{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_4613/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_4613","id":"gutenberg_4613","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4613","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Essays"],"text":"Produced by Don Lainson and Charles Aldarondo\n\n\n\n\n\nAT LARGE\n\nBy Arthur Christopher Benson\n\n\nHaec ego mecum\n\n\n1908\n\n\nContents\n\n     I.     THE SCENE\n     II.    CONTENTMENT\n     III.   FRIENDSHIP\n     IV.    HUMOUR\n     V.     TRAVEL\n     VI.    SPECIALISM\n     VII.   OUR LACK OF GREAT MEN\n     VIII.  SHYNESS\n     IX.    EQUALITY\n     X.     THE DRAMATIC SENSE\n     XI.    KELMSCOTT AND WILLIAM MORRIS\n     XII.   A SPEECH DAY\n     XIII.  LITERARY FINISH\n     XIV.   A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM\n     XV.    SYMBOLS\n     XVI.   OPTIMISM\n     XVII.  JOY\n     XVIII. THE LOVE OF GOD\n     EPILOGUE\n\n\n\n\n\nI. THE SCENE\n\n\nYes, of course it is an experiment! But it is made in corpore vili.\nIt is not irreparable, and there is no reason, more's the pity, why I\nshould not please myself. I will ask--it is a rhetorical question which\nneeds no answer--what is a hapless bachelor to do, who is professionally\noccupied and tied down in a certain place for just half the year? What\nis he to do with the other half? I cannot live on in my college rooms,\nand I am not compelled to do so for economy. I have near relations and\nmany friends, at whose houses I should be made welcome. But I cannot be\nlike the wandering dove, who found no repose. I have a great love of my\nindependence and my liberty. I love my own fireside, my own chair, my\nown books, my own way. It is little short of torture to have to conform\nto the rules of other households, to fall in with other people's\narrangements, to throw my pen down when the gong sounds, to make myself\nagreeable to fortuitous visitors, to be led whither I would not. I do\nthis, a very little, because I do not desire to lose touch with my kind;\nbut then my work is of a sort which brings me into close touch day after\nday with all sorts of people, till I crave for recollection and repose;\nthe prospect of a round of visits is one that fairly unmans me. No doubt\nit implies a certain want of vitality, but one does not increase one's\nvitality by making overdrafts upon it; and then too I am a slave to my\npen, and the practice of authorship is inconsistent with paying visits.\nOf course the obvious remedy is marriage; but one cannot marry from\nprudence, or from a sense of duty, or even to increase the birth-rate,\nwhich I am concerned to see is diminishing. I am, moreover, to be\nperfectly frank, a transcendentalist on the subject of marriage. I know\nthat a happy marriage is the finest and noblest thing in the world, and\nI would resign all the conveniences I possess with the utmost readiness\nfor it. But a great passion cannot be the result of reflection, or of\ndesire, or even of hope. One cannot argue oneself into it; one must be\ncarried away. \"You have never let yourself go,\" says a wise and gentle\naunt, when I bemoan my unhappy fate. To which I reply that I have never\ndone anything else. I have lain down in streamlets, I have leapt into\nsilent pools, I have made believe I was in the presence of a deep\nemotion, like the dear little girl in one of Reynolds's pictures, who\nhugs a fat and lolling spaniel over an inch-deep trickle of water, for\nfear he should be drowned. I do not say that it is not my fault. It is\nmy fault, my own fault, my own great fault, as we say in the Compline\nconfession. The fault has been an over-sensibility. I have desired close\nand romantic relations so much that I have dissipated my forces; yet\nwhen I read such a book as the love-letters of Robert Browning and\nElizabeth Barrett, I realise at once both the supreme nature of the\ngift, and the hopelessness of attaining it unless it be given; but I try\nto complain, as the beloved mother of Carlyle said about her health, as\nlittle as possible.\n\nWell, then, as I say, what is a reluctant bachelor who loves his liberty\nto do with himself? I cannot abide the life of towns, though I live in a\ntown half the year. I like friends, and I do not care for acquaintances.\nThere is no conceivable reason why, in the pursuit of pleasure, I should\nfrequent social entertainments that do not amuse me. What have I then\ndone? I have done what I liked best. I have taken a big roomy house in\nthe quietest country I could find, I have furnished it comfortably, and\nI have hitherto found no difficulty in inducing my friends, one or two\nat a time, to come and share my life. I shall have something to say\nabout solitude presently, but meanwhile I will describe my hermitage.\n\nThe old Isle of Ely lies in the very centre of the Fens. It is a range\nof low gravel hills, shaped roughly like a human hand. The river runs\nat the wrist, and Ely stands just above it, at the base of the palm,\nthe fingers stretching out to the west. The fens themselves, vast peaty\nplains, the bottoms of the old lagoons, made up of the accumulation of\ncenturies of rotting water-plants, stretch round it on every side; far\naway you can see the low heights of Brandon, the Newmarket Downs, the\nGogmagogs behind Cambridge, the low wolds of Huntingdon. To the north\nthe interminable plain, through which the rivers welter and the great\nlevels run, stretches up to the Wash. So slight is the fall of the land\ntowards the sea, that the tide steals past me in the huge Hundred-foot\ncut, and makes itself felt as far south as Earith Bridge, where the\nOuse comes leisurely down with its clear pools and reed-beds. At the\nextremity of the southernmost of all the fingers of the Isle, a big\nhamlet clusters round a great ancient church, whose blunt tower is\nvisible for miles above its grove of sycamores. More than twelve\ncenturies ago an old saint, whose name I think was Owen, though it\nwas Latinised by the monks into Ovinus, because he had the care of the\nsheep, kept the flocks of St. Etheldreda, queen and abbess of Ely, on\nthese wolds. One does not know what were the visions of this rude and\nardent saint, as he paced the low heights day by day, looking over the\nmonstrous lakes. At night no doubt he heard the cries of the marsh-fowl\nand saw the elfin lights stir on the reedy flats. Perhaps some touch of\nfever kindled his visions; but he raised a tiny shrine here, and here he\nlaid his bones; and long after, when the monks grew rich, they raised\na great church here to the memory of the shepherd of the sheep, and\nbeneath it, I doubt not, he sleeps.\n\nWhat is it I see from my low hills? It is an enchanted land for me, and\nI lose myself in wondering how it is that no one, poet or artist, has\never wholly found out the charm of these level plains, with their rich\nblack soil, their straight dykes, their great drift-roads, that run as\nfar as the eye can reach into the unvisited fen. In summer it is a feast\nof the richest green from verge to verge; here a clump of trees stands\nup, almost of the hue of indigo, surrounding a lonely shepherd's cote;\na distant church rises, a dark tower over the hamlet elms; far beyond, I\nsee low wolds, streaked and dappled by copse and wood; far to the south,\nI see the towers and spires of Cambridge, as of some spiritual city--the\nsmoke rises over it on still days, hanging like a cloud; to the east lie\nthe dark pine-woods of Suffolk, to the north an interminable fen;\nbut not only is it that one sees a vast extent of sky, with great\ncloud-battalions crowding up from the south, but all the colour of the\nlandscape is crowded into a narrow belt to the eye, which gives it an\nintensity of emerald hue that I have seen nowhere else in the world.\nThere is a sense of deep peace about it all, the herb of the field just\nrising in its place over the wide acres; the air is touched with a lazy\nfragrance, as of hidden flowers; and there is a sense, too, of silent\nand remote lives, of men that glide quietly to and fro in the great\npastures, going quietly about their work in a leisurely calm. In the\nwinter it is fairer still, if one has a taste for austerity. The trees\nare leafless now; and the whole flat is lightly washed with the most\ndelicate and spare tints, the pasture tinted with the yellowing bent,\nthe pale stubble, the rich plough-land, all blending into a subdued\ncolour; and then, as the day declines and the plain is rimmed with a\nfrosty mist, the smouldering glow of the orange sunset begins to burn\nclear on the horizon, the grey laminated clouds becoming ridged with\ngold and purple, till the whole fades, like a shoaling sea, into the\npurest green, while the cloud-banks grow black and ominous, and far-off\nlights twinkle like stars in solitary farms.\n\nOf the house itself, exteriorly, perhaps the less said the better; it\nwas built by an earl, to whom the estate belonged, as a shooting-box. I\nhave often thought that it must have been ordered from the Army and\nNavy Stores. It is of yellow brick, blue-slated, and there has been a\npathetic feeling after giving it a meanly Gothic air; it is ill-placed,\nshut in by trees, approached only by a very dilapidated farm-road; and\nthe worst of it is that a curious and picturesque house was destroyed to\nbuild it. It stands in what was once a very pretty and charming little\npark, with an ancient avenue of pollard trees, lime and elm. You can see\nthe old terraces of the Hall, the mounds of ruins, the fish-ponds, the\ngrass-grown pleasance. It is pleasantly timbered, and I have an orchard\nof honest fruit-trees of my own. First of all I expect it was a Roman\nfort; for the other day my gardener brought me in half of the handle of\na fine old Roman water-jar, red pottery smeared with plaster, with two\npretty laughing faces pinched lightly out under the volutes. A few days\nafter I felt like Polycrates of Samos, that over-fortunate tyrant, when,\nwalking myself in my garden, I descried and gathered up the rest of the\nsame handle, the fractures fitting exactly. There are traces of Roman\noccupation hereabouts in mounds and earthworks. Not long ago a man\nploughing in the fen struck an old red vase up with the share, and\nsearching the place found a number of the same urns within the space\nof a few yards, buried in the peat, as fresh as the day they were made.\nThere was nothing else to be found, and the place was under water till\nfifty years ago; so that it must have been a boatload of pottery being\ntaken in to market that was swamped there, how many centuries ago! But\nthere have been stranger things than that found; half a mile away, where\nthe steep gravel hill slopes down to the fen, a man hoeing brought up\na bronze spear-head. He took it to the lord of the manor, who was\ninterested in curiosities. The squire hurried to the place and had it\nall dug out carefully; quite a number of spear-heads were found, and a\nbeautiful bronze sword, with the holes where the leather straps of the\nhandle passed in and out. I have held this fine blade in my hands, and\nit is absolutely undinted. It may be Roman, but it is probably earlier.\nNothing else was found, except some mouldering fragments of wood that\nlooked like spear-staves; and this, too, it seems, must have been a\nboatload of warriors, perhaps some raiding party, swamped on the edge\nof the lagoon with all their unused weapons, which they were presumably\nunable to recover, if indeed any survived to make the attempt. Hard by\nis the place where the great fight related in Hereward the Wake took\nplace. The Normans were encamped southwards at Willingham, where a line\nof low entrenchments is still known as Belsar's Field, from Belisarius,\nthe Norman Duke in command. It is a quiet enough place now, and the\nyellow-hammers sing sweetly and sharply in the thick thorn hedges. The\nNormans made a causeway of faggots and earth across the fen, but came\nat last to the old channel of the Ouse, which they could not bridge;\nand here they attempted to cross in great flat-bottomed boats, but were\nfoiled by Hereward and his men, their boats sunk, and hundreds of stout\nwarriors drowned in the oozy river-bed. There still broods for me a\ncertain horror over the place, where the river in its confined channel\nnow runs quietly, by sedge and willow-herb and golden-rod, between its\nhigh flood banks, to join the Cam to the east.\n\nBut to return to my house. It was once a monastic grange of Ely, a\nfarmstead with a few rooms, no doubt, where sick monks and ailing\nnovices were sent to get change of air and a taste of country life.\nThere is a bit of an old wall still bordering my garden, and a strip of\npale soil runs across the gooseberry beds, pale with dust of mortar\nand chips of brick, where another old wall stood. There was a great\npigeon-house here, pulled down for the shooting-box, and the garden is\nstill full of old carved stones, lintels, and mullions, and capitals of\npillars, and a grotesque figure of a bearded man, with a tunic confined\nround the waist by a cord, which crowns one of my rockeries. But it\nis all gone now, and the pert cockneyfied house stands up among the\nshrubberies and walnuts, surveying the ruins of what has been.\n\nBut I must not abuse my house, because whatever it is outside, it is\nabsolutely comfortable and convenient within: it is solid, well built,\nspacious, sensible, reminding one of the \"solid joys and lasting\ntreasure\" that the hymn says \"none but Zion's children know.\" And,\nindeed, it is a Zion to be at ease in.\n\nOne other great charm it has: from the end of my orchard the ground\nfalls rapidly in a great pasture. Some six miles away, over the dark\nexpanse of Grunty Fen, the towers of Ely, exquisitely delicate and\nbeautiful, crown the ridge; on clear sunny days I can see the sun\nshining on the lead roofs, and the great octagon rises with all its\nfretted pinnacles. Indeed, so kind is Providence, that the huge brick\nmass of the Ely water-tower, like an overgrown Temple of Vesta, blends\nitself pleasantly with the cathedral, projecting from the western front\nlike a great Galilee.\n\nThe time to make pious pilgrimage to Ely is when the apple-orchards\nare in bloom. Then the grim western tower, with its sombre windows, the\ngabled roofs of the canonical houses, rise in picturesque masses over\nacres of white blossom. But for me, six miles away, the cathedral is\na never-ending sight of beauty. On moist days it draws nearer, as if\ncarved out of a fine blue stone; on a grey day it looks more like a\nfantastic crag, with pinnacles of rock. Again it will loom a ghostly\nwhite against a thunder-laden sky. Grand and pathetic at once, for it\nstands for something that we have parted with. What was the outward and\nstately form of a mighty idea, a rich system, is now little more than an\naesthetic symbol. It has lost heart, somehow, and its significance\nonly exists for ecclesiastically or artistically minded persons; it\nrepresents a force no longer in the front of the battle.\n\nOne other fine feature of the countryside there is, of which one never\ngrows tired. If one crosses over to Sutton, with its huge church, the\ntower crowned with a noble octagon, and the village pleasantly perched\nalong a steep ridge of orchards, one can drop down to the west, past a\nbeautiful old farmhouse called Berristead, with an ancient chapel, built\ninto the homestead, among fine elms. The road leads out upon the fen,\nand here run two great Levels, as straight as a line for many miles, up\nwhich the tide pulsates day by day; between them lies a wide tract of\npasture called the Wash, which in summer is a vast grazing-ground for\nherds, in rainy weather a waste of waters, like a great estuary--north\nand south it runs, crossed by a few roads or black-timbered bridges, the\nfen-water pouring down to the sea. It is a great place for birds this.\nThe other day I disturbed a brood of redshanks here, the parent birds\nflying round and round, piping mournfully, almost within reach of my\nhand. A little further down, not many months ago, there was observed a\ngreat commotion in the stream, as of some big beast swimming slowly; the\nlevel was netted, and they hauled out a great sturgeon, who had somehow\nlost his way, and was trying to find a spawning-ground. There is an\nancient custom that all sturgeon, netted in English waters, belong by\nright to the sovereign; but no claim was advanced in this case. The line\nbetween Ely and March crosses the level, further north, and the huge\nfreight-trains go smoking and clanking over the fen all day. I often\nwalk along the grassy flood-bank for a mile or two, to the tiny decayed\nvillage of Mepal, with a little ancient church, where an old courtier\nlies, an Englishman, but with property near Lisbon, who was a\ngentleman-in-waiting to James II. in his French exile, retired\ninvalided, and spent the rest of his days \"between Portugal and Byall\nFen\"--an odd pair of localities to be so conjoined!\n\nAnd what of the life that it is possible to live in my sequestered\ngrange? I suppose there is not a quieter region in the whole of England.\nThere are but two or three squires and a few clergy in the Isle, but the\nvillages are large and prosperous; the people eminently friendly,\nshrewd and independent, with homely names for the most part, but with a\nsprinkling both of Saxon appellations, like Cutlack, which is Guthlac\na little changed, and Norman names, like Camps, inherited perhaps from\nsome invalided soldier who made his home there after the great fight.\nThere is but little communication with the outer world; on market-days a\nfew trains dawdle along the valley from Ely to St. Ives and back again.\nThey are fine, sturdy, prosperous village communities, that mind their\nown business, and take their pleasure in religion and in song, like\ntheir forefathers the fenmen, Girvii, who sang their three-part catches\nwith rude harmony.\n\nPart of the charm of the place is, I confess, its loneliness. One may go\nfor weeks together with hardly a caller; there are no social functions,\nno festivities, no gatherings. One may once in a month have a chat with\na neighbour, or take a cup of tea at a kindly parsonage. But people\ntend to mind their own business, and live their own lives in their own\ncircle; yet there is an air of tranquil neighbourliness all about. The\ninhabitants of the region respect one's taste in choosing so homely and\nserene a region for a dwelling-place, and they know that whatever motive\none may have had for coming, it was not dictated by a feverish love of\nsociety. I have never known a district--and I have lived in many parts\nof England--where one was so naturally and simply accepted as a part\nof the place. One is greeted in all directions with a comfortable\ncordiality, and a natural sort of good-breeding; and thus the life comes\nat once to have a precise quality, a character of its own. Every one\nis independent, and one is expected to be independent too. There is no\nsuspicion of a stranger; it is merely recognised that he is in search of\na definite sort of life, and he is made frankly and unostentatiously at\nhome.\n\nAnd so the days race away there in the middle of the mighty plain. No\nplans are ever interrupted, no one questions one's going and coming as\none will, no one troubles his head about one's occupations or pursuits.\nAny help or advice that one needs is courteously and readily given,\nand no favours asked or expected in return. One little incident gave\nme considerable amusement. There is a private footpath of my own which\nleads close to my house; owing to the house having stood for some time\nunoccupied, people had tended to use it as a short cut. The kindly\nfarmer obviated this by putting up a little notice-board, to indicate\nthat the path was private. A day or two afterwards it was removed and\nthrown into a ditch. I was perturbed as well as surprised by this,\nsupposing that it showed that the notice had offended some local\nsusceptibility; and being very anxious to begin my tenure on neighbourly\nterms, I consulted my genial landlord, who laughed, and said that there\nwas no one who would think of doing such a thing; and to reassure me he\nadded that one of his men had seen the culprit at work, and that it was\nonly an old horse, who had rubbed himself against the post till he had\nthrown it down.\n\nThe days pass, then, in a delightful monotony; one reads, writes, sits\nor paces in the garden, scours the country on still sunny afternoons.\nThere are many grand churches and houses within a reasonable distance,\nsuch as the great churches near Wisbech and Lynn--West Walton, Walpole\nSt. Peter, Tilney, Terrington St. Clement, and a score of others--great\ncruciform structures, in every conceivable style, with fine woodwork and\nnoble towers, each standing in the centre of a tiny rustic hamlet,\nbuilt with no idea of prudent proportion to the needs of the places they\nserve, but out of pure joy and pride. There are houses like Beaupre,\na pile of fantastic brick, haunted by innumerable phantoms, with its\nstately orchard closes, or the exquisite gables of Snore Hall, of rich\nTudor brickwork, with fine panelling within. There is no lack of\nshrines for pilgrimage--then, too, it is not difficult to persuade some\nlike-minded friend to share one's solitude. And so the quiet hours\ntick themselves away in an almost monastic calm, while one's book grows\ninsensibly day by day, as the bulrush rises on the edge of the dyke.\n\nI do not say that it would be a life to live for the whole of a year,\nand year by year. There is no stir, no eagerness, no brisk interchange\nof thought about it. But for one who spends six months in a busy and\npeopled place, full of duties and discussions and conflicting interests,\nit is like a green pasture and waters of comfort. The danger of it, if\nprolonged, would be that things would grow languid, listless, fragrant\nlike the Lotos-eaters' Isle; small things would assume undue importance,\nsmall decisions would seem unduly momentous; one would tend to regard\none's own features as in a mirror and through a magnifying glass. But,\non the other hand, it is good, because it restores another kind of\nproportion; it is like dipping oneself in the seclusion of a monastic\ncell. Nowadays the image of the world, with all its sheets of detailed\nnews, all its network of communications, sets too deep a mark upon one's\nspirit. We tend to believe that a man is lost unless he is overwhelmed\nwith occupation, unless, like the conjurer, he is keeping a dozen balls\nin the air at once. Such a gymnastic teaches a man alertness, agility,\neffectiveness. But it has got to be proved that one was sent into\nthe world to be effective, and it is not even certain that a man has\nfulfilled the higher law of his being if he has made a large fortune\nby business. A sagacious, shrewd, acute man of the world is sometimes\na mere nuisance; he has made his prosperous corner at the expense of\nothers, and he has only contrived to accumulate, behind a little fence\nof his own, what was meant to be the property of all. I have known a\ngood many successful men, and I cannot honestly say that I think that\nthey are generally the better for their success. They have often learnt\nself-confidence, the shadow of which is a good-natured contempt for\nineffective people; the shadow, on the other hand, which falls on the\ncontemplative man is an undue diffidence, an indolent depression, a\ntendency to think that it does not very much matter what any one does.\nBut, on the other hand, the contemplative man sometimes does grasp one\nvery important fact--that we are sent into the world, most of us, to\nlearn something about God and ourselves; whereas if we spend our lives\nin directing and commanding and consulting others, we get so swollen a\nsense of our own importance, our own adroitness, our own effectiveness,\nthat we forget that we are tolerated rather than needed, it is better on\nthe whole to tarry the Lord's leisure, than to try impatiently to force\nthe hand of God, and to make amends for His apparent slothfulness. What\nreally makes a nation grow, and improve, and progress, is not social\nlegislation and organisation. That is only the sign of the rising moral\ntemperature; and a man who sets an example of soberness, and kindliness,\nand contentment is better than a pragmatical district visitor with a\ntaste for rating meek persons.\n\nIt may be asked, then, do I set myself up as an example in this\nmatter? God forbid! I live thus because I like it, and not from any\nphilosophical or philanthropical standpoint. But if more men were\nto follow their instincts in the matter, instead of being misled\nand bewildered by the conventional view that attaches virtue to\nperspiration, and national vigour to the multiplication of unnecessary\nbusiness, it would be a good thing for the community. What I claim is\nthat a species of mental and moral equilibrium is best attained by a\ncareful proportion of activity and quietude. What happens in the case of\nthe majority of people is that they are so much occupied in the process\nof acquisition that they have no time to sort or dispose their stores;\nand thus life, which ought to be a thing complete in itself, and ought\nto be spent, partly in gathering materials, and partly in drawing\ninferences, is apt to be a hurried accumulation lasting to the edge of\nthe tomb. We are put into the world, I cannot help feeling, to BE rather\nthan to DO. We excuse our thirst for action by pretending to ourselves\nthat our own doing may minister to the being of others; but all that it\noften effects is to inoculate others with the same restless and feverish\nbacteria.\n\nAnd anyhow, as I said, it is but an experiment. I can terminate it\nwhenever I have the wish to do so. Even if it is a failure, it will at\nall events have been an experiment, and others may learn wisdom by my\nmistake; because it must be borne in mind that a failure in a deliberate\nexperiment in life is often more fruitful than a conventional\nsuccess. People as a rule are so cautious; and it is of course highly\ndisagreeable to run a risk, and to pay the penalty. Life is too short,\none feels, to risk making serious mistakes; but, on the other hand,\nthe cautious man often has the catastrophe, without even having had\nthe pleasure of a run for his money. Jowett, the high priest of worldly\nwisdom, laid down as a maxim, \"Never resign\"; but I have found myself\nthat there is no pleasure comparable to disentangling oneself from\nuncongenial surroundings, unless it be the pleasure of making mild\nexperiments and trying unconventional schemes.\n\n\n\n\nII. CONTENTMENT\n\n\nI have attempted of late, in more than one book, to depict a certain\nkind of tranquil life, a life of reflection rather than of action, of\ncontemplation rather than of business; and I have tried to do this\nfrom different points of view, though the essence has been the same. I\nendeavoured at first to do it anonymously, because I have no desire to\nrecommend these ideas as being my own theories. The personal background\nrather detracts from than adds to the value of the thoughts, because\npeople can compare my theories with my practice, and show how lamentably\nI fail to carry them out. But time after time I have been pulled\nreluctantly out of my burrow, by what I still consider a wholly\nmisguided zeal for publicity, till I have decided that I will lurk no\nlonger. It was in this frame of mind that I published, under my own\nname, a book called Beside Still Waters, a harmless enough volume, I\nthought, which was meant to be a deliberate summary or manifesto of\nthese ideas. It depicted a young man who, after a reasonable experience\nof practical life, resolved to retire into the shade, who in that\nposition indulged profusely in leisurely reverie. The book was carefully\nenough written, and I have been a good deal surprised to find that it\nhas met with considerable disapproval, and even derision, on the part\nof many reviewers. It has been called morbid and indolent, and decadent,\nand half a hundred more ugly adjectives. Now I do not for an instant\nquestion the right of a single one of these conscientious persons to\nform whatever opinion they like about my book, and to express it in any\nterms they like; they say, and obviously feel, that the thought of the\nbook is essentially thin, and that the vein in which it is written is\noffensively egotistical. I do not dispute the possibility of their being\nperfectly right. An artist who exhibits his paintings, or a writer who\npublishes his books, challenges the criticisms of the public; and I am\nquite sure that the reviewers who frankly disliked my book, and said\nso plainly, thought that they were doing their duty to the public, and\nwarning them against teaching which they believed to be insidious\nand even immoral. I honour them for doing this, and I applaud them,\nespecially if they did violence to their own feelings of courtesy and\nurbanity in doing so. Then there were some good-natured reviewers\nwho practically said that the book was simply a collection of amiable\nplatitudes; but that if the public liked to read such stuff, they were\nquite at liberty to do so. I admire these reviewers for a different\nreason, partly for their tolerant permission to the public to read what\nthey choose, and still more because I like to think that there are so\nmany intelligent people in the world who are wearisomely familiar with\nideas which have only slowly and gradually dawned upon myself. I have\nno intention of trying to refute or convince my critics, and I beg them\nwith all my heart to say what they think about my books, because only by\nthe frank interchange of ideas can we arrive at the truth.\n\nBut what I am going to try to do in this chapter is to examine the\ntheory by virtue of which my book is condemned, and I am going to try\nto give the fullest weight to the considerations urged against it. I\nam sure there is something in what the critics say, but I believe that\nwhere we differ is in this. The critics who disapprove of my book seem\nto me to think that all men are cast in the same mould, and that the\nprinciples which hold good for some necessarily hold good for all. What\nI like best about their criticisms is that they are made in a spirit of\nmoral earnestness and ethical seriousness. I am a serious man myself,\nand I rejoice to see others serious. The point of view which they\nseem to recommend is the point of view of a certain kind of practical\nstrenuousness, the gospel of push, if I may so call it. They seem to\nhold that people ought to be discontented with what they are, that they\nought to try to better themselves, that they ought to be active,\nand what they call normal; that when they have done their work as\nenergetically as possible, they should amuse themselves energetically\ntoo, take hard exercise, shout and play,\n\n\n     \"Pleased as the Indian boy to run\n      And shoot his arrows in the sun,\"\n\n\nand that then they should recreate themselves like Homeric heroes,\neating and drinking, listening comfortably to the minstrel, and take\ntheir fill of love in a full-blooded way.\n\nThat is, I think, a very good theory of life for some people, though I\nthink it is a little barbarous; it is Spartan rather than Athenian.\n\nSome of my critics take a higher kind of ground, and say that I want to\nminimise and melt down the old stern beliefs and principles of morality\ninto a kind of nebulous emotion. They remind me a little of an old\ncountry squire of whom I have heard, of the John Bull type, whose\nyounger son, a melancholy and sentimental youth, joined the Church of\nRome. His father was determined that this should not separate them, and\nasked him to come home and talk it over. He told his eldest son that\nhe was going to remonstrate with the erring youth in a simple and\naffectionate way. The eldest son said that he hoped his father would do\nit tactfully and gently, as his brother was highly sensitive, to which\nhis father replied that he had thought over what he meant to say, and\nwas going to be very reasonable. The young man arrived, and was ushered\ninto the study by his eldest brother. \"Well,\" said the squire, \"very\nglad to see you, Harry; but do you mean to tell me that your mother's\nreligion is not good enough for a damned ass like you?\"\n\nNow far from desiring to minimise faith in God and the Unseen, I think\nit is the thing of which the world is more in need than anything else.\nWhat has made the path of faith a steep one to tread is partly that it\nhas got terribly encumbered with ecclesiastical traditions; it has been\nmended, like the Slough of Despond, with cartloads of texts and insecure\ndefinitions. And partly too the old simple undisturbed faith in the\nabsolute truth and authority of the Bible has given way. It is admitted\nthat the Bible contains a considerable admixture of the legendary\nelement; and it requires a strong intellectual and moral grip to build\none's faith upon a collection of writings, some of which, at all events,\nare not now regarded as being historically and literally true. \"If I\ncannot believe it all,\" says the simple bewildered soul, \"how can I\nbe certain that any of it is indubitably true?\" Only the patient\nand desirous spirit can decide; but whatever else fades, the perfect\ninsight, the Divine message of the Son of Man cannot fade; the dimmer\nthat the historical setting becomes, the brighter shine the parables\nand the sayings, so far beyond the power of His followers to have\noriginated, so utterly satisfying to our deepest needs. What I desire to\nsay with all my heart is that we pilgrims need not be dismayed because\nthe golden clue dips into darkness and mist; it emerges as bright as\never upon the upward slope of the valley. If one disregards all that is\nuncertain, all that cannot be held to be securely proved in the sacred\nwritings, there still remain the essential facts of the Christian\nrevelation, and more deep and fruitful principles than a man can\nkeep and make his own in the course of a lifetime, however purely and\nfaithfully he lives and strives. To myself the doubtful matters are\nthings absolutely immaterial, like the debris of the mine, while the\nprecious ore gleams and sparkles in every boulder.\n\nWhat, in effect, these critics say is that a man must not discuss\nreligion unless he is an expert in theology. When I try, as I have once\nor twice tried, to criticise some current conception of a Christian\ndogma, the theological reviewer, with a titter that resembles the titter\nof Miss Squeers in Nicholas Nickleby, says that a writer who presumes\nto discuss such questions ought to be better acquainted with the modern\ndevelopments of theology. To that I demur, because I am not attempting\nto discuss theology, but current conceptions of theology. If the\nadvance in theology has been so enormous, then all I can say is that the\ntheologians fail to bring home the knowledge of that progress to the man\nin the street. To use a simple parable, what one feels about many modern\ntheological statements is what the eloquent bagman said in praise of the\nYorkshire ham: \"Before you know where you are, there--it's wanished!