow,\n     Nought that abides in it\n     Daunting us,--onward.\n\n     And solemn before us,\n     Veiled, the dark Portal,\n     Goal of all mortal:--\n     Stars silent rest o'er us,\n     Graves under us silent.\n\n     While earnest thou gazest,\n     Comes boding of terror,\n     Comes phantasm and error,\n     Perplexes the bravest\n     With doubt and misgiving.\n\n     But heard are the Voices,--\n     Heard are the Sages,\n     The Worlds and the Ages:\n     \"Choose well, your choice is\n     Brief and yet endless:\n\n     Here eyes do regard you,\n     In Eternity's stilness;\n     Here is all fulness,\n     Ye brave, to reward you;\n     Work, and despair not.\"\n\n\n\n\nBook IV--Horoscope\n\n\n\nChapter I\n\nAristocracies\n\n\nTo predict the Future, to manage the Present, would not be so\nimpossible, had not the Past been so sacrilegiously mishandled;\neffaced, and what is worse, defaced!  The Past cannot be seen;\nthe Past, looked at through the medium of 'Philosophical History'\nin these times, cannot even be _not_ seen:  it is misseen;\naffirmed to have existed,--and to have been a godless\nImpossibility.  Your Norman Conquerors, true royal souls, crowned\nkings as such, were vulturous irrational tyrants:  your Becket\nwas a noisy egoist and hypocrite;  getting his brains spilt on\nthe floor of Canterbury Cathedral, to secure the main chance,--\nsomewhat uncertain how!  \"Enthusiasm,\" and even \"honest\nEnthusiasm,\"--yes, of course:\n\n     'The Dog, to gain his private ends,\n     _Went_ mad, and bit the Man!'--\n\nFor in truth, the eye sees in all things 'what it brought with it\nthe means of seeing.'  A godless century, looking back on\ncenturies that were godly, produces portraitures more miraculous\nthan any other.  All was inane discord in the Past;  brute Force\nbore rule everywhere;  Stupidity, savage Unreason, fitter for\nBedlam than for a human World!  Whereby indeed it becomes\nsufficiently natural that the like qualities, in new sleeker\nhabiliments, should continue in our time to rule.  Millions\nenchanted in Bastille Workhouses;  Irish Widows proving their\nrelationship by typhus-fever:  what would you have?  It was ever\nso, or worse.  Man's History, was it not always even this:  The\ncookery and eating up of imbecile Dupedom by successful\nQuackhood;  the battle, with various weapons, of vulturous Quack\nand Tyrant against vulturous Tyrant and Quack?  No God was in the\nPast Time;  nothing but.  Mechanisms and Chaotic Brute-gods:--how\nshall the poor 'Philosophic Historian,' to whom his own century\nis all godless, see any God in other centuries?\n\nMen believe in Bibles, and disbelieve in them:  but of all Bibles\nthe frightfulest to disbelieve in is this 'Bible of Universal\nHistory.'  This is the Eternal Bible and God's-Book, 'which every\nborn man,' till once the soul and eyesight are distinguished in\nhim, 'can and must, with his own eyes, see the God's-Finger\nwriting!'  To discredit this, is an _infidelity_ like no other.\nSuch infidelity you would punish, if not by fire and faggot,\nwhich are difficult to manage in our times, yet by the most\nperemptory order, To hold its peace till it got something wiser\nto say.  Why should the blessed Silence be broken into noises, to\ncommunicate only the like of this?  If the Past have no God's-\nReason in it, nothing but Devil's-Unreason, let the Past be\neternally forgotten:  mention it no more;--we whose ancestors\nwere all hanged, why should we talk of ropes!\n\nIt is, in brief, not true that men ever lived by Delirium,\nHypocrisy, Injustice, or any form of Unreason, since they came to\ninhabit this Planet.  It is not true that they ever did, or ever\nwill, live except by the reverse of these.  Men will again be\ntaught this.  Their acted History will then again be a Heroism;\ntheir written History, what it once was, an Epic.  Nay, forever\nit is either such;  or else it virtually is--Nothing.  Were it\nwritten in a thousand volumes, the Unheroic of such volumes\nhastens incessantly to be forgotten;  the net content of an\nAlexandrian Library of Unheroics is, and will ultimately shew\nitself to be, _zero._  What man is interested to remember _it,_\nhave not all men, at all times, the liveliest interest to forget\nit?--'Revelations,' if not celestial, then infernal, will teach\nus that God is;  we shall then, if needful, discern without\ndifficulty that He has always been!  The Dryasdust Philosophisms\nand enlightened Scepticisms of the Eighteenth Century, historical\nand other, will have to survive for a while with the\nPhysiologists, as a memorable _Nightmare-Dream._  All this\nhaggard epoch, with its ghastly Doctrines, and death's-head\nPhilosophies 'teaching by example' or otherwise, will one day\nhave become, what to our Moslem friends their godless ages are,\n'the Period of Ignorance.\n\n\nIf the convulsive struggles of the last Half-Century have taught\npoor struggling convulsed Europe any truth, it may perhaps be\nthis as the essence of innumerable others:  That Europe requires\na real Aristocracy, a real Priesthood, or it cannot continue to\nexist.  Huge French Revolutions, Napoleonisms, then Bourbonisms\nwith their corollary of Three Days, finishing in very unfinal\nLouis-Philippisms:  all this ought to be didactic!  All this may\nhave taught us, That False Aristocracies are insupportable;\nthat No-Aristocracies, Liberty-and-Equalities are impossible;\nthat True Aristocracies are at once indispensable and not\neasily attained.\n\nAristocracy and Priesthood, a Governing Class and a Teaching\nClass:  these two, sometimes separate, and endeavouring to\nharmonise themselves, sometimes conjoined as one, and the King a\nPontiff-King:--there did no Society exist without these two vital\nelements, there will none exist.  It lies in the very nature of\nman:  you will visit no remotest village in the most republican\ncountry of the world, where virtually or actually you do not find\nthese two powers at work.  Man, little as he may suppose it, is\nnecessitated to obey superiors.  He is a social being in virtue\nof this necessity;  nay he could not be gregarious otherwise.  He\nobeys those whom he esteems better than himself, wiser, braver;\nand will forever obey such;  and even be ready and delighted to\ndo it.\n\nThe Wiser, Braver:  these, a Virtual Aristocracy everywhere and\neverywhen, do in all Societies that reach any articulate shape,\ndevelop themselves into a ruling class, an Actual Aristocracy,\nwith settled modes of operating, what are called laws and even\n_private-laws_ or privileges, and so forth;  very notable to look\nupon in this world.--Aristocracy and Priesthood, we say, are\nsometimes united.  For indeed the Wiser and the Braver are\nproperly but one class;  no wise man but needed first of all to\nbe a brave man, or he never had been wise.  The noble Priest was\nalways a noble Aristos to begin with, and something more to end\nwith.  Your Luther, your Knox, your Anselm, Becket, Abbot Samson,\nSamuel Johnson, if they had not been brave enough, by what\npossibility could they ever have been wise?--If, from accident or\nforethought, this your Actual Aristocracy have got discriminated\ninto Two Classes, there can be no doubt but the Priest Class is\nthe more dignified;  supreme over the other, as governing head is\nover active hand.  And yet in practice again, it is likeliest the\nreverse will be found arranged;--a sign that the arrangement is\nalready vitiated;  that a split is introduced into it, which will\nwiden and widen till the whole be rent asunder.\n\nIn England, in Europe generally, we may say that these two\nVirtualities have unfolded themselves into Actualities, in by far\nthe noblest and richest manner any region of the world ever saw.\nA spiritual Guideship, a practical Governorship, fruit of the\ngrand conscious endeavours, say rather of the immeasurable\nunconscious instincts and necessities of men, have established\nthemselves;  very strange to behold.  Everywhere, while so much\nhas been forgotten, you find the King's Palace, and the\nViceking's Castle, Mansion, Manorhouse;  till there is not an\ninch of ground from sea to sea but has both its King and\nViceking, long due series of Viceking, its Squire, Earl, Duke or\nwhatever the title of him,--to whom you have given the land that\nhe may govern you in it.\n\nMore touching still, there is not a hamlet where poor peasants\ncongregate, but by one means and another a Church-Apparatus has\nbeen got together,--roofed edifice, with revenues and belfries;\npulpit, reading-desk, with Books and Methods:  possibility, in\nshort, and strict prescription, That a man stand there and speak\nof spiritual things to men.  It is beautiful;--even in its great\nobscuration and decadence, it is among the beautifulest, most\ntouching objects one sees on the Earth.  This Speaking Man has\nindeed, in these times, wandered terribly from the point;  has,\nalas, as it were totally lost sight of the point:  yet, at\nbottom, whom have we to compare with him?  Of all public\nfunctionaries boarded and lodged on the Industry of Modern\nEurope, is there one worthier of the board he has?  A man even\nprofessing, and never so languidly making still some endeavour,\nto save the souls of men:  contrast him with a man professing to\ndo little but shoot the partridges of men!  I wish he could find\nthe point again, this Speaking One;  and stick to it with\ntenacity, with deadly energy;  for there is need of him yet!  The\nSpeaking Function, this of Truth coming to us with a living\nvoice, nay in a living shape, and as a concrete practical\nexemplar:  this, with all our Writing and Printing Functions, has\na perennial place.  Could he but find the point again,--take the\nold spectacles off his nose, and looking up discover, almost in\ncontact with him, what the _real_ Satanas, and soul-devouring,\nworld-devouring _Devil,_ now is!  Original Sin and such like are\nbad enough, I doubt not:  but distilled Gin, dark Ignorance,\nStupidity, dark Corn-Law, Bastille and Company, what are they!\n_Will_ he discover our new real Satan, whom he has to fight;  or\ngo on droning through his old nose-spectacles about old extinct\nSatans;  and never see the real one, till he _feel_ him at his\nown throat and ours?  That is a question, for the world!  Let us\nnot intermeddle with it here.\n\nSorrowful, phantasmal as this same Double Aristocracy of Teachers\nand Governors now looks, it is worth all men's while to know that\nthe purport of it is and remains noble and most real.  Dryasdust,\nlooking merely at the surface, is greatly in error as to those\nancient Kings.  William Conqueror, William Rufus or Redbeard,\nStephen Curthose himself, much more Henry Beauclerc and our brave\nPlantagenet Henry:  the life of these men was not a vulturous\nFighting;  it was a valorous Governing,--to which occasionally\nFighting did, and alas must yet, though far seldomer now,\nsuperadd itself as an accident, a distressing impedimental\nadjunct.  The fighting too was indispensable, for ascertaining\nwho had the might over whom, the right over whom.  By much hard\nfighting, as we once said, 'the unrealities, beaten into dust,\nflew gradually off;'  and left the plain reality and fact, \"Thou\nstronger than I;  thou wiser than I;  thou king, and subject I,\"\nin a somewhat clearer condition.\n\nTruly we cannot enough admire, in those Abbot-Samson and William-\nConqueror times, the arrangement they had made of their Governing\nClasses.  Highly interesting to observe how the sincere insight,\non their part, into what did, of primary necessity, behove to be\naccomplished, had led them to the way of accomplishing it, and in\nthe course of time to get it accomplished!  No imaginary\nAristocracy would serve their turn;  and accordingly they\nattained a real one.  The Bravest men, who, it is ever to be\nrepeated and remembered, are also on the whole the Wisest,\nStrongest, every way Best, had here, with a respectable degree of\naccuracy, been got selected;  seated each on his piece of\nterritory, which was lent him, then gradually given him, that\nhe might govern it.  These Vicekings, each on his portion of\nthe common soil of England, with a Head King over all, were\na 'Virtuality perfected into an Actuality' really to an\nastonishing extent.\n\nFor those were rugged stalwart ages;  full of earnestness, of a\nrude God's-truth:--nay, at any rate, their _quilting_ was so\nunspeakably _thinner_ than ours;  Fact came swiftly on them, if\nat any time they had yielded to Phantasm!  'The Knaves and\nDastards' had to be 'arrested' in some measure;  or the world,\nalmost within year and day, found that it could not live.  The\nKnaves and Dastards accordingly were got arrested.  Dastards upon\nthe very throne had to be got arrested, and taken off the\nthrone,--by such methods as there were;  by the roughest method,\nif there chanced to be no smoother one!  Doubtless there was much\nharshness of operation, much severity;  as indeed government and\nsurgery are often somewhat severe.  Gurth born thrall of Cedric,\nit is like;  got cuffs as often as pork-parings, if he\nmisdemeaned himself;  but Gurth did belong to Cedric:  no human\ncreature then went about connected with nobody;  left to go his\nways into Bastilles or worse, under _Laissez-faire;_  reduced to\nprove his relationship by dying of typhus-fever!--Days come when\nthere is no King in Israel, but every man is his own king, doing\nthat which is right in his own eyes;--and tarbarrels are burnt to\n'Liberty,' 'Tenpound Franchise' and the like, with considerable\neffect in various ways!--\n\nThat Feudal Aristocracy, I say, was no imaginary one.  To a\nrespectable degree, its _Jarls,_ what we now call Earls, were\n_Strong-Ones_ in fact as well as etymology;  its Dukes _Leaders,_\nits Lords _Law-wards._  They did all the Soldiering and Police of\nthe country, all the judging, Law-making, even the Church-\nExtension;  whatsoever in the way of Governing, of Guiding and\nProtecting could be done.  It was a Land Aristocracy;  it managed\nthe Governing of this English People, and had the reaping of the\nSoil of England in return.  It is, in many senses, the Law of\nNature, this same Law of Feudalism;--no right Aristocracy but a\nLand one!  The curious are invited to meditate upon it in these\ndays.  Soldiering, Police and Judging, Church-Extension, nay real\nGovernment and Guidance, all this was actually _done_ by the\nHolders of the Land in return for their Land.  How much of it is\nnow done by them;  done by anybody?  Good Heavens, \"Laissez-\nfaire, Do ye nothing, eat your wages and sleep,\" is everywhere\nthe passionate half-wise cry of this time;  and they will not so\nmuch as do nothing, but must do mere Corn-Laws!  We raise Fifty-\ntwo millions, from the general mass of us, to get our Governing\ndone,--or, alas, to get ourselves persuaded that it is done:  and\nthe 'peculiar burden of the Land' is to pay, not all this, but to\npay, as I learn, one twenty-fourth part of all this.  Our first\nChartist Parliament, or Oliver _Redivivus,_ you would say, will\nknow where to lay the new taxes of England!--Or, alas, taxes?  If\nwe made the Holders of the Land pay every shilling still of the\nexpense of Governing the Land, what were all that?  The Land, by\nmere hired Governors, cannot be got governed.  You cannot hire\nmen to govern the Land:  it is by a mission not contracted for in\nthe Stock-Exchange, but felt in their own hearts as coming out of\nHeaven, that men can govern a Land.  The mission of a Land\nAristocracy is a sacred one, in both the senses of that old word.\nThe footing it stands on, at present, might give rise to thoughts\nother than of Corn-Laws!--\n\nBut truly a 'Splendour of God,' as in William Conqueror's rough\noath, did dwell in those old rude veracious ages;  did inform,\nmore and more, with a heavenly nobleness, all departments of\ntheir work and life.  Phantasms could not yet walk abroad in mere\nCloth Tailorage;  they were at least Phantasms 'on the rim of the\nhorizon,' pencilled there by an eternal Light-beam from within.\nA most 'practical' Hero-worship went on, unconsciously or half-\nconsciously, everywhere.  A Monk Samson, with a maximum of two\nshillings in his pocket, could, without ballot-box, be made a\nViceking of, being seen to be worthy.  The difference between a\ngood man and a bad man was as yet felt to be, what it forever is,\nan immeasurable one.  Who _durst_ have elected a Pandarus Dog-\ndraught, in those days, to any office, Carlton Club, Senatorship,\nor place whatsoever?  It was felt that the arch Satanas and no\nother had a clear right of property in Pandarus;  that it were\nbetter for you to have no hand in Pandarus, to keep out of\nPandarus his neighbourhood!  Which is, to this hour, the mere\nfact;  though for the present, alas, the forgotten fact.  I think\nthey were comparatively blessed times those, in their way!\n'Violence,' 'war,' 'disorder:'  well, what is war, and death\nitself, to such a perpetual life-in-death, and 'peace and peace\nwhere there is no peace!'  Unless some Hero-worship, in its new\nappropriate form, can return, this world does not promise to be\nvery habitable long.\n\nOld Anselm, exiled Archbishop of Canterbury, one of the purest-\nminded 'men of genius,' was traveling to make his appeal to Rome\nagainst King Rufus,--a man of rough ways, in whom the 'inner\nLight-beam' shone very fitfully.  It is beautiful to read, in\nMonk Eadmer, how the Continental populations welcomed and\nvenerated this Anselm, as no French population now venerates\nJean-Jacques or giant-killing Voltaire;  as not even an American\npopulation now venerates a Schnuspel the distinguished Novelist!\nThey had, by phantasy and true insight, the intensest conviction\nthat a God's Blessing dwelt in this Anselm,--as is my conviction\ntoo.  They crowded round, with bent knees and enkindled hearts,\nto receive his blessing, to hear his voice, to see the light of\nhis face.  My blessings on them and on him!--But the notablest\nwas a certain necessitous or covetous Duke of Burgundy, in\nstraitened circumstances we shall hope,--who reflected that in\nall likelihood this English Archbishop, going towards Rome to\nappeal, must have taken store of cash with him to bribe the\nCardinals.  Wherefore he of Burgundy, for his part, decided to\nlie in wait and rob him.  'In an open space of a wood,' some\n'wood' then green and growing, eight centuries ago, in Burgundian\nLand,--this fierce Duke, with fierce steel followers, shaggy,\nsavage, as the Russian Bear, dashes out on the weak old Anselm;\nwho is riding along there, on his small quiet-going pony;\nescorted only by Eadmer and another poor Monk on ponies;  and,\nexcept small modicum of roadmoney, not a gold coin in his\npossession.  The steelclad Russian Bear emerges, glaring:  the\nold whitebearded man starts not,--paces on unmoved, looking into\nhim with those clear old earnest eyes, with that venerable\nsorrowful time-worn face;  of whom no man or thing need be\nafraid, and who also is afraid of no created man or thing.  The\nfire-eyes of his Burgundian Grace meet these clear eye-glances,\nconvey them swift to his heart:  he bethinks him that probably\nthis feeble, fearless, hoary Figure has in it something of the\nMost High God;  that probably he shall be damned if he meddle\nwith it,--that, on the whole, he had better not.  He plunges, the\nrough savage, from his warhorse, down to his knees;  embraces the\nfeet of old Anselm:  he too begs his blessing;  orders men to\nescort him, guard him from being robbed, and under dread\npenalties see him safe on his way.  _Per os Dei,_ as his Majesty\nwas wont to ejaculate!\n\nNeither is this quarrel of Rufus and Anselm, of Henry and Becket,\nuninstructive to us.  It was, at bottom, a great quarrel.  For,\nadmitting that Anselm was full of divine blessing, he by no means\nincluded in him all forms of divine blessing:--there were far\nother forms withal, which he little dreamed of;  and William\nRedbeard was unconsciously the representative and spokesman of\nthese.  In truth, could your divine Anselm, your divine Pope\nGregory have had their way, the results had been very notable.\nOur Western World had all become a European Thibet, with one\nGrand Lama sitting at Rome;  our one honourable business that of\nsinging mass, all day and all night.  Which would not in the\nleast have suited us!  The Supreme Powers willed it not so.\n\nIt was as if King Redbeard unconsciously, addressing Anselm,\nBecket and the others, had said:  \"Right Reverend, your Theory of\nthe Universe is indisputable by man or devil.  To the core of our\nheart we feel that this divine thing, which you call Mother\nChurch, does fill the whole world hitherto known, and is and\nshall be all our salvation and all our desire.  And yet--and yet\n--Behold, though it is an unspoken secret, the world is _wider_\nthan any of us think, Right Reverend!  Behold, there are yet\nother immeasurable Sacrednesses in this that you call Heathenism,\nSecularity!  On the whole I, in an obscure but most rooted\nmanner, feel that I cannot comply with you.  Western Thibet and\nperpetual mass-chanting,--No. I am, so to speak, in the family-\nway;  with child, of I know not what,--certainly of something far\ndifferent from this!  I have--_Per os Dei,_ I have Manchester\nCotton-trades, Bromwicham Iron-trades, American Commonwealths,\nIndian Empires, Steam Mechanisms and Shakspeare Dramas, in my\nbelly;  and cannot do it, Right Reverend!\"--So accordingly it was\ndecided: and Saxon Becket spilt his life in Canterbury Cathedral,\nas Scottish Wallace did on Tower-Hill, and as generally a noble\nman and martyr has to do,--not for nothing;  no, but for a divine\nsomething, other than _he_ had altogether calculated.  We will\nnow quit this of the hard, organic, but limited Feudal Ages;  and\nglance timidly into the immense Industrial Ages, as yet all\ninorganic, and in a quite pulpy condition, requiring desperately\nto harden themselves into some organism!\n\n\nOur Epic having now become _Tools and the Man,_ it is more than\nusually impossible to prophesy the Future.  The boundless Future\ndoes lie there, predestined, nay already extant though unseen;\nhiding, in its Continents of Darkness, 'good hap and sorrow:'\nbut the supremest intelligence of man cannot prefigure much of\nit:--the united intelligence and effort of All Men in all coming\ngenerations, this alone will gradually prefigure it, and figure\nand form it into a seen fact!  Straining our eyes hitherto, the\nutmost effort of intelligence sheds but some most glimmering\ndawn, a little way into its dark enormous Deeps:  only huge\noutlines loom uncertain on the sight;  and the ray of prophecy,\nat a short distance, expires.  But may we not say, here as\nalways, Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof!  To shape the\nwhole Future is not our problem;  but only to shape faithfully a\nsmall part of it, according to rules already known.  It is\nperhaps possible for each of us, who will with due earnestness\ninquire, to ascertain clearly what he, for his own part, ought to\ndo:  this let him, with true heart, do, and continue doing.  The\ngeneral issue will, as it has always done, rest well with a\nHigher Intelligence than ours.\n\nOne grand 'outline,' or even two, many earnest readers may\nperhaps, at this stage of the business, be able to prefigure for\nthemselves,--and draw some guidance from.  One prediction, or\neven two, are already possible.  For the Life-tree Igdrasil, in\nall its new developments, is the selfsame world-old Life-tree:\nhaving found an element or elements there, running from the very\nroots of it in Hela's Realms, in the Well of Mimer and of the\nThree Nornas or TIMES, up to this present hour of it in our own\nhearts, we conclude that such will have to continue.  A man has,\nin his own soul, an Eternal;  can read something of the Eternal\nthere, if he will look!  He already knows what will continue;\nwhat cannot, by any means or appliance whatsoever, be made\nto continue!\n\nOne wide and widest 'outline' ought really, in all ways, to be\nbecoming clear to us;  this namely:  That a 'Splendour of God,'\nin one form or other, will have to unfold itself from the heart\nof these our Industrial Ages too;  or they will never get\nthemselves 'organised;'  but continue chaotic, distressed,\ndistracted evermore, and have to perish in frantic suicidal\ndissolution.  A second 'outline' or prophecy, narrower, but also\nwide enough, seems not less certain:  That there will again _be_\na King in Israel;  a system of Order and Government;  and every\nman shall, in some measure, see himself constrained to do that\nwhich is right in the King's eyes.  This too we may call a sure\nelement of the Future;  for this too is of the Eternal;--this too\nis of the Present, though hidden from most;  and without it no\nfibre of the Past ever was.  An actual new Sovereignty,\nIndustrial Aristocracy, real not imaginary Aristocracy, is\nindispensable and indubitable for us.\n\nBut what an Aristocracy;  on what new, far more complex and\ncunningly devised conditions than that old Feudal fighting one!\nFor we are to bethink us that the Epic verily is not _Arms and\nthe Man,_ but _Tools and the Man,_--an infinitely wider kind of\nEpic.  And again we are to bethink us that men cannot now be\nbound to men by _brass-collars,_--not at all:  that this brass-\ncollar method, in all figures of it, has vanished out of Europe\nforevermore!  Huge Democracy, walking the streets everywhere in\nits Sack Coat, has asserted so much;  irrevocably, brooking no\nreply!  True enough, man _is_ forever the 'born thrall' of\ncertain men, born master of certain other men, born equal of\ncertain others, let him acknowledge the fact or not.  It is\nunblessed for him when he cannot acknowledge this fact;  he is in\nthe chaotic state, ready to perish, till he do get the fact\nacknowledged.  But no man is, or can henceforth be, the brass-\ncollar thrall of any man;  you will have to bind him by other,\nfar nobler and cunninger methods.  Once for all, he is to be\nloose of the brass-collar, to have a scope as wide as his\nfaculties now are:--will he not be all the usefuler to you, in\nthat new state?  Let him go abroad as a trusted one, as a free\none;  and return home to you with rich earnings at night!  Gurth\ncould only tend pigs;  this one will build cities, conquer waste\nworlds.--How, in conjunction with inevitable Democracy,\nindispensable Sovereignty is to exist:  certainly it is the\nhugest question ever heretofore propounded to Mankind!  The\nsolution of which is work for long years and centuries.  Years\nand centuries, of one knows not what complexion;--blessed or\nunblessed, according as they shall, with earnest valiant effort,\nmake progress therein, or, in slothful unveracity and\ndilettantism, only talk of making progress.  For either progress\ntherein, or swift and ever swifter progress towards dissolution,\nis henceforth a necessity.\n\n\nIt is of importance that this grand reformation were begun;  that\nCorn-Law Debatings and other jargon, little less than delirious\nin such a time, had fled far away, and left us room to begin!\nFor the evil has grown practical, extremely conspicuous;  if it\nbe not seen and provided for, the blindest fool will have to feel\nit ere long.  There is much that can wait;  but there is\nsomething also that cannot wait.  With millions of eager Working\nMen imprisoned in 'Impossibility' and Poor-Law Bastilles, it is\ntime that some means of dealing with them were trying to become\n'possible!'  Of the Government of England, of all articulate-\nspeaking functionaries, real and imaginary Aristocracies, of me\nand of thee, it is imperatively demanded, \"How do you mean to\nmanage these men?  Where are they to find a supportable\nexistence?  What is to become of them,--and of you!\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\n\nBribery Committee\n\n\nIn the case of the late Bribery Committee, it seemed to be the\nconclusion of the soundest practical minds that Bribery could not\nbe put down;  that Pure Election was a thing we had seen the last\nof, and must now go on without, as we best could.  A conclusion\nnot a little startling;  to which it requires a practical mind of\nsome seasoning to reconcile yourself at once!  It seems, then, we\nare henceforth to get ourselves constituted Legislators not\naccording to what merit we may have, or even what merit we may\nseem to have, but according to the length of our purse, and our\nfrankness, impudence and dexterity in laying out the contents of\nthe same.  Our theory, written down in all books and law-books,\nspouted forth from all barrel-heads, is perfect purity of\nTenpound Franchise, absolute sincerity of question put and answer\ngiven;--and our practice is irremediable bribery;  irremediable,\nunpunishable, which you will do more harm than good by attempting\nto punish!  Once more, a very startling conclusion indeed;\nwhich, whatever the soundest practical minds in parliament\nmay think of it, invites all British men to meditations of\nvarious kinds.\n\nA Parliament, one would say, which proclaims itself elected and\neligible by bribery, tells the Nation that is governed by it a\npiece of singular news.  Bribery:  have we reflected what bribery\nis?  Bribery means not only length of purse, which is neither\nqualification nor the contrary for legislating well;  but it\nmeans dishonesty, and even impudent dishonesty;--brazen\ninsensibility to lying and to making others lie;  total oblivion,\nand flinging overboard, for the nonce, of any real thing you can\ncall veracity, morality;  with dexterous putting on the cast-\nclothes of that real thing, and strutting about in them!  What\nLegislating can you get out of a man in that fatal situation?\nNonce that will profit much, one would think!  A Legislator who\nhas left his veracity lying on the door threshold, he, why verily\n_he_--ought to be sent out to seek it again!\n\nHeavens, what an improvement, were there once fairly, in Downing-\nstreet, an Election-Office opened, with a Tariff of Boroughs!\nSuch and such a population, amount of property-tax, ground-\nrental, extent of trade;  returns two Members, returns one\nMember, for so much money down:  Ipswich so many thousands,\nNottingham so many,--as they happened, one by one, to fall into\nthis new Downing-street Schedule A!  An incalculable improvement,\nin comparison:  for now at least you have it fairly by length of\npurse, and leave the dishonesty, the impudence, the unveracity\nall handsomely aside.  Length of purse and desire to be a\nLegislator ought to get a man into Parliament, not with, but if\npossible _without_ the unveracity, the impudence and the\ndishonesty!  Length of purse and desire, these are, as intrinsic\nqualifications, correctly equal to zero;  but they are not yet\nless than zero,--as the smallest addition of that latter sort\nwill make them!\n\nAnd is it come to this?  And does our venerable Parliament\nannounce itself elected and eligible in this manner?  Surely such\na Parliament promulgates strange horoscopes of itself.  What is\nto become of a Parliament elected or eligible in this manner?\nUnless Belial and Beelzebub have got possession of the throne of\nthis Universe, such Parliament is preparing itself for new\nReform-bills.  We shall have to try it by Chartism, or any\nconceivable _ism,_ rather than put up with this!  There is\nalready in England 'religion' enough to get six hundred and\nfifty-eight Consulting Men brought together who do _not_ begin\nwork with a lie in their mouth.  Our poor old Parliament,\nthousands of years old, is still good for something, for several\nthings;--though many are beginning to ask, with ominous anxiety,\nin these days:  For what thing?  But for whatever thing and\nthings Parliament be good, indisputably it must start with other\nthan a lie in its mouth!  On the Whole, a Parliament working with\na lie in its mouth, will have to take itself away.  To no\nParliament or thing, that one has heard of, did this Universe\never long yield harbour on that footing.  At all hours of the day\nand night, some Chartism is advancing, some armed Cromwell is\nadvancing, to apprise such Parliament:  \"Ye are no Parliament.\nIn the name of God,--go!\"\n\nIn sad truth, once more, how is our whole existence, in these\npresent days, built on Cant, Speciosity, Falsehood, Dilettantism;\nwith this one serious Veracity in it:  Mammonism!  Dig down where\nyou will, through the Parliament-floor or elsewhere, how\ninfallibly do you, at spade's depth below the surface, come upon\nthis universal _Liars_-rock substratum!  Much else is ornamental;\ntrue on barrel-heads, in pulpits, hustings, Parliamentary\nbenches;  but this is forever true and truest:  \"Money does bring\nmoney's worth;  Put money in your purse.\"  Here, if nowhere else,\nis the human soul still in thorough earnest;  sincere with a\nprophet's sincerity:  and 'the Hell of the English,' as Sauerteig\nsaid, 'is the infinite terror of Not getting on, especially of\nNot making money.'  With results!\n\n\nTo many persons the horoscope of Parliament is more interesting\nthan to me:  but surely all men with souls must admit that\nsending members to Parliament by bribery is an infamous solecism;\nan act entirely immoral, which no man can have to do with, more\nor less, but he will soil his fingers more or less.  No Carlton\nClubs, Reform Clubs, nor any sort of clubs or creatures, or of\naccredited opinions or practices, can make a Lie Truth, can make\nBribery a Propriety.  The Parliament should really either punish\nand put away Bribery, or legalise it by some Office in Downing-\nstreet.  As I read the Apocalypses, a Parliament that can do\nneither of these things is not in a good way.--And yet, alas,\nwhat of Parliaments and their Elections?  Parliamentary Elections\nare but the topmost ultimate outcome of an electioneering which\ngoes on at all hours, in all places, in every meeting of two or\nmore men.  It is _we_ that vote wrong, and teach the poor ragged\nFreemen of Boroughs to vote wrong.  We pay respect to those\nworthy of no respect.\n\nIs not Pandarus Dogdraught a member of select clubs, and admitted\ninto the drawingrooms of men?  Visibly to all persons he is of\nthe offal of Creation;  but he carries money in his purse, due\nlacker on his dog-visage, and it is believed will not steal\nspoons.  The human species does not with one voice, like the\nHebrew Psalmist, 'shun to sit' with Dogdraught, refuse totally to\ndine with Dogdraught;  men called of honour are willing enough to\ndine with him, his talk being lively, and his champagne\nexcellent.  We say to ourselves, \"The man is in good society,\"--\nothers have already voted for him;  why should not I?  We\n_forget_ the indefeasible right of property that Satan has in\nDogdraught,--we are not afraid to be near Dogdraught!  It is we\nthat vote wrong;  blindly, nay with falsity prepense!  It is we\nthat no longer know the difference between Human Worth and Human\nUnworth;  or feel that the one is admirable and alone admirable,\nthe other detestable, damnable!  How shall _we_ find out a Hero\nand Viceking Samson with a maximum of two shillings in his\npocket?  We have no chance to do such a thing.  We have got out\nof the Ages of Heroism, deep into the Ages of Flunkeyism,--and\nmust return or die.  What a noble set of mortals are we, who,\nbecause there is no Saint Edmund threatening us at the rim of the\nhorizon, are not afraid to be whatever, for the day and hour, is\nsmoothest for us!\n\nAnd now, in good sooth, why should an indigent discerning Freeman\ngive his vote without bribes?  Let us rather honour the poor man\nthat he does discern clearly wherein lies, for him, the true\nkernel of the matter.  What is it to the ragged grimy Freeman of\na Tenpound-Franchise Borough, whether Aristides Rigmarole Esq. of\nthe Destructive, or the Hon. Alcides Dolittle of the Conservative\nParty be sent to Parliament;--much more, whether the two-\nthousandth part of them be sent, for that is the amount of his\nfaculty in it?  Destructive or Conservative, what will either of\nthem destroy or conserve of vital moment to this Freeman?  Has he\nfound either of them care, at bottom, a sixpence for him or his\ninterests, or those of his class or of his cause, or of any class\nor cause that is of much value to God or to man?  Rigmarole and\nDolittle have alike cared for themselves hitherto;  and for their\nown clique, and self-conceited crotchets,--their greasy dishonest\ninterests of pudding, or windy dishonest interests of praise;\nand not very perceptibly for any other interest whatever.\nNeither Rigmarole nor Dolittle will accomplish any good or any\nevil for this grimy Freeman, like giving him a five-pound note,\nor refusing to give it him.  It will be smoothest to vote\naccording to value received.  That is the veritable fact;  and he\nindigent, like others that are not indigent, acts conformably\nthereto.\n\nWhy, reader, truly, if they asked thee or me, Which way we meant\nto vote?--were it not our likeliest answer:  Neither way!  I, as\na Tenpound Franchiser, will receive no bribe;  but also I will\nnot vote for either of these men.  Neither Rigmarole nor Dolittle\nshall, by furtherance of mine, go and make laws for this country.\nI will have no hand in such a mission. How dare I!  If other men\ncannot be got in England, a totally other sort of men, different\nas light is from dark, as star-fire is from street-mud, what is\nthe use of votings, or of Parliaments in England?  England ought\nto resign herself;  there is no hope or possibility for England.\nIf England cannot get her Knaves and Dastards 'arrested,' in\nsome degree, but only get them 'elected,' what is to become\nof England?\n\nI conclude, with all confidence, that England will verily have to\nput an end to briberies on her Election Hustings and elsewhere,\nat what cost soever;--and likewise that we, Electors and\nEligibles, one and all of us, for our own behoof and hers, cannot\ntoo soon begin, at what cost soever, to put an end to\n_bribeabilities_ in ourselves.  The death-leprosy, attacked in\nthis manner, by purifying lotions from without, and by rallying\nof the vital energies and purities from within, will probably\nabate somewhat!  