\"\nThis is not so in science; science advances, and the ordinary man knows\nmore or less what is going on; he understands what is meant by the\ndevelopment of species, he has an inkling of what radio-activity means,\nand so forth; but this is because science is making discoveries, while\ntheological discoveries are mainly of a liberal and negative kind, a\nmodification of old axioms, a loosening of old definitions. Theology has\nmade no discoveries about the nature of God, or the nature of the soul;\nthe problem of free will and necessity is as dark as ever, except that\nscientific discovery tends to show more and more that an immutable law\nregulates the smallest details of life. I honour, with all my heart, the\ncritics who have approached the Bible in the same spirit in which they\napproach other literature; but the only definite result has been to make\nwhat was considered a matter of blind faith more a matter of opinion.\nBut to attempt to scare men away from discussing religious topics, by\nsaying that it is only a matter for experts, is to act in the spirit\nof the Inquisition. It is like saying to a man that he must not discuss\nquestions of diet and exercise because he is not acquainted with the\nPharmacopoeia, or that no one may argue on matters of current politics\nunless he is a trained historian. Religion is, or ought to be, a matter\nof vital and daily concern for every one of us; if our moral progress\nand our spiritual prospects are affected by what we believe, theologians\nought to be grateful to any one who will discuss religious ideas\nfrom the current point of view, if it only leads them to clear up\nmisconceptions that may prevail. If I needed to justify myself further,\nI would only add that since I began to write on such subjects I have\nreceived a large number of letters from unknown people, who seem to be\ngrateful to any one who will attempt to speak frankly on these matters,\nwith the earnest desire, which I can honestly say has never been absent\nfrom my mind, to elucidate and confirm a belief in simple and essential\nreligious principles.\n\nAnd now I would go on to say a few words as to the larger object which I\nhave had in view. My aim has been to show how it is possible for people\nliving quiet and humdrum lives, without any opportunities of gratifying\nambition or for taking a leading part on the stage of the world, to make\nthe most of simple conditions, and to live lives of dignity and joy.\nMy own belief is that what is commonly called success has an insidious\npower of poisoning the clear springs of life; because people who grow\nto depend upon the stimulus of success sink into dreariness and dulness\nwhen that stimulus is withdrawn. Here my critics have found fault with\nme for not being more strenuous, more virile, more energetic. It is\nstrange to me that my object can have been so singularly misunderstood.\nI believe, with all my heart, that happiness depends upon strenuous\nenergy; but I think that this energy ought to be expended upon work, and\neveryday life, and relations with others, and the accessible pleasures\nof literature and art. The gospel that I detest is the gospel of\nsuccess, the teaching that every one ought to be discontented with his\nsetting, that a man ought to get to the front, clear a space round him,\neat, drink, make love, cry, strive, and fight. It is all to be at the\nexpense of feebler people. That is a detestable ideal, because it is\nthe gospel of tyranny rather than the gospel of equality. It is obvious,\ntoo, that such success depends upon a man being stronger than his\nfellows, and is only made possible by shoving and hectoring, and\nbullying the weak. The preaching of this violent gospel has done us\nalready grievous harm; it is this which has tended to depopulate country\ndistricts, to make people averse to discharging all honest subordinate\ntasks, to make men and women overvalue excitement and amusement. The\nresult of it is the lowest kind of democratic sentiment, which says,\n\"Every one is as good as every one else, and I am a little better,\" and\nthe jealous spirit, which says, \"If I cannot be prominent, I will do\nmy best that no one else shall be.\" Out of it develops the demon of\nmunicipal politics, which makes a man strive for a place, in the hope\nbeing able to order things for which others have to pay. It is this\nteaching which makes power seem desirable for the sake of personal\nadvantages, and with no care for responsibility. This spirit seems to\nme an utterly vile and detestable spirit. It tends to disguise its rank\nindividualism under a pretence of desiring to improve social conditions.\nI do not mean for a moment to say that all social reformers are of\nthis type; the clean-handed social reformer, who desires no personal\nadvantage, and whose influence is a matter of anxious care, is one\nof the noblest of men; but now that schemes of social reform are\nfashionable, there are a number of blatant people who them for purposes\nof personal advancement.\n\nWhat I rather desire is to encourage a very different kind of\nindividualism, the individualism of the man who realises that the hope\nof the race depends upon the quality of the life, upon the number of\npeople who live quiet, active, gentle, kindly, faithful lives, enjoying\ntheir work and turning for recreation to the nobler and simpler sources\nof pleasure--the love of nature, poetry, literature, and art. Of course\nthe difficulty is that we do not, most of us, find our pleasures in\nthese latter things, but in the excitement and amusement of social life.\nI mournfully admit it, and I quite see the uselessness of trying to\nbring pleasures within the reach of people when they have no taste for\nthem; but an increasing number of people do care for such things, and\nthere are still more who would care for them, if only they could be\nintroduced to them at an impressionable age.\n\nIf it is said that this kind of simplicity is a very tame and spiritless\nthing, I would answer that it has the advantage of being within the\nreach of all. The reason why the pursuit of social advancement and\nsuccess is so hollow, is that the subordinate life is after all the life\nthat must fall to the majority of people. We cannot organise society\non the lines of the army of a lesser German state, which consisted\nof twenty-four officers, covered with military decorations, and\neight privates. The successful men, whatever happens, must be a small\nminority; and what I desire is that success, as it is called, should\nfall quietly and inevitably on the heads of those who deserve it,\nwhile ordinary people should put it out of their thoughts. It is no use\nholding up an ideal which cannot be attained, and which the mere attempt\nto attain is fruitful in disaster and discontent.\n\nI do not at all wish to teach a gospel of dulness. I am of the opinion\nof the poet who said:\n\n\n     \"Life is not life at all without delight,\n         Nor hath it any might.\"\n\n\nBut I am quite sure that the real pleasures of the world are those which\ncannot be bought for money, and which are wholly independent of success.\n\nEvery one who has watched children knows the extraordinary amount of\npleasure that they can extract out of the simplest materials. To keep\na shop in the corner of a garden, where the commodities are pebbles and\nthistle-heads stored in old tin pots, and which are paid for in daisies,\nwill be an engrossing occupation to healthy children for a long summer\nafternoon. There is no reason why that kind of zest should not be\nimported into later life; and, as a matter of fact, people who practise\nself-restraint, who are temperate and quiet, do retain a gracious kind\nof contentment in all that they do or say, or think, to extreme old age;\nit is the jaded weariness of overstrained lives that needs the stimulus\nof excitement to carry them along from hour to hour. Who does not\nremember the rigid asceticism of Ruskin's childhood? A bunch of keys\nto play with, and a little later a box of bricks; the Bible and The\nPilgrim's Progress and Robinson Crusoe to read; a summary whipping if\nhe fell down and hurt himself, or if he ever cried. Yet no one\nwould venture to say that this austerity in any way stunted Ruskin's\ndevelopment or limited his range of pleasures; it made him perhaps a\nlittle submissive and unadventurous. But who that ever saw him, as the\nmost famous art-critic of the day, being mercilessly snubbed, when he\nindulged in paradoxes, by the old wine-merchant, or being told to hold\nhis tongue by the grim old mother, and obeying cheerfully and sweetly,\nwould have preferred him to have been loud, contradictory, and\nself-assertive? The mischief of our present system of publicity is that\nwe cannot enjoy our own ideas, unless we can impress people with them,\nor, at all events, impress people with a sense of our enjoyment of them.\nThere is a noble piece of character-drawing in one of Mr. Henry\nJames's novels, The Portrait of a Lady, where Gilbert Osmond, a selfish\ndilettante, finding that he cannot make a great success or attain a\ngreat position, devotes himself to trying to mystify and provoke\nthe curiosity of the world by retiring into a refined seclusion, and\nprofessing that it affords him an exquisite kind of enjoyment. The\nhideous vulgarity of his attitude is not at first sight apparent; he\ndeceives the heroine, who is a considerable heiress, into thinking that\nhere, at last, is a man who is living a quiet and sincere life among the\nthings of the soul; and having obtained possession of her purse, he sets\nup house in a dignified old palace in Rome, where he continues to amuse\nhimself by inviting distinguished persons to visit him, in order that he\nmay have the pleasure of excluding the lesser people who would like to\nbe included.\n\nThis is, of course, doing the thing upon an almost sublime scale; but\nthe fact remains that in an age which values notoriety above everything\nexcept property, a great many people do suffer from the disease of not\nenjoying things, unless they are aware that others envy their enjoyment.\nTo people of an artistic temperament this is a sore temptation, because\nthe essence of the artistic temperament is its egotism, and egotism,\nlike the Bread-and-butter fly, requires a special nutriment, the\nnutriment of external admiration.\n\nAnd here, I think, lies one of the pernicious results of an\nover-developed system of athletics. The more games that people play, the\nbetter; but I do not think it is wholesome to talk about them for large\nspaces of leisure time, any more than it is wholesome to talk about your\nwork or your meals. The result of all the talk about athletics is that\nthe newspapers get full of them too. That is only natural. It is the\nbusiness of newspapers to find out what interests people, and to\ntell them about it; but the bad side of it is that young athletes get\nintroduced to the pleasures of publicity, and that ambitious young\nmen think that athletics are a short cut to fame. To have played in a\nUniversity eleven is like accepting a peerage; you wear for the rest of\nyour life an agreeable and honourable social label, and I do not think\nthat a peerage is deserved, or should be accepted, at the age of twenty.\nI do not think it is a good kind of fame which depends on a personal\nperformance rather than upon a man's usefulness to the human race.\n\nThe kind of contentment that I should like to see on the increase is the\ncontentment of a man who works hard and enjoys work, both in itself and\nin the contrast it supplies to his leisure hours; and, further, whose\nleisure is full of varied interests, not only definite pursuits, but an\ninterest in his relations with others, not only of a spectatorial kind,\nbut with the natural and instinctive desire to contribute to their\nhappiness, not in a priggish way, but from a sense of cordial\ngood-fellowship.\n\nThis programme may seem, as I have said, to be unambitious and prosaic,\nand to have very little that is stirring about it. But my belief is that\nit can be the most lively, sensitive, fruitful, and enjoyable programme\nin the world, because the enjoyment of it depends upon the very stuff of\nlife itself, and not upon skimming the cream off and throwing away the\nmilk.\n\nMy critics will say that I am only appearing again from my cellar, with\nmy hands filled with bottled platitudes; but if they are platitudes, by\nwhich I mean plain and obvious truths, why do we not find more people\npractising them? What I mean by a platitude is a truth so obvious that\nit is devoid of inspiration, and has become one of the things that every\none does so instinctively, that no reminder of them is necessary. Would\nthat it were so in the present case! All I can say is that I know very\nfew people who live their lives on these lines, and that most of the\npeople I know find inspiration anywhere but in the homely stuff of life.\nOf course there are a good many people who take life stolidly enough,\nand do not desire inspiration at all; but I do not mean that sort of\nlife in the least. I mean that it ought to be possible and delightful\nfor people to live lives full of activity and perception and kindliness\nand joy, on very simple lines indeed; to take up their work day by day\nwith an agreeable sense of putting out their powers, to find in the\npageant of nature an infinite refreshment, and to let art and poetry\nlift them up into a world of hopes and dreams and memories; and thus\nlife may become a meal to be eaten with appetite, with a wholesome\nappreciation of its pleasant savours, rather than a meal eaten in\nsatiety or greediness, with a peevish repining that it is not more\nelaborate and delicate.\n\nI do not claim to live my own life on these lines. I started, as all\nsensitive and pleasure-loving natures do, with an expectation of finding\nlife a much more exciting, amusing, and delightful thing than I have\nfound it. I desired to skip from peak to peak, without troubling to\ndescend into the valleys. But now that I have descended, partly out of\ncuriosity and partly out of inefficiency, no doubt, into the low-lying\nvales, I have found them to be beautiful and interesting places, the\nhedgerows full of flower and leaf, the thickets musical with the voices\nof birds, the orchards loaded with fruit, the friendly homesteads rich\nwith tranquil life and abounding in quiet friendly people; and then the\nvery peaks themselves, past which my way occasionally conducts me, have\na beautiful solemnity of pure outline and strong upliftedness, seen from\nbelow, which I think they tend to lose, seen from the summit; and if\nI have spoken of the quieter joys, it is--I can say this with perfect\nhonesty--because I have been pleased with them, as a bird is pleased\nwith the sunshine and the berries, and sings, not that the passers-by\nmay admire his notes, but out of simple joy of heart; and, after all, it\nis enough justification, if a pilgrim or two have stopped upon their way\nto listen with a smile. That alone persuades me that one does no harm\nby speaking, even if there are other passers-by who say what a tiresome\nnote it is, that they have heard it a hundred times before, and cannot\nthink why the stupid bird does not vary his song. Personally, I would\nrather hear the yellow-hammer utter his sharp monotonous notes, with\nthe dropping cadence at the end, than that he should try to imitate the\nnightingale.\n\nHowever, as I have said, I am quite willing to believe that the critics\nspeak, or think they speak, in the interests of the public, and with a\ntender concern that the public should not be bored. And I will take my\nleave of them by saying, like Miss Flite, that I will ask them to accept\na blessing, and that when I receive a judgment, I shall confer estates\nimpartially.\n\nBut my last word shall be to my readers, and I will beg of them not to\nbe deceived either by experts or by critics; on the one hand, not to\nbe frightened away from speculating and reflecting about the possible\nmeanings of life by the people who say that no one under the degree of\na Bachelor of Divinity has any right to tackle the matter; and, on the\nother hand, I would implore them to believe that a quiet life is not\nnecessarily a dull life, and that the cutting off of alcohol does not\nnecessarily mean a lowering of physical vitality; but rather that if\nthey will abstain for a little from dependence upon excitement, they\nwill find their lives flooded by a new kind of quality, which heightens\nperception and increases joy. Of course souls will ache and ail, and\nwe have to bear the burden of our ancestors' weaknesses as well as\nthe burden of our own; but just as, in the physical region, diet\nand exercise and regularity can effect more cures than the strongest\nmedicines, so, in the life of the spirit, self-restraint and deliberate\nlimitation and tranquil patience will often lead into a vigorous and\neffective channel the stream that, left to itself, welters and wanders\namong shapeless pools and melancholy marshes.\n\n\n\n\nIII. FRIENDSHIP\n\n\nTo make oneself beloved, says an old French proverb, this is, after\nall, the best way to be useful. That is one of the deep sayings which\nchildren think flat, and which young men, and even young women, despise;\nand which a middle-aged man hears with a certain troubled surprise, and\nwonders if there is not something in it after all; and which old people\ndiscover to be true, and think with a sad regret of opportunities\nmissed, and of years devoted, how unprofitably, to other kinds of\nusefulness! The truth is that most of us who have any ambitions at all,\ndo not start in life with a hope of being useful, but rather with an\nintention of being ornamental. We think, like joseph in his childish\ndreams, that the sun and moon and the eleven stars, to say nothing\nof the sheaves, are going to make obeisance to us. We want to be\nimpressive, rich, beautiful, influential, admired, envied; and then, as\nwe move forward, the visions fade. We have to be content if, in a quiet\ncorner, a single sheaf gives us a nod of recognition; and as for the\neleven stars, they seem unaware of our very existence! And then we\nmake further discoveries; that when we have seemed to ourselves most\nimpressive, we have only been pretentious; that riches are only a\ntalisman against poverty, and even make suffering and pain and grief\nmore unendurable; that beauty fades into stolidity or weariness; that\ninfluence comes mostly to people who do not pursue it, and that the\nbest kind of influence belongs to those who do not even know that they\npossess it; that admiration is but a brilliant husk, which may or may\nnot contain a wholesome kernel; and as for envy, there is poison in that\ncup! And then we become aware that the best crowns have fallen to those\nwho have not sought them, and that simple-minded and unselfish people\nhave won the prize which has been denied to brilliance and ambition.\n\nThat is the process which is often called disillusionment; and it is a\nsad enough business for people who only look at one side of the medal,\nand who brood over the fact that they have been disappointed and have\nfailed. For such as these, there follow the faded years of cynicism and\ndreariness. But that disillusionment, that humiliation, are the freshest\nand most beautiful things in the world, for people who have real\ngenerosity of spirit, and whose vanity has been of a superficial kind;\nbecause they thus realise that these great gifts are real and true\nthings, but that they must be deserved and not captured; and then\nperhaps such people begin their life-work afresh, in a humble and\nhopeful spirit; and if it be too late for them to do what they might\nhave once done, they do not waste time in futile regret, but are\ngrateful for ever so little love and tenderness. After all, they have\nlived, they have learnt by experience; and it does not yet appear what\nwe shall be. Somewhere, far hence--who knows?--we shall make a better\nstart.\n\nSome philosophers have devoted time and thought to tracing backwards all\nour emotions to their primal origin; and it is undoubtedly true that in\nthe intensest and most passionate relationships of life--the love of a\nman for a woman, or a mother for a child--there is a large admixture of\nsomething physical, instinctive, and primal. But the fact also remains\nthat there are unnumbered relationships between all sorts of apparently\nincongruous persons, of which the basis is not physical desire, or the\nprotective instinct, and is not built up upon any hope of gain or profit\nwhatsoever. All sorts of qualities may lend a hand to strengthen and\nincrease and confirm these bonds; but what lies at the base of all is\nsimply a sort of vital congeniality. The friend is the person whom one\nis in need of, and by whom one is needed. Life is a sweeter, stronger,\nfuller, more gracious thing for the friend's existence, whether he be\nnear or far: if the friend is close at hand, that is best; but if he is\nfar away, he is still there, to think of, to wonder about, to hear from,\nto write to, to share life and experience with, to serve, to honour,\nto admire, to love. But again it is a mistake to think that one makes\na friend because of his or her qualities; it has nothing to do with\nqualities at all. If the friend has noble qualities, we admire them\nbecause they are his; if he has obviously bad and even noxious faults,\nhow readily we condone them or overlook them! It is the person that we\nwant, not what he does or says, or does not do or say, but what he is:\nthat is eternally enough.\n\nOf course, it does sometimes happen that we think we have made a friend,\nand on closer acquaintance we find things in him that are alien to our\nvery being; but even so, such a friendship often survives, if we have\ngiven our heart, or if affection has been bestowed upon us--affection\nwhich we cannot doubt. Some of the richest friendships of all are\nfriendships between people whose whole view of life is sharply\ncontrasted; and then what blessed energy can be employed in defending\none's friend, in explaining him to other people, in minimising faults,\nin emphasising virtues! \"While the thunder lasted,\" says the old Indian\nproverb, \"two bad men were friends.\" That means that a common danger\nwill sometimes draw even malevolent people together. But, for most of\nus, the only essential thing to friendship is a kind of mutual trust and\nconfidence. It does not even shake our faith to know that our friend may\nplay other people false: we feel by a kind of secret instinct that he\nwill not play us false; and even if it be proved incontestably that he\nhas played us false, why, we believe that he will not do so again, and\nwe have all the pleasure of forgiveness.\n\nWho shall explain the extraordinary instinct that tells us, perhaps\nafter a single meeting, that this or that particular person in some\nmysterious way matters to us? The person in question may have no\nattractive gifts of intellect or manner or personal appearance; but\nthere is some strange bond between us; we seem to have shared experience\ntogether, somehow and somewhere; he is interesting, whether he speaks or\nis silent, whether he agrees or disagrees. We feel that in some secret\nregion he is congenial. Est mihi nescio quid quod me tibi temperat\nastrum, says the old Latin poet--\"There is something, I know not what,\nwhich yokes our fortunes, yours and mine.\" Sometimes indeed we are\nmistaken, and the momentary nearness fades and grows cold. But it is\nnot often so. That peculiar motion of the heart, that secret joining of\nhands, is based upon something deep and vital, some spiritual kinship,\nsome subtle likeness.\n\nOf course, we differ vastly in our power of attracting and feeling\nattraction. I confess that, for myself, I never enter a new company\nwithout the hope that I may discover a friend, perhaps THE friend,\nsitting there with an expectant smile. That hope survives a thousand\ndisappointments; yet most of us tend to make fewer friends as time goes\non, partly because we have not so much emotional activity to spare,\npartly because we become more cautious and discreet; and partly, too,\nbecause we become more aware of the responsibilities which lie in\nthe background of a friendship, and because we tend to be more shy of\nresponsibility. Some of us become less romantic and more comfortable;\nsome of us become more diffident about what we have to give in return;\nsome of us begin to feel that we cannot take up new ideas--none of\nthem very good reasons perhaps; but still, for whatever reason, we make\nfriends less easily. The main reason probably is that we acquire a\npoint of view, and it is easier to keep to that, and fit people in who\naccommodate themselves to it, than to modify the point of view with\nreference to the new personalities. People who deal with life generously\nand large-heartedly go on multiplying relationships to the end.\n\nOf course, as I have said, there are infinite grades of friendship,\nbeginning with the friendship which is a mere camaraderie arising out of\nhabit and proximity; and every one ought to be capable of forming this\nlast relationship. The modest man, said Stevenson, finds his friendships\nready-made; by which he meant that if one is generous, tolerant, and\nungrudging, then, instead of thinking the circle in which one lives\ninadequate, confined, and unsympathetic, one gets the best out of it,\nand sees the lovable side of ordinary human beings. Such friendships\nas these can evoke perhaps the best and simplest kind of loyalty. It\nis said that in countries where oxen are used for ploughing in double\nharness, there are touching instances of an ox pining away, and even\ndying, if he loses his accustomed yoke-fellow. There are such human\nfriendships, sometimes formed on a blood relationship, such as\nthe friendship of a brother and a sister; and sometimes a marriage\ntransforms itself into this kind of camaraderie, and is a very blessed,\nquiet, beautiful thing.\n\nAnd then there are infinite gradations, such as the friendships of\nold and young, pupils and masters, parents and children, nurses\nand nurslings, employers and servants, all of them in a way unequal\nfriendships, but capable of evoking the deepest and purest kinds of\ndevotion: such famous friendships have been Carlyle's devotion to his\nparents, Boswell's to Johnson, Stanley's to Arnold; till at last\none comes to the typical and essential thing known specially as\nfriendship--the passionate, devoted, equal bond which exists between two\npeople of the same age and sex; many of which friendships are formed at\nschool and college, and which often fade away in a sort of cordial glow,\nimplying no particular communion of life and thought. Marriage is often\nthe great divorcer of such friendships, and circumstances generally,\nwhich sever and estrange; because, unless there is a constant\ninterchange of thought and ideas, increasing age tends to emphasise\ndifferences. But there are instances of men, like Newman and FitzGerald,\nwho kept up a sort of romantic quality of friendship to the end.\n\nI remember the daughter of an old clergyman of my acquaintance\ntelling me a pathetic and yet typical story of the end of one of these\nfriendships. Her father and another elderly clergyman had been devoted\nfriends in boyhood and youth. Circumstances led to a suspension of\nintercourse, but at last, after a gap of nearly thirty years, during\nwhich the friends had not met, it was arranged that the old comrade\nshould come and stay at the vicarage. As the time approached, her\nfather grew visibly anxious, and coupled his frequent expression of the\nexquisite pleasure which the visit was going to bring him with elaborate\narrangements as to which of his family should be responsible for the\nentertainment of the old comrade at every hour of the day: the daughters\nwere to lead him out walking in the morning, his wife was to take him\nout drives in the afternoon, and he was to share the smoking-room with a\nson, who was at home, in the evenings--the one object being that the\nold gentleman should not have to interrupt his own routine, or bear the\nburden of entertaining a guest; and he eventually contrived only to meet\nhim at meals, when the two old friends did not appear to have anything\nparticular to say to each other. When the visit was over, her father\nused to allude to his guest with a half-compassionate air: \"Poor Harry,\nhe has aged terribly--I never saw a man so changed, with such a limited\nrange of interests; dear fellow, he has quite lost his old humour. Well,\nwell! it was a great pleasure to see him here. He was very anxious\nthat we should go to stay with him, but I am afraid that will be rather\ndifficult to manage; one is so much at a loose end in a strange house,\nand then one's correspondence gets into arrears. Poor old Harry! What a\nlively creature he was up at Trinity, to be sure!\" Thus with a sigh dust\nis committed to dust.\n\n\"What passions our friendships were!\" said Thackeray to FitzGerald,\nspeaking of University days. There is a shadow of melancholy in the\nsaying, because it implies that for Thackeray at all events that kind\nof glow had faded out of life. Perhaps--who knows?--he had accustomed\nhimself, with those luminous, observant, humorous eyes, to look too deep\ninto the heart of man, to study too closely and too laughingly the seamy\nside, the strange contrast between man's hopes and his performances, his\ndreams and his deeds. Ought one to be ashamed if that kind of generous\nenthusiasm, that intensity of admiration, that vividness of sympathy die\nout of one's heart? Is it possible to keep alive the warmth, the colour\nof youth, suffusing all the objects near it with a lively and rosy glow?\nSome few people seem to find it possible, and can add to it a kind of\nrich tolerance, a lavish affectionateness, which pierces even deeper,\nand sees even more clearly, than the old partial idealisation. Such a\nlarge-hearted affection is found as a rule most often in people\nwhose lives have brought them into intimate connection with their\nfellow-creatures--in priests, doctors, teachers, who see others not\nin their guarded and superficial moments, but in hours of sharp and\npoignant emotion. In many cases the bounds of sympathy narrow themselves\ninto the family and the home--because there only are men brought into an\nintimate connection with human emotion; because to many people, and to\nthe Anglo-Saxon race in particular, emotional situations are a strain,\nand only professional duty, which is a strongly rooted instinct in\nthe Anglo-Saxon temperament, keeps the emotional muscles agile and\nresponsive.\n\nAnother thing which tends to extinguish friendships is that many of the\npeople who desire to form them, and who do form them, wish to have\nthe pleasures of friendship without the responsibilities. In the\nself-abandonment of friendship we become aware of qualities and strains\nin the friend which we do not wholly like. One of the most difficult\nthings to tolerate in a friend are faults which are similar without\nbeing quite the same. A common quality, for instance, in the Anglo-Saxon\nrace, is a touch of vulgarity, which is indeed the quality that makes\nthem practically successful. A great many Anglo-Saxon people have a\ncertain snobbishness, to give it a hard name; it is probably the poison\nof the feudal system lurking in our veins. We admire success unduly;\nwe like to be respected, to have a definite label, to know the right\npeople.\n\nI remember once seeing a friendship of a rather promising kind forming\nbetween two people, one of whom had a touch of what I may call \"county\"\nvulgarity, by which I mean an undue recognition of \"the glories of our\nbirth and state.\" It was a deep-seated fault, and emerged in a form\nwhich is not uncommon among people of that type--namely, a tendency\nto make friends with people of rank, coupled with a constant desire to\ndetect snobbishness in other people. There is no surer sign of innate\nvulgarity than that; it proceeds, as a rule, from a dim consciousness of\nthe fault, combined with the natural shame of a high-minded nature\nfor being subject to it. In this particular case the man in question\nsincerely desired to resist the fault, but he could not avoid making\nhimself slightly more deferential, and consequently slightly more\nagreeable, to persons of position. If he had not suffered from the\nfault, he would never have given the matter a thought at all.\n\nThe other partner in the friendly enterprise had a touch of a different\nkind of snobbishness--the middle-class professional snobbishness,\nwhich pays an undue regard to success, and gravitates to effective\nand distinguished people. As the friendship matured, each became\nunpleasantly conscious of the other's defect, while remaining\nunconscious of his own. The result was a perpetual little friction on\nthe point. If both could have been perfectly sincere, and could have\nconfessed their weakness frankly, no harm would have been done. But each\nwas so sincerely anxious to present an unblemished soul to the other's\nview, that they could not arrive at an understanding on the point; each\ndesired to appear more disinterested than he was; and so, after coming\ntogether to a certain extent--both were fine natures--the presence of\ngrit in the machinery made itself gradually felt, and the friendship\nmelted away. It was a case of each desiring the unalloyed pleasure of an\nadmiring friendship, without accepting the responsibility of discovering\nthat the other was not perfection, and bearing that discovery loyally\nand generously. For this is the worst of a friendship that begins in\nidealisation rather than in comradeship; and this is the danger of\nall people who idealise. When two such come together and feel a mutual\nattraction, they display instinctively and unconsciously the best\nof themselves; but melancholy discoveries supervene; and then what\ngenerally happens is that the idealising friend is angry with the other\nfor disappointing his hopes, not with himself for drawing an extravagant\npicture.\n\nSuch friendships have a sort of emotional sensuality about them; and to\nbe dismayed by later discoveries is to decline upon Rousseau's vice of\nhanding in his babies to the Foundling Hospital, instead of trying to\nbring them up honestly; what lies at the base of it is the indolent\nshirking of the responsibilities for the natural consequences of\nfriendship. The mistake arises from a kind of selfishness, the\nselfishness that thinks more of what it wants and desires to get, than\nof taking what there is soberly and gratefully.