It has otherwise no chance to abate.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\nThe One Institution\n\n\nWhat our Government can do in this grand Problem of the Working\nClasses of England?  Yes, supposing the insane Corn-Laws totally\nabolished, all speech of them ended, and 'from ten to twenty\nyears of new possibility to live and find wages' conceded us in\nconsequence:  What the English Government might be expected to\naccomplish or attempt towards rendering the existence of our\nLabouring Millions somewhat less anomalous, somewhat less\nimpossible, in the years that are to follow those 'ten or\ntwenty,' if either 'ten' or 'twenty' there be?\n\nIt is the most momentous question.  For all this of the Corn-Law\nAbrogation, and what can follow therefrom, is but as the shadow\non King Hezekiah's Dial:  the shadow has gone back twenty years;\nbut will again, in spite of Free-Trades and Abrogations, travel\nforward its old fated way.  With our present system of individual\nMammonism, and Government by Laissez-faire, this Nation cannot\nlive.  And if, in the priceless interim, some new life and\nhealing be not found, there is no second respite to be counted\non.  The shadow on the Dial advances thenceforth without pausing.\nWhat Government can do?  This that they call 'Organising of\nLabour' is, if well understood, the Problem of the whole Future,\nfor all who will in future pretend to govern men.  But our first\npreliminary stage of it, How to deal with the Actual Labouring\nMillions of England? this is the imperatively pressing Problem of\nthe Present, pressing with a truly fearful intensity and\nimminence in these very years and days.  No Government can longer\nneglect it:  once more, what can our Government do in it?\n\n\nGovernments are of various degrees of activity:  some, altogether\nLazy Governments, in 'free countries' as they are called, seem in\nthese times almost to profess to do, if not nothing, one knows\nnot at first what.  To debate in Parliament, and gain majorities;\nand ascertain who shall be, with a toil hardly second to Ixion's,\nthe Prime Speaker and Spoke-holder, and keep the Ixion's-Wheel\ngoing, if not forward, yet round?  Not altogether so:--much, to\nthe experienced eye, is not what it seems!  Chancery and certain\nother Law-Courts seem nothing;  yet in fact they are, the worst\nof them, something:  chimneys for the devilry and contention of\nmen to escape by;--a very considerable something!--Parliament too\nhas its tasks, if thou wilt look;  fit to wear out the lives of\ntoughest men.  The celebrated Kilkenny Cats, through their\ntumultuous congress, cleaving the ear of Night, could they be\nsaid to do nothing?  Hadst thou been of them, thou hadst seen!\nThe feline heart laboured, as with steam up-to the bursting\npoint;  and death-doing energy nerved every muscle:  they had a\nwork there;  and did it!  On the morrow, two tails were found\nleft, and peaceable annihilation;  a neighbourhood _delivered_\nfrom despair.\n\nAgain, are not Spinning-Dervishes an eloquent emblem, significant\nof much?  Hast thou noticed him, that solemn-visaged Turk, the\neyes shut;  dingy wool mantle circularly hiding his figure;--\nbell-shaped;  like a dingy bell set spinning on the _tongue_ of\nit?  By centrifugal force the dingy wool mantle heaves itself;\nspreads more and more, like upturned cup widening into upturned\nsaucer:  thus spins he, to the praise of Allah and advantage of\nmankind, fast and faster, till collapse ensue, and sometimes\ndeath!--\n\nA Government such as ours, consisting of from seven to eight\nhundred Parliamentary Talkers, with their escort of Able Editors\nand Public Opinion;  and for head, certain Lords and Servants of\nthe Treasury, and Chief Secretaries and others, who find\nthemselves at once Chiefs and No-Chiefs, and often commanded\nrather than commanding,--is doubtless a most complicate entity,\nand none of the alertest for getting on with business!  Clearly\nenough, if the Chiefs be not self-motive and what we call men,\nbut mere patient lay-figures without self-motive principle, the\nGovernment will not move anywhither;  it will tumble\ndisastrously, and jumble, round its own axis, as for many years\npast we have seen it do.--And yet a self-motive man who is not a\nlay-figure, place him in the heart of what entity you may, will\nmake it move more or less!  The absurdest in Nature he will make\na little _less_ absurd;  he.  The unwieldiest he will make to\nmove;--that is the use of his existing there.  He will at least\nhave the manfulness to depart out of it, if not; to say:  \"I\ncannot move in thee, and be a man;  like a wretched drift-log\ndressed in man's clothes and minister's clothes, doomed to a lot\nbaser than belongs to man, I will not continue with thee,\ntumbling aimless on the Mother of Dead Dogs here:--Adieu!\"\n\nFor, on the whole, it is the lot of Chiefs everywhere, this same.\nNo Chief in the most despotic country but was a Servant withal;\nat once an absolute commanding General, and a poor Orderly-\nSergeant, ordered by the very men in the ranks,--obliged to\ncollect the vote of the ranks too, in some articulate or\ninarticulate shape, and weigh well the same.  The proper name of\nall Kings is Minister, Servant.  In no conceivable Government can\na lay-figure get forward!  _This_ Worker, surely he above all\nothers has to 'spread out his Gideon's Fleece,' and collect the\nmonitions of Immensity;  the poor Localities, as we said, and\nparishes of Palace-yard or elsewhere, having no due monition in\nthem.  A Prime Minister, even here in England, who shall dare\nbelieve the heavenly omens, and address himself like a man and\nhero to the great dumb-struggling heart of England;  and speak\nout for it, and act out for it, the God's-justice it is writhing\nto get uttered and perishing for want of,--yes, he too will see\nawaken round him, in passionate burning all-defiant loyalty, the\nheart of England, and such a 'support' as no Division-List or\nParliamentary Majority was ever yet known to yield a man!  Here\nas there, now as then, he who can and dare trust the heavenly\nImmensities, all earthly Localities are subject to him.  We will\npray for such a Man and First-Lord;--yes, and far better, we will\nstrive and incessantly make ready, each of us, to be worthy to\nserve and second such a First-Lord!  We shall then be as good\nas sure of his arriving;  sure of many things, let him arrive\nor not.\n\n\nWho can despair of Governments that passes a Soldiers'\nGuardhouse, or meets a redcoated man on the streets!  That a body\nof men could be got together to kill other men when you bade\nthem:  this, _a priori,_ does it not seem one of the impossiblest\nthings?  Yet look, behold it: in the stolidest of Donothing\nGovernments, that impossibility is a thing done.  See it there,\nwith buff-belts, red coats on its back;  walking sentry at\nguardhouses, brushing white breeches in barracks;  an\nindisputable palpable fact.  Out of grey Antiquity, amid all\nfinance-difficulties, _scaccarium_-tallies, ship-monies, coat-\nand-conduct monies, and vicissitudes of Chance and Time, there,\ndown to the present blessed hour, it is.\n\nOften, in these painfully decadent and painfully nascent Times,\nwith their distresses, inarticulate gaspings and\n'impossibilities;'  meeting a tall Lifeguardsmans in his snow-\nwhite trousers, or seeing those two statuesque Lifeguardsmen in\ntheir frowning bearskins, pipe-clayed buckskins, on their coal-\nblack sleek-fiery quadrupeds, riding sentry at the Horse-\nGuards,'--it strikes one with a kind of mournful interest, how,\nin such universal down-rushing and wrecked impotence of almost\nall old institutions, this oldest Fighting Institution is still\nso young!  Fresh-complexioned, firm-limbed, six feet by the\nstandard, this fighting-man has verily been got up, and can\nfight.  While so much has not yet got into being;  while so much\nhas gone gradually out of it, and become an empty Semblance or\nClothes-suit;  and highest king's-cloaks, mere chimeras parading\nunder them so long, are getting unsightly to the earnest eye,\nunsightly, almost offensive, like a costlier kind of scarecrow's-\nblanket,--here still is a reality!\n\nThe man in horsehair wig advances, promising that he will get me\n'justice:'  he takes me into Chancery Law-Courts, into decades,\nhalf-centuries of hubbub, of distracted jargon;  and does get\nme--disappointment, almost desperation;  and one refuge:  that of\ndismissing him and his 'justice' altogether out of my head.  For\nI have work to do;  I cannot spend my decades in mere arguing\nwith other men about the exact wages of my work:  I will work\ncheerfully with no wages, sooner than with a ten-years gangrene\nor Chancery Lawsuit in my heart!  He of the horsehair wig is a\nsort of failure;  no substance, but a fond imagination of the\nmind.  He of the shovel-hat, again, who comes forward professing\nthat he will save my soul--O ye Eternities, of him in this place\nbe absolute silence!--But he of the red coat, I say, is a success\nand no failure!  He will veritably, if he get orders, draw out a\nlong sword and kill me.  No mistake there.  He is a fact and not\na shadow.  Alive in this Year Forty-three, able and willing to do\nhis work.  In dim old centuries, with William Rufus, William of\nIpres, or far earlier, he began;  and has come down safe so far.\nCatapult has given place to cannon, pike has given place to\nmusket, iron mail-shirt to coat of red cloth, saltpetre ropematch\nto percussion cap;  equipments, circumstances have all changed,\nand again changed:  but the human battle-engine, in the inside of\nany or of each of these, ready still to do battle, stands there,\nsix feet in standard size.  There are Pay-Offices, Woolwich\nArsenals, there is a Horse-Guards, War-Office, Captain-General;\npersuasive Sergeants, with tap of drum, recruit in market-towns\nand villages;--and, on the whole, I say, here is your actual\ndrilled fightingman;  here are your actual Ninety-thousand of\nsuch, ready to go into any quarter of the world and fight!\n\nStrange, interesting, and yet most mournful to reflect on.  Was\nthis, then, of all the things mankind had some talent for, the\none thing important to learn well, and bring to perfection;  this\nof, successfully killing one another?  Truly you have learned it\nwell, and carried the business to a high perfection.  It is\nincalculable what, by arranging, commanding and regimenting, you\ncan make of men.  These thousand straight-standing firm-set\nindividuals, who shoulder arms, who march, wheel, advance,\nretreat;  and are, for your behoof, a magazine charged with fiery\ndeath, in the most perfect condition of potential activity:  few\nmonths ago, till the persuasive sergeant came, what were they?\nMultiform ragged losels, runaway apprentices, starved weavers,\nthievish valets;  an entirely broken population, fast tending\ntowards the treadmill.  But the persuasive sergeant came;  by tap\nof drum enlisted, or formed lists of them, took heartily to\ndrilling them;--and he and you have made them this!  Most potent,\neffectual for all work whatsoever, is wise planning, firm\ncombining and commanding among men.  Let no man despair of\nGovernments who looks on these two sentries at the Horse-Guards,\nand our United-Service Clubs!  I could conceive an Emigration\nService, a Teaching Service, considerable varieties of United and\nSeparate Services, of the due thousands strong, all effective as\nthis Fighting Service is;  all doing _their_ work, like it;--\nwhich work, much more than fighting, is henceforth the necessity\nof these New Ages we are got into!  Much lies among us,\nconvulsively, nigh desperately _struggling to be born._\n\nBut mean Governments, as mean-limited individuals do, have stood\nby the physically indispensable;  have realised that and nothing\nmore.  The Soldier is perhaps one of the most difficult things to\nrealise;  but Governments, had they not realised him, could not\nhave existed:  accordingly he is here.  O Heavens, if we saw an\narmy ninety-thousand strong, maintained and fully equipt, in\ncontinual real action and battle against Human Starvation,\nagainst Chaos, Necessity, Stupidity, and our real 'natural\nenemies,' what a business were it!  Fighting and molesting not\n'the French,' who, poor men, have a hard enough battle of their\nown in the like kind, and need no additional molesting from us;\nbut fighting and incessantly spearing down and destroying\nFalsehood, Nescience, Delusion, Disorder, and the Devil and his\nAngels!  Thou thyself, cultivated reader, hast done something in\nthat alone true warfare;  but, alas, under what circumstances was\nit?  Thee no beneficent drill-sergeant, with any effectiveness,\nwould rank in line beside thy fellows;  train, like a true\ndidactic artist, by the wit of all past expedience, to do thy\nsoldiering;  encourage thee when right, punish thee when wrong,\nand everywhere with wise word-of-command say, Forward on this\nhand, Forward on that!  Ah, no:  thou hadst to learn thy small-\nsword and platoon exercise where and how thou couldst;  to all\nmortals but thyself it was indifferent whether thou shouldst ever\nlearn it.  And the rations, and shilling a day, were they\nprovided thee,--reduced as I have known brave Jean-Pauls,\nlearning their exercise, to live on 'water _without_ the bread?'\nThe rations;  or any furtherance of promotion to corporalship,\nlance-corporalship, or due cato'-nine tails, with the slightest\nreference to thy deserts, were not provided.  Forethought, even\nas of a pipe-clayed drill-sergeant, did not preside over thee.\nTo corporalship, lance-corporalship, thou didst attain;  alas,\nalso to the halberts and cat:  but thy rewarder and punisher\nseemed blind as the Deluge:  neither lancecorporalship, nor\neven drummer's cat, because both appeared delirious, brought\nthee due profit.\n\nIt was well, all this, we know;--and yet it was not well!  Forty\nsoldiers, I am told, will disperse the largest Spitalfields mob:\nforty to ten-thousand, that is the proportion between drilled and\nundrilled.  Much there is which cannot yet be organised in this\nworld;  but somewhat also which can, somewhat also which must.\nWhen one thinks, for example, what Books are becoming for us,\nwhat Operative Lancashires are become;  what a Fourth Estate, and\ninnumerable Virtualities not yet got to be Actualities are become\nand becoming,--one sees Organisms enough in the dim huge Future;\nand 'United Services' quite other than the redcoat one;  and\nmuch, even in these years, struggling to be born!\n\n\nOf Time-Bill, Factory-Bill and other such Bills the present\nEditor has no authority to speak.  He knows not, it is for others\nthan he to know, in what specific ways it may be feasible to\ninterfere, with Legislation, between the Workers and the Master-\nWorkers;--knows only and sees, what all men are beginning to see,\nthat Legislative interference, and interferences not a few are\nindispensable;  that as a lawless anarchy of supply-and-demand,\non market-wages alone, this province of things cannot longer be\nleft.  Nay interference has begun:  there are already Factory\nInspectors,--who seem to have no _lack_ of work.  Perhaps there\nmight be Mine-Inspectors too:--might there not be Furrowfield\nInspectors withal, and ascertain for us how on seven and sixpence\na week a human family does live!  Interference has begun;  it\nmust continue, must extensively enlarge itself, deepen and\nsharpen itself.  Such things cannot longer be idly lapped in\ndarkness, and suffered to go on unseen:  the Heavens do see them;\nthe curse, not the blessing of the Heavens is on an Earth that\nrefuses to see them.\n\nAgain, are not Sanitary Regulations possible for a Legislature?\nThe old Romans had their Aediles;  who would, I think, in direct\ncontravention to supply-and-demand, have rigorously seen rammed\nup into total abolition many a foul cellar in our Southwarks,\nSaint-Gileses, and dark poison-lanes;  saying sternly, \"Shall a\nRoman man dwell there?\"  The Legislature, at whatever cost of\nconsequences, would have had to answer, \"God forbid!\"--The\nLegislature, even as it now is, could order all dingy\nManufacturing Towns to cease from their soot and darkness;  to\nlet in the blessed sunlight, the blue of Heaven, and become clear\nand clean;  to burn their coal-smoke, namely, and make flame of\nit.  Baths, free air, a wholesome temperature, ceilings twenty\nfeet high, might be ordained by Act of Parliament, in all\nestablishments licensed as Mills.  There are such Mills already\nextant;--honour to the builders of them! The Legislature can say\nto others:  Go ye and do likewise;  better if you can.\n\nEvery toiling Manchester, its smoke and soot all burnt, ought it\nnot, among so many world-wide conquests, to have a hundred acres\nor so of free greenfield, with trees on it, conquered, for its\nlittle children to disport in;  for its all-conquering workers to\ntake a breath of twilight air in?  You would say so!  A willing\nLegislature could say so with effect.  A willing Legislature\ncould say very many things!  And to whatsoever 'vested interest,'\nor such like, stood up, gainsaying merely, \"I shall lose\nprofits,\"--the willing Legislature would answer, \"Yes, but my\nsons and daughters will gain health, and life, and a soul.\"--\n\"What is to become of our Cotton-trade?\" cried certain Spinners,\nwhen the Factory-Bill was proposed;  \"What is to become of our\ninvaluable Cotton-trade?\"  The Humanity of England answered\nsteadfastly:  \"Deliver me these rickety perishing souls of\ninfants, and let your Cotton-trade take its chance.  God Himself\ncommands the one thing;  not God especially the other thing.  We\ncannot have prosperous Cotton-trades at the expense of keeping\nthe Devil a partner in them!\"--\n\nBills enough, were the Corn-Law Abrogation Bill once passed, and\na Legislature willing!  Nay this one Bill, which lies yet\nunenacted, a right Education Bill, is not this of itself the sure\nparent of innumerable wise Bills,--wise regulations, practical\nmethods and proposals, gradually ripening towards the state of\nBills?  To irradiate with intelligence, that is to say, with\norder, arrangement and all blessedness, the Chaotic,\nUnintelligent:  how, except by educating, _can_ you-accomplish\nthis?  That thought, reflection, articulate utterance and\nunderstanding be awakened in these individual million heads,\nwhich are the atoms of your Chaos:  there is no other way of\nilluminating any Chaos!  The sum-total of intelligence that is\nfound in it, determines the extent of order that is possible for\nyour Chaos,--the feasibility and rationality of what your Chaos\nwill dimly demand from you, and will gladly obey when proposed by\nyou!  It is an exact equation;  the one accurately measures the\nother.--If the whole English People, during these 'twenty years\nof respite,' be not educated, with at least schoolmaster's\neducating, a tremendous responsibility, before God and men, will\nrest somewhere!  