\n\nIt is often said that it is the duty and privilege of a friend to warn\nhis friend faithfully against his faults. I believe that this is a\nwholly mistaken principle. The essence of the situation is rather a\ncordial partnership, of which the basis is liberty. What I mean\nby liberty is not a freedom from responsibility, but an absence of\nobligation. I do not, of course, mean that one is to take all one can\nget and give as little as one likes, but rather that one must respect\none's friend enough--and that is implied in the establishment of the\nrelation--to abstain from directing him, unless he desires and asks for\ndirection. The telling of faults may be safely left to hostile critics,\nand to what Sheridan calls \"damned good-natured\" acquaintances. But the\nfriend must take for granted that his friend desires, in a general way,\nwhat is good and true, even though he may pursue it on different\nlines. One's duty is to encourage and believe in one's friend, not to\ndisapprove of and to censure him. One loves him for what he is, not for\nwhat he might be if he would only take one's advice. The point is that\nit must be all a free gift, not a mutual improvement society--unless\nindeed that is the basis of the compact. After all, a man can only feel\nresponsible to God. One goes astray, no doubt, like a sheep that is\nlost; but it is not the duty of another sheep to butt one back into the\nright way, unless indeed one appeals for help. One may have pastors\nand directors, but they can never be equal friends. If there is to be\nsuperiority in friendship, the lesser must willingly crown the greater;\nthe greater must not ask to be crowned. The secure friendship is\nthat which begins in comradeship, and moves into a more generous\nand emotional region. Then there is no need to demand or to question\nloyalty, because the tie has been welded by many a simple deed, many a\nfrank word. The ideal is a perfect frankness and sincerity, which\nlays bare the soul as it is, without any false shame or any fear of\nmisunderstanding. A friendship of this kind can be one of the purest,\nbrightest, and strongest things in the world. Yet how rare it is! What\nfar oftener happens is that two people, in a sensitive and emotional\nmood, are brought together. They begin by comparing experiences, they\nsearch their memories for beautiful and suggestive things, and each\nfeels, \"This nature is the true complement of my own; what light it\nseems to shed on my own problems; how subtle, how appreciative it is!\"\nThen the process of discovery begins. Instead of the fair distant city,\nall spires and towers, which we discerned in the distance in a sort\nof glory, we find that there are crooked lanes, muddy crossings, dull\nmarket-places, tiresome houses. Odd misshapen figures, fretful and\nwearied, plod through the streets or look out at windows; here is a\nruin, with doleful creatures moping in the shade; we overturn a stone,\nand blind uncanny things writhe away from the light. We begin to reflect\nthat it is after all much like other places, and that our fine\nromantic view of it was due to some accident of light and colour, some\ntransfiguring mood of our own mind; and then we set out in search of\nanother city which we see crowning a hill on the horizon, and leave the\ndull place to its own commonplace life. But to begin with comradeship is\nto explore the streets and lanes first; and then day by day, as we go\nup and down in the town, we become aware of its picturesqueness and\nits charm; we realise that it has an intense and eager life of its own,\nwhich we can share as a dweller, though we cannot touch it as a visitor;\nand so the wonder grows, and the patient love of home. And we have\nsurprises, too: we enter a door in a wall that we have not seen before,\nand we are in a shrine full of fragrant incense-smoke; the fallen day\ncomes richly through stained windows; figures move at the altar, where\nsome holy rite is being celebrated. The truth is that a friendship\ncannot be formed in the spirit of a tourist, who is above all in search\nof the romantic and the picturesque. Sometimes, indeed, the wandering\ntraveller may become the patient and contented inhabitant; but it is\ngenerally the other way, and the best friendships are most often those\nthat seem at first sight dully made for us by habit and proximity, and\nwhich reveal to us by slow degrees their beauty and their worth.\n\n\n         *        *        *        *        *        *\n\n\nThus far had I written, when it came into my mind that I should like to\nsee the reflection of my beliefs in some other mind, to submit them to\nthe test of what I may perhaps be forgiven for calling a spirit-level!\nAnd so I read my essay to two wise, kindly, and gracious ladies, who\nhave themselves often indeed graduated in friendship, and taken the\nhighest honours. I will say nothing of the tender courtesy with which\nthey made their head-breaking balms precious; I told them that I had not\nfinished my essay, and that before I launched upon my last antistrophe,\nI wanted inspiration. I cannot here put down the phrases they used, but\nI felt that they spoke in symbols, like two initiated persons, for whom\nthe corn and the wine and the oil of the sacrifice stand for very\nsecret and beautiful mysteries; but they said in effect that I had\nbeen depicting, and not untruly, the outer courts and corridors of\nfriendship. What they told me of the inner shrine I shall presently\ndescribe; but when I asked them to say whether they could tell me\ninstances of the best and highest kind of friendship, existing and\nincreasing and perfecting itself between two men, or between a man and a\nwoman, not lovers or wedded, they found a great difficulty in doing so.\nWe sifted our common experiences of friendships, and we could find but\none or two such, and these had somewhat lost their bloom. It came then\nto this: that in the emotional region, many women, but very few men, can\nform the highest kind of tie; and we agreed that men tended to find what\nthey needed in marriage, because they were rather interested in than\ndependent upon personal emotion, and because practical life, as the\nyears went on--the life of causes, and movements, and organisations,\nand ideas, and investigations--tended to absorb the energies of men; and\nthat they found their emotional life in home ties; and that the man who\nlived for emotional relations would tend to be thought, if not to be, a\nsentimentalist; but that the real secret lay with women, and with men\nof perhaps a feminine fibre. And all this was transfused by a kind of\ntender pity, without any touch of complacency or superiority, such as a\nmother might have for the whispered hopes of a child who is lost in tiny\nmaterial dreams. But I gathered that there was a region in which the\nheart could be entirely absorbed in a deep and beautiful admiration\nfor some other soul, and rejoice whole-heartedly in its nobleness and\ngreatness; so that no question of gaining anything, or even of being\nhelped to anything, came in, any more than one who has long been pent in\nshadow and gloom and illness, and comes out for the first time into\nthe sun, thinks of any benefits that he may receive from the caressing\nsunlight; he merely knows that it is joy and happiness and life to be\nthere, and to feel the warm light comfort him and make him glad; and all\nthis I had no difficulty in understanding, for I knew the emotion that\nthey spoke of, though I called it by a different name. I saw that it\nwas love indeed, but love infinitely purified, and with all the sense of\npossession that mingles with masculine love subtracted from it; and how\nsuch a relation might grow and increase, until there arose a sort of\nsecret and vital union of spirit, more real indeed than time and space,\nso that, even if this were divorced and sundered by absence, or the\nclouded mind, or death itself, there could be no shadow of doubt as to\nthe permanence of the tie; and a glance passed between the two as they\nspoke, which made me feel like one who hears an organ rolling, and\nvoices rising in sweet harmonies inside some building, locked and\nbarred, which he may not enter. I could not doubt that the music was\nthere, while I knew that for some dulness or belatedness I was myself\nshut out; not, indeed, that I doubted of the truth of what was said, but\nI was in the position of the old saint who said that he believed, and\nprayed to One to help his unbelief. For I saw that though I projected\nthe lines of my own experience infinitely, adding loyalty to loyalty,\nand admiration to admiration, it was all on a different plane. This\ninterfusion of personality, this vital union of soul, I could not doubt\nit! but it made me feel my own essential isolation still more deeply,\nas when the streaming sunlight strikes warmth and glow out of the fire,\nrevealing crumbling ashes where a moment before had been a heart of\nflame.\n\n\n     \"Ah te meae si partem animae rapit\n      Maturior vis, quid moror altera?\"--\n\n\n\"Ah, if the violence of fate snatch thee from me, thou half of my soul,\nhow can I, the other half, still linger here?\" So wrote the old cynical,\nworldly, Latin poet of his friend--that poet whom, for all his deftness\nand grace, we are apt to accuse of a certain mundane heartlessness,\nthough once or twice there flickers up a sharp flame from the\ncomfortable warmth of the pile. Had he the secret hidden in his heart\nall the time? If one could dream of a nearness like that, which doubts\nnothing, and questions nothing, but which teaches the soul to move in as\nunconscious a unison with another soul as one's two eyes move, so that\nthe brain cannot distinguish between the impressions of each, would not\nthat be worth the loss of all that we hold most sweet? We pay a price\nfor our qualities; the thistle cannot become the vine, or the oak the\nrose, by admiration or desire. But we need not doubt of the divine\nalchemy that gives good gifts to others, and denies them to ourselves.\nAnd thus I can gratefully own that there are indeed these high mysteries\nof friendship, and I can be glad to discern them afar off, as the\ndweller on the high moorland, in the wind-swept farm, can see, far away\nin the woodland valley, the smoke go up from happy cottage-chimneys,\nnestled in leaves, and the spire point a hopeful finger up to heaven.\nLife would be a poorer thing if we had all that we desired, and it is\npermitted to hope that if we are faithful with our few things, we may be\nmade rulers over many things!\n\n\n\n\nIV. HUMOUR\n\n\nThere is a pleasant story of a Cambridge undergraduate finding it\nnecessary to expound the four allegorical figures that crown the parapet\nof Trinity Library. They are the Learned Muses, as a matter of fact.\n\"What are those figures, Jack?\" said an ardent sister, labouring under\nthe false feminine impression that men like explaining things. \"Those,\"\nsaid Jack, observing them for the first time in his life--\"those are\nFaith, Hope, and Charity, of course.\" \"Oh! but there are FOUR of them,\"\nsaid the irrepressible fair one. \"What is the other?\" Jack, not to\nbe dismayed, gave a hasty glance; and, observing what may be called\nphilosophical instruments in the hands of the statue, said firmly, \"that\nis Geography.\" It made a charming quaternion.\n\nI have often felt myself that the time has come to raise another figure\nto the hierarchy of Christian Graces. Faith, Hope, and Charity, were\nsufficient in a more elementary and barbarous age; but, now that\nthe world has broadened somewhat, I think an addition to the trio is\ndemanded. A man may be faithful, hopeful, and charitable, and yet leave\nmuch to be desired. He may be useful, no doubt, with that equipment, but\nhe may also be both tiresome, and even absurd. The fourth quality that I\nshould like to see raised to the highest rank among Christian graces is\nthe Grace of Humour.\n\nI do not think that Humour has ever enjoyed its due repute in the\nethical scale. The possession of it saves a man from priggishness; and\nthe possession of faith, hope, and charity does not. Indeed, not only\ndo these three virtues not save a man from priggishness--they sometimes\neven plunge him in irreclaimable depths of superiority. I suppose that\nwhen Christianity was first making itself felt in the world, the one\nquality needful was a deep-seated and enthusiastic earnestness. There is\nnothing that makes life so enjoyable as being in earnest. It is not\nthe light, laughter-loving, jocose people who have the best time in the\nworld. They have a chequered career. They skip at times upon the hills\nof merriment, but they also descend gloomily at other times into the\nvalleys of dreariness. But the man who is in earnest is generally\nneither merry nor dreary. He has not time to be either. The early\nChristians, engaged in leavening the world, had no time for levity or\nlistlessness. A pioneer cannot be humorous. But now that the world is\nleavened and Christian principles are theoretically, if not practically,\ntaken for granted, a new range of qualities comes in sight. By humour\nI do not mean a taste for irresponsible merriment; for though humour is\nnot a necessarily melancholy thing, in this imperfect world the humorist\nsighs as often as he smiles. What I mean by it is a keen perception of\nthe rich incongruities and absurdities of life, its undue solemnity, its\nguileless pretentiousness. To be true humour, it must not be at all a\ncynical thing--as soon as it becomes cynical, it loses all its natural\ngrace; it is an essentially tender-hearted quality, apt to find excuse,\nready to condone, eager to forgive. The possessor of it can never be\nridiculous, or heavy, or superior. Wit, of course, is a very small\nprovince of humour: wit is to humour what lightning is to the electric\nfluid--a vivid, bright, crackling symptom of it in certain conditions;\nbut a man may be deeply and essentially humorous, and never say a witty\nthing in his life. To be witty, one has to be fanciful, intellectual,\ndeft, light-hearted; and the humorist need be none of these things.\n\nIn religion, the absence of a due sense of humour has been the cause of\nsome of our worst disasters. All rational people know that what has done\nmost to depress and discount religion is ecclesiasticism. The spirit of\necclesiasticism is the spirit that confuses proportions, that loves what\nis unimportant, that hides great principles under minute rules, that\nsacrifices simplicity to complexity, that adores dogma, and definition,\nand labels of every kind, that substitutes the letter for the spirit.\nThe greatest misfortune that can befall religion is that it should\nbecome logical, that it should evolve a reasoned system from\ninsufficient data; but humour abhors logic, and cannot pin its faith on\ninsecure deductions. The heaviest burden which religion can have to\nbear is the burden of tradition, and humour is the determined foe of\neverything that is conventional and traditional. The Pharisaical spirit\nloves precedent and authority; the humorous spirit loves all that is\nswift and shifting and subversive and fresh. One of the reasons why the\northodox heaven is so depressing a place is that there seems to be no\nroom in it for laughter; it is all harmony and meekness, sanctified by\nnothing but the gravest of smiles. What wonder that humanity is dejected\nat the thought of an existence from which all possibility of innocent\nabsurdity and kindly mirth is subtracted--the only things which have\npersistently lightened and beguiled the earthly pilgrimage! That is why\nthe death of a humorous person has so deep an added tinge of melancholy\nabout it, because it is apt to seem indecorous to think of what was his\nmost congenial and charming trait still finding scope for its exercise.\nWe are never likely to be able to tolerate the thought of Death, while\nwe continue to think of it as a thing which will rob humanity of some of\nits richest and most salient characteristics.\n\nEven the ghastly humour of Milton is a shade better than this. It will\nbe remembered that he makes the archangel say to Adam that astronomy\nhas been made by the Creator a complicated subject, in order that the\nbewilderment of scientific men may be a matter of entertainment to Him!\n\n\n               \"He His fabric of the Heavens\n     Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move\n     His laughter at their quaint opinions wide.\"\n\n\nOr, again, we may remember the harsh contortions of dry cachinnation\nindulged in by the rebel spirits, when they have succeeded in toppling\nover with their artillery the armed hosts of Seraphim. Milton certainly\ndid not intend to subtract all humour from the celestial regions. The\nonly pity was that he had not himself emerged beyond the childish stage,\nwhich finds its deepest amusement in the disasters and catastrophes of\nstately persons.\n\nIt may be asked whether we have any warrant in the Gospel for the\nChristian exercise of humour. I have no doubt of it myself. The image of\nthe children in the market-place who cannot get their peevish companions\nto join in games, whether merry or mournful, as illustrating the\nattitude of the Pharisees who blamed John the Baptist for asceticism and\nChrist for sociability, is a touch of real humour; and the story of the\nimportunate widow with the unjust judge, who betrayed so naively his\nprinciple of judicial action by saying \"Though I fear not God, neither\nregard men, yet will I avenge this widow, lest by her continual coming\nshe weary me,\" must--I cannot believe otherwise--have been intended to\nprovoke the hearers' mirth. There is not, of course, any superabundance\nof such instances, but Christ's reporters were not likely to be on the\nlook-out for sayings of this type. Yet I find it impossible to believe\nthat One who touched all the stops of the human heart, and whose stories\nare among the most beautiful and vivid things ever said in the world,\ncan have exercised His unequalled power over human nature without\nallowing His hearers to be charmed by many humorous and incisive\ntouches, as well as by more poetical and emotional images. No one has\never swayed the human mind in so unique a fashion, without holding in\nhis hand all the strings that move and stir the faculties of delighted\napprehension; and of these faculties humour is one of the foremost.\nThe amazing lightness of Christ's touch upon life, the way in which His\nwords plumbed the depths of personality, make me feel abundantly sure\nthat there was no dreary sense of overwhelming seriousness in His\nrelations with His friends and disciples. Believing as we do that He was\nPerfect Man, we surely cannot conceive of one of the sweetest and most\nenlivening of all human qualities as being foreign to His character.\n\nOtherwise there is little trace of humour in the New Testament. St.\nPaul, one would think, would have had little sympathy with humorists. He\nwas too fiery, too militant, too much preoccupied with the working out\nof his ideas, to have the leisure or the inclination to take stock of\nhumanity. Indeed I have sometimes thought that if he had had some touch\nof the quality, he might have given a different bias to the faith; his\napplication of the method which he had inherited from the Jewish school\nof theology, coupled with his own fervid rhetoric, was the first step,\nI have often thought, in disengaging the Christian development from the\nsimplicity and emotion of the first unclouded message, in transferring\nthe faith from the region of pure conduct and sweet tolerance into a\nprovince of fierce definition and intellectual interpretation.\n\nI think it was Goethe who said that Greek was the sheath into which\nthe dagger of the human mind fitted best; and it is true that one finds\namong the Greeks the brightest efflorescence of the human mind. Who\nshall account for that extraordinary and fragrant flower, the flower of\nGreek culture, so perfect in curve and colour, in proportion and scent,\nopening so suddenly, in such a strange isolation, so long ago, upon the\nhuman stock? The Greeks had the wonderful combination of childish zest\nside by side with mature taste; charis, as they called it--a perfect\ncharm, an instinctive grace--was the mark of their spirit. And we should\nnaturally expect to find, in their literature, the same sublimation of\nhumour that we find in their other qualities. Unfortunately the greater\nnumber of their comedies are lost. Of Menander we have but a few tiny\nfragments, as it were, of a delectable vase; but in Aristophanes there\nis a delicious levity, an incomparable prodigality of laughter-moving\nabsurdities, which has possibly never been equalled. Side by side\nwith that is the tender and charming irony of Plato, who is even more\nhumorous, if less witty, than Aristophanes. But the Greeks seem to have\nbeen alone in their application of humour to literature. In the older\nworld literature tended to be rather a serious, pensive, stately thing,\nconcerned with human destiny and artistic beauty. One searches in vain\nfor humour in the energetic and ardent Roman mind. Their very comedies\nwere mostly adaptations from the Greek. I have never myself been able to\ndiscern the humour of Terence or Plautus to any great extent. The humour\nof the latter is of a brutal and harsh kind; and it has always been a\nmarvel to me that Luther said that the two books he would take to be his\ncompanions on a desert island would be Plautus and the Bible. Horace and\nMartial have a certain deft appreciation of human weakness, but it is\nof the nature of smartness rather than of true humour--the wit of the\nsatirist rather; and then the curtain falls on the older world. When\nhumour next makes its appearance, in France and England pre-eminently,\nwe realise that we are in the presence of a far larger and finer\nquality; and now we have, so to speak, whole bins full of liquors,\nof various brands and qualities, from the mirthful absurdities of the\nEnglish, the pawky gravity of the Scotch, to the dry and sparkling\nbeverage of the American. To give an historical sketch of the growth and\ndevelopment of modern Humour would be a task that might well claim\nthe energies of some literary man; it seems to me surprising that some\nGerman philosopher has not attempted a scientific classification of the\nsubject. It would perhaps be best done by a man without appreciation of\nhumour, because only then could one hope to escape being at the mercy\nof preferences; it would have to be studied purely as a phenomenon,\na symptom of the mind; and nothing but an overwhelming love of\nclassification would carry a student past the sense of its unimportance.\nBut here I would rather attempt not to find a formula or a definition\nfor humour, but to discover what it is, like argon, by eliminating other\ncharacteristics, until the evasive quality alone remains.\n\nIt lies deep in nature. The peevish mouth and the fallen eye of the\nplaice, the helpless rotundity of the sunfish, the mournful gape and\nrolling glance of the goldfish, the furious and ineffective mien of\nthe barndoor fowl, the wild grotesqueness of the babyroussa and the\nwart-hog, the crafty solemn eye of the parrot,--if such things as these\ndo not testify to a sense of humour in the Creative Spirit, it is hard\nto account for the fact that in man a perception is implanted which\nshould find such sights pleasurably entertaining from infancy upwards.\nI suppose the root of the matter is that, insensibly comparing these\nfacial attributes with the expression of humanity, one credits the\nanimals above described with the emotions which they do not necessarily\nfeel; yet even so it is hard to analyse, because grotesque exaggerations\nof human features, which are perfectly normal and natural, seem\ncalculated to move the amusement of humanity quite instinctively. A\nchild is apt to be alarmed at first by what is grotesque, and, when once\nreassured, to find in it a matter of delight. Perhaps the mistake we\nmake is to credit the Creative Spirit with human emotions; but, on the\nother hand, it is difficult to see how complex emotions, not connected\nwith any material needs and impulses, can be found existing in\norganisms, unless the same emotions exist in the mind of their Creator.\nIf the thrush bursts into song on the bare bush at evening, if the\nchild smiles to see the bulging hairy cactus, there must be, I think,\nsomething joyful and smiling at the heart, the inmost cell of nature,\nloving beauty and laughter; indeed, beauty and mirth must be the natural\nsigns of health and content. And then there strike in upon the mind two\nthoughts. Is, perhaps, the basis of humour a kind of selfish security?\nDoes one primarily laugh at all that is odd, grotesque, broken, ill at\nease, fantastic, because such things heighten the sense of one's own\nhealth and security? I do not mean that this is the flower of modern\nhumour; but is it not, perhaps, the root? Is not the basis of laughter\nperhaps the purely childish and selfish impulse to delight, not in\nthe sufferings of others, but in the sense which all distorted things\nminister to one--that one is temporarily, at least, more blest than\nthey? A child does not laugh for pure happiness--when it is happiest, it\nis most grave and solemn; but when the sense of its health and soundness\nis brought home to it poignantly, then it laughs aloud, just as\nit laughs at the pleasant pain of being tickled, because the tiny\nuneasiness throws into relief its sense of secure well-being.\n\nAnd the further thought--a deep and strange one--is this: We see how all\nmortal things have a certain curve or cycle of life--youth, maturity,\nage. May not that law of being run deeper still? we think of nature\nbeing ever strong, ever young, ever joyful; but may not the very shadow\nof sorrow and suffering in the world be the sign that nature too grows\nold and weary? May there have been a dim age, far back beyond history or\nfable or scientific record, when she, too, was young and light-hearted?\nThe sorrows of the world are at present not like the sorrows of age, but\nthe sorrows of maturity. There is no decrepitude in the world: its heart\nis restless, vivid, and hopeful yet; its melancholy is as the melancholy\nof youth--a melancholy deeply tinged with beauty; it is full of\nboundless visions and eager dreams; though it is thwarted, it believes\nin its ultimate triumph; and the growth of humour in the world may be\njust the shadow of hard fact falling upon the generous vision, for that\nis where humour resides; youth believes glowingly that all things\nare possible, but maturity sees that to hope is not to execute, and\nacquiesces smilingly in the incongruity between the programme and the\nperformance.\n\nHumour resides in the perception of limitation, in discerning how often\nthe conventional principle is belied by the actual practice. The old\nworld was full of a youthful sense of its own importance; it held that\nall things were created for man--that the flower was designed to yield\nhim colour and fragrance, that the beast of the earth was made to give\nhim food and sport. This philosophy was summed up in the phrase that man\nwas the measure of all things; but now we have learnt that man is but\nthe most elaborate of created organisms, and that just as there was a\ntime when man did not exist, so there may be a time to come when beings\ninfinitely more elaborate may look back to man as we look back to\ntrilobites--those strange creatures, like huge wood-lice, that were\nin their day the glory and crown of creation. Perhaps our dreams of\nsupremacy and finality may be in reality the absurdest things in the\nworld for their pomposity and pretentiousness. Who can say?\n\nBut to retrace our steps awhile. It seems that the essence of humour\nis a certain perception of incongruity. Let us take a single instance.\nThere is a story of a drunken man who was observed to feel his way\nseveral times all round the railings of a London square, with the\nintention apparently of finding some way of getting in. At last he sat\ndown, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears, saying,\nwith deep pathos, \"I am shut in!\" In a sense it was true: if the rest\nof the world was his prison, and the garden of the square represented\nliberty, he was undoubtedly incarcerated. Or, again, take the story\nof the Scotchman returning from a convivial occasion, who had jumped\ncarefully over the shadows of the lamp-posts, but on coming to the\nshadow of the church-tower, ruefully took off his boots and stockings,\nand turned his trousers up, saying, \"I'll ha'e to wade.\" The reason\nwhy the stories of drunken persons are often so indescribably humorous,\nthough, no doubt, highly deplorable in a Christian country, is that the\nvictim loses all sense of probability and proportion, and laments\nunduly over an altogether imaginary difficulty. The appreciation of such\nsituations is in reality the same as the common and barbarous form of\nhumour, of which we have already spoken, which consists in being amused\nat the disasters which befall others. The stage that is but slightly\nremoved from the lowest stage is the theory of practical jokes, the\nhumour of which is the pleasure of observing the actions of a person\nin a disagreeable predicament which is not so serious as the victim\nsupposes. And thus we get to the region illustrated by the two stories\nI have told, where the humour lies in the observation of one in a\npredicament that appears to be of a tragic character, when the\ntragic element is purely imaginary. And so we pass into the region of\nintellectual humour, which may be roughly illustrated by such sayings as\nthat of George Sand that nothing is such a restorative as rhetoric,\nor the claim advanced by a patriot that Shakespeare was undoubtedly a\nScotchman, on the ground that his talents would justify the supposition.\nThe humour of George Sand's epigram depends upon the perception that\nrhetoric, which ought to be based upon a profound conviction, an\noverwhelming passion, an intense enthusiasm, is often little more than\nthe abandonment of a personality to a mood of intoxicating ebullience;\nwhile the humour of the Shakespeare story lies in a sense of the way in\nwhich a national predilection will override all reasonable evidence.\n\nIt will be recognised how much of our humour depends upon our keen\nperception of the weaknesses and imperfections of other nationalities. A\ngreat statesman once said that if a Scotchman applied for a post and\nwas unsuccessful, his one object became to secure the post for another\nScotchman; while if an Irishman made an unsuccessful application, his\nonly aim was to prevent any other Irishman from obtaining the post. That\nis a humorous way of contrasting the jealous patriotism of the Scot with\nthe passionate individualism of the Celt. The curious factor of this\nspecies of humour is that we are entirely unable to recognise the\ntypicality of the caricatures which other nations draw of ourselves. A\nGerman fails to recognise the English idea of the German as a man who,\nafter a meal of gigantic proportions and incredible potations, among the\nsmoke of endless cigars, will discuss the terminology of the absolute,\nand burst into tears over a verse of poetry or a strain of music.\nSimilarly the Englishman cannot divine what is meant by the Englishman\nof the French stage, with his long whiskers, his stiff pepper-and-salt\nclothes, walking arm-in-arm with a raw-boned wife, short-skirted and\nlong-toothed, with a bevy of short-skirted and long-toothed daughters\nwalking behind.\n\nBut if it requires a robust humorist to perceive the absurdity of his\nown nation, what intensity of humour is required for a man to see the\nabsurdity of himself! To acquiesce in appearing ridiculous is the height\nof philosophy. We are glad enough to amuse other people intentionally,\nbut how many men does one know who do not resent amusing other people\nunintentionally? Yet if one were a true philanthropist, how delighted we\nought to be to afford to others a constant feast of innocent and joyful\ncontemplation.\n\nBut the fact which emerges from all these considerations is the fact\nthat we do not give humour its place of due dignity in the moral and\nemotional scale. The truth is that we in England have fallen into a\ncertain groove of humour of late, the humour of paradox. The formula\nwhich lies at the base of our present output of humour is the formula,\n\"Whatever is, is wrong.\" The method has been over-organised, and the\nresult is that humour can be manufactured in unlimited quantities. The\ntype of such humour is the saying of the humorist that he went about\nthe world with one dread constantly hanging over him--\"the dread of not\nbeing misunderstood.\" I would not for a moment deny the quality of such\nhumour, but it grows vapid and monotonous. It is painful to observe the\nclever young man of the present day, instead of aiming at the expression\nof things beautiful and emotional, which he is often well equipped to\nproduce, with all the charm of freshness and indiscretion, turn aside\nto smart writing of a cynical type, because he cannot bear to be thought\nimmature. He wants to see the effect of his cleverness, and the envious\nsmile of the slower-witted is dearer to him than the secret kindling of\na sympathetic mind. Real humour is a broader and a deeper thing, and it\ncan hardly be attained until a man has had some acquaintance with the\nlarger world; and that very experience, in natures that are emotional\nrather than patient, often tends to extinguish humour, because of the\nknowledge that life is really rather too sad and serious a business\nto afford amusement. The man who becomes a humorist is the man who\ncontrives to retain a certain childlike zest and freshness of mind side\nby side with a large and tender tolerance. This state of mind is not one\nto be diligently sought after. The humorist nascitur non fit. One sees\nyoung men of irresponsible levity drawn into the interest of a cause or\na profession, and we say sadly of them that they have lost their sense\nof humour. They are probably both happier and more useful for having\nlost it. The humorist is seldom an apostle or a leader. But one does\noccasionally find a man of real genius who adds to a deep and vital\nseriousness a delightful perception of the superficial absurdities of\nlife; who is like a river, at once strong and silent beneath, with\nsunny ripples and bright water-breaks upon the surface. Most men must be\ncontent to flow turbid and sullen, turning the mills of life or bearing\nits barges; others may dash and flicker through existence, like a\nshallow stream. Perhaps, indeed, it may be said that to be a real\nhumorist there must be a touch of hardness somewhere, a bony carapace,\nbecause we seldom see one of very strong and ardent emotions who is a\ntrue humorist; and this is, I suppose, the reason why women, as a rule,\nare so far less humorous than men. We have to pay a price for our good\nqualities; and though I had rather be strong, affectionate, loyal,\nnoble-minded, than be the best humorist in the world, yet if a gift\nof humour be added to these graces, you have a combination that is\nabsolutely irresistible, because you have a perfect sense of proportion\nthat never allows emotion to degenerate into gush, or virtue into\nrigidity; and thus I say that humour is a kind of divine and crowning\ngrace in a character, because it means an artistic sense of proportion,\na true and vital tolerance, a power of infinite forgiveness.\n\n\n\n\nV. TRAVEL\n\n\nThere are many motives that impel us to travel, to change our sky, as\nHorace calls it--good motives and bad, selfish and unselfish, noble\nand ignoble. With some people it is pure restlessness; the tedium of\nordinary life weighs on them, and travel, they think, will distract\nthem; people travel for the sake of health, or for business reasons, or\nto accompany some one else, or because other people travel. And these\nmotives are neither good nor bad, they are simply sufficient. Some\npeople travel to enlarge their minds, or to write a book; and the worst\nof travelling for such reasons is that it so often implants in the\ntraveller, when he returns, a desperate desire to enlarge other\npeople's minds too. Unhappily, it needs an extraordinary gift of vivid\ndescription and a tactful art of selection to make the reflections of\none's travels interesting to other people. It is a great misfortune for\nbiographers that there are abundance of people who are stirred, partly\nby unwonted leisure and partly by awakened interest, to keep a diary\nonly when they are abroad. These extracts from diaries of foreign\ntravel, which generally pour their muddy stream into a biography on the\nthreshold of the hero's manhood, are things to be resolutely skipped.\nWhat one desires in a biography is to see the ordinary texture of a\nman's life, an account of his working days, his normal hours; and to\nmost people the normal current of their lives appears so commonplace and\nuninteresting that they keep no record of it; while they often keep\nan elaborate record of their impressions of foreign travel, which\nare generally superficial and picturesque, and remarkably like the\nimpressions of all other intelligent people. A friend of mine returned\nthe other day from an American tour, and told me that he received\na severe rebuke, out of the mouth of a babe, which cured him of\nexpatiating on his experiences. He lunched with his brother soon after\nhis return, and was holding forth with a consciousness of brilliant\ndescriptive emphasis, when his eldest nephew, aged eight, towards the\nend of the meal, laid down his spoon and fork, and said piteously to\nhis mother, \"Mummy, I MUST talk; it does make me so tired to hear Uncle\ngoing on like that.\" A still more effective rebuke was administered by a\nclever lady of my acquaintance to a cousin of hers, a young lady who\nhad just returned from India, and was very full of her experiences.\nThe cousin had devoted herself during breakfast to giving a lively\ndescription of social life in India, and was preparing to spend the\nmorning in continuing her lecture, when the elder lady slipped out of\nthe room, and returned with some sermon-paper, a blotting-book, and a\npen. \"Maud,\" she said, \"this is too good to be lost: you must write it\nall down, every word!\" The projected manuscript did not come to very\nmuch, but the lesson was not thrown away.\n\nPerhaps, for most people, the best results of travel are that they\nreturn with a sense of grateful security to the familiar scene: the\nmonotonous current of life has been enlivened, the old relationships\nhave gained a new value, the old gossip is taken up with a comfortable\nzest; the old rooms are the best, after all; the homely language is\nbetter than the outlandish tongue; it is a comfort to have done with\nsqueezing the sponge and cramming the trunk: it is good to be at home.\n\nBut to people of more cultivated and intellectual tastes there is an\nabundance of good reasons for the pursuit of impressions. It is worth\na little fatigue to see the spring sun lie softly upon the unfamiliar\nfoliage, to see the delicate tints of the purple-flowered Judas-tree,\nthe bright colours of Southern houses, the old high-shouldered chateau\nblinking among its wooded parterres; it is pleasant to see mysterious\nrites conducted at tabernacled altars, under dark arches, and to\nsmell the \"thick, strong, stupefying incense-smoke\"; to see well-known\npictures in their native setting, to hear the warm waves of the canal\nlapping on palace-stairs, with the exquisite moulded cornice overhead.\nIt gives one a strange thrill to stand in places rich with dim\nassociations, to stand by the tombs of heroes and saints, to see the\nscenes made familiar by art or history, the homes of famous men. Such\ntravel is full of weariness and disappointment. The place one had\ndesired half a lifetime to behold turns out to be much like other\nplaces, devoid of inspiration. A tiresome companion casts dreariness\nas from an inky cloud upon the mind. Do I not remember visiting the\nPalatine with a friend bursting with archaeological information, who led\nus from room to room, and identified all by means of a folding plan, to\nfind at the conclusion that he had begun at the wrong end, and that even\nthe central room was not identified correctly, because the number of\nrooms was even, and not odd?\n\nBut, for all that, there come blessed unutterable moments, when the mood\nand the scene and the companion are all attuned in a soft harmony. Such\nmoments come back to me as I write. I see the mouldering brickwork of\na crumbling tomb all overgrown with grasses and snapdragons, far out in\nthe Campagna; or feel the plunge of the boat through the reed-beds of\nthe Anapo, as we slid into the silent pool of blue water in the heart of\nthe marsh, where the sand danced at the bottom, and the springs bubbled\nup, while a great bittern flew booming away from a reedy pool hard by.\nSuch things are worth paying a heavy price for, because they bring a\nsort of aerial distance into the mind, they touch the spirit with a\nhope that the desire for beauty and perfection is not, after all, wholly\nunrealisable, but that there is a sort of treasure to be found even upon\nearth, if one diligently goes in search of it.\n\nOf one thing, however, I am quite certain, and that is that travel\nshould not be a feverish garnering of impressions, but a delicious and\nleisurely plunge into a different atmosphere. It is better to visit few\nplaces, and to become at home in each, than to race from place to place,\nguide-book in hand. A beautiful scene does not yield up its secrets to\nthe eye of the collector. What one wants is not definite impressions but\nindefinite influences. It is of little use to enter a church, unless one\ntries to worship there, because the essence of the place is worship, and\nonly through worship can the secret of the shrine be apprehended. It\nis of little use to survey a landscape, unless one has an overpowering\ndesire to spend the remainder of one's days there; because it is the\nlife of the place, and not the sight of it, in which one desires to have\na part. Above all, one must not let one's memories sleep as in a dusty\nlumber-room of the mind. In a quiet firelit hour one must draw near, and\nscrutinise them afresh, and ask oneself what remains. As I write, I open\nthe door of my treasury and look round. What comes up before me? I see\nan opalescent sky, and the great soft blue rollers of a sapphire sea. I\nam journeying, it seems, in no mortal boat, though it was a commonplace\nvessel enough at the time, twenty years ago, and singularly destitute of\nbodily provision. What is that over the sea's rim, where the tremulous,\nshifting, blue line of billows shimmers and fluctuates? A long, low\npromontory, and in the centre, over white clustered houses and masts\nof shipping, rises a white dome like the shrine of some celestial city.\nThat is Cadiz for me. I dare say the picture is all wrong, and I shall\nbe told that Cadiz has a tower and is full of factory chimneys; but\nfor me the dome, ghostly white, rises as though moulded out of a single\npearl, upon the shifting edges of the haze. Whatever I have seen in my\nlife, that at least is immortal.\n\nOr again the scene shifts, and now I stumble to the deck of another\nlittle steamer, very insufficiently habited, in the sharp freshness\nof the dawn of a spring morning. The waves are different here--not the\ngreat steely league-long rollers of the Atlantic, but the sharp azure\nwaves, marching in rhythmic order, of the Mediterranean; what is the\nland, with grassy downs and folded valleys falling to grey cliffs, upon\nwhich the brisk waves whiten and leap? That is Sicily; and the thought\nof Theocritus, with the shepherd-boy singing light-heartedly upon the\nheadland a song of sweet days and little eager joys, comes into my heart\nlike wine, and brings a sharp touch of tears into the eyes. Theocritus!\nHow little I thought, as I read the ugly brown volume with its yellow\npaper, in the dusty schoolroom at Eton ten years before, that it was\ngoing to mean that to me, sweetly as even then, in a moment torn from\nthe noisy tide of schoolboy life, came the pretty echoes of the song\ninto a little fanciful and restless mind! But now, as I saw those\ndeserted limestone crags, that endless sheep-wold, with no sign of a\nhabitation, rising and falling far into the distance, with the fresh\nsea-breeze upon my cheek--there came upon me that tender sorrow for all\nthe beautiful days that are dead, the days when the shepherds walked\ntogether, exulting in youth and warmth and good-fellowship and song, to\nthe village festival, and met the wandering minstrel, with his coat of\nskin and his kind, ironical smile, who gave them, after their halting\nlays, a touch of the old true melody from a master's hand. What do all\nthose old and sweet dreams mean for me, the sunlight that breaks on the\nstream of human souls, flowing all together, alike through dark rocks\nwhere the water chafes and thunders, and spreading out into tranquil\nshining reaches, where the herons stand half asleep? What does that\nstrange drift of kindred spirits, moving from the unknown to the\nunknown, mean for me? I only know that it brings into my mind a strange\nyearning, and a desire of almost unearthly sweetness for all that is\ndelicate and beautiful and full of charm, together with a sombre pity\nfor the falling mist of tears, the hard discipline of the world, the\ncries of anguish, as life lapses from the steep into the silent tide of\ndeath.\n\nOr, again, I seem once more to sit in the balcony of a house that looks\nout towards Vesuvius. It is late; the sky is clouded, the air is still;\na grateful coolness comes up from acre after acre of gardens climbing\nthe steep slope; a fluttering breeze, that seems to have lost his way\nin the dusk, comes timidly and whimsically past, like Ariel, singing\nas soft as a far-off falling sea in the great pine overhead, making a\nlittle sudden flutter in the dry leaves of the thick creeper; like Ariel\ncomes that dainty spirit of the air, laden with balmy scents and cool\ndew. A few lights twinkle in the plain below. Opposite, the sky has an\nadded blackness, an impenetrability of shade; but what is the strange\nred eye of light that hangs between earth and heaven? And, stranger\nstill, what is that phantasmal gleam of a lip of crags high in the air,\nand that mysterious, moving, shifting light, like a pale flame,\nabove it? The gloomy spot is a rent in the side of Vesuvius where the\nsmouldering heat has burnt through the crust, and where a day or two\nbefore I saw a viscid stream of molten liquor, with the flames playing\nover it, creeping, creeping through the tunnelled ashes; and in the\nlight above is the lip of Vesuvius itself, with its restless furnace at\nwork, casting up a billowy swell of white oily smoke, while the glare of\nthe fiery pit lights up the underside of the rising vapours. A ghastly\nmanifestation, that, of sleepless and stern forces, ever at work upon\nsome eternal and bewildering task; and yet so strangely made am I, that\nthese fierce signal-fires, seen afar, but blend with the scents of the\nmusky alleys for me into a thrill of unutterable wonder.\n\nThere are hundreds of such pictures stored in my mind, each stamped upon\nsome sensitive particle of the brain, that cannot be obliterated, and\neach of which the mind can recall at will. And that, too, is a fact of\nsurpassing wonder: what is the delicate instrument that registers, with\nno seeming volition, these amazing pictures, and preserves them thus\nwith so fantastic a care, retouching them, fashioning them anew,\ndetaching from the picture every sordid detail, till each is as a lyric,\ninexpressible, exquisite, too fine for words to touch?\n\nNow it is useless to dictate to others the aims and methods of travel:\neach must follow his own taste. To myself the acquisition of knowledge\nand information is in these matters an entirely negligible thing. To me\nthe one and supreme object is the gathering of a gallery of pictures;\nand yet that is not a definite object either, for the whimsical and\nstubborn spirit refuses to be bound by any regulations in the matter.\nIt will garner up with the most poignant care a single vignette, a\ntiny detail. I see, as I write, the vision of a great golden-grey\ncarp swimming lazily in the clear pool of Arethusa, the carpet of\nmesembryanthemum that, for some fancy of its own, chose to involve the\nwhole of a railway viaduct with its flaunting magenta flowers and its\nfleshy leaves. I see the edge of the sea, near Syracuse, rimmed with a\nline of the intensest yellow, and I hear the voice of a guide explaining\nthat it was caused by the breaking up of a stranded orange-boat, so that\nthe waves for many hundred yards threw up on the beach a wrack of fruit;\nyet the same wilful and perverse mind will stand impenetrably dumb and\nblind before the noblest and sweetest prospect, and decline to receive\nany impression at all. What is perhaps the oddest characteristic of the\ntricksy spirit is that it often chooses moments of intense discomfort\nand fatigue to master some scene, and take its indelible picture. I\nsuppose that the reason of this is that the mind makes, at such moments,\na vigorous effort to protest against the tyranny of the vile body, and\nto distract itself from instant cares.\n\nBut another man may travel for archaeological or even statistical\nreasons. He may wish, like Ulysses, to study \"manners, councils,\ncustoms, governments.\" He may be preoccupied with questions of\narchitectural style or periods of sculpture. I have a friend who takes\nup at intervals the study of the pictures of a particular master, and\nwill take endless trouble and undergo incredible discomfort, in order\nto see the vilest daubs, if only he can make his list complete, and say\nthat he has seen all the reputed works of the master. This instinct\nis, I believe, nothing but the survival of the childish instinct for\ncollecting, and though I can reluctantly admire any man who spares no\ntrouble to gain an end, the motive is dark and unintelligible to me.\n\nThere are some travellers, like Dean Stanley, who drift from the\nappreciation of natural scenery into the pursuit of historical\nassociations. The story of Stanley as a boy, when he had his first sight\nof the snowy Alps on the horizon, always delights me. He danced about\nsaying, \"Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?\" But, in later days,\nStanley would not go a mile to see a view, while he would travel all\nnight to see a few stones of a ruin, jutting out of a farmyard wall, if\nonly there was some human and historical tradition connected with the\nplace. I do not myself understand that. I should not wish to see Etna\nmerely because Empedocles is supposed to have jumped down the crater,\nnor the site of Jericho because the walls fell down at the trumpets\nof the host. The only interest to me in an historical scene is that\nit should be in such a condition as that one can to a certain extent\nreconstruct the original drama, and be sure that one's eyes rest upon\nvery much the same scene as the actors saw. The reason why Syracuse\nmoved me by its acquired beauty, and not for its historical\nassociations, was because I felt convinced that Thucydides, who gives so\npicturesque a description of the sea-fight, can never have set eyes on\nthe place, and must have embroidered his account from scanty hearsay.\nBut, on the other hand, there are few things in the world more\nprofoundly moving than to see a place where great thoughts have been\nconceived and great books written, when one is able to feel that the\nscene is hardly changed. The other day, as I passed before the\nsacred gate of Rydal Mount, I took my hat off my head with a sense of\nindescribable reverence. My companion asked me laughingly why I did so.\n\"Why?\" I said. \"From natural piety, of course! I know every detail here\nas well as if I had lived here, and I have walked in thought a hundred\ntimes with the poet, to and fro in the laurelled walks of the garden, up\nthe green shoulder of Nab Scar, and sat in the little parlour, while\nthe fire leapt on the hearth, and heard him 'booing' his verses, to be\ncopied by some friendly hand.\"\n\nI thrill to see the stately rooms of Abbotsford, with all their sham\nfeudal decorations, the little staircase by which Scott stole away\nto his solitary work, the folded clothes, the shapeless hat, the ugly\nshoes, laid away in the glass case; the plantations where he walked with\nhis shrewd bailiff, the place where he stopped so often on the shoulder\nof the slope, to look at the Eildon Hills, the rooms where he sat, a\nbroken and bereaved man, yet with so gallant a spirit, to wrestle with\nsorrow and adversity. I wept, I am not ashamed to say, at Abbotsford, at\nthe sight of the stately Tweed rolling his silvery flood past lawns and\nshrubberies, to think of that kindly, brave, and honourable heart, and\nhis passionate love of all the goodly and cheerful joys of life and\nearth.\n\nOr, again, it was a solemn day for me to pass from the humble tenement\nwhere Coleridge lived, at Nether Stowey, before the cloud of sad habit\nhad darkened his horizon, and turned him away from the wells of poetry\ninto the deserts of metaphysical speculation, to find, if he could, some\nmedicine for his tortured spirit. I walked with a holy awe along the\nleafy lanes to Alfoxden, where the beautiful house nestles in the\ngreen combe among its oaks, thinking how here, and here, Wordsworth and\nColeridge had walked together in the glad days of youth, and planned,\nin obscurity and secluded joy, the fresh and lovely lyrics of their\nmatin-prime.\n\nI turn, I confess, more eagerly to scenes like these than to scenes of\nhistorical and political tradition, because there hangs for me a glory\nabout the scene of the conception and genesis of beautiful imaginative\nwork that is unlike any glory that the earth holds. The natural joy of\nthe youthful spirit receiving the impact of mighty thoughts, of poignant\nimpressions, has for me a liberty and a grace which no historical or\npolitical associations could ever possess. I could not glow to see\nthe room in which a statesman worked out the details of a Bill for the\nextension of the franchise, or a modification of the duties upon imports\nand exports, though I respect the growing powers of democracy and the\nextinction of privilege and monopoly; but these measures are dimmed and\ntainted with intrigue and manoeuvre and statecraft. I do not deny their\nimportance, their worth, their nobleness. But not by committees and\nlegislation does humanity triumph. In the vanguard go the blessed\nadventurous spirits that quicken the moral temperature, and uplift the\nbanner of simplicity and sincerity. The host marches heavily behind, and\nthe commissariat rolls grumbling in the rear of all; and though my place\nmay be with the work-a-day herd, I will send my fancy afar among the\nleafy valleys and the far-off hills of hope.\n\nBut I would not here quarrel with the taste of any man. If a mortal\nchooses to travel in search of comfortable rooms, new cookery and wines,\nthe livelier gossip of unknown people, in heaven's name let him do so.\nIf another wishes to study economic conditions, standards of life,\nrates of wages, he has my gracious leave for his pilgrimage. If another\ndesires to amass historical and archaeological facts, measurements\nof hypaethral temples, modes of burial, folk-lore, fortification,\nGod forbid that I should throw cold water on the quest. But the only\ntraveller whom I recognise as a kindred spirit is the man who goes in\nsearch of impressions and effects, of tone and atmosphere, of rare and\ncurious beauty, of uplifting association. Nothing that has ever moved\nthe interest, or the anxiety, or the care, or the wonder, of human\nbeings can ever wholly lose its charm. I have felt my skin prickle and\ncreep at the sight of that amazing thing in the Dublin museum, a section\ndug bodily out of a claypit, and showing the rough-hewn stones of a\ncist, deep in the earth, the gravel over it and around it, the roots\nof the withered grass forming a crust many feet above, and, inside the\ncist, the rude urn, reversed over a heap of charred ashes; it was not\nthe curiosity of the sight that moved me, but the thought of the old\ndark life revealed, the dim and savage world, that was yet shot through\nand pierced, even as now, with sorrow for death, and care for the\nbeloved ashes of a friend and chieftain. Such a sight sets a viewless\nnetwork of emotion, which seems to interlace far back into the ages,\nall pulsating and stirring. One sees in a flash that humanity lived,\ncarelessly and brutally perhaps, as we too live, and were confronted, as\nwe are confronted, with the horror of the gap, the intolerable\nmystery of life lapsing into the dark. Ah, the relentless record, the\nimpenetrable mystery! I care very little, I fear, for the historical\ndevelopment of funereal rites, and hardly more for the light that such\nthings throw on the evolution of society. I leave that gratefully enough\nto the philosophers. What I care for is the touch of nature that shows\nme my ancient brethren of the dim past--who would have mocked and\nridiculed me, I doubt not, if I had fallen into their hands, and killed\nme as carelessly as one throws aside the rind of a squeezed fruit--yet\nI am one of them, and perhaps even something of their blood flows in my\nveins yet.\n\nAs I grow older, I tend to travel less and less, and I do not care if\nI never cross the Channel again. Is there a right and a wrong in the\nmatter, an advisability or an inadvisability, an expediency or an\ninexpediency? I do not think so. Travelling is a pleasure, if it is\nanything, and a pleasure pursued from a sense of duty is a very fatuous\nthing. I have no good reason to give, only an accumulation of small\nreasons. Dr. Johnson once said that any number of insufficient reasons\ndid not make a sufficient one, just as a number of rabbits did not make\na horse. A lively but misleading illustration: he might as well have\nsaid that any number of sovereigns did not make a cheque for a hundred\npounds. I suppose that I do not like the trouble, to start with; and\nthen I do not like being adrift from my own beloved country. Then\nI cannot converse in any foreign language, and half the pleasure of\ntravelling comes from being able to lay oneself alongside of a new point\nof view. Then, too, I realise, as I grow older, how little I have really\nseen of my own incomparably beautiful and delightful land, so that, like\nthe hero of Newman's hymn,\n\n\n                 \"I do not ask to see\n     The distant scene; one step enough for me.\"\n\n\nAnd, lastly, I have a reason which will perhaps seem a far-fetched one.\nTravel is essentially a distraction, and I do not want to be distracted\nany more. One of the mistakes that people make, in these Western\nlatitudes, is to be possessed by an inordinate desire to drown thought.\nThe aim of many men whom I know seems to me to be occupied in some\nabsolutely definite way, so that they may be as far as possible\nunaware of their own existence. Anything to avoid reflection! A normal\nEnglishman does not care very much what the work and value of his\noccupation is, as long as he is occupied; and I am not at all sure that\nwe came into the world to be occupied. Christ, in the Gospel story,\nrebuked the busy Martha for her bustling anxieties, her elaborate\nattentions to her guests, and praised the leisurely Mary for desiring to\nsit and hear Him talk. Socrates spent his life in conversation. I do not\nsay that contemplation is a duty, but I cannot help thinking that we\nare not forbidden to scrutinise life, to wonder what it is all about, to\nstudy its problems, to apprehend its beauty and significance. We admire\na man who goes on making money long after he has made far more than he\nneeds; we think a life honourably spent in editing Greek books. Socrates\nin one of Plato's dialogues quotes the opinion of a philosopher to the\neffect that when a man has made enough to live upon, he should begin\nto practise virtue. \"I think he should begin even earlier,\" says the\ninterlocutor; and I am wholly in agreement with him. Travel is one of\nthe expedients to which busy men resort, in order that they may forget\ntheir existence. I do not venture to think this exactly culpable, but I\nfeel sure that it is a pity that people do not do less and think more.\nIf a man asks what good comes from thinking, I can only retort by asking\nwhat good comes from the multiplication of unnecessary activity. I am\nquite as much at a loss as any one else to say what is the object of\nlife, but I do not feel any doubt that we are not sent into the world\nto be in a fuss. Like the lobster in The Water-Babies, I cry, \"Let me\nalone; I want to think!\" because I believe that that occupation is at\nleast as profitable as many others.\n\nAnd then, too, without travelling more than a few miles from my door,\nI can see things fully as enchanting as I can see by ranging Europe. I\nwent to-day along a well-known road; just where the descent begins to\nfall into a quiet valley, there stands a windmill--not one of the ugly\nblack circular towers that one sometimes sees, but one of the old crazy\nboarded sort, standing on a kind of stalk; out of the little\nloopholes of the mill the flour had dusted itself prettily over the\nweather-boarding. From a mysterious hatch half-way up leaned the miller,\ndrawing up a sack of grain with a little pulley. There is nothing so\nenchanting as to see a man leaning out of a dark doorway high up in\nthe air. He drew the sack in, he closed the panel. The sails whirled,\nflapping and creaking; and I loved to think of him in the dusty gloom,\nwith the gear grumbling among the rafters, tipping the golden grain into\nits funnel, while the rattling hopper below poured out its soft stream\nof flour. Beyond the mill, the ground sank to a valley; the roofs\nclustered round a great church tower, the belfry windows blinking\nsolemnly. Hard by the ancient Hall peeped out from its avenue of elms.\nThat was a picture as sweet as anything I have ever seen abroad,\nas perfect a piece of art as could be framed, and more perfect than\nanything that could be painted, because it was a piece out of the old\nkindly, quiet life of the world. One ought to learn, as the years flow\non, to love such scenes as that, and not to need to have the blood and\nthe brain stirred by romantic prospects, peaked hills, well-furnished\ngalleries, magnificent buildings: mutare animum, that is the secret, to\ngrow more hopeful, more alive to delicate beauties, more tender, less\nexacting. Nothing, it is true, can give us peace; but we get nearer it\nby loving the familiar scene, the old homestead, the tiny valley,\nthe wayside copse, than we do by racing over Europe on the track\nof Giorgione, or over Asia in pursuit of local colour. After all,\neverything has its appointed time. It is good to range in youth, to rub\nelbows with humanity, and then, as the days go on, to take stock, to\nremember, to wonder, \"To be content with little, to serve beauty well.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI. SPECIALISM\n\n\nIt is a very curious thing to reflect how often an old platitude or\naxiom retains its vitality, long after the conditions which gave it\nbirth have altered, and it no longer represents a truth. It would\nnot matter if such platitudes only lived on dustily in vapid and\nill-furnished minds, like the vases of milky-green opaque glass\ndecorated with golden stars, that were the joy of Early Victorian\nchimney-pieces, and now hold spills in the second-best spare bedroom.\nBut like the psalmist's enemies, platitudes live and are mighty. They\nremain, and, alas! they have the force of arguments in the minds\nof sturdy unreflective men, who describe themselves as plain,\nstraightforward people, and whose opinions carry weight in a community\nwhose feelings are swayed by the statements of successful men rather\nthan by the conclusions of reasonable men.\n\nOne of these pernicious platitudes is the statement that every one ought\nto know something about everything and everything about something. It\nhas a speciously epigrammatic air about it, dazzling enough to persuade\nthe common-sense person that it is an intellectual judgment.\n\nAs a matter of fact, under present conditions, it represents an\nimpossible and even undesirable ideal. A man who tried to know something\nabout everything would end in knowing very little about anything; and\nthe most exhaustive programme that could be laid down for the most\nerudite of savants nowadays would be that he should know anything about\nanything, while the most resolute of specialists must be content with\nknowing something about something.\n\nA well-informed friend told me, the other day, the name and date of\na man who, he said, could be described as the last person who knew\npractically everything at his date that was worth knowing. I have\nforgotten both the name and the date and the friend who told me, but I\nbelieve that the learned man in question was a cardinal in the sixteenth\ncentury. At the present time, the problem of the accumulation of\nknowledge and the multiplication of books is a very serious one indeed.\nIt is, however, morbid to allow it to trouble the mind. Like all\ninsoluble problems, it will settle itself in a way so obvious that the\npeople who solve it will wonder that any one could ever have doubted\nwhat the solution would be, just as the problem of the depletion of the\nworld's stock of coal will no doubt be solved in some perfectly simple\nfashion.\n\nThe dictum in question is generally quoted as an educational formula in\nfavour of giving every one what is called a sound general education.\nAnd it is probably one of the contributory causes which account for the\npresent chaos of curricula. All subjects are held to be so important,\nand each subject is thought by its professors to be so peculiarly\nadapted for educational stimulus, that a resolute selection of subjects,\nwhich is the only remedy, is not attempted; and accordingly the victim\nof educational theories is in the predicament of the man described by\nDr. Johnson who could not make up his mind which leg of his breeches\nhe would put his foot into first. Meanwhile, said the Doctor, with a\ndirectness of speech which requires to be palliated, the process of\ninvestiture is suspended.\n\nBut the practical result of the dilemma is the rise of specialism. The\nsavant is dead and the specialist rules. It is interesting to try to\ntrace the effect of this revolution upon our national culture.\n\nNow, I have no desire whatever to take up the cudgels against the\nspecialists: they are a harmless and necessary race, so long as they are\naware of their limitations. But the tyranny of an oligarchy is the\nworst kind of tyranny, because it means the triumph of an average over\nindividuals, whereas the worst that can be said of a despotism is that\nit is the triumph of an individual over an average. The tyranny of the\nspecialistic oligarchy is making itself felt to-day, and I should like\nto fortify the revolutionary spirit of liberty, whose boast it is\nto detest tyranny in all its forms, whether it is the tyranny of an\nenlightened despot, or the tyranny of a virtuous oligarchy, or the\ntyranny of an intelligent democracy.\n\nThe first evil which results from the rule of the specialist is the\ndestruction of the AMATEUR. So real a fact is the tyranny of the\nspecialist that the very word \"amateur,\" which means a leisurely lover\nof fine things, is beginning to be distorted into meaning an inefficient\nperformer. As an instance of its correct and idiomatic use, I often\nthink of the delightful landlord whom Stevenson encountered somewhere,\nand upon whom he pressed some Burgundy which he had with him. The\ngenerous host courteously refused a second glass, saying, \"You see I\nam an amateur of these things, and I am capable of leaving you\nnot sufficient.\" Now, I shall concern myself here principally with\nliterature, because, in England at all events, literature plays the\nlargest part in general culture. It may be said that we owe some of the\nbest literature we have to amateurs. To contrast a few names, taken at\nrandom, Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope, Dr. Johnson, De Quincey, Tennyson,\nand Carlyle were professionals, it is true; but, on the other hand,\nMilton, Gray, Boswell, Walter Scott, Charles Lamb, Shelley, Browning,\nand Ruskin were amateurs. It is not a question of how much a man writes\nor publishes, it is a question of the spirit in which a man writes.\nWalter Scott became a professional in the last years of his life, and\nfor the noblest of reasons; but he also became a bad writer. A good pair\nto contrast are Southey and Coleridge. They began as amateurs. Southey\nbecame a professional writer, and his sun set in the mists of valuable\ninformation. Coleridge, as an amateur, enriched the language with a\nfew priceless poems, and then got involved in the morass of dialectical\nmetaphysics. The point is whether a man writes simply because he cannot\nhelp it, or whether he writes to make an income. The latter motive does\nnot by any means prevent his doing first-rate artistic work--indeed,\nthere are certain persons who seem to have required the stimulus of\nnecessity to make them break through an initial indolence of nature.\nWhen Johnson found fault with Gray for having times of the year when\nhe wrote more easily, from the vernal to the autumnal equinox, he added\nthat a man could write at any time if he set himself doggedly to\nit. True, no doubt! But to write doggedly is not to court favourable\nconditions for artistic work. It may be a finer sight for a moralist to\nsee a man performing an appointed task heavily and faithfully, with grim\ntenacity, than it is to see an artist in a frenzy of delight dashing\ndown an overpowering impression of beauty; but what has always hampered\nthe British appreciation of literature is that we cannot disentangle the\nmoral element from it: we are interested in morals, not in art, and we\nrequire a dash of optimistic piety in all writing that we propose to\nenjoy.\n\nThe real question is whether, if a man sets himself doggedly to work,\nthe appetite comes with eating, and whether the caged bird begins to\nflutter its wings and to send out the song that it learnt in the green\nheart of the wood. When Byron said that easy writing made damned hard\nreading, he meant that careless conception and hasty workmanship tend\nto blur the pattern and the colour of work. The fault of the amateur is\nthat he can make the coat, but he cannot be bothered to make it fit. But\nit is not by any means true that hard writing makes easy reading. The\nspirit of the amateur is the spirit of the lover, who trembles at the\nthought that the delicate creature he loves may learn to love him in\nreturn, if he can but praise her worthily. The professional spirit is\nthe spirit in which a man carefully and courteously woos an elderly\nspinster for the sake of her comfortable fortune. The amateur has an\nirresponsible joy in his work; he is like the golfer who dreams\nof mighty drives, and practises \"putting\" on his back lawn: the\nprofessional writer gives his solid hours to his work in a conscientious\nspirit, and is glad in hours of freedom to put the tiresome business\naway. Yet neither the amateur nor the professional can hope to capture\nthe spirit of art by joy or faithfulness. It is a kind of divine\nfelicity, when all is said and done, the kindly gift of God.