How dare any man, especially a man calling\nhimself minister of God, stand up in any Parliament or place,\nunder any pretext or delusion, and for a day or an hour forbid\nGod's Light to come into the world, and bid the Devil's Darkness\ncontinue in it one hour more!  For all light and science, under\nall shapes, in all degrees of perfection, is of God;  all\ndarkness, nescience, is of the Enemy of God.  'The schoolmaster's\ncreed is somewhat awry?'  Yes, I have found few creeds entirely\ncorrect;  few light-beams shining white, pure of admixture:  but\nof all creeds and religions now or ever before known, was not\nthat of thoughtless thriftless Animalism, of Distilled Gin, and\nStupor and Despair, unspeakably the least orthodox?  We will\nexchange it even with Paganism, with Fetishism;  and, on the\nwhole, must exchange it with something.\n\nAn effective 'Teaching Service' I do consider that there must be;\nsome Education Secretary, Captain-General of Teachers, who will\nactually contrive to get us _taught._  Then again, why should\nthere not be an 'Emigration Service,' and Secretary, with\nadjuncts, with funds, forces, idle Navy-ships, and ever-\nincreasing apparatus;  in fine an _effective system_ of\nEmigration;  so that, at length, before our twenty years of\nrespite ended, every honest willing Workman who found England too\nstrait, and the 'Organisation of Labour' not yet sufficiently\nadvanced, might find likewise a bridge built to carry him into\nnew Western Lands, there to 'organise' with more elbow-room some\nlabour for himself?  There to be a real blessing, raising new\ncorn for us, purchasing new webs and hatchets from us;  leaving\nus at least in peace;--instead of staying here to be a Physical-\nForce Chartist, unblessed and no blessing!  Is it not scandalous\nto consider that a Prime Minister could raise within the year, as\nI have seen it done, a Hundred and Twenty Millions Sterling to\nshoot the French;  and we are stopt short for want of the\nhundredth part of that to keep the English living?  The bodies of\nthe English living;  and the souls of the English living:--these\ntwo 'Services,' an Education Service and an Emigration Service,\nthese with others will actually have to be organised!\n\nA free bridge for Emigrants:  why, we should then be on a par\nwith America itself, the most favoured of all lands that have no\ngovernment;  and we should have, besides, so many traditions and\nmementos of priceless things which America has cast away.  We\ncould proceed deliberately to 'organise Labour,' not doomed to\nperish unless we effected it within year and day;--every willing\nWorker that proved superfluous, finding a bridge ready for him.\nThis verily will have to be done;  the Time is big with this.\nOur little Isle is grown too narrow for us;  but the world is\nwide enough yet for another Six Thousand Years.  England's sure\nmarkets will be among new Colonies of Englishmen in all quarters\nof the Globe.  All men trade with all men, when mutually\nconvenient;  and are even bound to do it by the Maker of men.\nOur friends of China, who guiltily refused to trade, in these\ncircumstances,--had we not to argue with them, in cannon-shot at\nlast, and convince them that they ought to trade!  'Hostile\nTariffs' will arise, to shut us out;  and then again will fall,\nto let us in:  but the Sons of England, speakers of the English\nlanguage were it nothing more, will in all times have the\nineradicable predisposition to trade with England.  Mycale was\nthe _Pan-Ionian,_ rendezvous of all the Tribes of Ion, for old\nGreece:  why should not London long continue the _All-Saxon-\nhome,_ rendezvous of all the 'Children of the Harz-Rock,'\narriving, in select samples, from the Antipodes and elsewhere, by\nsteam and otherwise, to the 'season' here!--What a Future;  wide\nas the world, if we have the heart and heroism for it,--which, by\nHeaven's blessing, we shall:\n\n'Keep not standing fixed and rooted,\nBriskly venture, briskly roam;\nHead and hand, where'er thou foot it,\nAnd stout heart are still at home.\n\nIn what land the sun does visit,\nBrisk are we, whate'er betide:\nTo give space for wandering is it\nThat the world was made so wide?' *\n\n--------\n* Goethe, _Wilhelm Meister_\n--------\n\nFourteen hundred years ago, it was by a considerable 'Emigration\nService,' never doubt it, by much enlistment, discussion and\napparatus, that we ourselves arrived in this remarkable Island,--\nand got into our present difficulties among others!\n\n\nIt is true the English Legislature, like the English People, is\nof slow temper; essentially conservative.  In our wildest periods\nof reform, in the Long Parliament itself, you notice always the\ninvincible instinct to hold fast by the Old;  to admit the\nminimum of New;  to expand, if it be possible, some old habit or\nmethod, already found fruitful, into new growth for the new need.\nIt is an instinct worthy of all honour;  akin to all strength and\nall wisdom.  The Future hereby is not dissevered from the Past,\nbut based continuously on it;  grows with all the vitalities of\nthe Past, and is rooted down deep into the beginnings of us.  The\nEnglish Legislature is entirely repugnant to believe in 'new\nepochs.'  The English Legislature does not occupy itself with\nepochs;  has, indeed, other business to do than looking at the\nTime-Horologe and hearing it tick!  Nevertheless new epochs do\nactually come;  and with them new imperious peremptory\nnecessities;  so that even an English Legislature has to look up,\nand admit, though with reluctance, that the hour has struck.  The\nhour having struck, let us not say 'impossible:'--it will have to\nbe possible!  'Contrary to the habits of Parliament, the habits\nof Government?'  Yes:  but did any Parliament or Government ever\nsit in a Year Forty-three before?  One of the most original,\nunexampled years and epochs;  in several important respects,\ntotally unlike any other!  For Time, all-edacious and all-\nferacious, does run on:  and the Seven Sleepers, awakening hungry\nafter a hundred years, find that it is not their old nurses who\ncan now give them suck!\n\nFor the rest, let not any Parliament, Aristocracy, Millocracy, or\nMember of the Governing Class, condemn with much triumph this\nsmall specimen of 'remedial measures;' or ask again, with the\nleast anger, of this Editor, What is to be done, How that\nalarming problem of the Working Classes is to be managed?\nEditors are not here, foremost of all, to say How.  A certain\nEditor thanks the gods that nobody pays him three hundred\nthousand pounds a year, two hundred thousand, twenty thousand, or\nany similar sum of cash for saying How;--that his wages are very\ndifferent, his work somewhat fitter for him.  An Editor's\nstipulated work is to apprise thee that it must be done.  The\n'way to do it,' is to try it, knowing that thou shalt die if it\nbe not done.  There is the bare back, there is the web of cloth;\nthou shalt cut me a coat to cover the bare back, thou whose trade\nit is.  'Impossible?'  Hapless Fraction, dost thou discern Fate\nthere, half unveiling herself in the gloom of the future, with\nher gibbet-cords, her steel-whips, and very authentic Tailor's\nHell;  waiting to see whether it is 'possible?'  Out with thy\nscissors, and cut that cloth or thy own windpipe!\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\nCaptains of Industry\n\n\nIf I believed that Mammonism with its adjuncts was to continue\nhenceforth the one serious principle of our existence, I should\nreckon it idle to solicit remedial measures from any Government,\nthe disease being insusceptible of remedy.  Government can do\nmuch, but it can in no wise do all.  Government, as the most\nconspicuous object in Society, is called upon to give signal of\nwhat shall be done;  and, in many ways, to preside over, further,\nand command the doing of it.  But the Government cannot do, by\nall its signalling and commanding, what the Society is radically\nindisposed to do.--In the long-run every Government is the exact\nsymbol of its People, with their wisdom and unwisdom;  we have to\nsay, Like People like Government.--The main substance of this\nimmense Problem of Organising Labour, and first of all of\nManaging the Working Classes, will, it is very clear, have to be\nsolved by those who stand practically in the middle of it;  by\nthose who themselves work and preside over work.  Of all that can\nbe enacted by any Parliament in regard to it, the germs must\nalready lie potentially extant in those two Classes, who are to\nobey such enactment.  A Human Chaos in which there is no light,\nyou vainly attempt to irradiate by light shed on it:  order never\ncan arise there.\n\nBut it is my firm conviction that the 'Hell of England' will\n_cease_ to be that of 'not making money;'  that we shall get a\nnobler Hell and a nobler Heaven!  I anticipate light _in_ the\nHuman Chaos, glimmering, shining more and more;   under manifold\ntrue signals from without That light shall shine.  Our deity no\nlonger being Mammon,--O Heavens, each man will then say to\nhimself:  \"Why such deadly haste to make money?  I shall not go\nto Hell, even if I do not make money!  There is another Hell, I\nam told!\"  Competition, at railway-speed, in all branches of\ncommerce and work will then abate:--good felt-hats for the head,\nin every sense, instead of seven-feet lath-and-plaster hats on\nwheels, will then be discoverable!  Bubble-periods, with their\npanics and commercial crises, will again become infrequent;\nsteady modest industry will take the place of gambling\nspeculation.  To be a noble Master, among noble Workers, will\nagain be the first ambition with some few;  to be a rich Master\nonly the second.  How the Inventive Genius of England, with the\nwhirr of its bobbins and billy-rollers shoved somewhat into the\nbackgrounds of the brain, will contrive and devise, not cheaper\nproduce exclusively, but fairer distribution of the produce at\nits present cheapness!  By degrees, we shall again have a Society\nwith something of Heroism in it, something of Heaven's Blessing\non it;  we shall again have, as my German friend asserts,\n'instead of Mammon-Feudalism with unsold cotton-shirts and\nPreservation of the Game, noble just Industrialism and Government\nby the Wisest!'\n\nIt is with the hope of awakening here and there a British man to\nknow himself for a man and divine soul, that a few words of\nparting admonition, to all persons to whom the Heavenly Powers\nhave lent power of any kind in this land, may now be addressed.\nAnd first to those same Master-Workers, Leaders of Industry;  who\nstand nearest, and in fact powerfulest, though not most\nprominent, being as yet in too many senses a Virtuality rather\nthan an Actuality.\n\n\nThe Leaders of Industry, if Industry is ever to be led, are\nvirtually the Captains of the World;  if there be no nobleness in\nthem, there will never be an Aristocracy more.  But let the\nCaptains of Industry consider:  once again, are they born of\nother clay than the old Captains of Slaughter;  doomed forever to\nbe no Chivalry, but a mere gold-plated _Doggery,_--what the\nFrench well name _Canaille,_ 'Doggery' with more or less gold\ncarrion at its disposal?  Captains of Industry are the true\nFighters, henceforth recognisable as the only true ones:\nFighters against Chaos, Necessity and the Devils and Jotuns;  and\nlead on Mankind in that great, and alone true, and universal\nwarfare;  the stars in their courses fighting for them, and all\nHeaven and all Earth saying audibly, Well-done!  Let the Captains\nof Industry retire into their own hearts, and ask solemnly, If\nthere is nothing but vulturous hunger, for fine wines, valet\nreputation and gilt carriages, discoverable there?  Of hearts\nmade by the Almighty God.\n\nI will not believe such a thing.  Deep-hidden under wretchedest\ngod-forgetting Cants, Epicurisms, Dead-Sea Apisms;  forgotten as\nunder foulest fat Lethe mud and weeds, there is yet, in all\nhearts born into this God's-World, a spark of the Godlike\nslumbering.  Awake, O nightmare sleepers;  awake, arise, or be\nforever fallen!  This is not playhouse poetry;  it is sober fact.\nOur England, our world cannot live as it is.  It will connect\nitself with a God again, or go down with nameless throes and\nfire-consummation to the Devils.  Thou who feelest aught of such\na Godlike stirring in thee, any faintest intimation of it as\nthrough heavy-laden dreams, follow it, I conjure thee.  Arise,\nsave thyself, be one of those that save thy country.\n\nBucaniers, Chactaw Indians, whose supreme aim in fighting is that\nthey may get the scalps, the money, that they may amass scalps\nand money:  out of such came no Chivalry, and never will!  Out of\nsuch came only gore and wreck, infernal rage and misery;\ndesperation quenched in annihilation.  Behold it, I bid thee,\nbehold there, and consider!  What is it that thou have a hundred\nthousand-pound bills laid up in thy strong-room, a hundred scalps\nhung up in thy wigwam?  I value not them or thee.  Thy scalps and\nthy thousand-pound bills are as yet nothing, if no nobleness from\nwithin irradiate them;  if no Chivalry, in action, or in embryo\never struggling towards birth and action, be there.\n\nLove of men cannot be bought by cash-payment;  and without love,\nmen cannot endure to be together.  You cannot lead a Fighting\nWorld without having it regimented, chivalried:  the thing, in a\nday, becomes impossible;  all men in it, the highest at first,\nthe very lowest at last, discern consciously, or by a noble\ninstinct, this necessity.  And can you any more continue to lead\na Working World unregimented, anarchic?  I answer, and the\nHeavens and Earth are now answering, No!  The thing becomes not\n'in a day' impossible;  but in some two generations it does.\nYes, when fathers and mothers, in Stockport hunger-cellars, begin\nto eat their children, and Irish widows have to prove their\nrelationship by dying of typhus-fever;  and amid Governing\n'Corporations of the Best and Bravest,' busy to preserve their\ngame by 'bushing,' dark millions of God's human creatures start\nup in mad Chartisms, impracticable Sacred-Months, and Manchester\nInsurrections;--and there is a virtual Industrial Aristocracy as\nyet only half-alive, spellbound amid money-bags and ledgers;  and\nan actual Idle Aristocracy seemingly near dead in somnolent\ndelusions, in trespasses and double-barrels;  'sliding,' as on\ninclined-planes, which every new year they _soap_ with new\nHansard's-jargon under God's sky, and so are 'sliding' ever\nfaster, towards a 'scale' and balance-scale whereon is written\n_Thou art found Wanting:_--in such days, after a generation or\ntwo, I say, it does become, even to the low and simple, very\npalpably impossible!  No Working World, any more than a Fighting\nWorld, can be led on without a noble Chivalry of Work, and laws\nand fixed rules which follow out of that,--far nobler than any\nChivalry of Fighting was.  As an anarchic multitude on mere\nSupply-and-demand, it is becoming inevitable that we dwindle in\nhorrid suicidal convulsion, and self-abrasion, frightful to the\nimagination, into _Chactaw_ Workers.  With wigwam and scalps,--\nwith palaces and thousand-pound bills;  with savagery,\ndepopulation, chaotic desolation!  Good Heavens, will not one\nFrench Revolution and Reign of Terror suffice us, but must there\nbe two?  There will be two if needed;  there will be twenty if\nneeded;  there will be precisely as many as are needed.  The Laws\nof Nature will have themselves fulfilled.  That is a thing\ncertain to me.\n\nYour gallant battle-hosts and work-hosts, as the others did, will\nneed to be made loyally yours;  they must and will be regulated,\nmethodically secured in their just share of conquest under you;--\njoined with you in veritable brotherhood, sonhood, by quite other\nand deeper ties than those of temporary day's wages!  How would\nmere redcoated regiments, to say nothing of chivalries, fight for\nyou, if you could discharge them on the evening of the battle, on\npayment of the stipulated shillings,--and they discharge you on\nthe morning of it!  Chelsea Hospitals, pensions, promotions,\nrigorous lasting covenant on the one side and on the other, are\nindispensable even for a hired fighter.  The Feudal Baron, much\nmore,--how could he subsist with mere temporary mercenaries round\nhim, at sixpence a day;  ready to go over to the other side, if\nsevenpence were offered?  He could not have subsisted;--and his\nnoble instinct saved him from the necessity of even trying!  The\nFeudal Baron had a Man's Soul in him;  to which anarchy, mutiny,\nand the other fruits of temporary mercenaries, were intolerable:\nhe had never been a Baron otherwise, but had continued a Chactaw\nand Bucanier.  He felt it precious, and at last it became\nhabitual, and his fruitful enlarged existence included it as a\nnecessity, to have men round him who in heart loved him;  whose\nlife he watched over with rigour yet with love;  who were\nprepared to give their life for him, if need came.  It was\nbeautiful;  it was human!  Man lives not otherwise, nor can live\ncontented, anywhere or anywhen.  Isolation is the sum-total of\nwretchedness to man.  To be cut off, to be left solitary:  to\nhave a world alien, not your world;  all a hostile camp for you;\nnot a home at all, of hearts and faces who are yours, whose you\nare!  It is the frightfulest enchantment;  too truly a work of\nthe Evil One.  To have neither superior, nor inferior, nor equal,\nunited manlike to you.  Without father, without child, without\nbrother.  Man knows no sadder destiny.  'How is each of us,'\nexclaims Jean Paul, 'so lonely, in the wide bosom of the All!'\nEncased each as in his transparent 'ice-palace;'  our brother\nvisible in his, making signals and gesticulations to us;--\nvisible, but forever unattainable:  on his bosom we shall never\nrest, nor he on ours.  It was not a God that did this; no!\n\nAwake, ye noble Workers, warriors in the one true war:  all this\nmust be remedied.  It is you who are already half-alive, whom I\nwill welcome into life;  whom I will conjure in God's name to\nshake off your enchanted sleep, and live wholly!  Cease to count\nscalps, gold-purses;  not in these lies your or our salvation.\nEven these, if you count only these, will not long be left.  Let\nbucaniering be put far from you;  alter, speedily abrogate all\nlaws of the bucaniers, if you would gain any victory that shall\nendure.  Let God's justice, let pity, nobleness and manly valour,\nwith more gold-purses or with fewer, testify themselves in this\nyour brief Life-transit to all the Eternities, the Gods and\nSilences.  It is to you I call;  for ye are not dead, ye are\nalready half-alive:  there is in you a sleepless dauntless\nenergy, the prime-matter of all nobleness in man.  Honour to you\nin your kind.  It is to you I call:  ye know at least this, That\nthe mandate of God to His creature man is:  Work!  The future\nEpic of the World rests not with those that are near dead, but\nwith those that are alive, and those that are coming into life.\n\nLook around you.  Your world-hosts are all in mutiny, in\nconfusion, destitution;  on the eve of fiery wreck and madness!