\n\nNow into this free wild world of art and literature and music comes\nthe specialist and pegs out his claim, fencing out the amateur, who is\nessentially a rambler, from a hundred eligible situations. In literature\nthis is particularly the case: the amateur is told by the historian that\nhe must not intrude upon history; that history is a science, and not\na province of literature; that the time has not come to draw any\nconclusions or to summarise any tendencies; that picturesque narrative\nis an offence against the spirit of Truth; that no one is as black or as\nwhite as he is painted; and that to trifle with history is to commit a\nsin compounded of the sin of Ananias and Simon Magus. The amateur runs\noff, his hands over his ears, and henceforth hardly dares even to\nread history, to say nothing of writing it. Perhaps I draw too harsh\na picture, but the truth is that I did, as a very young man, with no\ntraining except that provided by a sketchy knowledge of the classics,\nonce attempt to write an historical biography. I shudder to think of\nmy method and equipment; I skipped the dull parts, I left all tiresome\ndocuments unread. It was a sad farrago of enthusiasm and levity and\nheady writing. But Jove's thunder rolled and the bolt fell. A just\nman, whom I have never quite forgiven, to tell the truth, told me with\nunnecessary rigour and acrimony that I had made a pitiable exhibition\nof myself. But I have thanked God ever since, for I turned to literature\npure and simple.\n\nThen, too, it is the same with art-criticism; here the amateur again,\nwho, poor fool, is on the look-out for what is beautiful, is told that\nhe must not meddle with art unless he does it seriously, which\nmeans that he must devote himself mainly to the study of inferior\nmasterpieces, and schools, and tendencies. In literature it is the same;\nhe must not devote himself to reading and loving great books, he must\ndisentangle influences; he must discern the historical importance of\nwriters, worthless in themselves, who form important links. In theology\nand in philosophy it is much the same: he must not read the Bible and\nsay what he feels about it; he must unravel Rabbinical and Talmudic\ntendencies; he must acquaint himself with the heretical leanings of a\ncertain era, and the shadow cast upon the page by apocryphal tradition.\nIn philosophy he is still worse off, because he must plumb the depths of\nmetaphysical jargon and master the criticism of methods.\n\nNow, this is in a degree both right and necessary, because the blind\nmust not attempt to lead the blind; but it is treating the whole thing\nin too strictly scientific a spirit for all that. The misery of it is\nthat the work of the specialist in all these regions tends to set a\nhedge about the law; it tends to accumulate and perpetuate a vast amount\nof inferior work. The result of it is, in literature, for instance,\nthat an immense amount of second-rate and third-rate books go on being\nreprinted; and instead of the principle of selection being applied to\ngreat authors, and their inferior writings being allowed to lapse into\noblivion, they go on being re-issued, not because they have any\ndirect value for the human spirit, but because they have a scientific\nimportance from the point of view of development. Yet for the ordinary\nhuman being it is far more important that he should read great\nmasterpieces in a spirit of lively and enthusiastic sympathy than\nthat he should wade into them through a mass of archaeological and\nphilological detail. As a boy I used to have to prepare, on occasions,\na play of Shakespeare for a holiday task. I have regarded certain plays\nwith a kind of horror ever since, because one ended by learning up the\nintroduction, which concerned itself with the origin of the play, and\nthe notes which illustrated the meaning of such words as \"kerns and\ngallowglasses,\" and left the action and the poetry and the emotion\nof the play to take care of themselves. This was due partly to the\nblighting influence of examination-papers set by men of sterile,\nconscientious brains, but partly to the terrible value set by British\nminds upon correct information. The truth really is that if one begins\nby caring for a work of art, one also cares to understand the medium\nthrough which it is conveyed; but if one begins by studying the medium\nfirst, one is apt to end by loathing the masterpiece, because of the\ndusty apparatus that it seems liable to collect about itself.\n\nThe result of the influence of the specialist upon literature is that\nthe amateur, hustled from any region where the historical and scientific\nmethod can be applied, turns his attention to the field of pure\nimagination, where he cannot be interfered with. And this, I believe, is\none of the reasons why belles-lettres in the more precise sense tend to\nbe deserted in favour of fiction. Sympathetic and imaginative criticism\nis so apt to be stamped upon by the erudite, who cry out so lamentably\nover errors and minute slips, that the novel seems to be the only safe\nvantage-ground in which the amateur may disport himself.\n\nBut if the specialist is to the amateur what the hawk is to the dove,\nlet us go further, and in a spirit of love, like Mr. Chadband, inquire\nwhat is the effect of specialism on the mind of the specialist. I\nhave had the opportunity of meeting many specialists, and I say\nunhesitatingly that the effect largely depends upon the natural\ntemperament of the individual. As a general rule, the great specialist\nis a wise, kindly, humble, delightful man. He perceives that though he\nhas spent his whole life upon a subject or a fraction of a subject, he\nknows hardly anything about it compared to what there is to know. The\ntrack of knowledge glimmers far ahead of him, rising and falling like a\nroad over solitary downs. He knows that it will not be given to him to\nadvance very far upon the path, and he half envies those who shall come\nafter, to whom many things that are dark mysteries to himself will be\nclear and plain. But he sees, too, how the dim avenues of knowledge\nreach out in every direction, interlacing and combining, and when he\ncontrasts the tiny powers of the most subtle brain with all the wide\nrange of law--for the knowledge which is to be, not invented, but\nsimply discovered, is all assuredly there, secret and complex as it\nseems--there is but little room for complacency or pride. Indeed,\nI think that a great savant, as a rule, feels that instead of being\nseparated by his store of knowledge, as by a wide space that he has\ncrossed, from smaller minds, he is brought closer to the ignorant by the\npresence of the vast unknown. Instead of feeling that he has soared like\na rocket away from the ground, he thinks of himself rather as a flower\nmight think whose head was an inch or two higher than a great company\nof similar flowers; he has perhaps a wider view; he sees the bounding\nhedgerow, the distant line of hills, whereas the humbler flower sees\nlittle but a forest of stems and blooms, with the light falling dimly\nbetween. And a great savant, too, is far more ready to credit other\npeople with a wider knowledge than they possess. It is the lesser kind\nof savant, the man of one book, of one province, of one period, who is\ninclined to think that he is differentiated from the crowd. The great\nman is far too much preoccupied with real progress to waste time and\nenergy in showing up the mistakes of others. It is the lesser kind of\nsavant, jealous of his own reputation, anxious to show his superiority,\nwho loves to censure and deride the feebler brother. If one ever sees a\nrelentless and pitiless review of a book--an exposure, as it is called,\nby one specialist of another's work--one may be fairly certain that the\ncritic is a minute kind of person. Again, the great specialist is never\nanxious to obtrude his subject; he is rather anxious to hear what is\ngoing on in other regions of mental activity, regions which he would\nlike to explore but cannot. It is the lesser light that desires to\ndazzle and bewilder his company, to tyrannise, to show off. It is the\nmost difficult thing to get a great savant to talk about his subject,\nthough, if he is kind and patient, will answer unintelligent questions,\nand help a feeble mind along, it is one of the most delightful things\nin the world. I seized the opportunity some little while ago, on finding\nmyself sitting next to a great physicist, of asking him a series of\nfumbling questions on the subject of modern theories of matter; for an\nhour I stumbled like a child, supported by a strong hand, in a dim and\nunfamiliar world, among the mysterious essences of things. I should like\nto try to reproduce it here, but I have no doubt I should reproduce it\nall wrong. Still, it was deeply inspiring to look out into chaos, to\nhear the rush and motion of atoms, moving in vast vortices, to learn\nthat inside the hardest and most impenetrable of substances there was\nprobably a feverish intensity of inner motion. I do not know that I\nacquired any precise knowledge, but I drank deep draughts of wonder\nand awe. The great man, with his amused and weary smile, was infinitely\ngentle, and left me, I will say, far more conscious of the beauty and\nthe holiness of knowledge. I said something to him about the sense of\npower that such knowledge must give. \"Ah!\" he said, \"much of what I have\ntold you is not proved, it is only suspected. We are very much in the\ndark about these things yet. Probably if a physicist of a hundred years\nhence could overhear me, he would be amazed to think that a sensible man\ncould make such puerile statements. Power--no, it is not that! It rather\nmakes one realise one's feebleness in being so uncertain about things\nthat are absolutely certain and precise in themselves, if we could\nbut see the truth. It is much more like the apostle who said, 'Lord, I\nbelieve; help Thou my unbelief.' The thing one wonders at is the courage\nof the men who dare to think they KNOW.\"\n\nIn one region I own that I dread and dislike the tyranny of the\nspecialist, and that is the region of metaphysical and religious\nspeculation. People who indulge themselves in this form of speculation\nare apt to be told by theologians and metaphysicians that they ought\nto acquaint themselves with the trend of theological and metaphysical\ncriticism. It seems to me like telling people that they must not ascend\nmountains unless they are accompanied by guides, and have studied the\nhistory of previous ascents. \"Yes,\" the professional says, \"that is just\nwhat I mean; it is mere foolhardiness to attempt these arduous places\nunless you know exactly what you are about.\"\n\nTo that I reply that no one is bound to go up hills, but that every\none who reflects at all is confronted by religious and philosophical\nproblems. We all have to live, and we are all more or less experts in\nlife. When one considers the infinite importance to every human spirit\nof these problems, and when one further considers how very little\ntheologians and philosophers have ever effected in the direction of\nenlightening us as to the object of life, the problem of pain and evil,\nthe preservation of identity after death, the question of necessity and\nfree-will, surely, to attempt to silence people on these matters because\nthey have not had a technical training is nothing more than an attempt\nwilfully to suppress evidence on these points? The only way in which it\nmay be possible to arrive at the solution of these things is to know\nhow they appeal to and affect normal minds. I would rather hear the\nexperience of a life-long sufferer on the problem of pain, or of a\nfaithful lover on the mystery of love, or of a poet on the influence of\nnatural beauty, or of an unselfish and humble saint on the question of\nfaith in the unseen, than the evidence of the most subtle theologian or\nmetaphysician in the world. Many of us, if we are specialists in nothing\nelse, are specialists in life; we have arrived at a point of view; some\nparticular aspect of things has come home to us with a special force;\nand what really enriches the hope and faith of the world is the\nexperience of candid and sincere persons. The specialist has often\nhad no time or opportunity to observe life; all he has observed is the\nthought of other secluded persons, persons whose view has been both\nnarrow and conventional, because they have not had the opportunity of\ncorrecting their traditional preconceptions by life itself.\n\nI call, with all the earnestness that I can muster, upon all\nintelligent, observant, speculative people, who have felt the problems\nof life weigh heavily upon them, not to be dismayed by the disapproval\nof technical students, but to come forward and tell us what conclusions\nthey have formed. The work of the trained specialist is essentially, in\nreligion and philosophy, a negative work. He can show us how erroneous\nbeliefs, which coloured the minds of men at certain ages and eras,\ngrew up. He can show us what can be disregarded, as being only the\nconventional belief of the time; he can indicate, for instance, how a\nfalse conception of supernatural interference with natural law grew up\nin an age when, for want of trained knowledge, facts seemed fortuitous\noccurrences which were really conditioned by natural laws. The poet\nand the idealist make and cast abroad the great vital ideas, which the\nspecialist picks up and analyses. But we must not stop at analysis; we\nwant positive progress as well. We want people to tell us, candidly and\nsimply, how their own soul grew, how it cast off conventional beliefs,\nhow it justified itself in being hopeful or the reverse. There never was\na time when more freedom of thought and expression was conceded to the\nindividual. A man is no longer socially banned for being heretical,\nschismatic, or liberal-minded. I want people to say frankly what real\npart spiritual agencies or religious ideas have played in their lives,\nwhether such agencies and ideas have modified their conduct, or have\nbeen modified by their inclinations and habits. I long to know a\nthousand things about my fellow-men--how they bear pain, how they\nconfront the prospect of death, the hopes by which they live, the fears\nthat overshadow them, the stuff of their lives, the influence of their\nemotions. It has long been thought, and it is still thought by many\nnarrow precisians, indelicate and egotistical to do this. And the result\nis that we can find in books all the things that do not matter, while\nthe thoughts that are of deep and vital interest are withheld.\n\nSuch books as Montaigne's Essays, Rousseau's Confessions, Mrs. Carlyle's\nLetters, Mrs. Oliphant's Memoirs, the Autobiography of B. R. Haydon, to\nname but a few books that come into my mind, are the sort of books that\nI crave for, because they are books in which one sees right into the\nheart and soul of another. Men can confess to a book what they cannot\nconfess to a friend. Why should it be necessary to veil this essence\nof humanity in the dreary melodrama, the trite incident of a novel or\na play? Things in life do not happen as they happen in novels or plays.\nOliver Twist, in real life, does not get accidentally adopted by his\ngrandfather's oldest friend, and commit his sole burglary in the\nhouse of his aunt. We do not want life to be transplanted into trim\ngarden-plots; we want to see it at home, as it grows in all its native\nwildness, on the one hand; and to know the idea, the theory, the\nprinciple that underlie it on the other. How few of us there are who\nMAKE our lives into anything! We accept our limitations, we drift with\nthem, while we indignantly assert the freedom of the will. The best\nsermon in the world is to hear of one who has struggled with life, bent\nor trained it to his will, plucked or rejected its fruit, but all upon\nsome principle. It matters little what we do; it matters enormously how\nwe do it. Considering how much has been said, and sung, and written, and\nrecorded, and prated, and imagined, it is strange to think how little\nis ever told us directly about life; we see it in glimpses and flashes,\nthrough half-open doors, or as one sees it from a train gliding into\na great town, and looks into back windows and yards sheltered from the\nstreet. We philosophise, most of us, about anything but life; and one\nof the reasons why published sermons have such vast sales is because,\nhowever clumsily and conventionally, it is with life that they try to\ndeal.\n\nThis kind of specialising is not recognised as a technical form of it at\nall, and yet how far nearer and closer and more urgent it is for us than\nany other kind. I have a hope that we are at the beginning of an era of\nplain-speaking in these matters. Too often, with the literary standard\nof decorum which prevails, such self-revelations are brushed aside as\nmorbid, introspective, egotistical. They are no more so than any other\nkind of investigation, for all investigation is conditioned by the\npersonality of the investigator. All that is needed is that an observer\nof life should be perfectly candid and sincere, that he should not\nspeak in a spirit of vanity or self-glorification, that he should try to\ndisentangle what are the real motives that make him act or refrain from\nacting.\n\nAs an instance of what I mean by confession of the frankest order,\ndealing in this case not only with literature but also with morality,\nlet me take the sorrowful words which Ruskin wrote in his Praeterita, as\na wearied and saddened man, when there was no longer any need for him\nto pretend anything, or to involve any of his own thoughts or beliefs in\nany sort of disguise. He took up Shakespeare at Macugnaga, in 1840, and\nhe asks why the loveliest of Shakespeare's plays should be \"all mixed\nand encumbered with languid and common work--to one's best hope\nspurious certainly, so far as original, idle and disgraceful--and all\nso inextricably and mysteriously that the writer himself is not only\nunknowable, but inconceivable; and his wisdom so useless, that at this\ntime of being and speaking, among active and purposeful Englishmen,\nI know not one who shows a trace of ever having felt a passion of\nShakespeare's, or learnt a lesson from him.\"\n\nThat is of course the sad cry of one who is interested in life\nprimarily, and in art only so far as it can minister to life. It may be\nstrained and exaggerated, but how far more vital a saying than to\nexpand in voluble and vapid enthusiasm over the insight and nobleness\nof Shakespeare, if one has not really felt one's life modified by that\nmysterious mind!\n\nOf course such self-revelation as I speak of will necessarily fall into\nthe hands of unquiet, dissatisfied, melancholy people. If life is a\ncommon-place and pleasant sort of business, there is nothing particular\nto say or to think about it. But for all those--and they are many--who\nfeel that life misses, by some blind, inevitable movement, being the\ngracious and beautiful thing it seems framed to be, how can such as\nthese hold their peace? And how, except by facing it all, and looking\npatiently and bravely at it, can we find a remedy for its sore\nsicknesses? That method has been used, and used with success in every\nother kind of investigation, and we must investigate life too, even\nif it turns out to be all a kind of Mendelism, moved and swayed by\nabsolutely fixed laws, which take no account of what we sorrowfully\ndesire.\n\nLet us, then, gather up our threads a little. Let us first confront the\nfact that, under present conditions, in the face of the mass of records\nand books and accumulated traditions, arts and sciences must make\nprogress little by little, line by line, in skilled technical hands.\nFine achievement in every region becomes more difficult every day,\nbecause there is so much that is finished and perfected behind us; and\nif the conditions of our lives call us to some strictly limited path,\nlet us advance wisely and humbly, step by step, without pride or vanity.\nBut let us not forget, in the face of the frigidities of knowledge,\nthat if they are the mechanism of life, emotion and hope and love and\nadmiration are the steam. Knowledge is only valuable in so far as it\nmakes the force of life effective and vigorous. And thus if we have\nbreasted the strange current of life, or even if we have been ourselves\noverpowered and swept away by it, let us try, in whatever region we\nhave the power, to let that experience have some value for ourselves\nand others. If we can say it or write it, so much the better. There\nare thousands of people moving through the world who are wearied and\nbewildered, and who are looking out for any message of hope and joy that\nmay give them courage to struggle on; but if we cannot do that, we can\nat least live life temperately and cheerfully and sincerely: if we have\nbungled, if we have slipped, we can do something to help others not to\ngo light-heartedly down the miry path; we can raise them up if they\nhave fallen, we can cleanse the stains, or we can at least give them the\ncomfort of feeling that they are not sadly and insupportably alone.\n\n\n\n\nVII. OUR LACK OF GREAT MEN\n\n\nIt is often mournfully reiterated that the present age is not an age\nof great men, and I have sometimes wondered if it is true. In the\nfirst place I do not feel sure that an age is the best judge of its own\ngreatness; a great age is generally more interested in doing the things\nwhich afterwards cause it to be considered great, than in wondering\nwhether it is great. Perhaps the fact that we are on the look-out for\ngreat men, and complaining because we cannot find them, is the best\nproof of our second-rateness; I do not imagine that the Elizabethan\nwriters were much concerned with thinking whether they were great or\nnot; they were much more occupied in having a splendid time, and in\nsaying as eagerly as they could all the delightful thoughts which came\ncrowding to the utterance, than in pondering whether they were worthy\nof admiration. In the annals of the Renaissance one gets almost weary of\nthe records of brilliant persons, like Leo Battista Alberti and Leonardo\nda Vinci, who were architects, sculptors, painters, musicians, athletes,\nand writers all in one; who could make crowds weep by twanging a lute,\nride the most vicious horses, take standing jumps over the heads of tall\nmen, and who were, moreover, so impressionable that books were to them\nas jewels and flowers, and who \"grew faint at the sight of sunsets and\nstately persons.\" Such as these, we may depend upon it, had little time\nto give to considering their own effect upon posterity. When the sun\nrules the day, there is no question about his supremacy; it is when we\nare concerned with scanning the sky for lesser lights to rule the night\nthat we are wasting time. To go about searching for somebody to inspire\none testifies, no doubt, to a certain lack of fire and initiative. But,\non the other hand, there have been many great men whose greatness their\ncontemporaries did not recognise. We tend at the present time to honour\nachievements when they have begun to grow a little mouldy; we seldom\naccord ungrudging admiration to a prophet when he is at his best.\nMoreover, in an age like the present, when the general average of\naccomplishment is remarkably high, it is more difficult to detect\ngreatness. It is easier to see big trees when they stand out over a\ncopse than when they are lost in the depths of the forest.\n\nNow there are two modes and methods of being great; one is by largeness,\nthe other by intensity. A great man can be cast in a big, magnanimous\nmould, without any very special accomplishments or abilities; it may\nbe very difficult to praise any of his faculties very highly, but he\nis there. Such men are the natural leaders of mankind; they effect\nwhat they effect not by any subtlety or ingenuity. They see in a wide,\ngeneral way what they want, they gather friends and followers and\nhelpers round them, and put the right man on at the right piece of work.\nThey perform what they perform by a kind of voluminous force, which\ncarries other personalities away; for lesser natures, as a rule, do not\nlike supreme responsibility; they enjoy what is to ordinary people\nthe greatest luxury in the world, namely, the being sympathetically\ncommandeered, and duly valued. Inspiration and leadership are not common\ngifts, and there are abundance of capable people who cannot strike out\na novel line of their own, but can do excellent work if they can be\ninspired and led. I was once for a short time brought into close contact\nwith a man of this kind; it was impossible to put down on paper or to\nexplain to those who did not know him what his claim to greatness was. I\nremember being asked by an incredulous outsider where his greatness\nlay, and I could not name a single conspicuous quality that my hero\npossessed. But he dominated his circle for all that, and many of them\nwere men of far greater intellectual force than himself. He had his\nown way; if he asked one to do a particular thing, one felt proud to\nbe entrusted with it, and amply rewarded by a word of approval. It\nwas possible to take a different view from the view which he took of a\nmatter or a situation, but it was impossible to express one's dissent\nin his presence. A few halting, fumbling words of his were more weighty\nthan many a facile and voluble oration. Personally I often mistrusted\nhis judgment, but I followed him with an eager delight. With such men\nas these, posterity is often at a loss to know why they impressed their\ncontemporaries, or why they continue to be spoken of with reverence and\nenthusiasm. The secret is that it is a kind of moral and magnetic\nforce, and the lamentable part of it is that such men, if they are not\nenlightened and wise, may do more harm than good, because they tend to\nstereotype what ought to be changed and renewed.\n\nThat is one way of greatness; a sort of big, blunt force that overwhelms\nand uplifts, like a great sea-roller, yielding at a hundred small\npoints, yet crowding onwards in soft volume and ponderous weight.\n\nTwo interesting examples of this impressive and indescribable greatness\nseem to have been Arthur Hallam and the late Mr. W. E. Henley. In the\ncase of Arthur Hallam, the eulogies which his friends pronounced upon\nhim seem couched in terms of an intemperate extravagance. The fact that\nthe most splendid panegyrics upon him were uttered by men of high\ngenius is not in itself more conclusive than if such panegyrics had been\nconceived by men of lesser quality, because the greater that a man is\nthe more readily does he perceive and more magniloquently acknowledge\ngreatness. Apart from In Memoriam, Tennyson's recorded utterances about\nArthur Hallam are expressed in terms of almost hyperbolical laudation.\nI once was fortunate enough to have the opportunity of asking Mr.\nGladstone about Arthur Hallam. Mr. Gladstone had been his close friend\nat Eton and his constant companion. His eye flashed, his voice gathered\nvolume, and with a fine gesture of his hand he said that he could only\ndeliberately affirm that physically, intellectually, and morally, Arthur\nHallam approached more nearly to an ideal of human perfection than\nany one whom he had ever seen. And yet the picture of Hallam at Eton\nrepresents a young man of an apparently solid and commonplace type, with\na fresh colour, and almost wholly destitute of distinction or charm;\nwhile his extant fragments of prose and poetry are heavy, verbose, and\nelaborate, and without any memorable quality. It appears indeed as if\nhe had exercised a sort of hypnotic influence upon his contemporaries.\nNeither does he seem to have produced a very gracious impression upon\noutsiders who happened to meet him. There is a curious anecdote told\nby some one who met Arthur Hallam travelling with his father on the\nContinent only a short time before his sudden death. The narrator says\nthat he saw with a certain satisfaction how mercilessly the young\nman criticised and exposed his father's statements, remembering how\nmerciless the father had often been in dealing summarily with the\narguments and statements of his own contemporaries. One asks oneself in\nvain what the magnetic charm of his presence and temperament can have\nbeen. It was undoubtedly there, and yet it seems wholly irrecoverable.\nThe same is true, in a different region, with the late Mr. W. E. Henley.\nHis literary performances, with the exception of some half-a-dozen\npoetical pieces, have no great permanent value. His criticisms were\nvehement and complacent, but represent no great delicacy of analysis\nnor breadth of view. His treatment of Stevenson, considering the\ncircumstances of the case, was ungenerous and irritable. Yet those\nwho were brought into close contact with Henley recognised something\nmagnanimous, noble, and fiery about him, which evoked a passionate\ndevotion. I remember shortly before his death reading an appreciation\nof his work by a faithful admirer, who described him as \"another Dr.\nJohnson,\" and speaking of his critical judgment, said, \"Mr. Henley is\npontifical in his wrath; it pleased him, for example, to deny to De\nQuincey the title to write English prose.\" That a criticism so arrogant,\nso saugrenu, should be re-echoed with such devoted commendation is a\nproof that the writer's independent judgment was simply swept away by\nHenley's personality; and in both these cases one is merely brought face\nto face with the fact that though men can earn the admiration of the\nworld by effective performance, the most spontaneous and enduring\ngratitude is given to individuality.\n\nThe other way of greatness is the way of intensity, that focuses all\nits impact at some brilliant point, like a rapier-thrust or a flash of\nlightning. Men with this kind of greatness have generally some supreme\nand dazzling accomplishment, and the rest of their nature is often\nsacrificed to one radiant faculty. Their power, in some one single\ndirection, is absolutely distinct and unquestioned; and these are the\nmen who, if they can gather up and express the forces of some vague and\nwidespread tendency, some blind and instinctive movement of men's minds,\nform as it were the cutting edge of a weapon. They do not supply the\nforce, but they concentrate it; and it is men of this type who are often\ncredited with the bringing about of some profound and revolutionary\nchange, because they summarise and define some huge force that is\nabroad. Not to travel far for instances, such a man was Rousseau. The\nair of his period was full of sentiments and emotions and ideas; he was\nnot himself a man of force; he was a dreamer and a poet; but he had\nthe matchless gift of ardent expression, and he was able to say\nboth trenchantly and attractively exactly what every one was vaguely\nmeditating.\n\nNow let us take some of the chief departments of human effort, some of\nthe provinces in which men attain supreme fame, and consider what\nkinds of greatness we should expect the present day to evoke. In the\ndepartment of warfare, we have had few opportunities of late to discover\nhigh strategical genius. Our navy has been practically unemployed,\nand the South African war was just the sort of campaign to reveal the\ndeficiencies of an elaborate and not very practical peace establishment.\nThough it solidified a few reputations and pricked the bubble of some\nfew others, it certainly did not reveal any subtle adaptability in our\ngenerals. It was Lord North, I think, who, when discussing with his\nCabinet a list of names of officers suggested for the conduct of a\ncampaign, said, \"I do not know what effect these names produce upon you,\ngentlemen, but I confess they make me tremble.\" The South African war\ncan hardly be said to have revealed that we have many generals who\nclosely corresponded to Wordsworth's description of the Happy Warrior,\nbut rather induced the tremulousness which Lord North experienced.\nStill, if, in the strategical region, our solitary recent campaign\nrather tends to prove a deficiency of men of supreme gifts, it at all\nevents proved a considerable degree of competence and devotion. I could\nnot go so far as a recent writer who regretted the termination of the\nBoer War because it interrupted the evolution of tactical science, but\nit is undoubtedly true that the growing aversion to war, the intense\ndislike to the sacrifice of human life, creates an atmosphere\nunfavourable to the development of high military genius; because great\nmilitary reputations in times past have generally been acquired by men\nwho had no such scruples, but who treated the material of their armies\nas pawns to be freely sacrificed to the attainment of victory.\n\nThen there is the region of statesmanship; and here it is abundantly\nclear that the social conditions of the day, the democratic current\nwhich runs with increasing spirit in political channels, is unfavourable\nto the development of individual genius. The prize falls to the\nsagacious opportunist; the statesman is less and less of a navigator,\nand more and more of a pilot, in times when popular feeling is\nconciliated and interpreted rather than inspired and guided. To be\nfar-seeing and daring is a disadvantage; the most approved leader is the\nman who can harmonise discordant sections, and steer round obvious\nand pressing difficulties. Geniality and bonhomie are more valuable\nqualities than prescience or nobility of aim. The more representative\nthat government becomes, the more does originality give place to\nmalleability. The more fluid that the conceptions of a statesman are,\nthe greater that his adaptability is, the more acceptable he becomes.\nSince Lord Beaconsfield, with all his trenchant mystery, and Mr.\nGladstone, with his voluble candour, there have been no figures of\nunquestioned supremacy on the political stage. Even so, the effect in\nboth cases was to a great extent the effect of personality. The further\nthat these two men retire into the past, the more that they are\njudged by the written record, the more does the tawdriness of Lord\nBeaconsfield's mind, his absence of sincere convictions appear, as well\nas the pedestrianism of Mr. Gladstone's mind, and his lack of critical\nperception. I have heard Mr. Gladstone speak, and on one occasion I had\nthe task of reporting for a daily paper a private oration on a literary\nsubject. I was thrilled to the very marrow of my being by the address.\nThe parchment pallor of the orator, his glowing and blazing eyes, his\nleonine air, the voice that seemed to have a sort of physical effect\non the nerves, his great sweeping gestures, all held the audience\nspellbound. I felt at the time that I had never before realised the\nsupreme and vital importance of the subject on which he spoke. But when\nI tried to reconstruct from the ashes of my industrious notes the\nmental conflagration which I had witnessed, I was at a complete loss\nto understand what had happened. The records were not only dull, they\nseemed essentially trivial, and almost overwhelmingly unimportant. But\nthe magic had been there. Apart from the substance, the performance had\nbeen literally enchanting. I do not honestly believe that Mr. Gladstone\nwas a man of great intellectual force, or even of very deep emotions.\nHe was a man of extraordinarily vigorous and robust brain, and he was a\nsupreme oratorical artist.\n\nThere is intellect, charm, humour in abundance in the parliamentary\nforces; there was probably never a time when there were so many able and\nambitious men to be found in the rank and file of parliamentarians.\nBut that is not enough. There is no supremely impressive and commanding\nfigure on the stage; greatness seems to be distributed rather than\nconcentrated; but probably neither this, nor political conditions, would\nprevent the generous recognition of supreme genius, if it were there to\nrecognise.\n\nIn art and literature, I am inclined to believe that we shall look back\nto the Victorian era as a time of great activity and high performance.\nThe two tendencies here which militate against the appearance of the\ngreatest figures are, in the first place, the great accumulations of art\nand literature, and in the second place the democratic desire to share\nthose treasures. The accumulation of pictures, music, and books makes\nit undoubtedly very hard for a new artist, in whatever region, to gain\nprestige. There is so much that is undoubtedly great and good for a\nstudent of art and literature to make acquaintance with, that we are apt\nto be content with the old vintages. The result is that there are a\ngood many artists who in a time of less productivity would have made\nthemselves an enduring reputation, and who now must be content to be\nrecognised only by a few. The difficulty can, I think, only be met by\nsome principle of selection being more rigidly applied. We shall have\nto be content to skim the cream of the old as well as of the new, and\nto allow the second-rate work of first-rate performers to sink into\noblivion. But at the same time there might be a great future before\nany artist who could discover a new medium of utterance. It seems at\npresent, to take literature, as if every form of human expression had\nbeen exploited. We have the lyric, the epic, the satire, the narrative,\nthe letter, the diary, conversation, all embalmed in art. But there is\nprobably some other medium possible which will become perfectly\nobvious the moment it is seized upon and used. To take an instance from\npictorial art. At present, colour is only used in a genre manner, to\nclothe some dramatic motive. But there seems no prima facie reason why\ncolour should not be used symphonically like music. In music we obtain\npleasure from an orderly sequence of vibrations, and there seems no real\nreason why the eye should not be charmed with colour-sequences just as\nthe ear is charmed with sound-sequences. So in literature it would\nseem as though we might get closer still to the expression of mere\npersonality, by the medium of some sublimated form of reverie, the\nthought blended and tinged in the subtlest gradations, without the\nclumsy necessity of sacrificing the sequence of thought to the barbarous\ndevices of metre and rhyme, or to the still more childish devices of\nincident and drama. Flaubert, it will be remembered, looked forward to a\ntime when a writer would not require a subject at all, but would express\nemotion and thought directly rather than pictorially. To utter the\nunuttered thought--that is really the problem of literature in the\nfuture; and if a writer could be found to free himself from all\nstereotyped forms of expression, and to give utterance to the strange\ntexture of thought and fancy, which differentiates each single\npersonality so distinctly, so integrally, from other personalities, and\nwhich we cannot communicate to our dearest and nearest, he might enter\nupon a new province of art.\n\nBut the second tendency which at the present moment dominates writers\nis, as I have said, the rising democratic interest in the things of the\nmind. This is at present a very inchoate and uncultivated interest:\nbut in days of cheap publication and large audiences it dominates\nmany writers disastrously. The temptation is a grievous one--to take\nadvantage of a market--not to produce what is absolutely the best, but\nwhat is popular and effective. It is not a wholly ignoble temptation. It\nis not only the temptation of wealth, though in an age of comfort, which\nvalues social respectability so highly, wealth is a great temptation.\nBut the temptation is rather to gauge success by the power of appeal. If\na man has ideas at all, he is naturally anxious to make them felt; and\nif he can do it best by spreading his ideas rather thinly, by making\nthem attractive to enthusiastic people of inferior intellectual grip,\nhe feels he is doing a noble work. The truth is that in literature the\ndemocracy desires not ideas but morality. All the best-known writers\nof the Victorian age have been optimistic moralists, Browning, Ruskin,\nCarlyle, Tennyson. They have been admired because they concealed their\nessential conventionality under a slight perfume of unorthodoxy. They\nall in reality pandered to the complacency of the age, in a way in which\nByron, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats did not pander. The democracy\nloves to be assured that it is generous, high-minded, and sensible.\nIt is in reality timid, narrow-minded, and Pharisaical. It hates\nindependence and originality, and loves to believe that it adores both.\nIt loves Mr. Kipling because he assures them that vulgarity is not a\nsin; it loves Mr. Bernard Shaw because he persuades them that they are\ncleverer than they imagined. The fact is that great men, in literature\nat all events, must be content, at the present time, to be unrecognised\nand unacclaimed. They must be content to be of the happy company of whom\nMr. Swinburne writes:--\n\n\n  \"In the garden of death, where the singers, whose names are deathless,\n            One with another make music unheard of men.\"\n\n\nThen there is the region of Science, and here I am not qualified\nto speak, because I know no science, and have not even taught it, as Mr.\nArthur Sidgwick said. I do not really know what constitutes greatness\nin science. I suppose that the great man of science is the man who to a\npower of endlessly patient investigation joins a splendid imaginative,\nor perhaps deductive power, like Newton or Darwin. But we who stand at\nthe threshold of the scientific era are perhaps too near the light, and\ntoo much dazzled by the results of scientific discovery to say who is\ngreat and who is not great. I have met several distinguished men of\nscience, and I have thought some of them to be men of obviously\nhigh intellectual gifts, and some of them men of inert and secretive\ntemperaments. But that is only natural, for to be great in other\ndepartments generally implies a certain knowledge of the world, or at\nall events of the thought of the world; whereas the great man of\nscience may be moving in regions of thought that may be absolutely\nincommunicable to the ordinary person. But I do not suppose that\nscientific greatness is a thing which can be measured by the importance\nof the practical results of a discovery. I mean that a man may hit upon\nsome process, or some treatment of disease, which may be of incalculable\nbenefit to humanity, and yet not be really a great man of science, only\na fortunate discoverer, and incidentally a great benefactor to humanity.\nThe unknown discoverers of things like the screw or the wheel, persons\nlost in the mists of antiquity, could not, I suppose, be ranked as great\nmen of science. The great man of science is the man who can draw\nsome stupendous inference, which revolutionises thought and sets men\nhopefully at work on some problem which does not so much add to the\nconvenience of humanity as define the laws of nature. We are still\nsurrounded by innumerable and awful mysteries of life and being; the\nevidence which will lead to their solution is probably in our hands and\nplain enough, if any one could but see the bearing of facts which are\nknown to the simplest child. There is little doubt, I suppose, that\nthe greatest reputations of recent years have been made in science; and\nperhaps when our present age has globed itself into a cycle, we shall be\namazed at the complaint that the present era is lacking in great men. We\nare busy in looking for greatness in so many directions, and we are apt\nto suppose, from long use, that greatness is so inseparably connected\nwith some form of human expression, whether it be the utterance of\nthought, or the marshalling of armies, that we may be overlooking a more\nstable form of greatness, which will be patent to those that come\nafter. My own belief is that the condition of science at the present day\nanswers best to the conditions which we have learnt to recognise in\nthe past as the fruitful soil of greatness. I mean that when we put our\nfinger, in the past, on some period which seems to have been producing\ngreat work in a great way, we generally find it in some knot or school\nof people, intensely absorbed in what they were doing, and doing it with\na whole-hearted enjoyment, loving the work more than the rewards of\nit, and indifferent to the pursuit of fame. Such it seems to me is the\ncondition of science at the present time, and it is in science, I am\ninclined to think, that our heroes are probably to be found.\n\nI do not, then, feel at all sure that we are lacking in great men,\nthough it must be admitted that we are lacking in men whose supremacy is\nrecognised. I suppose we mean by a great man one who in some region of\nhuman performance is confessedly pre-eminent; and he must further have\na theory of his own, and a power of pursuing that theory in the face\nof depreciation and even hostility. I do not think that great men have\noften been indifferent to criticism. Often, indeed, by virtue of a\ngreater sensitiveness and a keener perception, they have been profoundly\naffected by unpopularity and the sense of being misunderstood. Carlyle,\nTennyson, Ruskin, for instance, were men of almost morbid sensibility,\nand lived in sadness; and, on the other hand, there are few great men\nwho have not been affected for the worse by premature success. The best\nsoil for greatness to grow up in would seem to be an early isolation,\nsustained against the disregard of the world by the affection and\nadmiration of a few kindred minds. Then when the great man has learned\nhis method and his message, and learned too not to over-value the\npopular verdict, success may mature and mellow his powers. Yet of how\nmany great men can this be said? As a rule, indeed, a great man's best\nwork has been done in solitude and disfavour, and he has attained his\nsunshine when he can no longer do his best work.\n\nThe question is whether the modern conditions of life are unfavourable\nto greatness; and I think that it must be confessed that they are. In\nthe first place, we all know so much too about each other, and there\nis so eager a personal curiosity abroad, a curiosity about the\nsmallest details of the life of any one who seems to have any power of\nperformance, that it encourages men to over-confidence, egotism,\nand mannerism. Again, the world is so much in love with novelty and\nsensation of all kinds, that facile successes are easily made and as\neasily obliterated. What so many people admire is not greatness, but the\nrealisation of greatness and its tangible rewards. The result of this is\nthat men who show any faculty for impressing the world are exploited and\ncaressed, are played with as a toy, and as a toy neglected. And then,\ntoo, the age is deeply permeated by social ambitions. Men love to be\nlabelled, ticketed, decorated, differentiated from the crowd. Newspapers\npander to this taste; and then the ease and rapidity of movement tempt\nmen to a restless variety of experience, of travel, of society, of\nchange, which is alien to the settled and sober temper in which great\ndesigns are matured. There is a story, not uncharacteristic, of modern\nsocial life, of a hostess who loved to assemble about her, in the style\nof Mrs. Leo Hunter, notabilities small and great, who was reduced to\npresenting a young man who made his appearance at one of her gatherings\nas \"Mr. ----, whose uncle, you will remember, was so terribly mangled\nin the railway accident at S----.\" It is this feverish desire to be\ndistinguished at any price which has its counterpart in the feverish\ndesire to find objects of admiration. Not so can solid greatness be\nachieved.\n\nThe plain truth is that no one can become great by taking thought, and\nstill less by desiring greatness. It is not an attainable thing; fame\nonly is attainable. A man must be great in his own quiet way, and the\ngreater he is, the less likely is he to concern himself with fame. It is\nuseless to try and copy some one else's greatness; that is like trying\nto look like some one else's portrait, even if it be a portrait by\nVelasquez. Not that modesty is inseparable from greatness; there are\nabundance of great men who have been childishly and grotesquely vain;\nbut in such cases it has been a greatness of performance, a marvellous\nfaculty, not a greatness of soul. Hazlitt says somewhere that modesty is\nthe lowest of the virtues, and a real confession of the deficiency\nwhich it indicates. He adds that a man who underrates himself is justly\nundervalued by others. This is a cynical and a vulgar maxim. It is true\nthat a great man must have a due sense of the dignity and importance\nof his work; but if he is truly great, he will have also a sense of\nrelation and proportion, and not forget the minuteness of any individual\natom. If he has a real greatness of soul, he will not be apt to compare\nhimself with others, and he will be inclined to an even over-generous\nestimate of the value of the work of others. In no respect was the\ngreatness of D. G. Rossetti more exemplified than in his almost\nextravagant appreciation of the work of his friends; and it was to this\nroyalty of temperament that he largely owed his personal supremacy.\n\nI would believe then that the lack of conspicuous greatness is due\nat this time to the overabundant vitality and eagerness of the world,\nrather than to any languor or listlessness of spirit. The rise of the\ndecadent school in art and literature is not the least sign of any\nindolent or corrupt deterioration. It rather shows a desperate appetite\nfor testing sensation, a fierce hunger for emotional experience, a\nfeverish ambition to impress a point-of-view. It is all part of a revolt\nagainst settled ways and conventional theories. I do not mean that\nwe can expect to find greatness in this direction, for greatness is\nessentially well-balanced, calm, deliberate, and decadence is a sign of\na neurotic and over-vitalised activity.\n\nOur best hope is that this excessive restlessness of spirit will produce\na revolt against itself. The essence of greatness is unconventionality,\nand restlessness is now becoming conventional. In education, in art,\nin literature, in politics, in social life, we lose ourselves in\ndenunciations of the dreamer and the loafer. We cannot bear to see a\nslowly-moving, deliberate, self-contained spirit, advancing quietly on\nits discerned path. Instead of being content to perform faithfully and\nconscientiously our allotted task, which is the way in which we can best\nhelp the world, we demand that every one should want to do good, to\nbe responsible for some one else, to exhort, urge, beckon, restrain,\nmanage. That is all utterly false and hectic. Our aim should be patience\nrather than effectiveness, sincerity rather than adaptability, to learn\nrather than to teach, to ponder rather than to persuade, to know the\ntruth rather than to create illusion, however comforting, however\ndelightful such illusion may be.\n\n\n\n\nVIII. SHYNESS\n\n\nI have no doubt that shyness is one of the old, primitive, aboriginal\nqualities that lurk in human nature--one of the crude elements that\nought to have been uprooted by civilisation, and security, and progress,\nand enlightened ideals, but which have not been uprooted, and are only\nbeing slowly eliminated. It is seen, as all aboriginal qualities are\nseen, at its barest among children, who often reflect the youth of the\nworld, and are like little wild animals or infant savages, in spite of\nall the frenzied idealisation that childhood receives from well-dressed\nand amiable people.\n\nShyness is thus like those little bits of woods and copses which one\nfinds in a country-side that has long been subdued and replenished,\nturned into arable land and pasture, with all the wildness and the\nirregularity ploughed and combed out of it; but still one comes upon\nsome piece of dingle, where there is perhaps an awkward tilt in the\nground, or some ancient excavation, or where a stream-head has cut out a\nsteep channel, and there one finds a scrap of the old forest, a rood or\ntwo that has never been anything but woodland. So with shyness; many\nof our old, savage qualities have been smoothed out, or glazed over,\nby education and inheritance, and only emerge in moments of passion and\nemotion. But shyness is no doubt the old suspicion of the stranger, the\nbelief that his motives are likely to be predatory and sinister; it is\nthe tendency to bob the head down into the brushwood, or to sneak behind\nthe tree-bole on his approach. One sees a little child, washed\nand brushed and delicately apparelled, with silken locks and clear\ncomplexion, brought into a drawing-room to be admired; one sees the\nterror come upon her; she knows by experience that she has nothing to\nexpect but attention, and admiration, and petting; but you will see her\nsuddenly cover her face with a tiny hand, relapse into dismal silence,\neven burst into tears and refuse to be comforted, till she is safely\nentrenched upon some familiar knee.\n\nI have a breezy, boisterous, cheerful friend, of transparent simplicity\nand goodness, who has never known the least touch of shyness from his\ncradle, who always says, if the subject is introduced, that shyness\nis all mere self-consciousness, and that it comes from thinking about\noneself. That is true, in a limited degree; but the diagnosis is no\nremedy for the disease, because shyness is as much a disease as a cold\nin the head, and no amount of effort can prevent the attacks of the\ncomplaint; the only remedy is either to avoid the occasions of the\nattacks,--and that is impossible, unless one is to abjure the society\nof other people for good and all;--or else to practise resolutely the\nhardening process of frequenting society, until one gets a sort of\ncourage out of familiarity. Yet even so, who that has ever really\nsuffered from shyness does not feel his heart sink as he drives up in\na brougham to the door of some strange house, and sees a grave butler\nadvancing out of an unknown corridor, with figures flitting to and fro\nin the background; what shy person is there who at such a moment would\nnot give a considerable sum to be able to go back to the station and\ntake the first train home? Or who again, as he gives his name to a\nservant in some brightly-lighted hall, and advances, with a hurried\nglance at his toilet, into a roomful of well-dressed people, buzzing\nwith what Rossetti calls a \"din of doubtful talk,\" would not prefer to\nsink into the earth like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and be reckoned no\nmore among the living?\n\nIt is recorded in Tennyson's Life that he used to recommend to a younger\nbrother the thought of the stellar spaces, swarming with constellations\nand traversed by planets at ineffable distances, as a cure for shyness;\nand a lady of my acquaintance used to endeavour as a girl to stay her\nfailing heart on the thought of Eternity at such moments. It is all\nin vain; at the urgent moment one cares very little about the stellar\nmotions, or the dim vistas of futurity, and very much indeed about the\ncut of one's coat, and the appearance of one's collar, and the glances\nof one's enemies; the doctrines of the Church, and the prospects of\nultimate salvation, are things very light in the scales in comparison\nwith the pressing necessities of the crisis, and the desperate need to\nappear wholly unconcerned!\n\nThe wild and fierce shyness of childhood is superseded in most sensitive\npeople, as life goes on, by a very different feeling--the shyness\nof adolescence, of which the essence, as has been well said, is \"a\nshamefaced pride.\" The shyness of early youth is a thing which springs\nfrom an intense desire to delight, and impress, and interest other\npeople, from wanting to play a far larger and brighter part in the lives\nof every one else than any one in the world plays in any one else's\nlife. Who does not recognise, with a feeling that is half contempt and\nhalf compassion, the sight of the eager pretentiousness of youth, the\nintense shame of confessing ignorance on any point, the deep desire\nto appear to have a stake in the world, and a well-defined, respected\nposition? I met the other day a young man, of no particular force or\ndistinction, who was standing in a corner at a big social gathering,\nbursting with terror and importance combined. He was inspired, I would\nfain believe, by discerning a vague benevolence in my air and demeanour,\nto fix his attention on me. He had been staying at a house where there\nhad been some important guests, and by some incredibly rapid\ntransition of eloquence he was saying to me in a minute or two, \"The\nCommander-in-Chief said to me the other day,\" and \"The Archbishop\npointed out to me a few days ago,\" giving, as personal confidences,\nscraps of conversation which he had no doubt overheard as an unwelcome\nadjunct to a crowded smoking-room, with the busy and genial elders\nwondering when the boys would have the grace to go to bed. My heart bled\nfor him as I saw the reflection of my own pushing and pretentious youth,\nand I only desired that the curse should not fall upon him which has\nso often fallen upon myself, to recall ineffaceably, with a blush that\nstill mantles my cheek in the silence and seclusion of my bedroom, in\na wakeful hour, the thought of some such piece of transparent and\nridiculous self-importance, shamefully uttered by myself, in a transport\nof ambitious vanity, long years ago. How out of proportion to the\noffence is the avenging phantom of memory which dogs one through the\nyears for such stupidities! I remember that as a youthful undergraduate\nI went to stay in the house of an old family friend in the neighbourhood\nof Cambridge. The only other male guest was a grim and crusty don, sharp\nand trenchant in speech, and with a determination to keep young men in\ntheir place. At Cambridge he would have taken no notice whatever of\nme; but there, on alien ground, with some lurking impulse of far-off\ncivility, he said to me when the ladies retired, \"I am going to have a\ncigar; you know your way to the smoking-room?\" I did not myself smoke\nin those days, so foolish was I and innocent; but recalling, I suppose,\nsome similar remark made by an elderly and genial non-smoker under the\nsame circumstances, I said pompously--I can hardly bring myself even now\nto write the words--\"I don't smoke, but I will come and sit with you\nfor the pleasure of a talk.\" He gave a derisive snort, looked at me and\nsaid, \"What! not allowed to smoke yet? Pray don't trouble to come on\nmy account.\" It was not a genial speech, and it made me feel, as it was\nintended to do, insupportably silly. I did not make matters better,\nI recollect, on the following day, when on returning to Cambridge\nI offered to carry his bag up from the station, for he insisted on\nwalking. He refused testily, and no doubt thought me, as in fact I was,\na very spiritless young man.\n\nI remember, too, another incident of the same kind, happening about the\nsame time. I was invited by a fellow-undergraduate to come to tea in his\nrooms, and to meet his people. After tea, in the lightness of his heart,\nmy friend performed some singular antics, such as standing on his head\nlike a clown, and falling over the back of his sofa, alighting on his\nfeet. I, who would not have executed such gambols for the world in the\npresence of the fairer sex, but anxious in an elderly way to express my\nsympathy with the performer, said, with what was meant to be a polite\nadmiration: \"I can't think how you do that!\" Upon which a shrewd\nand trenchant maiden-aunt who was present, and was delighting in the\nexuberance of her nephew, said to me briskly, \"Mr. Benson, have you\nnever been young?\" I should be ashamed to say how often since I have\narranged a neat repartee to that annoying question. At the same time\nI think that the behaviour both of the don and the aunt was distinctly\nunjust and unadvisable. I am sure that the one way to train young people\nout of the miseries of shyness is for older people never to snub them\nin public, or make them appear in the light of a fool. Such snubs fall\nplentifully and naturally from contemporaries. An elder person is quite\nwithin his rights in inflicting a grave and serious remonstrance in\nprivate. I do not believe that young people ever resent that, if at the\nsame time they are allowed to defend themselves and state their case.\nBut a merciless elder who inflicts a public mortification is terribly\nunassailable and impregnable. For the shy person, who is desperately\nanxious to bear a sympathetic part, is quite incapable of retort; and\nthat is why such assaults are unpardonable, because they are the merest\nbullying.\n\nThe nicest people that I have known in life have been the people\nof kindly and sensible natures, who have been thoroughly spoilt as\nchildren, encouraged to talk, led to expect not only toleration, but\nactive kindness and sympathy from all. The worst of it is that such\nkindness is generally reserved for pretty and engaging children, and it\nis the awkward, unpleasing, ungainly child who gets the slaps in public.\nBut, as in Tennyson-Turner's pretty poem of \"Letty's Globe,\" a child's\nhand should be \"welcome at all frontiers.\" Only deliberate rudeness and\ninsolence on the part of children should be publicly rebuked; and as a\nmatter of fact both rudeness and insolence are far oftener the result of\nshyness than is easily supposed.\n\nAfter the shyness of adolescence there often follows a further stage.\nThe shy person has learnt a certain wisdom; he becomes aware how easily\nhe detects pretentiousness in other people, and realises that there is\nnothing to be gained by claiming a width of experience which he does not\npossess, and that the being unmasked is even more painful than feeling\ndeficient and ill-equipped. Then too he learns to suspect that when\nhe has tried to be impressive, he has often only succeeded in being\npriggish; and the result is that he falls into a kind of speechlessness,\ncomforting himself, as he sits mute and awkward, unduly elongated, and\nwith unaccountable projections of limb and feature, that if only other\npeople were a little less self-absorbed, had the gift of perceiving\nhidden worth and real character, and could pierce a little below the\nsurface, they would realise what reserves of force and tenderness lay\nbeneath the heavy shapelessness of which he is still conscious. Then is\nthe time for the shy person to apply himself to social gymnastics. He\nis not required to be voluble; but if he will practise bearing a hand,\nseeing what other people need and like, carrying on their line of\nthought, constructing small conversational bridges, asking the right\nquestions, perhaps simulating an interest in the pursuits of others\nwhich he does not naturally feel, he may unloose the burden from his\nback. Then is the time to practise a sympathetic smile, or better still\nto allow oneself to indicate and even express the sympathy one feels;\nand the experimentalist will soon become aware how welcome such\nunobtrusive sympathy is. He will be amazed at first to find that,\ninstead of being tolerated, he will be confided in; he will be regarded\nas a pleasant adjunct to a party, and he will soon have the even\npleasanter experience of finding that his own opinions and adventures,\nif they are not used to cap and surpass the opinions and adventures of\nothers, but to elicit them, will be duly valued. Yet, alas, a good many\nshy people never reach that stage, but take refuge in a critical and\nfastidious attitude. I had an elderly relative of this kind--who\ndoes not know the type?--who was a man of wide interests and accurate\ninformation, but a perfect terror in the domestic circle. He was too\nshy to mingle in general talk, but sat with an air of acute observation,\nwith a dry smile playing over his face; later on, when the circle\ndiminished, it pleased him to retail the incautious statements made by\nvarious members of the party, and correct them with much acerbity.\nThere are few things more terrific than a man who is both speechless and\ndistinguished. I have known several such, and their presence lies like a\nblight over the most cheerful party. It is unhappily often the case that\nshyness is apt to exist side by side with considerable ability, and a\nshy man of this type regards distinction as a kind of defensive armour,\nwhich may justify him in applying to others the contempt which he has\nhimself been conscious of incurring. One of the most disagreeable men I\nknow is a man of great ability, who was bullied in his youth. The result\nupon him has been that he tends to believe that most people are inspired\nby a vague malevolence, and he uses his ability and his memory, not to\nadd to the pleasure of a party, but to make his own power felt. I have\nseen this particular man pass from an ungainly speechlessness into\nbrutal onslaughts on inoffensive persons; and it is one of the most\nunpleasant transformations in the world. On the other hand, the modest\nand amiable man of distinction is one of the most agreeable figures it\nis possible to encounter. He is kind and deferential, and the indulgent\ndeference of a distinguished man is worth its weight in gold.\n\nI was lately told a delightful story of a great statesman staying with\na humble and anxious host, who had invited a party of simple and\nunimportant people to meet the great man. The statesman came in late\nfor dinner, and was introduced to the party; he made a series of\nold-fashioned bows in all directions, but no one felt in a position\nto offer any observations. The great man, at the conclusion of the\nceremony, turned to his host, and said, in tones that had often\nthrilled a listening senate: \"What very convenient jugs you have in your\nbedrooms! They pour well!\" The social frost broke up; the company were\ndelighted to find that the great man was interested in mundane matters\nof a kind on which every one might be permitted to have an opinion, and\nthe conversation, starting from the humblest conveniences of daily\nlife, melted insensibly into more liberal subjects. The fact is that,\nin ordinary life, kindness and simplicity are valued far more than\nbrilliance; and the best brilliance is that which throws a novel and\nlambent light upon ordinary topics, rather than the brilliance which\ndisports itself in unfamiliar and exalted regions. The hero only ceases\nto be a hero to his valet if he is too lofty-minded to enter into the\nworkings of his valet's mind, and cannot duly appraise the quality of\nhis services.\n\nAnd then, too, to go back a little, there are certain defects, after\nall, which are appropriate at different times of life. A certain\ndegree of shyness and even awkwardness is not at all a disagreeable\nthing--indeed it is rather a desirable quality--in the young. A\nperfectly self-possessed and voluble young man arouses in one a vague\nsense of hostility, unless it is accompanied by great modesty and\ningenuousness. The artless prattler, who, in his teens, has an opinion\non all subjects, and considers that opinion worth expressing, is\npleasant enough, and saves one some embarrassment; but such people,\nalas, too often degenerate into the bores of later life. If a man's\nopinion is eventually going to be worth anything, he ought, I think, to\npass through a tumultuous and even prickly stage, when he believes that\nhe has an opinion, but cannot find the aplomb to formulate it. He ought\nto be feeling his way, to be in a vague condition of revolt against what\nis conventional. This is likely to be true not only in his dealings\nwith his elders, but also in his dealings with his contemporaries. Young\npeople are apt to regard a youthful doctrinaire, who has an opinion on\neverything, with sincere abhorrence. He bores them, and to the young\nboredom is not a condition of passive suffering, it is an acute form of\ntorture. Moreover, the stock of opinions which a young man holds are apt\nto be parrot-cries repeated without any coherence from talks overheard\nand books skimmed. But in a modest and ingenuous youth, filled to the\nbrim with eager interest and alert curiosity, a certain deference is\nan adorable thing, one of the most delicate of graces; and it is a\ndelightful task for an older person, who feels the sense of youthful\ncharm, to melt stiffness away by kindly irony and gentle provocation,\nas Socrates did with his sweet-natured and modest boy-friends, so many\ncenturies ago.\n\nThe aplomb of the young generally means complacency; but one who is\nyoung and shy, and yet has the grace to think about the convenience and\npleasure of others, can be the most perfect companion in the world. One\nhas then a sense of the brave and unsophisticated freshness of youth,\nthat believes all things and hopes all things, the bloom of which has\nnot been rubbed away by the rough touch of the world. It is only when\nthat shyness is prolonged beyond the appropriate years, when it leaves\na well-grown and hard-featured man gasping and incoherent, jerky and\nungracious, that it is a painful and disconcerting deformity. The only\nreal shadow of early shyness is the quite disproportionate amount of\nunhappiness that conscious gaucherie brings with it. Two incidents\nconnected with a ceremony most fruitful in nervousness come back to my\nmind.\n\nWhen I was an Eton boy, I was staying with a country squire, a most\ncourteous old gentleman with a high temper. The first morning, I\ncontrived to come down a minute or two late for prayers. There was\nno chair for me. The Squire suspended his reading of the Bible with a\ndeadly sort of resignation, and made a gesture to the portly butler.\nThat functionary rose from his own chair, and with loudly creaking boots\ncarried it across the room for my acceptance. I sat down, covered with\nconfusion. The butler returned; and two footmen, who were sitting on a\nlittle form, made reluctant room for him. The butler sat down on one end\nof the form, unfortunately before his equipoise, the second footman, had\ntaken his place at the other end. The result was that the form tipped\nup, and a cataract of flunkies poured down upon the floor. There was\na ghastly silence; then the Gadarene herd slowly recovered itself,\nand resumed its place. The Squire read the chapter in an accent of\nsuppressed fury, while the remainder of the party, with handkerchiefs\npressed to their faces, made the most unaccountable sounds and motions\nfor the rest of the proceeding. I was really comparatively guiltless,\nbut the shadow of that horrid event sensibly clouded the whole of my\nvisit.