\nThey will not march farther for you, on the sixpence a day and\nsupply-and-demand principle:  they will not;  nor ought they, nor\ncan they.  Ye shall reduce them to order, begin reducing them.\nTo order, to just subordination;  noble loyalty in return for\nnoble guidance.  Their souls are driven nigh mad;  let yours be\nsane and ever saner.  Not as a bewildered bewildering mob;  but\nas a firm regimented mass, with real captains over them, will\nthese men march any more.  All human interests, combined human\nendeavours, and social growths in this world, have, at a certain\nstage of their development, required organising:  and Work, the\ngrandest of human interests, does now require it.\n\nGod knows, the task will be hard:  but no noble task was ever\neasy.  This task will wear away your lives, and the lives of your\nsons and grandsons:  but for what purpose, if not for tasks like\nthis, were lives given to men?  Ye shall cease to count your\nthousand-pound scalps, the noble of you shall cease!  Nay the\nvery scalps, as I say, will not long be left if you count only\nthese.  Ye shall cease wholly to be barbarous vulturous Chactaws,\nand become noble European Nineteenth-Century Men.  Ye shall know\nthat Mammon, in never such gigs and flunky 'respectabilities,' is\nnot the alone God;  that of himself he is but a Devil, and even\na Brute-god.\n\nDifficult? Yes, it will be difficult.  The short-fibre cotton;\nthat too was difficult.  The waste cotton-shrub, long useless,\ndisobedient, as the thistle by the wayside,--have ye not\nconquered it;  made it into beautiful bandana webs; white woven\nshirts for men;  bright-tinted air-garments wherein flit\ngoddesses?  Ye have shivered mountains asunder, made the hard\niron pliant to you as soft putty:  the Forest-giants, Marsh-\njotuns bear sheaves of golden grain;  Aegir the Sea-demon himself\nstretches his back for a sleek highway to you, and on Firehorses\nand Windhorses ye career.  Ye are most strong.  Thor red-bearded,\nwith his blue sun-eyes, with his cheery heart and strong thunder-\nhammer, he and you have prevailed.  Ye are most strong, ye Sons\nof the icy North, of the far East,--far marching from your rugged\nEastern Wildernesses, hitherward from the grey Dawn of Time!  Ye\nare Sons of the _Jotun_-land;  the land of Difficulties\nConquered.  Difficult?  You must try this thing.  Once try it\nwith the understanding that it will and shall have to be done.\nTry it as ye try the paltrier thing, making of money!  I will bet\non you once more, against all Jotuns, Tailor-gods, Double-\nbarrelled Law-wards, and Denizens of Chaos whatsoever!\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\nPermanence\n\n\nStanding on the threshold, nay as yet outside the threshold, of a\n'Chivalry of Labour,' and an immeasurable Future which it is to\nfill with fruitfulness and verdant shade;  where so much has not\nyet come even to the rudimental state, and all speech of positive\nenactments were hasardous in those who know this business only by\nthe eye,--let us here hint at simply one widest universal\nprinciple, as the basis from which all organisation hitherto has\ngrown up among men, and all henceforth will have to grow:  The\nprinciple of Permanent Contract instead of Temporary.\n\n\nPermanent not Temporary:--you do not hire the mere redcoated\nfighter by the day, but by the score of years' Permanence,\npersistance is the first condition of all fruitfulness in the\nways of men.  The 'tendency to persevere,' to persist in spite of\nhindrances, discouragements and 'impossibilities:'  it is this\nthat in all things distinguishes the strong soul from the weak;\nthe civilised burgher from the nomadic savage,--the Species Man\nfrom the Genus Ape!  The Nomad has his very house set on wheels;\nthe Nomad, and in a still higher degree the Ape, are all for\n'liberty;'  the privilege to flit continually is indispensable\nfor them.  Alas, in how many ways, does our humour, in this\nswift-rolling self-abrading Time, shew itself nomadic, apelike;\nmournful enough to him that looks on it with eyes!  This humour\nwill have to abate;  it is the first element of all fertility in\nhuman things, that such 'liberty' of apes and nomads do by\nfreewill or constraint abridge itself, give place to a better.\nThe civilised man lives not in wheeled houses.  He builds stone\ncastles, plants lands, makes lifelong marriage-contracts;--has\nlong-dated hundred-fold possessions, not to be valued in the\nmoney-market;  has pedigrees, libraries, law-codes;  has memories\nand hopes, even for this Earth, that reach over thousands of\nyears.  Life-long marriage-contracts:  how much preferable were\nyear-long or month-long--to the nomad or ape!\n\nMonth-long contracts please me little, in any province where\nthere can by possibility be found virtue enough for more.  Month-\nlong contracts do not answer well even with your house-servants;\nthe liberty on both sides to change every month is growing very\napelike, nomadic;--and I hear philosophers predict that it will\nalter, or that strange results will follow:  that wise men,\npestered with nomads, with unattached ever-shifting spies and\nenemies rather than friends and servants, will gradually,\nweighing substance against semblance, with indignation, dismiss\nsuch, down almost to the very shoeblack, and say, \"Begone;  I\nwill serve myself rather, and have peace!\"  Gurth was hired for\nlife to Cedric, and Cedric to Gurth.  O Anti-Slavery Convention,\nloud-sounding long-eared Exeter-Hall--But in thee too is a kind\nof instinct towards justice, and I will complain of nothing.\nOnly, black Quashee over the seas being once sufficiently\nattended to, wilt thou not perhaps open thy dull sodden eyes to\nthe 'sixty-thousand valets in London itself who are yearly\ndismissed to the streets, to be what they can, when the season\nends;'--or to the hunger-stricken, pallid, _yellow_-coloured\n'Free Labourers' in Lancashire, Yorkshire, Buckinghamshire, and\nall other shires!  These Yellow-coloured, for the present, absorb\nall my sympathies:  if I had a Twenty Millions, with Model-Farms\nand Niger Expeditions, it is to these that I would give it!\nQuashee has already victuals, clothing;  Quashee is not dying of\nsuch despair as the yellow-coloured pale man's.  Quashee, it must\nbe owned, is hitherto a kind of blockhead.  The Haiti Duke of\nMarmalade, educated now for almost half a century, seems to have\nnext to no sense in him.  Why, in one of those Lancashire\nWeavers, dying of hunger, there is more thought and heart, a\ngreater arithmetical amount of misery and desperation, than in\nwhole gangs of Quashees.  It must be owned, thy eyes are of the\nsodden sort;  and with thy emancipations, and thy twenty-\nmillionings and long-eared clamourings, thou, like Robespierre\nwith his pasteboard _Etre Supreme,_ threatenest to become a bore\nto us, _Avec ton Etre Supreme tu commences m'embeter!--\n\nIn a Printed Sheet of the assiduous, much-abused, and truly\nuseful Mr. Chadwick's, containing queries and responses from far\nand near, as to this great question, 'What is the effect of\nEducation on workingmen, in respect of their value as mere\nworkers?' the present Editor, reading with satisfaction a\ndecisive unanimous verdict as to Education, reads with\ninexpressible interest this special remark, put in by way of\nmarginal incidental note, from a practical manufacturing Quaker,\nwhom, as he is anonymous, we will call Friend Prudence.  Prudence\nkeeps a thousand workmen;  has striven in all ways to attach them\nto him;  has provided conversational soirees;  playgrounds, bands\nof music for the young ones;  went even 'the length of buying\nthem a drum:'  all which has turned out to be an excellent\ninvestment.  For a certain person, marked here by a black stroke,\nwhom we shall name Blank, living over the way,--he also keeps\nsomewhere about a thousand men;  but has done none of these\nthings for them, nor any other thing, except due payment of the\nwages by supply-and-demand.  Blank's workers are perpetually\ngetting into mutiny, into broils and coils:  every six months,\nwe suppose, Blank has a strike;  every one month, every day\nand every hour, they are fretting and obstructing the short-sighted\nBlank;  pilfering from him, wasting and idling for him, omitting\nand committing for him.  \"I would not,\" says Friend Prudence,\n\"exchange my workers for his _with seven thousand pounds to boot.\"_\n\n------------\n*Report on the Training of Pauper Children (1841), p. 18.\n------------\n\nRight, O honourable Prudence;  thou art wholly in the right:\nSeven thousand pounds even as a matter of profit for this world,\nnay for the mere cash-market of this worrd!  And as a matter of\nprofit not for this world only, but for the other world and all\nworlds, it outweighs the Bank of England!--Can the sagacious\nreader descry here, as it were the outmost inconsiderable\nrockledge of a universal rock-foundation, deep once more as the\nCentre of the World, emerging so, in the experience of this good\nQuaker, through the Stygian mud-vortexes and general Mother of\nDead Dogs, whereon, for the present, all swags and insecurely\nhovers, as if ready to be swallowed?\n\n\nSome Permanence of Contract is already almost possible;  the\nprinciple of Permanence, year by year, better seen into and\nelaborated, may enlarge itself, expand gradually on every side\ninto a system.  This once secured, the basis of all good results\nwere laid.  Once permanent, you do not quarrel with the first\ndifficulty on your path, and quit it in weak disgust;  you\nreflect that it cannot be quitted, that it must be conquered, a\nwise arrangement fallen on with regard to it.  Ye foolish Wedded\nTwo, who have quarrelled, between whom the Evil Spirit has\nstirred up transient strife and bitterness, so that\n'incompatibility' seems almost nigh, ye are nevertheless the Two\nwho, by long habit, were it by nothing more, do best of all\nothers suit each other:  it is expedient for your own two foolish\nselves, to say nothing of the infants, pedigrees and public in\ngeneral, that ye agree again;  that ye put away the Evil\nSpirit, and wisely on both hands struggle for the guidance of\na Good Spirit!\n\nThe very horse that is permanent, how much kindlier do his rider\nand he work, than the temporary one, hired on any hack principle\nyet known!  I am for permanence in all things, at the earliest\npossible moment, and to the latest possible.  Blessed is he that\ncontinueth where he is.  Here let us rest, and lay out\nseedfields;  here let us learn to dwell.  Here, even here, the\norchards that we plant will yield us fruit;  the acorns will be\nwood and pleasant umbrage, if we wait.  How much grows\neverywhere, if we do but wait!  Through the swamps we will shape\ncauseways, force purifying drains;  we will learn to thread the\nrocky inaccessibilities;  and beaten tracks, worn smooth by mere\ntraveling of human feet, will form themselves.  Not a difficulty\nbut can transfigure itself into a triumph;  not even a deformity\nbut, if our own soul have imprinted worth on it, will grow dear\nto us.  The sunny plains and deep indigo transparent skies of\nItaly are all indifferent to the great sick heart of a Sir Walter\nScott:  on the back of the Apennines, in wild spring weather, the\nsight of bleak Scotch firs, and snow-spotted heath and\ndesolation, brings tears into his eyes.*\n\n-----------\n*Lockhart's _Life of Scott_\n-----------\n\nO unwise mortals that forever change and shift, and say, Yonder,\nnot Here!  Wealth richer than both the Indies lies everywhere for\nman, if he will endure.  Not his oaks only and his fruit-trees,\nhis very heart roots itself wherever he will abide;--roots\nitself, draws nourishment from the deep fountains of Universal\nBeing!  Vagrant Sam-Slicks, who rove over the Earth doing\n'strokes of trade,' what wealth have they?  Horseloads, shiploads\nof white or yellow metal:  in very sooth, what are these?  Slick\nrests nowhere, he is homeless.  He can build stone or marble\nhouses;  but to continue in them is denied him.  The wealth of a\nman is the number of things which he loves and blesses, which he\nis loved and blessed by!  The herdsman in his poor clay shealing,\nwhere his very cow and dog are friends to him, and not a cataract\nbut carries memories for him, and not a mountain-top but nods old\nrecognition:  his life, all encircled as in blessed mother's-\narms, is it poorer than Slick's with the ass-loads of yellow\nmetal on his back?  Unhappy Slick!  Alas, there has so much grown\nnomadic, apelike, with us:  so much will have, with whatever\npain, repugnance and 'impossibility,' to alter itself, to fix\nitself again,--in some wise way, in any not delirious way!\n\n\nA question arises here:  Whether, in some ulterior, perhaps some\nnot far-distant stage of this 'Chivalry of Labour,' your Master-\nWorker may not find it possible, and needful, to grant his\nWorkers permanent _interest_ in his enterprise and theirs?  So\nthat it become, in practical result, what in essential fact and\njustice it ever is, a joint enterprise;  all men, from the Chief\nMaster down to the lowest Overseer and Operative, economically as\nwell as loyally concerned for it?--Which question I do not\nanswer.  The answer, near or else far, is perhaps, Yes;--and yet\none knows the difficulties.  Despotism is essential in most\nenterprises;  I am told, they do not tolerate 'freedom of debate'\non board a Seventy-four!  Republican senate and _plebiscita_\nwould not answer well in Cotton-Mills.  And yet observe there\ntoo:  Freedom, not nomad's or ape's Freedom, but man's Freedom;\nthis is indispensable.  We must have it, and will have it!  To\nreconcile Despotism with Freedom:--well, is that such a mystery?\nDo you not already know the way?  It is to make your Despotism\n_just._  Rigorous as Destiny;  but just too, as Destiny and its\nLaws.  The Laws of God:  all men obey these, and have no\n'Freedom' at all but in obeying them.  The way is already known,\npart of the way;--and courage and some qualities are needed for\nwalking on it!\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\nThe Landed\n\n\nA man with fifty, with five hundred, with a thousand pounds a\nday, given him freely, without condition at all,--on condition,\nas it now runs, that he will sit with his hands in his pockets\nand do no mischief, pass no Corn-Laws or the like,--he too, you\nwould say, is or might be a rather strong Worker!  He is a Worker\nwith such tools as no man in this world ever before had.  But in\npractice, very astonishing, very ominous to look at, he proves\nnot a strong Worker;--you are too happy if he will prove but a\nNo-worker, do nothing, and not be a Wrong-worker.\n\nYou ask him, at the year's end:  \"Where is your three-hundred\nthousand pound;  what have you realised to us with that?\"  He\nanswers, in indignant surprise:  \"Done with it?  Who are you that\nask?  I have eaten it;  I and my flunkeys, and parasites, and\nslaves two-footed and four-footed, in an ornamental manner;  and\nI am here alive by it;  _I_ am realised by it to you!\"--It is, as\nwe have often said, such an answer as was never before given\nunder this Sun.  An answer that fills me with boding\napprehension, with foreshadows of despair.  O stolid Use-and-wont\nof an atheistic Half-century, O Ignavia, Tailor-godhood, soul-\nkilling Cant, to what passes art thou bringing us!--Out of the\nloud-piping whirlwind, audibly to him that has ears, the Highest\nGod is again announcing in these days:  \"Idleness shall not be.\"\nGod has said it, man cannot gainsay.\n\nAh, how happy were it, if he this Aristocrat Worker would, in\nlike manner, see _his_ work and do it!  It is frightful seeking\nanother to do it for him.  Guillotines, Meudon Tanneries, and\nhalf-a-million men shot dead, have already been expended in that\nbusiness;  and it is yet far from done.  This man too is\nsomething;  nay he is a great thing.  Look on him there:  a man\nof manful aspect;  something of the 'cheerfulness of pride' still\nlingering in him.  A free air of graceful stoicism, of easy\nsilent dignity sits well on him;  in his heart, could we reach\nit, lie elements of generosity, self-sacrificing justice, true\nhuman valour.  Why should he, with such appliances, stand an\nincumbrance in the Present;  perish disastrously out of the\nFuture!  From no section of the Future would we lose these noble\ncourtesies, impalpable yet all-controlling;  these dignified\nreticences, these kingly simplicities;--lose aught of what the\nfruitful Past still gives us token of, memento of, in this man.\nCan we not save him:--can he not help us to save him!  A brave\nman he too;  had not undivine Ignavia, Hearsay, Speech without\nmeaning,--had not Cant, thousandfold Cant within him and around\nhim, enveloping him like choke-damp, like thick Egyptian\ndarkness, thrown his soul into asphyxia, as it were extinguished\nhis soul;  so that he sees not, hears not, and Moses and all the\nProphets address him in vain.\n\nWill he awaken, be alive again, and have a soul;  or is this\ndeath-fit very death?  It is a question of questions, for himself\nand for us all!  Alas, is there no noble work for this man too?\nHas he not thick-headed ignorant boors;  lazy, enslaved farmers;\nweedy lands?  Lands!  Has he not weary heavy-laden ploughers of\nland;  immortal souls of men, ploughing, ditching, day-drudging;\nbare of back, empty of stomach, nigh desperate of heart;  and\nnone peaceably to help them but he, under Heaven?  Does he find,\nwith his three hundred thousand pounds, no noble thing trodden\ndown in the thoroughfares, which it were godlike to help up?  Can\nhe do nothing for his Burns but make a Gauger of him;  lionise\nhim, bedinner him, for a foolish while;  then whistle him down\nthe wind, to desperation and bitter death?--His work too is\ndifficult, in these modern, far-dislocated ages.  But it may be\ndone;  it may be tried;--it must be done.\n\nA modern Duke of Weimar, not a god he either, but a human duke,\nlevied, as I reckon, in rents and taxes and all incomings\nwhatsoever, less than several of our English Dukes do in rent\nalone.  The Duke of Weimar, with these incomings, had to govern,\njudge, defend, every way administer _his_ Dukedom.  He does all\nthis as few others did:  and he improves lands besides all this,\nmakes river-embankments, maintains not soldiers only but\nUniversities and Institutions;--and in his Court were these four\nmen:  Wieland, Herder, Schiller, Goethe.  Not as parasites, which\nwas impossible;  not as table-wits and poetic Katerfeltoes;  but\nas noble Spiritual Men working under a noble Practical Man.\nShielded by him from many miseries;  perhaps from many\nshortcomings, destructive aberrations.  Heaven had sent, once\nmore, heavenly Light into the world;  and this man's honour was\nthat he gave it welcome.  A new noble kind of Clergy, under an\nold but still noble kind of King!  I reckon that this one Duke of\nWeimar did more for the Culture of his Nation than all the\nEnglish Dukes and _Duces_ now extant, or that were extant since\nHenry the Eighth gave them the Church Lands to eat, have done for\ntheirs!