\n\nI was only a spectator of the other event. We had assembled for prayers\nin the dimly-lighted hall of the house of a church dignitary, and the\nchapter had begun, when a man of almost murderous shyness, who was\na guest, opened his bedroom door and came down the stairs. Our host\nsuspended his reading. The unhappy man came down, but, instead of\nslinking to his place, went and stood in front of the fire, under the\nimpression that the proceedings had not taken shape, and addressed some\nremarks upon the weather to his hostess. In the middle of one of his\nsentences, he suddenly divined the situation, on seeing the row of\nservants sitting in a thievish corner of the hall. He took his seat with\nthe air of a man driving to the guillotine, and I do not think I ever\nsaw any one so much upset as he was for the remainder of his stay. Of\ncourse it may be said that a sense of humour should have saved a man\nfrom such a collapse of moral force, but a sense of humour requires to\nbe very strong to save a man from the sense of having made a conspicuous\nfool of himself.\n\nI would add one more small reminiscence, of an event from which I can\nhardly say with honesty that I have yet quite recovered, although it\ntook place nearly thirty years ago. I went, as a schoolboy, with my\nparents, to stay at a very big country house, the kind of place to which\nI was little used, where the advent of a stately footman to take away\nmy clothes in the morning used to fill me with misery. The first evening\nthere was a big dinner-party. I found myself sitting next my delightful\nand kindly hostess, my father being on the other side of her. All went\nwell till dessert, when an amiable, long-haired spaniel came to my side\nto beg of me. I had nothing but grapes on my plate, and purely out\nof compliment I offered him one. He at once took it in his mouth,\nand hurried to a fine white fur rug in front of the hearth, where he\nindulged in some unaccountable convulsions, rolling himself about and\ngrowling in an ecstasy of delight. My host, an irascible man, looked\nround, and then said: \"Who the devil has given that dog a grape?\" He\nadded to my father, by way of explanation, \"The fact is that if he can\nget hold of a grape, he rolls it on that rug, and it is no end of a\nnuisance to get the stain out.\" I sat crimson with guilt, and was just\nabout to falter out a confession, when my hostess looked up, and, seeing\nwhat had happened, said, \"It was me, Frank--I forgot for the moment what\nI was doing.\" My gratitude for this angelic intervention was so great\nthat I had not even the gallantry to own up, and could only repay my\nprotectress with an intense and lasting devotion. I have no doubt that\nshe explained matters afterwards to our host; and I contrived to murmur\nmy thanks later in the evening. But the shock had been a terrible one,\nand taught me not only wisdom, but the Christian duty of intervening, if\nI could, to save the shy from their sins and sufferings.\n\n\n     \"Taught by the Power that pities me,\n       I learn to pity them.\"\n\n\nBut the consideration that emerges from these reminiscences is the\nsomewhat bewildering one, that shyness is a thing which seems to be\npunished, both by immediate discomfort and by subsequent fantastic\nremorse, far more heavily than infinitely more serious moral lapses.\nThe repentance that follows sin can hardly be more poignant than the\nagonising sense of guilt which steals over the waking consciousness\non the morning that follows some such social lapse. In fact it must\nbe confessed that most of us dislike appearing fools far more than we\ndislike feeling knaves; so that one wonders whether one does not dread\nthe ridicule and disapproval of society more than one dreads the sense\nof a lapse from morality; the philosophical outcome of which would seem\nto be that the verdict of society upon our actions is at the base of\nmorality. We may feel assured that the result of moral lapses will\nultimately be that we shall have to face the wrath of our Creator;\nbut one hopes that side by side with justice will be found a merciful\nallowance for the force of temptation. But the final judgment is in any\ncase not imminent, while the result of a social lapse is that we have to\ncontinue to face a disapproving and even a contemptuous circle, who will\nremember our failure with malicious pleasure, and whose sense of justice\nwill not be tempered by any appreciable degree of mercy. Here again is\na discouraging circumstance, that when we call to mind some similarly\ncompromising and grotesque adventure in the life of one of our friends,\nin spite of the fact that we well know the distress that the incident\nmust have caused him, we still continue to hug, and even to repeat, our\nrecollection of the occasion with a rich sense of joy. Is it that we\ndo not really desire the peace and joy of others? It would seem so. How\nmany of us are not conscious of feeling extremely friendly and helpful\nwhen our friend is in sorrow, or difficulty, or discredit, and yet of\nhaving no taste for standing by and applauding when our friend is joyful\nand successful! There is nothing, it seems, that we can render to our\nfriend in the latter case, except the praise of which he has already had\nenough!\n\nIt seems then that the process of anatomising the nature and philosophy\nof shyness only ends in stripping off, one by one, as from an onion, the\ndecent integuments of the human spirit, and revealing it every moment\nmore and more in its native rankness. Let me forbear, consoling myself\nwith the thought that the qualities of human beings are not meant to be\ntaken up one by one, like coins from a tray, and scrutinised; but that\nwhat matters is the general effect, the blending, the grouping, the\nmellowed surface, the warped line. I was only yesterday in an\nold church, where I saw an ancient font-cover--a sort of carved\nextinguisher--and some dark panels of a rood-screen. They had been, both\ncover and panels, coarsely and brightly painted and gilt; and, horrible\nto reflect, it flashed upon me that they must have once been both\nglaring and vulgar. Yet to-day the dim richness of the effect, the\ndints, the scaling-off of the flakes, the fading of the pigment, the\ndulling of the gold, were incomparable; and I began to wonder if perhaps\nthat was not what happened to us in life; and that though we foolishly\nregretted the tarnishing of the bright surfaces of soul and body with\nour passions and tempers and awkwardnesses and feeblenesses, yet perhaps\nit was, after all, that we were taking on an unsuspected beauty, and\nmaking ourselves fit, some far-off day, for the Communion of Saints!\n\n\n\n\nIX. EQUALITY\n\n\nIt is often said that the Anglo-Saxon races suffer from a lack of\nideals, that they do not hold enough things sacred. But there is\nassuredly one thing which the most elementary and barbarous Anglo-Saxon\nholds sacred, beyond creed and Decalogue and fairplay and morality, and\nthat is property. At inquests, for instance, it may be noted how often\ninquiries are solicitously made, not whether the deceased had religious\ndifficulties or was disappointed in love, but whether he had any\nfinancial worries. We hold our own property to be very sacred indeed,\nand our respect for other men's rights in the matter is based on the\nfact that we wish our own rights to be respected. If I were asked what\nother ideals were held widely sacred in England and America I should\nfind it very difficult to reply. I think that there is a good deal of\ninterest taken in America in education and culture; whereas in England I\ndo not believe that there is very much interest taken in either; almost\nthe only thing which is valued in England, romantically, and with a kind\nof enthusiasm, besides property, is social distinction; the democracy\nin England is sometimes said to be indignant at the existence of so\nmuch social privilege; the word \"class\" is said to be abhorrent to the\ndemocrat; but the only classes that he detests are the classes above him\nin the social scale, and the democrat is extremely indignant if he is\nassigned to a social station which he considers to be below his own. I\nhave met democrats who despise and contemn the social tradition of the\nso-called upper classes, but I have never met a democrat who is not much\nmore infuriated if it is supposed that he has not social traditions of\nhis own vastly superior to the social traditions of the lowest grade of\nprecarious mendicity. The reason why socialism has never had any great\nhold in England is because equality is only a word, and in no sense a\nreal sentiment in England. The reason why members of the lowest class\nin England are not as a rule convinced socialists is because their one\nambition is to become members of the middle-class, and to have property\nof their own; and while the sense of personal possession is so strong as\nit is, no socialism worthy of the name has a chance. It is possible\nfor any intelligent, virtuous, and capable member of the lower class to\ntransfer himself to the middle class; and once there he does not\nfavour any system of social equality. Socialism can never prevail as a\npolitical system, until we get a majority of disinterested men, who do\nnot want to purchase freedom from daily work by acquiring property,\nand who desire the responsibility rather than the influence of\nadministrative office. But administrative office is looked upon in\nEngland as an important if indirect factor in acquiring status and\npersonal property for oneself and one's friends.\n\nI am myself a sincere believer in socialism; that is to say, I do not\nquestion the right of society to deprive me of my private property if\nit chooses to do so. It does choose to do so to a certain extent through\nthe medium of the income-tax. Such property as I possess has, I think\nit as well to state, been entirely acquired by my own exertions. I\nhave never inherited a penny, or received any money except what I have\nearned. I am quite willing to admit that my work was more highly paid\nthan it deserved; but I shall continue to cling tenaciously to that\nproperty until I am convinced that it will be applied for the benefit\nof every one; I should not think it just if it was taken from me for the\nbenefit of the idle and incompetent; and I should be reluctant to part\nwith it unless I felt sure that it would pass into the hands of those\nwho are as just-minded and disinterested as myself, and be fairly\nadministered. I should not think it just if it were taken from me by\npeople who intended to misuse it, as I have misused it, for their own\npersonal gratification.\n\nIt was made a matter of merriment in the case of William Morris that\nhe preached the doctrines of socialism while he was a prosperous\nmanufacturer; but I see that he was perfectly consistent. There is no\njustice, for instance, about the principle of disarmament, unless all\nnations loyally disarm at the same time. A person cannot be called upon\nto strip himself of his personal property for disinterested reasons, if\nhe feels that he is surrounded by people who would use the spoils\nfor their own interest. The process must be carried out by a sincere\nmajority, who may then coerce the selfish minority. I have no conception\nwhat I should do with my money if I determined that I ought not to\npossess it. It ought not to be applied to any public purpose, because\nunder a socialist regime all public institutions would be supported by\nthe public, and they ought not to depend upon private generosity. Still\nless do I think that it ought to be divided among individuals, because,\nif they were disinterested persons, they ought to refuse to accept\nit. The only good reason I should have for disencumbering myself of my\npossessions would be that I might set a good example of the simple life,\nby working hard for a livelihood, which is exactly what I do; and my\nonly misfortune is that my earnings and the interest of my accumulated\nearnings produce a sum which is far larger than the average man ought\nto possess. Thus the difficulty is a very real one. Moreover the evil of\npersonal property is that it tends to emphasise class-distinctions and\nto give the possessors of it a sense of undue superiority. Now I am\ndemocratic enough to maintain that I have no sense whatever of personal\nsuperiority. I do not allow my possession of property to give me a life\nof vacuous amusement, for the simple reason that my work amuses me far\nmore than any other form of occupation, If it is asked why I tend to\nlive by preference among what may be called my social equals, I reply\nthat the only people one is at ease with are the people whose social\ntraditions are the same as one's own, for the simple reason that one\ndoes not then have to think about social traditions at all. I do not\nthink my social traditions are better than the social traditions of any\nother stratum of society, whether it be described as above or below\nmy own; all I would say is that they are different from the social\ntraditions of other strata, and I much prefer to live without having to\nconsider such matters at all. The manners of the upper middle-class to\nwhich scientifically I belong, are different from the manners of the\nupper, lower-middle, and lower class, and I feel out of my element in\nthe upper class, just as I feel out of my element in the lower class. Of\ncourse if I were perfectly simple-minded and sincere, this would not\nbe so; but, as it is, I am at ease with professional persons of my\nown standing; I understand their point-of-view without any need of\nexplanation; in any class but my own, I am aware of the constant strain\nof trying to grasp another point-of-view; and to speak frankly, it is\nnot worth the trouble. I do not at all desire to migrate out of my own\nclass, and I have never been able to sympathise with people who did. The\nmotive for doing so is not generally a good one, though it is of course\npossible to conceive a high-minded aristocrat who from motives based\nupon our common humanity might desire to apprehend the point-of-view of\nan artisan, or a high-minded artisan who for the same motive desired to\napprehend the point-of-view of an earl. But one requires to feel sure\nthat this is based upon a strong sense of charity and responsibility,\nand I can only say that I have not found that the desire to migrate into\na different class is generally based upon these qualities.\n\nThe question is, what ought a man who believes sincerely in the\nprinciple of equality to do in the matter, if he is situated as I am\nsituated? What I admire and desire in life is friendly contact with my\nfellows, interesting work, leisure for following the pursuits I enjoy,\nsuch as art and literature. I honestly confess that I am not interested\nin what are called Social Problems, or rather I am not at all interested\nin the sort of people who study them. Such problems have hardly reached\nthe vital stage; they are in the highly technical stage, and are mixed\nup with such things as political economy, politics, organisation, and\nso forth, which, to be perfectly frank, are to me blighting and dreary\nobjects of study. I honour profoundly the people who engage in such\npursuits; but life is not long enough to take up work, however valuable,\nfrom a sense of duty, if one realises one's own unfitness for such\nlabours. I wish with all my heart that all classes cared equally for\nthe things which I love. I should like to be able to talk frankly and\nunaffectedly about books, and interesting people, and the beauties of\nnature, and abstract topics of a mild kind, with any one I happened to\nmeet. But, as a rule, to speak frankly, I find that people of what I\nmust call the lower class are not interested in these things; people in\nwhat I will call the upper class are faintly interested, in a horrible\nand condescending way, in them--which is worse than no interest at all.\nA good many people in my own class are impatient of them, and think\nof them as harmless recreations; I fall back upon a few like-minded\nfriends, with whom I can talk easily and unreservedly of such\nthings, without being thought priggish or donnish or dilettanteish or\nunintelligible. The subjects in which I find the majority of people\ninterested are personal gossip, money, success, business, politics.\nI love personal gossip, but that can only be enjoyed in a circle well\nacquainted with each other's faults and foibles; and I do not sincerely\ncare for talking about the other matters I have mentioned. Hitherto I\nhave always had a certain amount of educational responsibility, and that\nhas furnished an abundance of material for pleasant talk and interesting\nthoughts; but then I have always suffered from the Anglo-Saxon failing\nof disliking responsibility except in the case of those for whom one's\nefforts are definitely pledged on strict business principles. I cannot\ndeliberately assume a sense of responsibility towards people in general;\nto do that implies a sense of the value of one's own influence and\nexample, which I have never possessed; and, indeed, I have always\nheartily disliked the manifestation of it in others. Indeed, I firmly\nbelieve that the best and most fruitful part of a man's influence, is\nthe influence of which he is wholly unconscious; and I am quite sure\nthat no one who has a strong sense of responsibility to the world in\ngeneral can advance the cause of equality, because such a sense implies\nat all events a consciousness of moral superiority. Moreover, my\neducational experience leads me to believe that one cannot do much\nto form character. The most one can do is to guard the young against\npernicious influences, and do one's best to recommend one's own\ndisinterested enthusiasms. One cannot turn a violet into a rose by any\nhorticultural effort; one can only see that the violet or the rose has\nthe best chance of what is horribly called self-effectuation.\n\nMy own belief is that these great ideas like Equality and Justice are\nthings which, like poetry, are born and cannot be made. That a number of\nearnest people should be thinking about them shows that they are in\nthe air; but the interest felt in them is the sign and not the cause\nof their increase. I believe that one must go forwards, trying to avoid\nanything that is consciously harsh or pompous or selfish or base, and\nthe great ideas will take care of themselves.\n\nThe two great obvious difficulties which seem to me to lie at the root\nof all schemes for producing a system of social equality are first the\nradical inequality of character, temperament, and equipment in human\nbeings. No system can ever hope to be a practical system unless we can\neliminate the possibility of children being born, some of them perfectly\nqualified for life and citizenship, and others hopelessly disqualified.\nIf such differences were the result of environment it would be a\nremediable thing. But one can have a strong, vigorous, naturally\ntemperate child born and brought up under the meanest and most\nsordid conditions, and, on the other hand, a thoroughly worthless and\ndetestable person may be the child of high-minded, well-educated people,\nwith every social advantage. My work as a practical educationalist\nenforced this upon me. One would find a boy, born under circumstances\nas favourable for the production of virtue and energy as any socialistic\nsystem could provide, who was really only fitted for the lowest kind\nof mechanical work, and whose instincts were utterly gross. Even if the\nState could practise a kind of refined Mendelism, it would be impossible\nto guard against the influences of heredity. If one traces back the\nhereditary influences of a child for ten generations, it will be found\nthat he has upwards of two thousand progenitors, any one of whom may\ngive him a bias.\n\nAnd secondly, I cannot see that any system of socialism is consistent\nwith the system of the family. The parents in a socialistic state\ncan only be looked upon as brood stock, and the nurture of the rising\ngeneration must be committed to some State organisation, if one is to\nsecure an equality of environing influences. Of course, this is done to\na certain extent by the boarding-schools of the upper classes; and here\nagain my experience has shown me that the system, though a good one for\nthe majority, is not the best system invariably for types with marked\noriginality--the very type that one most desires to propagate.\n\nThese are, of course, very crude and elementary objections to the\nsocialistic scheme; all that I say is that until these difficulties seem\nmore capable of solution, I cannot throw myself with any interest into\nthe speculation; I cannot continue in the path of logical deduction,\nwhile the postulates and axioms remain so unsound.\n\nWhat then can a man who has resources that he cannot wisely dispose of,\nand happiness that he cannot impart to others, but yet who would only\ntoo gladly share his gladness with the world, do to advance the cause\nof the general weal? Must he plunge into activities for which he has no\naptitude or inclination, and which have as their aim objects for which\nhe does not think that the world is ripe? Every one will remember the\nfigure of Mrs. Pardiggle in Bleak House, that raw-boned lady who enjoyed\nhard work, and did not know what it was to be tired, who went about\nrating inefficient people, and \"boned\" her children's pocket-money for\ncharitable objects. It seems to me that many of the people who work at\nsocial reforms do so because, like Mrs. Pardiggle, they enjoy hard work\nand love ordering other people about. In a society wisely and rationally\norganised, there would be no room for Mrs. Pardiggle at all; the\nquestion is whether things must first pass through the Pardiggle stage.\nI do not in my heart believe it. Mrs. Pardiggle seems to me to be not\npart of the cure of the disease, but rather one of the ugliest of its\nsymptoms. I think that she is on the wrong tack altogether, and leading\nother people astray. I do know some would-be social reformers, whom I\nrespect and commiserate with all my heart, who see what is amiss, and\nhave no idea how to mend it, and who lose themselves, like Hamlet, in a\nsort of hopeless melancholy about it all, with a deep-seated desire to\ngive others a kind of happiness which they ought to desire, but which,\nas a matter of fact, they do not desire. Such men are often those upon\nwhom early youth broke, like a fresh wave, with an incomparable sense of\nrapture, in the thought of all the beauty and loveliness of nature and\nart; and who lived for a little in a Paradise of delicious experiences\nand fine emotions, believing that there must be some strange mistake,\nand that every one must in reality desire what seemed so utterly\ndesirable; and then, as life went on, there fell upon these the shadow\nof the harsh facts of life; the knowledge that the majority of the human\nrace had no part or lot in such visions, but loved rather food and\ndrink and comfort and money and rude mirth; who did not care a pin what\nhappened to other people, or how frail and suffering beings spent their\nlives, so long as they themselves were healthy and jolly. Then that\nshadow deepens and thickens, until the sad dreamers do one of two\nthings--either immure themselves in a tiny scented garden of their own,\nand try to drown the insistent noises without; or, on the other hand, if\nthey are of the nobler sort, lose heart and hope, and even forfeit their\nown delight in things that are sweet and generous and pleasant and pure.\nA mournful and inextricable dilemma!\n\nPerhaps one or two of such visionaries, who are made of sterner stuff,\nhave deliberately embarked, hopefully and courageously, upon the\nPardiggle path; they have tried absurd experiments, like Ruskin, in\nroad-making and the formation of Guilds; they have taken to journalism\nand committees like William Morris. But they have been baffled. I do not\nmean to say that such lives of splendid renunciation may not have a deep\nmoral effect; but, on the other hand, it is little gain to humanity if\na richly-endowed spirit deserts a piece of work that he can do, to toil\nunsuccessfully at a piece of work that cannot yet be done at all.\n\nI myself believe that when Society is capable of using property and the\nbetter pleasures, it will arise and take them quietly and firmly: and\nas for the fine spirits who would try to organise things before they are\neven sorted, well, they have done a noble, ineffectual thing, because\nthey could not do otherwise; and their desire to mend what is amiss\nis at all events a sign that the impulse is there, that the sun has\nbrightened upon the peaks before it could warm the valleys.\n\nI was reading to-day The Irrational Knot, an early book by Mr.\nBernard Shaw, whom I whole-heartedly admire because of his courage and\ngood-humour and energy. That book represents a type of the New Man, such\nas I suppose Mr. Shaw would have us all to be; the book, in spite of\nits radiant wit, is a melancholy one, because the novelist penetrates\nso clearly past the disguises of humanity, and takes delight in dragging\nthe mean, ugly, shuddering, naked creature into the open. The New Man\nhimself is entirely vigorous, cheerful, affectionate, sensible, and\nrobust. He is afraid of nothing and shocked by nothing. I think it\nwould have been better if he had been a little more shocked, not in\na conventional way, but at the hideous lapses and failures of even\ngenerous and frank people. He is too hard and confident to be an\napostle. He does not lead the flock like a shepherd, but helps them\nalong, like Father-o'-Flynn, with his stick. I would have gone to\nConolly, the hero of the book, to get me out of a difficulty, but I\ncould not have confided to him what I really held sacred. Moreover the\nview of money, as the one essential world-force, so frankly confessed\nin the book, puzzled me. I do not think that money is ever more than a\nweapon in the hands of a man, or a convenient screening wall, and the\nNew Man ought to have neither weapons nor walls, except his vigour and\nserenity of spirit. Again the New Man is too fond of saying what\nhe thinks, and doing what he chooses; and, in the new earth, that\nindependent instinct will surely be tempered by a sense, every bit as\ninstinctive, of the rights of other people. But I suppose Mr. Shaw's\npoint is that if you cannot mend the world, you had better make it serve\nyou, as in its folly and debility it will, if you bully it enough. I\nsuppose that Mr. Shaw would say that the brutality of his hero is the\nshadow thrown on him by the vileness of the world, and that if we were\nall alike courageous and industrious and good-humoured, that shadow\nwould disappear.\n\nAnd this, I suppose, is after all the secret; that the world is not\ngoing to be mended from without, but is mending itself from within;\nand thus that the best kind of socialism is really the highest\nindividualism, in which a man leaves legislation to follow and express,\nas it assuredly does, the growth of emotion, and sets himself, in his\nown corner, to be as quiet and disinterested and kindly as he can,\nchoosing what is honest and pure, and rejecting what is base and vile;\nand this is after all the socialism of Christ; only we are all in such\na hurry, and think it more effective to clap a ruffian into gaol than\nto suffer his violence--the result of which process is to make men\nsympathise with the ruffian--while, if we endure his violence, we touch\na spring in the hearts of ruffian and spectators alike, which is more\nfruitful of good than the criminal's infuriated seclusion, and his just\nquarrel with the world. Of course the real way is that we should each\nof us abandon our own desires for private ease and convenience, in the\nlight of the hope that those who come after will be easier and happier;\nwhereas the Pardiggle reformer literally enjoys the presence of the\nrefuse, because his broom has something to sweep away.\n\nAnd the strangest thing of all is that we move forward, in a bewildered\ncompany, knowing that our every act and word is the resultant of ancient\nforces, not one of which we can change or modify in the least degree,\nwhile we live under the instinctive delusion, which survives the\nseverest logic, that we can always and at every moment do to a certain\nextent what we choose to do. What the truth is that connects and\nunderlies these two phenomena, we have not the least conception; but\nmeanwhile each remains perfectly obvious and apparently true. To myself,\nthe logical belief is infinitely the more hopeful and sustaining of the\ntwo; for if the movement of progress is in the hands of God, we are at\nall events taking our mysterious and wonderful part in a great dream\nthat is being evolved, far more vast and amazing than we can comprehend;\nwhereas if I felt that it was left to ourselves to choose, and\nthat, hampered as we feel ourselves to be by innumerable chains of\ncircumstance, we could yet indeed originate action and impede the\nunderlying Will, I should relapse into despair before a problem full of\nsickening complexities and admitted failures. Meanwhile, I do what I am\ngiven to do; I perceive what I am allowed to perceive; I suffer what is\nappointed for me to suffer; but all with a hope that I may yet see the\ndawn break upon the sunlit sea, beyond the dark hills of time.\n\n\n\n\nX. THE DRAMATIC SENSE\n\n\nThe other day I was walking along a road at Cambridge, engulfed in a\ntorrent of cloth-capped and coated young men all flowing one way--going\nto see or, as it is now called, to \"watch\" a match. We met a little\ngirl walking with her governess in the opposite direction. There was a\nbaleful light of intellect in the child's eye, and a preponderance of\nforehead combined with a certain lankness of hair betrayed, I fancy,\nan ingenuous academical origin. The girl was looking round her with an\nunholy sense of superiority, and as we passed she said to her governess\nin a clear-cut, complacent tone, \"We're quite exceptional, aren't we?\"\nTo which the governess replied briskly, \"Laura, don't be ridiculous!\"\nTo which exhortation Laura replied with self-satisfied pertinacity, \"No,\nbut we ARE exceptional, aren't we?\"\n\nAh, Miss Laura, I thought to myself, you are one of those people with\na dramatic sense of your own importance. It will probably make you very\nhappy, and an absolutely insufferable person! I have little doubt that\nthe tiny prig was saying to herself, \"I dare say that all these men are\nwondering who is the clever-looking little girl who is walking in the\nopposite direction to the match, and has probably something better to\ndo than look on at matches.\" It is a great question whether one ought to\nwish people to nourish illusions about themselves, or whether one ought\nto desire such illusions to be dispelled. They certainly add immensely\nto people's happiness, but on the other hand, if life is an educative\nprogress, and if the aim of human beings is or ought to be the\nattainment of moral perfection, then the sooner that these illusions are\ndispelled the better. It is one of the many questions which depend upon\nthe great fact as to whether our identity is prolonged after death. If\nidentity is not prolonged, then one would wish people to maintain every\nillusion which makes life happier; and there is certainly no illusion\nwhich brings people such supreme and unfailing contentment as the sense\nof their own significance in the world. This illusion rises superior to\nall failures and disappointments. It makes the smallest and simplest act\nseem momentous. The world for such persons is merely a theatre of gazers\nin which they discharge their part appropriately and successfully. I\nknow several people who have the sense very strongly, who are conscious\nfrom morning till night, in all that they do or say, of an admiring\naudience; and who, even if their circle is wholly indifferent, find food\nfor delight in the consciousness of how skilfully and satisfactorily\nthey discharge their duties. I remember once hearing a worthy clergyman,\nof no particular force, begin a speech at a missionary meeting by saying\nthat people had often asked him what was the secret of his smile; and\nthat he had always replied that he was unaware that his smile had any\nspecial quality; but that if it indeed was so, and it would be idle\nto pretend that a good many people had not noticed it, it was that he\nimported a resolute cheerfulness into all that he did. The man, as I\nhave said, was not in any way distinguished, but there can be no doubt\nthat the thought of his heavenly smile was a very sustaining one,\nand that the sense of responsibility that the possession of such a\ncharacteristic gave him, undoubtedly made him endeavour to smile like\nthe Cheshire Cat, when he did not feel particularly cheerful.\n\nIt is not, however, common to find people make such a frank and candid\nconfession of their superiority. The feeling is generally kept for more\nor less private consumption. The underlying self-satisfaction generally\nmanifests itself, for instance, with people who have no real illusions,\nsay, about their personal appearance, in leading them to feel, after a\nchance glance at themselves in a mirror, that they really do not look\nso bad in certain lights. A dull preacher will repeat to himself, with\na private relish, a sentence out of a very commonplace discourse of his\nown, and think that that was really an original thought, and that\nhe gave it an impressive emphasis; or a student will make a very\nunimportant discovery, press it upon the attention of some great\nauthority on the subject, extort a half-hearted assent, and will then go\nabout saying, \"I mentioned my discovery to Professor A----; he was\nquite excited about it, and urged the immediate publication of it.\" Or\na commonplace woman will give a tea-party, and plume herself upon the\neclat with which it went off. The materials are ready to hand in any\nlife; the quality is not the same as priggishness, though it is closely\nakin to it; it no doubt exists in the minds of many really successful\npeople, and if it is not flagrantly betrayed, it is often an important\nconstituent of their success. But the happy part of it is that the\ndramatic sense is often freely bestowed upon the most inconspicuous and\nunintelligent persons, and fills their lives with a consciousness of\nromance and joy. It concerns itself mostly with public appearances, upon\nhowever minute a scale, and thus it is a rich source of consolation and\nself-congratulation. Even if it falls upon one who has no social gifts\nwhatever, whose circle of friends tends to diminish as life goes on,\nwhose invitations tend to decrease, it still frequently survives in a\nconsciousness of being profoundly interesting, and consoles itself by\nbelieving that under different circumstances and in a more perceptive\nsociety the fact would have received a wider recognition.