--I am ashamed, I am alarmed for my English Dukes:  what\nword have I to say?\n\n_If_ our Actual Aristocracy, appointed 'Best-and-Bravest,' will\nbe wise, how inexpressibly happy for us!  If not,--the voice of\nGod from the whirlwind is very audible to me.  Nay, I will thank\nthe Great God, that He has said, in whatever fearful ways, and\njust wrath against us, \"Idleness shall be no more!\"  Idleness?\nThe awakened soul of man, all but the asphyxied soul of man,\nturns from it as from worse than death.  It is the life-in-death\nof Poet Coleridge.  That fable of the Dead-Sea Apes ceases to be\na fable.  The poor Worker starved to death is not the saddest of\nsights.  He lies there, dead on his shield;  fallen down into the\nbosom of his old Mother;  with haggard pale face, sorrow-worn,\nbut stilled now into divine peace, silently appeals to the\nEternal God and all the Universe,--the most silent, the most\neloquent of men.\n\nExceptions,--ah yes, thank Heaven, we know there are exceptions.\nOur case were too hard, were there not exceptions, and partial\nexceptions not a few, whom we know, and whom we do not know.\nHonour to the name of Ashley,--honour to this and the other\nvaliant Abdiel, found faithful still;  who would fain, by work\nand by word, admonish their Order not to rush upon destruction!\nThese are they who will, if not save their Order, postpone the\nwreck of it;--by whom, under blessing of the Upper Powers, 'a\nquiet euthanasia spread over generations, instead of a swift\ntorture-death concentred into years,' may be brought about for\nmany things.  All honour and success to these.  The noble man can\nstill strive nobly to save and serve his Order;--at lowest, he\ncan remember the precept of the Prophet:  \"Come out of her, my\npeople;  come out of her!\"\n\n\nTo sit idle aloft, like living statues, like absurd Epicurus'-\ngods, in pampered isolation, in exclusion from the glorious\nfateful battlefield of this God's-World:  it is a poor life for a\nman, when all Upholsterers and French-Cooks have done their\nutmost for it!--Nay, what a shallow delusion is this we have all\ngot into.  That any man should or can keep himself apart from\nmen, have 'no business' with them, except a cash-account\nbusiness!'  It is the silliest tale a distressed generation of\nmen ever took to telling one another.  Men cannot live isolated:\nwe _are_ all bound together, for mutual good or else for mutual\nmisery, as living nerves in the same body.  No highest man can\ndisunite himself from any lowest.  Consider it.  Your poor\n'Werter blowing out his distracted existence because Charlotte\nwill not have the keeping thereof:'  this is no peculiar phasis;\nit is simply the highest expression of a phasis traceable\nwherever one human creature meets another!  Let the meanest\ncrookbacked Thersites teach the supremest Agamemnon that he\nactually does not reverence him, the supremest Agamemnon's eyes\nflash fire responsive;  a real pain, and partial insanity, has\nseized Agamemnon.  Strange enough:  a many-counselled Ulysses is\nset in motion by a scoundrel-blockhead;  plays tunes, like a\nbarrel-organ, at the scoundrel-blockhead's touch,--has to snatch,\nnamely, his sceptre cudgel, and weal the crooked back with bumps\nand thumps!  Let a chief of men reflect well on it.  Not in\nhaving 'no business' with men, but in having no unjust business\nwith them, and in _having_ all manner of true and just business,\ncan either his or their blessedness be found possible, and this\nwaste world become, for both parties, a home and peopled garden.\n\nMen do reverence men.  Men do worship in that 'one temple of the\nworld,' as Novalis calls it, the Presence of a Man!  Hero-\nworship, true and blessed, or else mistaken, false and accursed,\ngoes on everywhere and everywhen.  In this world there is one\ngodlike thing, the essence of all that was or ever will be of\ngodlike in this world:  the veneration done to Human Worth by the\nhearts of men.  Hero-worship, in the souls of the heroic, of the\nclear and wise,--it is the perpetual presence of Heaven in our\npoor Earth:  when it is not there, Heaven is veiled from us;  and\nall is under Heaven's ban and interdict, and there is no worship,\nor worthship, or worth or blessedness in the Earth any more!--\n\n\nIndependence, 'lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye'--alas, yes,\nhe is a lord we have got acquainted with in these late times:  a\nvery indispensable lord, for spurning off with due energy\ninnumerable sham-superiors, Tailor-made:  honour to him, entire\nsuccess to him!  Entire success is sure to him.  But he must not\nstop there, at that small success, with his eagle-eye.  He has\nnow a second far greater success to gain:  to seek out his real\nsuperiors, whom not the Tailor but the Almighty God has made\nsuperior to him, and see a little what he will do with these!\nRebel against these also?  Pass by with minatory eagle-glance,\nwith calm-sniffing mockery, or even without any mockery or sniff,\nwhen these present themselves?  The lion-hearted will never dream\nof such a thing.  Forever far be it from him!  His minatory\neagle-glance will veil itself in softness of the dove:  his lion-\nheart will become a lamb's;  all is just indignation changed into\njust reverence, dissolved in blessed floods of noble humble love,\nhow much heavenlier than any pride, nay, if you will, how much\nprouder!  I know him, this lion-hearted, eagle-eyed one;  have\nmet him, rushing on, 'with bosom bare,' in a very distracted\ndishevelled manner, the times being hard;--and can say, and\nguarantee on my life, That in him is no rebellion;  that in him\nis the reverse of rebellion, the needful preparation for\nobedience.  For if you do mean to obey God-made superiors, your\nfirst step is to sweep out the Tailormade ones;  order them,\nunder penalties, to vanish, to make ready for vanishing!\n\nNay, what is best of all, he cannot rebel, if he would.\nSuperiors whom God has made for us we cannot order to withdraw!\nNot in the least.  No Grand-Turk himself, thickest-quilted\ntailor-made Brother of the Sun and Moon can do it:  but an Arab\nMan, in cloak of his own clouting;  with black beaming eyes, with\nflaming sovereign-heart direct from the centre of the Universe;\nand also, I am told, with terrible 'horse-shoe vein' of swelling\nwrath in his brow, and lightning (if you will not have it as\nlight) tingling through every vein of him,--he rises;  says\nauthoritatively:  \"Thickest-quilted Grand-Turk, tailor-made\nBrother of the Sun and Moon, No:--_I_ withdraw not;  thou shalt\nobey me or withdraw!\"  And so accordingly it is:  thickest-\nquilted Grand-Turks and all their progeny, to this hour,\nobey that man in the remarkablest manner;  preferring _not_\nto withdraw.\n\nO brother, it is an endless consolation to me, in this\ndisorganic, as yet so quack-ridden, what you may well call hag-\nridden and hell-ridden world, to find that disobedience to the\nHeavens, when they send any messenger whatever, is and remains\nimpossible.  It cannot be done;  no Turk grand or small can do\nit.  'Skew the dullest clodpole,' says my invaluable German\nfriend, 'shew the haughtiest featherhead, that a soul higher than\nhimself is here;  were his knees stiffened into brass, he must\ndown and worship.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII\n\nThe Gifted\n\n\nYes, in what tumultuous huge anarchy soever a Noble human\nPrinciple may dwell and strive, such tumult is in the way of\nbeing calmed into a fruitful sovereignty.  It is inevitable.  No\nChaos can continue chaotic with a soul in it.  Besouled with\nearnest human Nobleness, did not slaughter, violence and fire-\neyed fury, grow into a Chivalry;  into a blessed Loyalty of\nGovernor and Governed?  And in Work, which is of itself noble,\nand the only true fighting, there shall be no such possibility?\nBelieve it not;  it is incredible;  the whole Universe\ncontradicts it.  Here too the Chactaw Principle will be\nsubordinated;  the Man Principle will, by degrees, become\nsuperior, become supreme.\n\nI know Mammon too;  Banks-of-England, Credit-Systems, worldwide\npossibilities of work and traffic;  and applaud and admire them.\nMammon is like Fire;  the usefulest of all servants, if the\nfrightfulest of all masters!  The Cliffords, Fitzadelms and\nChivalry Fighters 'wished to gain victory,' never doubt it:  but\nvictory, unless gained in a certain spirit, was no victory;\ndefeat, sustained in a certain spirit, was itself victory.  I say\nagain and again, had they counted the scalps alone, they had\ncontinued Chactaws, and no Chivalry or lasting victory had been.\nAnd in Industrial Fighters and Captains is there no nobleness\ndiscoverable?  To them, alone of men, there shall forever be no\nblessedness but in swollen coffers?  To see beauty, order,\ngratitude, loyal human hearts around them, shall be of no moment;\nto see fuliginous deformity, mutiny, hatred and despair, with the\naddition of half a million guineas, shall be better?  Heaven's\nblessedness not there;  Hell's cursedness, and your half-million\nbits of metal, a substitute for that!  Is there no profit in\ndiffusing Heaven's blessedness, but only in gaining gold?--If so,\nI apprise the Mill-owner and Millionaire, that he too must\nprepare for vanishing;  that neither is _he_ born to be of the\nsovereigns of this world;  that he will have to be trampled and\nchained down in whatever terrible ways, and brass-collared safe,\namong the born thralls of this worrd!  We cannot have _Canailles_\nand Doggeries that will not make some Chivalry of themselves:\nour noble Planet is impatient of such;  in the end, totally\nintolerant of such!\n\nFor the Heavens, unwearying in their bounty, do send other souls\ninto this world, to whom yet, as to their forerunners, in Old\nRoman, in Old Hebrew and all noble times, the omnipotent guinea\nis, on the whole, an impotent guinea.  Has your half-dead\navaricious Corn-Law Lord, your half-alive avaricious Cotton-Law\nLord, never seen one such?  Such are, not one, but several;  are,\nand will be, unless the gods have doomed this world to swift dire\nruin.  These are they, the elect of the world;  the born\nchampions, strong men, and liberatory Samsons of this poor world:\nwhom the poor Delilah-world will not always shear of their\nstrength and eyesight, and set to grind in darkness at _its_ poor\ngin-wheel!  Such souls are, in these days, getting somewhat out\nof humour with the world.  Your very Byron, in these days, is at\nleast driven mad;  flatly refuses fealty to the world.  The world\nwith its injustices, its golden brutalities, and dull yellow\nguineas, is a disgust to such souls:  the ray of Heaven that is\nin them does at least pre-doom them to be very miserable here.\nYes:--and yet all misery is faculty misdirected, strength that\nhas not yet found its way.  The black whirlwind is mother of the\nlightning.  No _smoke,_ in any sense, but can become flame and\nradiance!  Such soul, once graduated in Heaven's stern\nUniversity, steps out superior to your guinea.\n\nDost thou know, O sumptuous Corn-Lord, Cotton-Lord, O mutinous\nTrades-Unionist, gin-vanquished, undeliverable;  O much-enslaved\nWorld,--this man is not a slave with thee!  None of thy\npromotions is necessary for him.  His place is with the stars of\nHeaven:  to thee it may be momentous, to him it is indifferent,\nwhether thou place him in the lowest hut, or forty feet higher at\nthe top of thy stupendous high tower, while here on Earth.  The\njoys of Earth that are precious, they depend not on thee and thy\npromotions.  Food and raiment, and, round a social hearth, souls\nwho love him, whom he loves:  these are already his.  He wants\nnone of thy rewards;  behold also, he fears none of thy\npenalties.  Thou canst not answer even by killing him:  the case\nof Anaxarchus thou canst kill;  but the self of Anaxarchus, the\nword or act of Anaxarchus, in no wise whatever.  To this man\ndeath is not a bugbear;  to this man life is already as earnest\nand awful, and beautiful and terrible, as death.\n\nNot a May-game is this man's life;  but a battle and a march, a\nwarfare with principalities and powers.  No idle promenade\nthrough fragrant orange-groves and green flowery spaces, waited\non by the choral Muses and the rosy Hours:  it is a stern\npilgrimage through burning sandy solitudes, through regions of\nthick-ribbed ice.  He walks among men;  loves men, with\ninexpressible soft pity,--as they _cannot_ love him:  but his\nsoul dwells in solitude, in the uttermost parts of Creation.  In\ngreen oases by the palm-tree wells, he rests a space;  but anon\nhe has to journey forward, escorted by the Terrors and the\nSplendours, the Archdemons and Archangels.  All Heaven, all\nPandemonium are his escort.  The stars keen-glancing, from the\nImmensities, send tidings to him;  the graves, silent with their\ndead, from the Eternities.  Deep calls for him unto Deep.\n\nThou, O World, how wilt thou secure thyself against this man?\nThou canst not hire him by thy guineas;  nor by thy gibbets and\nlaw-penalties restrain him.  He eludes thee like a Spirit.  Thou\ncanst not forward him, thou canst not hinder him.  Thy penalties,\nthy poverties, neglects, contumelies:  behold, all these are good\nfor him.  Come to him as an enemy;  turn from him as an unfriend;\nonly do not this one thing,--infect him not with thy own\ndelusion:  the benign Genius, were it by very death, shall guard\nhim against this!--What wilt thou do with him?  He is above thee,\nlike a god.  Thou, in thy stupendous three-inch pattens, art\nunder him.  He is thy born king, thy conqueror and supreme\nlawgiver:  not all the guineas and cannons, and leather and\nprunella, under the sky can save thee from him.  Hardest\nthickskinned Mammon-world, ruggedest Caliban shall obey him, or\nbecome not Caliban but a cramp.  Oh, if in this man, whose eyes\ncan flash Heaven's lightning, and make all Calibans into a cramp,\nthere dwelt not, as the essence of his very being, a God's\njustice, human Nobleness, Veracity and Mercy,--I should tremble\nfor the world.  But his strength, let us rejoice to understand,\nis even this:  The quantity of Justice, of Valour and Pity that\nis in him.  To hypocrites and tailored quacks in high places, his\neyes are lightning;  but they melt in dewy pity softer than a\nmother's to the downpressed, maltreated;  in his heart, in his\ngreat thought, is a sanctuary for all the wretched.  This world's\nimprovement is forever sure.\n\n'Man of Genius?'  Thou hast small notion, meseems, O Mecaenas\nTwiddledee, of what a Man of Genius is!  Read in thy New\nTestament and elsewhere,--if, with floods of mealymouthed\ninanity, with miserable froth-vortices of Cant now several\ncenturies old, thy New Testament is not all bedimmed for thee.\n_Canst_ thou read in thy New Testament at all?  The Highest Man\nof Genius, knowest thou him;  Godlike and a God to this hour?\nHis crown a Crown of Thorns?  Thou fool, with _thy_ empty\nGodhoods, Apotheoses _edgegilt;_  the Crown of Thorns made into a\npoor jewel-room crown, fit for the head of blockheads;  the\nbearing of the Cross changed to a riding in the Long-Acre Gig!\nPause in thy mass-chantings, in thy litanyings, and Calmuck\nprayings by machinery;  and pray, if noisily, at least in a\nmore human manner.  How with thy rubrics and dalmatics, and\nclothwebs and cobwebs, and with thy stupidities and grovelling\nbaseheartedness, hast thou hidden the Holiest into all\nbut invisibility!--\n\n'Man of Genius:'  O Mecaenas Twiddledee, hast thou any notion\nwhat a Man of Genius is?  Genius is 'the inspired gift of God.'\nIt is the clearer presence of God Most High in a man.  Dim,\npotential in all men;  in this man it has become clear, actual.\nSo says John Milton, who ought to be a judge;  so answer him the\nVoices of all Ages and all Worlds.  Wouldst thou commune with\nsuch a one,--_be_ his real peer then:  does that lie in thee?\nKnow thyself and thy real and thy apparent place, and know him\nand his real and his apparent place, and act in some noble\nconformity therewith.  What!  The star-fire of the Empyrean shall\neclipse itself, and illuminate magic-lanterns to amuse grown\nchildren?  He, the god-inspired, is to twang harps for thee, and\nblow through scrannel-pipes;  soothe thy sated soul with visions\nof new, still wider Eldorados, Houri Paradises, richer Lands of\nCockaigne?  Brother, this is not he;  this is a counterfeit, this\ntwangling, jangling, vain, acrid, scrannel-piping man.  Thou dost\nwell to say with sick Saul, \"It is naught, such harping!\"--and in\nsudden rage grasp thy spear, and try if thou canst pin such a one\nto the wall.  King Saul was mistaken in his man, but thou art\nright in thine.  It is the due of such a one:  nail him to the\nwall, and leave him there.  So ought copper shillings to be\nnailed on counters;  copper geniuses on walls, and left there for\na sign!--\n\nI conclude that the Men of Letters too may become a 'Chivalry,'\nan actual instead of a virtual Priesthood, with result\nimmeasurable,--so soon as there is nobleness in themselves for\nthat.  And, to a certainty, not sooner!  Of intrinsic Valetisms\nyou cannot, with whole Parliaments to help you, make a Heroism.\nDoggeries never so gold-plated, Doggeries never so escutcheoned,\nDoggeries never so diplomaed, bepuffed, gas-lighted, continue\nDoggeries, and must take the fate of such.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\n\nThe Didactic\n\n\nCertainly it were a fond imagination to expect that any preaching\nof mine could abate Mammonism;  that Bobus of Houndsditch will\nlove his guineas less, or his poor soul more, for any preaching\nof mine!  But there is one Preacher who does preach with effect,\nand gradually persuade all persons:  his name is Destiny, is\nDivine Providence, and his Sermon the inflexible Course of\nThings.  Experience does take dreadfully high school-wages;  but\nhe teaches like no other!\n\nI revert to Friend Prudence the good Quaker's refusal of 'seven\nthousand pounds to boot.'  Friend Prudence's practical conclusion\nwill, by degrees, become that of all rational practical men\nwhatsover.  On the present scheme and principle, Work cannot\ncontinue.  Trades' Strikes, Trades' Unions, Chartisms;  mutiny,\nsqualor, rage and desperate revolt, growing ever more desperate,\nwill go on their way.  As dark misery settles down on us, and our\nrefuges of lies fall in pieces one after one, the hearts of men,\nnow at last serious, will turn to refuges of truth.  The eternal\nstars shine out again, so soon as it is dark _enough._\n\nBegirt with desperate Trades' Unionism and Anarchic Mutiny, many\nan Industrial _Law-ward,_ by and by, who has neglected to make\nlaws and keep them, will be heard saying to himself:  \"Why have I\nrealised five hundred thousand pounds?  I rose early and sat\nlate, I toiled and moiled, and in the sweat of my brow and of my\nsoul I strove to gain this money, that I might become\nconspicuous, and have some honour among my fellow-creatures.  I\nwanted them to honour me, to love me.  The money is here, earned\nwith my best lifeblood:  but the honour?  I am encircled with\nsqualor, with hunger, rage, and sooty desperation.  Not honoured,\nhardly even envied;  only fools and the flunkey-species so much\nas envy me.  I am conspicuous,--as a mark for curses and\nbrickbats.  What good is it?  My five hundred scalps hang here in\nmy wigwam:  would to Heaven I had sought something else than the\nscalps;  would to Heaven I had been a Christian Fighter, not a\nChactaw one!  To have ruled and fought not in a Mammonish but in\na Godlike spirit;  to have had the hearts of the people bless me,\nas a true ruler and captain of my people;  to have felt my own\nheart bless me, and that God above instead of Mammon below was\nblessing me,--this had been something.  Out of my sight, ye\nbeggarly five hundred scalps of banker's-thousands:  I will try\nfor something other, or account my life a tragical futility!\"\n\nFriend Prudence's 'rock-ledge,' as we called it, will gradually\ndisclose itself to many a man;  to all men.  Gradually, assaulted\nfrom beneath and from above, the Stygian mud-deluge of Laissez-\nfaire, Supply-and-demand, Cash-payment the one Duty, will abate\non all hands;  and the everlasting mountain-tops, and secure\nrock-foundations that reach to the centre of the world, and rest\non Nature's self, will again emerge, to found on, and to build\non.  When Mammon-worshippers here and there begin to be God-\nworshippers, and bipeds-of-prey become men, and there is a Soul\nfelt once more in the huge-pulsing elephantine mechanic Animalism\nof this Earth, it will be again a blessed Earth.\n\n\"Men cease to regard money?\" cries Bobus of Houndsditch:  \"What\nelse do all men strive for?  The very Bishop informs me that\nChristianity cannot get on without a minimum of Four thousand\nfive hundred in its pocket.  Cease to regard money?  That will be\nat Doomsday in the afternoon!\"--O Bobus, my opinion is somewhat\ndifferent.  My opinion is, that the Upper Powers have not yet\ndetermined on destroying this Lower World.  A respectable, ever-\nincreasing minority, who do strive for something higher than\nmoney, I with confidence anticipate;  ever-increasing, till there\nbe a sprinkling of them found in all quarters, as salt of the\nEarth' once more.  The Christianity that cannot get on without a\nminimum of Four thousand five hundred, will give place to\nsomething better that can.  Thou wilt not join our small\nminority, thou?  Not till Doomsday in the afternoon?  Well;\n_then,_ at least, thou wilt join it, thou and the majority\nin mass!\n\nBut truly it is beautiful to see the brutish empire of Mammon\ncracking everywhere;  giving sure promise of dying, or of being\nchanged.  A strange, chill, almost ghastly dayspring strikes up\nin Yankeeland itself:  my Transcendental friends announce there,\nin a distinct, though somewhat lankhaired, ungainly manner, that\nthe Demiurgus Dollar is dethroned;  that new unheard-of\nDemiurgusships, Priesthoods, Aristocracies, Growths and\nDestructions, are already visible in the grey of coming Time.\nChronos is dethroned by Jove;  Odin by St. Olaf:  the Dollar\ncannot rule in Heaven forever.  No;  I reckon, not.  Socinian\nPreachers quit their pulpits in Yankeeland, saying, \"Friends,\nthis is all gone to a coloured cobweb, we regret to say!\"--and\nretire into the fields to cultivate onion-beds, and live frugally\non vegetables.  It is very notable.  Old godlike Calvinism\ndeclares that its old body is now fallen to tatters, and done;\nand its mournful ghost, disembodied, seeking new embodiment,\npipes again in the winds;--a ghost and spirit as yet, but\nheralding new Spirit-worlds, and better Dynasties than the\nDollar one.\n\nYes, here as there, light is coming into the world;  men love not\ndarkness, they do love light.  A deep feeling of the eternal\nnature of justice looks out among us everywhere,--even through\nthe dull eyes of Exeter Hall;  an unspeakable religiousness\nstruggles, in the most helpless manner, to speak itself, in\nPuseyisms and the like.  Of our Cant, all condemnable, how much\nis not condemnable without pity;  we had almost said, without\nrespect!  The inarticulate worth and truth that is in England\ngoes down yet to the Foundations.\n\nSome 'Chivalry of Labour,' some noble Humanity and practical\nDivineness of Labour, will yet be realised on this Earth.  Or why\n_will;_  why do we pray to Heaven, without setting our own\nshoulder to the wheel?  The Present, if it will have the Future\naccomplish, shall itself commence.  Thou who prophesiest, who\nbelievest, begin thou to fulfil.  Here or nowhere, now equally as\nat any time!  That outcast help-needing thing or person, trampled\ndown under vulgar feet or hoofs, no help 'possible' for it, no\nprize offered for the saving of it,--canst not thou save it,\nthen, without prize?  Put forth thy hand, in God's name;  know\nthat 'impossible,' where Truth and Mercy and the everlasting\nVoice of Nature order, has no place in the brave man's\ndictionary.  That when all men have said \"Impossible,\" and\ntumbled noisily elsewhither, and thou alone art left, then first\nthy time and possibility have come.  It is for thee now:  do thou\nthat, and ask no man's counsel, but thy own only and God's.\nBrother, thou hast possibility in thee for much:  the possibility\nof writing on the eternal skies the record of a heroic life.\nThat noble downfallen or yet unborn 'Impossibility,' thou canst\nlift it up, thou canst, by thy soul's travail, bring it into\nclear being.  That loud inane Actuality, with millions in its\npocket, too 'possible' that, which rolls along there, with\nquilted trumpeters blaring round it, and all the world escorting\nit as mute or vocal flunkey,--escort it not thou;  say to it,\neither nothing, or else deeply in thy heart:  \"Loud-blaring\nNonentity, no force of trumpets, cash, Long-Acre art, or\nuniversal flunkeyhood of men, makes thee an Entity;  thou art a\n_Non_entity, and deceptive Simulacrum, more accursed than thou\nseemest.  Pass on in the Devil's name, unworshipped by at least\none man, and leave the thoroughfare clear!\"\n\nNot on Ilion's or Latium's plains;  on far other plains and\nplaces henceforth can noble deeds be now done.  Not on Ilion's\nplains;  how much less in Mayfair's drawingrooms!  Not in victory\nover poor brother French or Phrygians;  but in victory over\nFrost-jotuns, Marsh-giants, over demons of Discord, Idleness,\nInjustice, Unreason, and Chaos come again.  None of the old Epics\nis longer possible.  The Epic of French and Phrygians was\ncomparatively a small Epic:  but that of Flirts and Fribbles,\nwhat is that?  A thing that vanishes at cock-crowing,--that\nalready begins to scent the morning air!  Game-preserving\nAristocracies, let them 'bush' never so effectually, cannot\nescape the Subtle Fowler.  Game seasons will be excellent, and\nagain will be indifferent, and by and by they will not be at all.\nThe Last Partridge of England, of an England where millions of\nmen can get no corn to eat, will be shot and ended.\nAristocracies with beards on their chins will find other work to\ndo than amuse themselves with trundling-hoops.\n\nBut it is to you, ye Workers, who do already work, and are as\ngrown men, noble and honourable in a sort, that the whole world\ncalls for new work and nobleness.  Subdue mutiny, discord,\nwidespread despair, by manfulness, justice, mercy and wisdom.\nChaos is dark, deep as Hell;  let light be, and there is instead\na green flowery World.  O, it is great, and there is no other\ngreatness.  To make some nook of God's Creation a little\nfruitfuler, better, more worthy of God;  to make some human\nhearts a little wiser, manfuler, happier,--more blessed, less\naccursed!  It is work for a God.  Sooty Hell of mutiny and\nsavagery and despair can, by man's energy, be made a kind of\nHeaven;  cleared of its soot, of its mutiny, of its need to\nmutiny;  the everlasting arch of Heaven's azure overspanning _it_\ntoo, and its cunning mechanisms and tall chimney-steeples, as a\nbirth of Heaven;  God and all men looking on it well pleased.\n\nUnstained by wasteful deformities, by wasted tears or heart's-\nblood of men, or any defacement of the Pit, noble fruitful\nLabour, growing ever nobler, will come forth,--the grand sole\nmiracle of Man;  whereby Man has risen from the low places of\nthis Earth, very literally, into divine Heavens.  Ploughers,\nSpinners, Builders;  Prophets, Poets, Kings;  Brindleys and\nGoethes, Odins and Arkwrights;  all martyrs, and noble men, and\ngods are of one grand Host:  immeasurable;  marching ever forward\nsince the Beginnings of the World.  The enormous, all-conquering,\nflame-crowned Host, noble every soldier in it;  sacred, and alone\nnoble.  Let him who is not of it hide himself;  let him tremble\nfor himself.  Stars at every button cannot make him noble;\nsheaves of Bath-garters, nor bushels of Georges;  nor any other\ncontrivance but manfully enlisting in it, valiantly taking place\nand step in it.  O Heavens, will he not bethink himself;  he too\nis so needed in the Host!  It were so blessed, thrice-blessed,\nfor himself and for us all!  In hope of the Last Partridge, and\nsome Duke of Weimar among our English Dukes, we will be patient\nyet a while.\n\n     The Future hides in it\n     Gladness and sorrow;\n     We press still thorow,\n     Nought that abides in it\n     Daunting us,--onward.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n-------------------\n\n\nSummary\n\n\nBook I--Proem\n\nChap. I  _Midas_\n\nThe condition of England one of the most ominous ever seen in\nthis world:  Full of wealth in every kind, yet dying of\ninanition;  Workhouses, in which no work cane be done.\nDestitution in Scotland.  Stockport Assizes.  England's\nunprofitable success:  Human faces glooming discordantly on one\nanother.  Midas longed for gold, and the gods gave it him.\n\n\nChap. II.  _The Sphinx_\n\nThe grand unnamable Sphinx-riddle, which each man is called upon\nto solve.  Notions of the foolish concerning justice and\njudgment.  Courts of Westminster, and the general High Court of\nthe Universe.  The one strong thing, the just thing, the true\nthing.  A noble Conservatism, as well as an ignoble.  In all\nbattles of men each fighter, in the end, prospers according to\nhis right:  Wallace of Scotland.  Fact and Semblance.  What is\njustice?  As many men as there are in a Nation who can _see_\nHeaven's justice, so many are there who stand between it\nand perdition.\n\n\nChap. III.  _Manchester Insurrection_\n\nPeterloo not an unsuccessful Insurrection.  Governors who wait\nfor Insurrection to instruct them, getting into the fatalest\ncourses.  Unspeakable County Yeomanry.  Poor Manchester\noperatives, and their huge inarticulate question:  Unhappy\nWorkers, unhappier idlers, of this actual England!  Fair day's-\nwages for fair day's-work:  Milton's 'wages;'  Cromwell's.  Pay\nto each man what he has earned and done and deserved;  what more\nhave we to ask?  Some not _in_supportable approximation\nindispensable and inevitable.\n\n\nChap. IV.  _Morrison's Pill_\n\nA state of mind worth reflecting on.  No Morrison's Pill for\ncuring the maladies of Society:  Universal alteration of regimen\nand way of life:  Vain jargon giving place to some genuine Speech\nagain.  If we walk according to the Law of this Universe, the\nLaw-Maker will befriend us;  if not, not.  Quacks, sham heroes,\nthe one bane of the world.  Quack and Dupe, upper side and under\nof the selfsame substance.\n\n\nChap. V.  _Aristocracy of Talent_\n\nAll misery the fruit of unwisdom:  Neither with individuals nor\nwith Nations is it fundamentally otherwise.  Nature in late\ncenturies universally supposed to be dead;  but now everywhere\nasserting herself to be alive and miraculous.  That guidance of\nthis country not sufficiently wise.  Aristocracy of talent, or\ngovernment by the Wisest, a dreadfully difficult affair to get\nstarted.  The true _eye_ for talent;  and the flunky eye for\nrespectabilities, warm garnitures and\nlarders dropping fatness:  Bobus and Bobissimus.\n\n\nChap. VI.  _Hero-worship_\n\nEnlightened Egoism, never so luminous, not the rule by which\nman's life can be led:  A _soul,_ different from a stomach in any\nsense of the word.  Hero-worship done differently in every\ndifferent epoch of the world.  Reform, like Charity, must begin\nat home.  Arrestment of the knaves and dastards, beginning by\narresting our own poor selves out of that fraternity.  The\npresent Editor's purpose to himself full of hope.  A Loadstar\nin the eternal sky:  glimmering of light, for here and there\na human soul.\n\n\nBook II--The Ancient Monk\n\n\nChap. I.  _Jocelin of Brakelond_\n\nHow the Centuries stand lineally related to each other.  The one\nBook not permissible, the kind that has nothing in it.  Jocelin's\n'Chronicle,' a private Boswellean Note-book, now seven centuries\nold.  How Jocelin, from under his monk's cowl, looked out on that\nnarrow section of the world in a really _human_ manner:  A wise\nsimplicity in him;  a _veracity_ that goes deeper than words.\nJocelin's Monk-Latin;  and Mr. Rokewood's editorial helpfulness\nand fidelity.  A veritable Monk of old Bury St. Edmunds worth\nattending to.  This England of ours, of the year 1200:  Coeur-de-\nLion:  King Lackland, and his thirteenpenny mass.  The poorest\nhistorical Fact, and the grandest imaginative Fiction.\n\n\nChap. II.  _St. Edmundsbury_\n\nSt. Edmund's Bury, a prosperous brisk Town:  Extensive ruins of\nthe Abbey still visible.  Assiduous Pedantry, and its rubbish-\nheaps called 'History.'  Another world it was, when those black\nruins first saw the sun as walls.  At lowest, O dilettante\nfriend, let us know always that it _was_ a world.  No easy matter\nto get across the chasm of Seven Centuries:  Of all helps; a\nBoswell, even a small Boswell, the welcomest.\n\n\nChap. III.  _Landlord Edmund_\n\n'Battle of Fornham,' a fact, though a forgotten one.  Edmund,\nLandlord of the Eastern Counties:  A very singular kind of\n'landlord.'  How he came to be 'sainted.'  Seen and felt to have\ndone verily a man's part in this life pilgrimage of his.  How\nthey took up the slain body of their Edmund, and reverently\nembalmed it.  Pious munificence, ever growing by new pious gifts.\nCertain Times do crystallise themselves in a magnificent manner;\nothers in a rather shabby one.\n\n\nChap. IV.  _Abbot Hugo_\n\nAll things have two faces, a light one and dark:  The Ideal has\nto grow in the Real, and to seek its bed and board there, often\nin a very sorry manner.  Abbot Hugo, grown old and feeble.  Jew\ndebts and Jew creditors.  How approximate justice strives to\naccomplish itself.  In the old monastic Books almost no Mention\nwhatever of 'personal religion.'  A poor Lord Abbot, all stuck-\nover with horse-leeches:  A 'royal commission of inquiry,' to no\npurpose.  A monk's first duty, obedience.  Magister Samson,\nTeacher of the Novices.  The Abbot's providential death.\n\n\nChap. V.  _Twelfth Century_\n\nInspectors of Custodiars;  the King not in any breathless haste\nto appoint a new Abbot.  Dim and very strange looks that monk-\nlife to us.  Our venerable ancient spinning grandmothers,\nshrieking, and rushing out with their distaffs.  Lakenheath eels\ntoo slippery to be caught.  How much is alive in England, in that\nTwelfth Century;  how much, not yet come into life.  Feudal\nAristocracy;  Willelmus conquaestor:  Not a steeple-chimney yet\ngot on end from sea to sea.\n\n\nChap. VI.  _Monk Samson_\n\nMonk-Life and Monk-Religion:  A great heaven-high\nUnquestionability, encompassing, interpenetrating all human\nDuties.  Our modern Arkwright Joe-Manton ages:  All human dues\nand reciprocities, changed into one great due of 'cash-payment'\nThe old monks but a limited class of creatures, with a somewhat\ndull life of it.  One Monk of a taciturn nature distinguishes\nhimself among those babling ones.  A Son of poor Norfolk parents.\nLittle Samson's awful dream:  His poor Mother dedicates him to\nSt. Edmund.  He grows to be a learned man, of devout grave\nnature.  Sent to Rome on business;  and returns _too_ successful:\nMethod of traveling thither in those days.  His tribulations at\nhome:  Strange conditions under which Wisdom has sometimes to\nstruggle with folly.\n\n\nChap. VII.  _The Canvassing_\n\nA new Abbot to be elected.  Even gossip, seven centuries off, has\nsignificance.  The Prior with Twelve Monks, to wait on his\nMajesty at Waltham.  An 'election' the on important social act:\nGiven the Man a People choose, the worth and worthlessness of the\nPeople itself is given.\n\nChap. VIII.  _The Election_\n\nElectoral methods and manipulations.  Brother Samson ready\noftenest with some question, some suggestion that his wisdom in\nit.  The Thirteen off to Waltham, to choose their Abott:  In the\nsolitude of the Convent, Destiny thus big and in her birthtime,\nwhat gossiping, babbling, dreaming of dreams!  King Henry II in\nhis high Presence-chamber.  Samson chosen Abbot:  the King's\nroyal acceptation.  St. Edmundsbury Monks, without express ballot\nbox or other winnowing machine.  In every nation and Community\nthere is at all times _a fittest,_ wisest, bravest, best.  Human\nWorth and human Worthlessness.\n\n\nChap. IX.  _Abbot Samson_\n\nThe Lord Abbot's arrival at St. Edmundsbury:  The self-same\nSamson yesterday a poor mendicant, this day, finds himself a\n_Dominus Abbas_ and mitred Peer of Parliament.  Depth and\nopulence of true social vitality in those old barbarous ages.\nTrue Governors go about under all manner of disguises now as\nthen.  Genius, Poet;  what these words mean.  George the Third,\nhead charioteer of England;  and Robert Burns, gauger of ale in\nDumfries.  How Abbot Samson found a Convert all in dilapidation.\nHis life-long harsh apprenticeship to governing, namely obeying.\nFirst get your Man;  all is got.  Danger of blockheads.\n\n\nChap. X.  _Government_\n\nBeautiful, how the chrysalis governing-soul, shaking off its\ndusty slough and prison, starts forth winged, a true royal soul!\nOne first labour, to institute a strenuous review and radical\nreform of his economics.  Wheresoever Disorder may stand or lie,\nlet it have a care;  here is a man that has declared war with it.\nIn less than four years the Convent debts are all liquidated, and\nthe harpy Jews banished from St. Edmundsbury.  New life springs\nbeneficent everywhere:  Spiritual rubbish as little tolerated\nas material.\n\n\nChap. XI.  _The Abbot's Ways_\n\nReproaches, open and secret, of ingratitude, unsociability;\nExcept for 'fit men' in all kinds, hard to say for whom Abbot\nSamson had much favour.  Remembrance of benefits.  An eloquent\nman, but intent more on substance than on ornament.  A just clear\nheart the basis of all true talent.  One of the justest of\njudges;  His invaluable 'talent of silence.'  Kind of people he\nliked worst.  Hospitality and stocism.  The country in those days\nstill dark with noble wood and umbrage;  How the old trees\ngradually died out, no man heeding it.  Monachism itself, so rich\nand fruitful once, now all rotted into _peat._  Devastations of\nfour-footed cattle and Henry-the-Eighths.\n\n\nChap. XII.  _The Abbot's Troubles_\n\nThe troubles of Abbot Samson more than tongue can tell.  Not the\nspoil of victory, only the glorious toil of battle, can be theirs\nwho really govern.  An insurrection of the Monks:  Behave better,\nye remiss Monks, and thank Heaven for such an Abbot.  Worn down\nwith incessant toil and tribulation:  Gleams of hilarity too;\nlittle snatches of encouragement granted even to a Governor.  How\nmy Lord of Clare, coming to claim his _un_due 'debt,' gets a\nRoland for his Oliver.  A Life of Literature, noble and ignoble.\n\n\nChap. XIII.  _In Parliament_\n\nConfused days of Lackland's usurpation, while Coeur-de-Lion was\naway:  Our brave Abbot took helmet himself, excommunicating all\nwho should favour Lackland.  Kind Richard a captive in Germany.\nSt. Edmund's Shrine not meddled with:  A heavenly Awe\novershadowed and encompassed, as it still ought and must, all\nearthly Business whatsoever.\n\n\nChap. XIV.  _Henry of Essex_\n\nHow St. Edmund punished terribly, yet with mercy;  A Naratice\nsignificant of the time.  Henry Earl of Essex, standard-bearer of\nEngland:  No right reverence for the Heavenly in Man.  A traitor\nor coward.  Solemn Duel, by the King's appointment.  An evil\nConscience doth make cowards of us all.\n\n\nChap. XV.  _Practical-Devotional_\n\nA Tournament proclaimed and held in the Abbot's domain, in spite\nof him.  Roystering young dogs brought to reason.  The Abbot a\nman that generally remains master at last:  The importunate\nBishop of Ely outwitted.  A man that dare abide King Richard's\nanger, with justice on his side.  Thou brave Richard, thou brave\nSamson!  The basis of Abbot Samson's life truly religion.  His\nzealous interest in the Crusades.  The great antique heart, like\na child's in its simplicity, like a man's in its earnest\nsolemnity and depth.  His comparative silence as to his religion\nprecisely the healthiest sign of him and it.  Methodism,\ndilettantism, Puseyism.\n\n\nChap. XVI.  _St. Edmund_\n\nAbbot Samson built many useful, many pious edifices:  All\nruinous, incomplete things an eye-sorrow to him.  Rebuilding the\ngreat Altar:  A glimpse of the glorious Martyr's very Body.  What\na scene;  how far vanished from us, in these unworshipping ages\nof ours!  The manner of men's Hero-worship, verily the innermost\nfact of their existence, determining all the rest.  On the whole,\nwho knows how to reverence the Body of man?  Abbot Samson, at the\nculminating point of his existence:  Our real-phantasmagory of\nSt. Edmundsbury plunges into the bosom of the Twelfth Century\nagain, and all is over.\n\n\nChap. XVII.  _The Beginnings_\n\nFormulas the very skin and muscular tissue of a Man's Life:\nLiving Formulas and dead.  Habit the deepest law of human nature.\nA pathway through the pathless.  Nationalities.  Pulpy infancy,\nkneaded, baked into any form you choose:  The Man of business;\nthe hard-handed Labourer;  the genus Dandy.  No Mortal out of the\ndepths of Bedlam but lives by Formulas.  The hosts and\ngenerations of brave men Oblivion has swallowed:  Their crumbled\ndust, the soil our life-fruit grows on.  Invention of Speech;\nForms of Worship;  Methods of Justice.  This English Land, here\nand now, the summary of what was wise and noble, and accordant\nwith God's Truth, in all the generations of English Men.  The\nthing called 'Fame.'\n\n\n\nBook III.--The Modern Worker\n\n\nChap. I.  _Phenomena_\n\nHow men have 'forgotten God;'  taken the Fact of this Universe as\nit is _not;_  God's Laws become a Greatest-happiness Principle, a\nParliamentary Expediency.  Man has lost the _soul_ out of him,\nand begins to find the want of it.  The old Pope of Rome, with\nhis stuffed dummy to do the kneeling for him.  Few men that\nworship by the rotatory Calabash, do it in half so great, frank\nor effectual a way.  Our Aristocracy no longer able to _do_ its\nwork, and not in the least conscious that it has any work to do.\nThe Champion of England 'lifted into his saddle.'  The hatter in\nthe Strand, mounting a huge lath-and-plaster Hat.  Our noble\nancestors have fashioned for us, in how many thousand sense, a\n'life-road;'  and we their sons are madly, literally enough,\n'consuming the way.'\n\n\nChap. II.  _Gospel of Mammonism_\n\nHeaven and Hell, often as the words are on our tongue, got to be\nfabulous or semi-fabulous for most of us.  The real 'Hell' of the\nEnglish.  Cash-payment, _not_ the sole or even chief relation of\nhuman beings.  Practical Atheism, and its despicable fruits.  One\nof Dr. Alison's melancholy facts:  A poor Irish widow, in the\nLanes of Endinburgh, _proving_ her sisterhood.  Until we get a\nhuman _soul_ within us, all things are _im_possible:  Infatuated\ngeese, with feathers and without.\n\n\nChap. III.  _Gospel of Dilettantism_\n\nMammonism at least works;  but 'Go gracefully idle in Mayfair,'\nwhat does or can that mean?--Impotent, insolent Donothingism in\nPractice and Saynothingism in Speech.  No man now speaks a plain\nword:  Insincere Speech the prime material of insincere Action.\nMoslem parable of Moses and the Dwellers by the Dead sea:  The\nUniverse _become_ a Humbug to the Apes that thought it one.\n\n\nChap. IV.  _Happy_\n\nAll work noble;  and every noble crown a crown of thorns.  Man's\npitiful pretension to be what he calls \"happy;\"  His Greatest-\nHappiness Principle fast becoming a rather unhappy one.  Byron's\nlarge audience.  A philosophical Doctor:  A disconsolate Meat-\njack, gnarring and creaking with rust and work.  The only\n'happiness' a brave man ever troubled himself much about, the\nhappiness to get his work done.\n\n\nChap. V.  _The English_\n\nWith all thy theoretic platitudes, what a depth of practical\nsense in thee, great England!  A dumb people, who can do great\nacts, but not describe them.  The noble Warhorse, and the Dog of\nKnowledge:  The freest utterances not by any means the best.  The\ndone Work, much more than the spoken Word, an epitome of the man.\nThe Man of Practice, and the Man of Theory:  Ineloquent Brindley.\nThe English, of all Nations the stupidest in speech, the wisest\nin action:  Sadness and seriousness:  Unconsciously this great\nUniverse is great to them.  The silent Romans.  John Bull's\nadmirable insensibility to Logic.  All great Peoples\nconservative.  Kind of Ready-Reckoner a Solecism in East-cheap.\nBerserkir rage.  Truth and Justice alone _capable_ of being\n'conserved.'  Bitter indignation engendered by the Corn-Laws in\nevery just English heart.\n\n\nChap. VI.  _Two Centuries_\n\nThe 'Settlement' of the year 1660 one of the mournfulest that\never took place in this land of ours.  The true end of Government\nto guide men in the way they should go:  The true good of this\nlife, the portal of infinite good in the life to come.  Oliver\nCromwell's body hung on the Tyburn gallows, the type of\nPuritanism found futil, inexecutable, execrable.  The\nSpiritualism of England, for two godless centuries, utterly\nforgettable:  Her practical material Work alone memorable.\nBewildering obscurations and impediments:  Valiant Sons of Toil\nenchanted, by the million, in their Poor-Law Bastille.  Giant\nLabour yet to be King of this Earth.\n\n\nChap. VII.  _Over-Production_\n\nAn idle Governing Class addressing its Workers with an indictment\nof 'Over-production.'  Duty of justly apportioning the Wages\nof Work done.  A game-preserving Aristocracy, guiltless of\nproducing or apportioning anything.  Owning the soil of England.\nThe Working Aristocracy steeped in ignoble Mammonism:  The Idle\nAristocracy, with its yellow parchments and pretentious futilities.\n\n\nChap. VIII.  _Unworking Aristocracy_\n\nOur Land the _Mother_ of us all:  No true Aristocracy but must\npossess the Land.  Men talk of 'selling' Land:  Whom it belongs\nto.  Our much-consuming Aristocracy:  By the law of their\nposition bound to furnish guidance and governance.  Man and\nmiserable Corn-Laws.  The Working Aristocracy, and its terrible\nNew-Work:  The Idle Aristocracy, and its horoscope of despair.  A\nHigh Class without duties to do, like a tree planted on\nprecipices.  In a valiant suffering for others, not in a slothful\nmaking others suffer for us, did nobleness ever lie.  The pagan\nHercules;  the Czar of Russia.  Parchments, venerable and not\nvenerable.  Benedict the Jew, and his usuries.  No Chapter on the\nCorn-Laws:  The Corn-Laws too mad to have a Chapter.\n\n\nChap. IX.  _Working Aristocracy_\n\nMany things for the Working Aristocracy, in their exteme need, to\nconsider.  A national Existence supposed to depend on 'selling\ncheaper' than any other People.  Let inventive men try to invent\na little how cotton at its present cheapness could be somewhat\njustlier divided.  Many 'imposibilities' will have to become\npossible.  Supply-and-demand:  For what noble work was there ever\nyet any audible 'demand' in that poor sense?\n\n\nChap. X.  _Plugson of Undershot_\n\nMan's Philosophies usually the 'supplement of his practice:'\nSymptoms of social death.  Cash-Payment:  The Plugson Ledger, and\nthe Tablets of heaven's Chancery, discrepant exceedingly.  All\nhuman things do require to have an Ideal in them.  How murderous\nfighting became a 'glorious Chivalry.'  Noble devout-hearted\nChevaliers.  Ignoble Bucaniers and Chactaw Indians:  Howel\nDavies, Napoleon flung out, at last, to St. Helena;  the latter\nend of him sternly compensating for the beginning.  The\nindomitable Plugson, as yet a Bacanier and Chactaw.  William\nConqueror and his Norman followers.  Organisation of Labour:\nCourage, there are yet many brave men in England!\n\n\nChap. XI.  _Labour_\n\nA perennial nobleness and even sacredness in Work.  Significance\nof the Potter's Wheel.  Blessed is he who has found his Work;\nlet him ask no other blessedness.  A brave Sir Christopher, and\nhis Paul's Cathedral:  Every noble work at first 'impossible.'\nColumbus royalest Sea-king of all:  a depth of Silence, deeper\nthan the Sea;  a silence unsoundable;  known to God only.\n\n\nChap. XII.  _Reward_\n\nWork is worship:  Labour, wide as the earth, has its summit in\nHeaven.  One monster there is in the world, the idle man.  'Fair\nday's-wages for a fair day's-work,' the most unrefusable demand.\nThe 'wages' of every noble Work in Heaven, or else Nowhere:  The\nbrave man has to _give_ his Life away.  He that works bodies\nforth the form of Things Unseen.  Strange mystic affinity of\nWisdom and Insanity:  All Work, in its degree, a making of\nMadness sane.  Labour not a devil, even when encased in\nMammonism:  The unredeemed ugliness, a slothful People.  The\nvulgarist Plugson of a Master-Worker, not a man to strangle by\nCorn-Laws and Shotbelts.\n\n\nChap. XIII.  _Democracy_\n\nMan must actually have his debts and earnings a little better\npaid by man.  At no time was the lot of the dumb millions of\ntoilers so entirely unbearable as now.  Sisterhood, brotherhood\noften forgotten, but never before so expressly denied.  Mungo\nPark and his poor Black Benefactress.  Gurth, born thrall of\nCedric the Saxon:  Liberty a divine thing;  but 'liberty to die\nby starvation' not so divine.  Nature's Aristocracies.  William\nConqueror, a resident House-Surgeon provided by nature for her\nbeloved English People.  Democracy, the despair of finding Heroes\nto govern us, and contented putting-up with the want of them.\nThe very Tailor unconsciously symbolising the reign of Equality.\nWherever ranks do actually exist, strict division of costumes\nwill also be enforced.  Freedom from oppression, an indispensable\nyet most insignificant portion of Human Liberty.  A _best path_\ndoes exist for every man;  a thing which, here and now, it\nwere of all things _wisest_ for him to do.  Mock Superiors and\nReal Superiors.\n\n\nChap. XIV.  _Sir Jabesh Windbag_\n\nOliver Cromwell, the remarkablest Governor we have had for the\nlast five centuries or so:  No vulunteer in Public Life, but\nplainly a balloted soldier:  The Government of England put into\nhis hands.  Windbag, weak in the faith of a God;  strong only in\nthe faith that Paragraphs and Plausibilities bring votes.  Five\nyears of popularity or unpopularity;  and _after_ those five\nyears, an Eternity.  Oliver has to appear before the Most High\nJudge:  Windbag, appealing to 'Posterity.'\n\n\nChap. XV.  _Morison Again_\n\nNew Religions:  This new stage of progress, proceeding 'to invent\nGod,' a very strange one indeed.  Religion, the Inner Light or\nMoral Conscience of a man's soul.  Infinite difference between a\nGood man and a Bad.  The Great soul of the World, just and not\nunjust:  Faithful, unspoken, but not ineffectual 'prayer.'\nPenalities:  The French Revolution;  cruelest Portent that has\nrisen into created Space these ten centuries.  Man needs no \"New\nReligion;\"  nor is like to get it:  spiritual Dastardism, and\nsick folly.  One Liturgy which does remain forever\nunexceptionable, that of _Praying by Working._  Sauerteig on the\nsymbolic influences of Washing.  Chinese Pontiff-Emperor and his\nsignificant 'punctualities.'  Goethe and German Literature.  The\ngreat event for the world, now as always, the arrival in it of a\nnew Wise Man.  Goethe's _Mason-Lodge._\n\n\n\nBook IV.--Horoscope\n\n\nChap. I.  _Aristocracies_\n\nTo predict the Future, to manage the Present, would not be so\nimpossible, had not the Past been so sacrilegiously mishandled:\na godless century, looking back to centuries that were godly.  A\nnew real Aristocracy and Priesthood.  The noble Priest always a\nnoble _Aristos_ to begin with, and something more to end with.\nModern Preachers, and the _real_ Satanas that now is.  Abbot-\nSamson and William-Conqueror times.  The mission of a Land\nAristocracy a _sacred_ one, in both senses of that old word.\nTruly a 'Splendor of God' did dwell in those old rude veracious\nages.  Old Anselm traveling to Rome, to appeal against King\nRufus.  Their quarrel at bottom a great quarrel.  The boundless\nfuture, predestined, nay already extant though unseen.  Our\nEpic, not _Arms and the Man,_ but _Tools and the Man;_  an\ninfinitely wider kind of Epic.  Important that our grand\nReformation were begun.\n\n\nChap. II.  _Bribery Committee_\n\nOur theory, perfect purity of Tenpound Franchise;  our practice,\nirremediable bribery.  Bribery, indicative not only of length of\npurse, but of brazen dishonesty:  Proposed improvements.  A\nparliament, starting with a lie in its mouth, promulgates strage\nhoroscopes of itself.  Respect paid to those worthy of no\nrespect:  Pandarus Dogdraught.  The indigent discerning Freeman;\nand the kind of men he is called upon to vote for.\n\n\nChap.  III.  _The One Institution_\n\nThe 'Organisation of Labour,' if well understood, the Problem of\nthe whole Future.  Governments of various degrees of utility.\nKilkenny Cats;  spinning-Dervishes;  Parliamentary eloquence.  A\nprime-Minister who would dare believe the heavenly omens.  Who\ncan despair of Governments, that passes a Soldier's Guardhouse?--\nIncalculable what, by arranging, commanding and regimenting, can\nbe made of men.  Organisms enough in the dim huge Future;  and\n'United Services' quite other than the red-coat one.  Legislative\ninterference between Workers and master-Workers increasingly\nindispensable.  Sanitary Reform:  People's Parks:  A right\nEducation Bill, and effective Teaching Service.  Free bridge for\nemigrants:  England's sure markets among her colonies.  London\nthe _All-Saxon-Home,_ rendezvous of all the 'Children of the\nHarz-Rock.'  The English essentially conservative:  Always the\ninvincible instinct to hold fast by the Old, to admit the\n_minimum_ of New.  Yet new epochs do actually come;  and\nwith them new peremptory necessities.  A certain Editor's\nstipulated work.\n\n\nChap. IV.  _Captains of Industry_\n\nGovernment can do much, but it can in nowise do all.  Fall of\nMammon:  to be a noble Master among noble Workers, will again be\nthe first ambition with some few.  The Leaders of Industry,\nvirtually the Captains of the world:  doggeries and Chivalries.\nIsolation, the sum-total of wretchedness to man.  All social\ngrowths in the world have required organising;  and work, the\ngrandest of human interests, does now require it.\n\n\nChap. V.  _Permanence_\n\nThe 'tendency to persevere,' to persist in spite of hindrances,\ndiscouragements and 'impossibilities,' that which distinguishes\nthe Species Man from the Genus Ape.  Month-long contracts, and\nExeter-Hall purblindness. A practical manufacturing Quaker's care\nfor his workmen.  Blessing of permanent Contract:  Permanence in\nall things, at the earliest possible moment, and to the latest\npossible.  Vagrant Sam-Slicks.  The wealth of a man the number of\nthings he loves and blesses, which he is loved and blessed by.\nThe Worker's _interest_ in the enterprise with which he is\nconnected.  How to reconcile Despotism with Freedom.\n\n\nChap. VI.  _The Landed_\n\nA man with fifty, with five hundred, with a thousand pounds a\nday, given him freely, without condition at all, might be a\nrather strong Worker:  The sad reality, very ominous to look at.\nWill he awaken, be alive again;  or is this death-fit very\ndeath?--Goeth's Duke of Weimar.  Doom of Idleness.  To sit idle\naloft, like absurd Epicurus'-gods, a poor life for a man.\nIndependence 'lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye:'  Rejection\nof sham Superiors, the needful preparation for obedience to\n_real_ Superiors.\n\n\nChap. VII  _The gifted_\n\nTumultuous anarchy calmed by noble effort into fruitful\nsovereignty.  Mammon, like Fire, the usefulest of servants, if\nthe frightfulest of masters.  Souls to whom the omnipotent guinea\nis, on the whole, an impotent guinea:  Not a May-game is this\nman's life;  but a battle and stern pilgrimage:  God's justice,\nhuman Nobleness, Veracity and Mercy, the essence of his very\nbeing.  What a man of Genius is.  The Highest 'Man of Genius.'\nGenius, the clearer presence of God Most High in a man.  Of\nintrinsic Valetism you cannot, with whole Parliaments to help\nyou, make a heroism.\n\nChap. VIII.  _The Didactic_\n\nOne preacher who does preach with effect, and gradually persuade\nall persons.  Repentant Captains of Industry:  A Chactaw Fighter\nbecomes a Christian Fighter.  Doomsday in the afternoon.  The\n'Christianity' that cannot get on without a minimum of Four-\nthousand-five-hundred, will give place to something better that\ncan.  Beautiful to see the brutish empire of Mammon cracking\neverywhere:  A strange, chill, almost ghastly dayspring in\nYankeeland itself.  Here as there, Light is coming into the\nworld.  Whoso believes, let him begin to fulfil:  'Impossible,'\nwhere Truth and Mercy and the everlasting Voice of Nature order,\ncan have no place in the brave man's dictionary.  Not on Ilion's\nor Latium's plains;  on far other plains and places henceforth\ncan noble deeds be done.  The last Partridge of England shot and\nended:  Aristocracies with beards on their chins.  O, it is\ngreat, and there is no other greatness:  To make some nook of\ngod's Creation a little fruitfuler;  to make some human hearts a\nlittle wiser, manfuler, happier:  It is work for a God!","title":"Past and Present","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":108885}