\n\nBut, after all, as with many things, much depends upon the way that\nillusions are cherished. When this dramatic sense is bestowed upon a\nheavy-handed, imperceptive, egotistical person, it becomes a terrible\naffliction to other people, unless indeed the onlooker possesses the\nhumorous spectatorial curiosity; when it becomes a matter of delight to\nfind a person behaving characteristically, striking the hour punctually,\nand being, as Mr. Bennet thought of Mr. Collins, fully as absurd as one\nhad hoped. It then becomes a pleasure, and not necessarily an unkind\none, because it gives the deepest satisfaction to the victim, to tickle\nthe egotist as one might tickle a trout, to draw him on by innocent\nquestions, to induce him to unfold and wave his flag high in the air.\nI had once a worthy acquaintance whose occasional visits were to me a\nsource of infinite pleasure--and I may add that I have no doubt that\nthey gave him a pleasure quite as acute--because he only required the\nsimplest fly to be dropped on the pool, when he came heavily to the\ntop and swallowed it. I have heard him deplore the vast size of his\ncorrespondence, the endless claims made upon him for counsel. I have\nheard him say with a fatuous smile that there were literally hundreds of\npeople who day by day brought their pitcher of self-pity to be filled\nat his pump of sympathy: that he wished he could have a little rest, but\nthat he supposed that it was a plain duty for him to minister thus to\nhuman needs, though it took it out of him terribly. I suppose that some\nsort of experience must have lain behind this confession, for my friend\nwas a decidedly moral man, and would not tell a deliberate untruth; the\nonly difficulty was that I could not conceive where he kept his stores\nof sympathy, because I had never heard him speak of any subject except\nhimself, and I suppose that his method of consolation, if he was\nconsulted, was to relate some striking instance out of his own\nexperience in which grace triumphed over nature.\n\nSometimes, again, the dramatic sense takes the form of an exaggerated\nself-depreciation. I was reading the other day the life of a very\ndevoted clergyman, who said on his death-bed to one standing by him, \"If\nanything is done in memory of me, let a plain slab be placed on my grave\nwith my initials and the date, and the words, 'the unworthy priest of\nthis parish'--that must be all.\"\n\nThe man's modesty was absolutely sincere; yet what a strange confusion\nof modesty and vanity after all! If the humility had been PERFECTLY\nunaffected, he would have felt that the man who really merited such\na description deserved no memorial at all; or again, if he had had no\nsense of credit, he would have left the choice of a memorial to any who\nmight wish to commemorate him. If one analyses the feeling underneath\nthe words, it will be seen to consist of a desire to be remembered,\na hope almost amounting to a belief that his work was worthy of\ncommemoration, coupled with a sincere desire not to exaggerate its\nvalue. And yet silence would have attested his humility far more\neffectually than any calculated speech!\n\nThe dramatic sense is not a thing which necessarily increases as life\ngoes on; some people have it from the very beginning. I have an elderly\nfriend who is engaged on a very special sort of scientific research of\na wholly unimportant kind. He is just as incapable as my sympathetic\nfriend of talking about anything except his own interests; \"You don't\nmind my speaking about my work?\" he says with a brilliant smile; \"you\nsee it means so much to me.\" And then, after explaining some highly\ntechnical detail, he will add: \"Of course this seems to you very minute,\nbut it is work that has got to be done by some one; it is only laying a\nlittle stone in the temple of science. Of course I often feel I should\nlike to spread my wings and take a wider flight, but I do seem to have\na special faculty for this kind of work, and I suppose it is my duty\nto stick to it.\" And he will pass his hand wearily over his brow, and\nexpound another technical detail. He apologises ceaselessly for dwelling\non his own work; but in no place or company have I ever heard him do\notherwise; and he is certainly one of the happiest people I know.\n\nBut, on the other hand, it is a rather charming quality to find in\ncombination with a certain balance of mind. Unless a man is interesting\nto himself he cannot easily be interesting to others; there is a\nyouthful and ingenuous sense of romance and drama which can exist side\nby side with both modesty and sympathy, somewhat akin to the habit\ncommon to imaginative children of telling themselves long stories in\nwhich they are the heroes of the tale. But people who have this faculty\nare generally mildly ashamed of it; they do not believe that their\nfantastic adventures are likely to happen. They only think how pleasant\nit would be if things arranged themselves so. It all depends whether\nsuch dramatisation is looked upon in the light of an amusement, or\nwhether it is applied in a heavy-handed manner to real life. Imaginative\nchildren, who have true sympathy and affection as well, generally end by\nfinding the real world, as they grow up into it, such an astonishing and\ninteresting place, that their horizon extends, and they apply to other\npeople, to their relationships and meetings, the zest and interest that\nthey formerly applied only to themselves. The kind of temperament that\nfalls a helpless victim to dramatic egotism is generally the priggish\nand self-satisfied man, who has a fervent belief in his own influence,\nand the duty of exercising it on others. Most of us, one may say\ngratefully, are kept humble by our failures and even by our sins. If the\npath of the transgressor is hard, the path of the righteous man is\noften harder. If a man is born free from grosser temptations, vigorous,\nactive, robust, the chances are ten to one that he falls into the snare\nof self-righteousness and moral complacency. He passes judgment\non others, he compares himself favourably with them. A spice of\nunpopularity gives him a still more fatal bias, because he thinks that\nhe is persecuted for his goodness, when he is only disliked for his\nsuperiority. He becomes content to warn people, and if they reject his\nadvice and get into difficulties, he is not wholly ill-pleased. Whereas\nthe diffident person, who tremblingly assumes the responsibility for\nsome one else's life, is beset by miserable regrets if his penitent\nescapes him, and attributes it to his own mismanagement. The truth is\nthat moral indignation is a luxury that very few people can afford to\nindulge in. And if it is true that a rich man can with difficulty enter\nthe kingdom of heaven, it is also true that the dramatic man finds it\nstill more difficult. He is impervious to criticism, because he bears\nit with meekness. He has so good a conscience that he cannot believe\nhimself in the wrong. If he makes an egregious blunder, he says\nto himself with infinite solemnity that it is right that his\nself-satisfaction should be tenderly purged away, and glories in his own\nhumility. A far wholesomer frame of mind is that of the philosopher\nwho said, when complimented on the mellowness that advancing years had\nbrought him, that he still reserved to himself the right of damning\nthings in general. Because the truth is that the things which really\ndiscipline us are the painful, dreary, intolerable things of life, the\nresults of one's own meanness, stupidity, and weakness, or the black\ncatastrophes which sometimes overwhelm us, and not the things which we\npiously and cheerfully accept as ministering to our consciousness of\nworth and virtue.\n\nIf I say that the dramatic failing is apt to be more common among the\nclergy than among ordinary mortals, it is because the clerical vocation\nis one that tempts men who have this temperament strongly developed\nto enter it, and afterwards provides a good deal of sustenance to the\nparticular form of vanity that lies behind the temptation. The\ndramatic sense loves public appearances and trappings, processions and\nceremonies. The instinctive dramatist, who is also a clergyman, tends\nto think of himself as moving to his place in the sanctuary in a solemn\nprogress, with a worn spiritual aspect, robed as a son of Aaron. He\nlikes to picture himself as standing in the pulpit pale with emotion,\nhis eye gathering fire as he bears witness to the truth or testifies\nagainst sin. He likes to believe that his words and intonations have\na thrilling quality, a fire or a delicacy, as the case may be, which\nscorch or penetrate the sin-burdened heart. It may be thought that this\ncriticism is unduly severe; I do not for a moment say that the attitude\nis universal, but it is commoner, I am sure, than one would like\nto believe; and neither do I say that it is inconsistent with deep\nearnestness and vital seriousness. I would go further, and maintain that\nsuch a dramatic consciousness is a valuable quality for men who have to\nsustain at all a spectacular part. It very often lends impressiveness to\na man, and convinces those who hear and see him of his sincerity; while\na man who thinks nothing of appearances often fails to convince his\naudience that he cares more for his message than for the fact that he is\nthe mouthpiece of it. I find it very difficult to say whether it is\nwell for people who cherish such illusions about their personal\nimpressiveness to get rid of such illusions, when personal\nimpressiveness is a real factor in their success. To do a thing really\nwell it is essential to have a substantial confidence in one's aptitude\nfor the task. And undoubtedly diffidence and humility, however sincere,\nare a bad outfit for a man in a public position. I am inclined to think\nthat self-confidence, and a certain degree of self-satisfaction, are\nvaluable assets, so long as a man believes primarily in the importance\nof what he has to say and do, and only secondarily in his own power of,\nand fitness for, saying and doing it.\n\nThere is an interesting story--I do not vouch for the truth of it--that\nused to be told of Cardinal Manning, who undoubtedly had a strong sense\nof dramatic effect. He was putting on his robes one evening in the\nsacristy of the Cathedral at Westminster, when a noise was heard at the\ndoor, as of one who was determined on forcing an entrance in spite of\nthe remonstrances of the attendants. In a moment a big, strongly-built\nperson, looking like a prosperous man of business, labouring under a\nvehement and passionate emotion, came quickly in, looked about him, and\nadvancing to Manning, poured out a series of indignant reproaches. \"You\nhave got hold of my boy,\" he said, \"with your hypocritical and sneaking\nmethods; you have made him a Roman Catholic; you have ruined the\nhappiness and peace of our home; you have broken his mother's heart,\nand overwhelmed us in misery.\" He went on in this strain at some length.\nManning, who was standing in his cassock, drew himself up in an attitude\nof majestic dignity, and waited until the intruder's eloquence had\nexhausted itself, and had ended with threatening gestures. Some of those\npresent would have intervened, but Manning with an air of command waved\nthem back, and then, pointing his hand at the man, he said: \"Now, sir,\nI have allowed you to have your say, and you shall hear me in reply. You\nhave traduced Holy Church, you have broken in upon the Sanctuary, you\nhave uttered vile and abominable slanders against the Faith; and I tell\nyou,\" he added, pausing for an instant with flashing eyes and marble\nvisage, \"I tell you that within three months you will be a Catholic\nyourself.\" He then turned sharply on his heel and went on with his\npreparations. The man was utterly discomfited; he made as though\nhe would speak, but was unable to find words; he looked round, and\neventually slunk out of the sacristy in silence.\n\nOne of those present ventured to ask Manning afterwards about the\nstrange scene. \"Had the Cardinal,\" he inquired, \"any sudden premonition\nthat the man himself would adopt the Faith in so short a time?\" Manning\nsmiled indulgently, putting his hand on the other's shoulder, and said:\n\"Ah, my dear friend, who shall say? You see, it was a very awkward\nmoment, and I had to deal with the situation as I best could.\"\n\nThat was an instance of supreme presence of mind and great dramatic\nforce; but one is not sure whether it was a wholly apostolical method of\nhandling the position.\n\nBut to transfer the question from the ecclesiastical region into the\nregion of common life, it is undoubtedly true that if a man or a woman\nhas a strong sense of moral issues, a deep feeling of responsibility\nand sympathy, an anxious desire to help things forward, then a dramatic\nsense of the value of manner, speech, gesture, and demeanour is a highly\neffective instrument. It is often said that people who wield a great\npersonal influence have the gift of making the individual with whom they\nare dealing feel that his case is the most interesting and important\nwith which they have ever come in contact, and of inspiring and\nmaintaining a special kind of relationship between themselves and their\npetitioner. That is no doubt a very encouraging thing for the applicant\nto feel, even though he is sensible enough to realise that his case is\nonly one among many with which his adviser is dealing, and probably\nnot the most significant. Upon such a quality as this the success of\nstatesmen, lawyers, physicians largely depends. But where the dramatic\nsense is combined with egotism, selfishness, and indifference to the\nclaims of others, it is a terrible inheritance. It ministers, as I have\nsaid before, to its possessor's self-satisfaction; but on the other hand\nit is a failing which goes so deep and which permeates so intimately the\nwhole moral nature, that its cure is almost impossible without the gift\nof what the Scripture calls \"a new heart.\" Such self-complacency is a\nfearful shield against criticism, and particularly so because it gives\nas a rule so few opportunities for any outside person, however intimate,\nto expose the obliquity of such a temperament. The dramatic egotist is\ncareful as a rule not to let his egotism appear, but to profess to be,\nand even to believe that he is, guided by the highest motives in all his\nactions and words. A candid remonstrance is met by a calm tolerance, and\nby the reply that the critic does not understand the situation, and\nis trying to hinder rather than to help the development of beneficent\ndesigns.\n\nI used to know a man of this type, who was insatiably greedy of\ninfluence and recognition. It is true that he was ready to help other\npeople with money or advice. He was wealthy, and of a good position; and\nhe would take a great deal of trouble to obtain appointments for friends\nwho appealed to him, or to unravel a difficult situation; though the\nobject of his diligence was not to help his applicants, but to obtain\ncredit and power for himself. He did not desire that they should be\nhelped, but that they should depend upon him for help. Nothing could\nundeceive him as to his own motive, because he gave his time and his\nmoney freely; yet the result was that most of the people whom he helped\ntended to resent it in the end, because he demanded services in return,\nand was jealous of any other interference. Chateaubriand says that it is\nnot true gratitude to wish to repay favours promptly and still less is\nit true benevolence to wish to retain a hold over those whom one has\nbenefited.\n\nSometimes indeed the two strains are almost inextricably intertwined,\nreal and vital sympathy with others, combined with an overwhelming\nsense of personal significance; and then the problem is an inconceivably\ncomplicated one. For I suppose it must be frankly confessed that the\nbasis of the dramatic sense is not a very wholesome one; it is, of\ncourse, a strong form of individualism. But while it is true that we\nsuffer from taking ourselves too seriously, it is also possible to\nsuffer from not taking ourselves seriously enough. If effectiveness is\nthe end of life, there is no question that a strong sense of what we\nlike to call responsibility, which is generally nothing more than a\nsense of one's own importance, decorously framed and glazed, is\nan immense factor in success. I myself cherish the heresy that\neffectiveness is very far from being the end of life, and that the only\neffectiveness that is worth anything is unintentional effectiveness. I\nbelieve that a man or woman who is humble and sincere, who loves and is\nloved, is higher on the steps of heaven than the adroitest lobbyist; but\nit may be that the world's criterion of what it admires and respects is\nthe right one; and indeed it is hard to see how so strong an instinct is\nimplanted in the human race, the instinct to value strength and success\nabove everything, unless it is put there by our Maker. At the same time\none cherishes the hope that there is a better criterion somewhere, in\nthe Divine Mind, in the fruitful future; the criterion that it is not\nwhat a man actually effects that matters, but what he makes of the\nresources that are given him to work with.\n\nThe effectiveness of the dramatic sense is beyond question. One can see\na supreme instance of it in the case of the Christian Science movement,\nin which a woman of strong personality, by lighting upon an idea latent\nin a large number of minds, an idea moreover of real and practical\nvitality, and by putting it in a form which has all the definiteness\nrequired by brains of a hazy and emotional order, has contrived to\neffect an immense amount of good, besides amassing a colossal\nfortune, and assuming almost Divine pretensions, without being widely\ndiscredited. The human race is, speaking generally, so anxious for any\nleading that it can get, that if a man or woman can persuade themselves\nthat they have a mission to humanity, and maintain a pontifical air,\nthey will generally be able to attract a band of devoted adherents,\nwhose faith, rising superior to both intelligence and common-sense,\nwill endorse almost any claim that the prophet or prophetess likes to\nadvance.\n\nBut the danger for the prophet himself is great. Arrogance, complacency,\nself-confidence, all the Pharisaical vices flourish briskly in such a\nsoil. He loses all sense of proportion, all sense of dependence. Instead\nof being a humble learner in a mysterious world, he expects to find\neverything made after the pattern revealed to him in the Mount. The good\nthat he does may be permanent and fruitful; but in some dark valley of\nhumiliation and despair he will have to learn that God tolerates us and\nuses us; He does not need us, \"He delighteth not in any man's legs,\" as\nthe Psalmist said with homely vigour. To save others and be oneself\na castaway is the terrible fate of which St. Paul saw so clearly the\npossibility; and thus any one who is conscious of the dramatic sense,\nor even dimly suspects that it is there, ought to pray very humbly to\nbe delivered from it, as he would from any other darling bosom-sin. He\nought to eschew diplomacy and practise frankness, he ought to welcome\nfailure and to rejoice when he makes humiliating mistakes. He ought\nto be grateful even for palpable faults and weaknesses and sins and\nphysical disabilities. For if we have the hope that God is educating us,\nis moulding a fair statue out of the frail and sordid clay, such a\nfaith forbids us to reject any experience, however disagreeable, however\npainful, however self-revealing it may be, as of no import; and thus we\ncan grow into a truer sense of proportion, till at last we may come\n\n\n                      \"to learn that Man\n     Is small, and not forget that Man is great.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI. KELMSCOTT AND WILLIAM MORRIS\n\n\nI had been at Fairford that still, fresh, April morning, and had enjoyed\nthe sunny little piazza, with its pretty characteristic varieties of\npleasant stone-built houses, solid Georgian fronts interspersed with\nmullioned gables. But the church! That is a marvellous place; its\nmassive lantern-tower, with solid, softly-moulded outlines--for the\nsandy oolite admits little fineness of detail--all weathered to a\nbeautiful orange-grey tint, has a mild dignity of its own. Inside it is\na treasure of mediaevalism. The screens, the woodwork, the monuments,\nall rich, dignified, and spacious. And the glass! Next to King's College\nChapel, I suppose, it is the noblest series of windows in England, and\nthe colour of it is incomparable. Azure and crimson, green and orange,\nyet all with a firm economy of effect, the robes of the saints set and\nimbedded in a fine intricacy of white tabernacle-work. As to the design,\nI hardly knew whether to smile or weep. The splendid, ugly faces of the\nsaints, depicted, whether designedly or artlessly I cannot guess, as men\nof simple passions and homely experience, moved me greatly, so unlike\nthe mild, polite, porcelain visages of even the best modern glass. But\nthe windows are as thick with demons as a hive with bees; and oh! the\nirresponsible levity displayed in these merry, grotesque, long-nosed\ncreatures, some flame-coloured and long-tailed, some green and scaly,\nsome plated like the armadillo, all going about their merciless work\nwith infinite gusto and glee! Here one picked at the white breast of a\nlanguid, tortured woman who lay bathed in flame; one with a glowing\nhook thrust a lamentable big-paunched wretch down into a bath of molten\nliquor; one with pleased intentness turned the handle of a churn, from\nthe top of which protruded the head of a fair-haired boy, all distorted\nwith pain and terror. What could have been in the mind of the designer\nof these hateful scenes? It is impossible to acquit him of a strong\nsense of the humorous. Did he believe that such things were actually in\nprogress in some infernal cavern, seven times heated? I fear it may have\nbeen so. And what of the effect upon the minds of the village folk\nwho saw them day by day? It would have depressed, one would think, an\nimaginative girl or boy into madness, to dream of such things as being\ncountenanced by God for the heathen and the unbaptized, as well as for\nthe cruel and sinful. If the vile work had been represented as being\ndone by cloudy, sombre, relentless creatures, it would have been more\ntolerable. But these fantastic imps, as lively as grigs and full to\nthe brim of wicked laughter, are certainly enjoying themselves with an\nextremity of delight of which no trace is to be seen in the mournful\nand heavily lined faces of the faithful. Autres temps, autres moeurs!\nPerhaps the simple, coarse mental palates of the village folk were none\nthe worse for this realistic treatment of sin. One wonders what the\nsaintly and refined Keble, who spent many years of his life as his\nfather's curate here, thought of it all. Probably his submissive and\ndeferential mind accepted it as in some ecclesiastical sense symbolical\nof the merciless hatred of God for the desperate corruption of humanity.\nIt gave me little pleasure to connect the personality of Keble with the\nplace, patient, sweet-natured, mystical, serviceable as he was. It seems\nhard to breathe in the austere air of a mind like Keble's, where the\nwind of the spirit blows chill down the narrow path, fenced in by the\nhigh, uncompromising walls of ecclesiastical tradition on the one hand,\nand stern Puritanism on the other. An artificial type, one is tempted to\nsay!--and yet one ought never, I suppose, so to describe any flower that\nhas blossomed fragrantly upon the human stock; any system that seems to\nextend a natural and instinctive appeal to certain definite classes of\nhuman temperament.\n\nI sped pleasantly enough along the low, rich pastures, thick with\nhedgerow elms, to Lechlade, another pretty town with an infinite variety\nof habitations. Here again is a fine ancient church with a comely spire,\n\"a pretty pyramis of stone,\" as the old Itinerary says, overlooking a\ncharming gabled house, among walled and terraced gardens, with stone\nballs on the corner-posts and a quaint pavilion, the river running\nbelow; and so on to a bridge over the yet slender Thames, where the\nriver water spouted clear and fragrant into a wide pool; and across the\nflat meadows, bright with kingcups, the spire of Lechlade towered over\nthe clustered house-roofs to the west.\n\nThen further still by a lonely ill-laid road. And thus, with a mind\npleasantly attuned to beauty and a quickening pulse, I drew near to\nKelmscott. The great alluvial flat, broadening on either hand, with low\nwooded heights, \"not ill-designed,\" as Morris said, to the south. Then\ncame a winding cross-track, and presently I drew near to a straggling\nvillage, every house of which had some charm and quality of style, with\nhere and there a high gabled dovecot, and its wooden cupola, standing up\namong solid barns and stacks. Here was a tiny and inconspicuous church,\nwith a small stone belfry; and then the road pushed on, to die away\namong the fields. But there, at the very end of the village, stood the\nhouse of which we were in search; and it was with a touch of awe, with a\nquickening heart, that I drew near to a place of such sweet and gracious\nmemories, a place so dear to more than one of the heroes of art.\n\nOne comes to the goal of an artistic pilgrimage with a certain sacred\nterror; either the place is disappointing, or it is utterly unlike what\none anticipates. I knew Kelmscott so well from Rossetti's letters, from\nMorris's own splendid and loving description, from pictures, from the\ntales of other pilgrims, that I felt I could not be disappointed; and I\nwas not. It was not only just like what I had pictured it to be, but\nit had a delicate and natural grace of its own as well. The house was\nlarger and more beautiful, the garden smaller and not less beautiful,\nthan I had imagined. I had not thought it was so shy, so rustic a place.\nIt is very difficult to get any clear view of the Manor. By the road are\ncottages, and a big building, half storehouse, half wheelwright's shop,\nto serve the homely needs of the farm. Through the open door one could\nsee a bench with tools; and planks, staves, spokes, waggon-tilts,\nfaggots, were all stacked in a pleasant confusion. Then came a walled\nkitchen-garden, with some big shrubs, bay and laurustinus, rising\nplumply within; beyond which the grey house, spread thin with plaster,\nheld up its gables and chimneys over a stone-tiled roof. To the left,\nbig barns and byres--a farm-man leading in a young bull with a pole at\nthe nose-ring; beyond that, open fields, with a dyke and a flood-wall of\nearth, grown over with nettles, withered sedges in the watercourse,\nand elms in which the rooks were clamorously building. We met with the\nready, simple Berkshire courtesy; we were referred to a gardener who was\nin charge. To speak with him, we walked round to the other side of the\nhouse, to an open space of grass, where the fowls picked merrily, and\nthe old farm-lumber, broken coops, disused ploughs, lay comfortably\nabout. \"How I love tidiness!\" wrote Morris once. Yet I did not feel that\nhe would have done other than love all this natural and simple litter of\nthe busy farmstead.\n\nHere the venerable house appeared more stately still. Through an open\ndoor in a wall we caught a sight of the old standards of an orchard, and\nborders with the spikes of spring-flowers pushing through the mould. The\ngardener was digging in the gravelly soil. He received us with a grave\nand kindly air; but when we asked if we could look into the house,\nhe said, with a sturdy faithfulness, that his orders were that no one\nshould see it, and continued his digging without heeding us further.\n\nSomewhat abashed we retraced our steps; we got one glimpse of the fine\nindented front, with its shapely wings and projections. I should like\nto have seen the great parlour, and the tapestry-room with the story of\nSamson that bothered Rossetti so over his work. I should like to have\nseen the big oak bed, with its hangings embroidered with one of Morris's\nsweetest lyrics:\n\n\n     \"The wind's on the wold,\n      And the night is a-cold.\"\n\n\nI should like to have seen the tapestry-chamber, and the room where\nMorris, who so frankly relished the healthy savour of meat and drink,\nate his joyful meals, and the peacock yew-tree that he found in his days\nof failing strength too hard a task to clip. I should like to have\nseen all this, I say; and yet I am not sure that tables and chairs,\nupholsteries and pictures, would not have come in between me and the\nsacred spirit of the place.\n\nSo I turned to the church. Plain and homely as its exterior is, inside\nit is touched with the true mediaeval spirit, like the \"old febel\nchapel\" of the Mort d'Arthur. Its bare walls, its half-obliterated\nfrescoes, its sturdy pillars, gave it an ancient, simple air. But I did\nnot, to my grief, see the grave of Morris, though I saw in fancy the\ncoffin brought from Lechlade in the bright farm-waggon, on that day of\npitiless rain. For there was going on in the churchyard the only thing I\nsaw that day that seemed to me to strike a false note; a silly posing\nof village girls, self-conscious and overdressed, before the camera of a\nphotographer--a playing at aesthetics, bringing into the village life\na touch of unwholesome vanity and the vulgar affectation of the world.\nThat is the ugly shadow of fame; it makes conventional people curious\nabout the details of a great man's life and surroundings, without\ninitiating them into any sympathy with his ideals and motives. The price\nthat the real worshippers pay for their inspiration is the slavering\nidolatry of the unintelligent; and I withdrew in a mournful wonder from\nthe place, wishing I could set an invisible fence round the scene, a\nfence which none should pass but the few who had the secret and the key\nin their hearts.\n\nAnd here, for the pleasure of copying the sweet words, let me transcribe\na few sentences from Morris's own description of the house itself:\n\n\n\"A house that I love with a reasonable love, I think; for though my\nwords may give you no idea of any special charm about it, yet I assure\nyou that the charm is there; so much has the old house grown up out of\nthe soil and the lives of those that lived on it: some thin thread of\ntradition, a half-anxious sense of the delight of meadow and acre\nand wood and river; a certain amount (not too much, let us hope) of\ncommon-sense, a liking for making materials serve one's turn, and\nperhaps at bottom some little grain of sentiment--this, I think, was\nwhat went to the making of the old house.\"\n\n\nAnd again:\n\n\n\"My feet moved along the road they knew. The raised way led us into a\nlittle field, bounded by a backwater of the river on one side; on the\nright hand we could see a cluster of small houses and barns, and before\nus a grey stone barn and a wall partly overgrown with ivy, over which\na few grey gables showed. The village road ended in the shallow of the\nbackwater. We crossed the road, and my hand raised the latch of a door\nin the wall, and we stood presently on a stone path which led up to the\nold house. The garden between the wall and the house was redolent of\nthe June flowers, and the roses were rolling over one another with that\ndelicious superabundance of small well-tended gardens which at first\nsight takes away all thought save that of beauty. The blackbirds were\nsinging their loudest, the doves were cooing on the roof-ridge, the\nrooks in the high elm trees beyond were garrulous among the young\nleaves, and the swifts wheeled whirring about the gables. And the house\nitself was a fit guardian for all the beauty of this heart of summer.\n\n\"O me! O me! How I love the earth, and the seasons, and weather, and\nall things that deal with it, and all that grows out of it--as this has\ndone! The earth and the growth of it and the life of it! If I could but\nsay or show how I love it!\"\n\n\nThe pure lyrical beauty of these passages makes one out of conceit\nwith one's own clumsy sentences. But still, I will say how all that\nafternoon, among the quiet fields, with the white clouds rolling up\nover the lip of the wolds, I was haunted with the thought of that burly\nfigure; the great head with its curly hair and beard; the eyes that\nseemed so guarded and unobservant, and that yet saw and noted every\nsmallest detail; the big clumsy hands, apt for such delicacy of work; to\nsee him in his rough blue suit, his easy rolling gait, wandering about,\nstooping to look at the flowers in the beds, or glancing up at the\nsky, or sauntering off to fish in the stream, or writing swiftly in\nthe parlour, or working at his loom; so bluff, so kindly, so blunt in\naddress, so unaffected, loving all that he saw, the tide of full-blooded\nand restless life running so vigorously in his veins; or, further\nback, Rossetti, with his wide eyes, half bright, half languorous,\npale, haunted with impossible dreams, pacing, rapt in feverish thought,\nthrough the lonely fields. The ghosts of heroes! And whether it was that\nmy own memories and affections and visions stirred my brain, or that\nsome tide of the spirit still sets from the undiscovered shores to the\nscenes of life and love, I know not, but the place seemed thronged with\nunseen presences and viewless mysteries of hope. Doubtless, loving as\nwe do the precise forms of earthly beauty, the wide green pastures, the\ntender grace of age on gable and wall, the springing of sweet flowers,\nthe clear gush of the stream, we are really in love with some deeper\nand holier thing; yet even about the symbols themselves there lingers a\nconsecrating power; and that influence was present with me to-day, as\nI went homewards in the westering light, with the shadows of house and\ntree lengthening across the grass in the still afternoon.\n\nHeroes, I said? Well, I will not here speak of Rossetti, though his\nimpassioned heart and wayward dreams were made holy, I think, through\nsuffering: he has purged his fault. But I cannot deny the name of hero\nto Morris. Let me put into words what was happening to him at the very\ntime at which he had made this sweet place his home. He had already\ndone as much in those early years as many men do in a lifetime. He\nhad written great poems, he had loved and wedded, he had made abundant\nfriends, his wealth was growing fast; he loved every detail of his\nwork, designing, weaving, dyeing; he had a band of devoted workers and\ncraftsmen under him. He could defy the world; he cared nothing at all\nfor society or honours. He had magnificent vitality, a physique which\nafforded him every kind of wholesome momentary enjoyment.\n\nIn the middle of all this happy activity a cloud came over his mind,\nblotting out the sunshine. Partly, perhaps, private sorrows had\nsomething to do with it; partly, perhaps, a weakening of physical fibre,\nafter a life of enormous productivity and restless energy, made itself\nfelt. But these were only incidental causes. What began to weigh upon\nhim was the thought of all the toiling thousands of humanity, whose\nlives of labour precluded them from the enjoyment of all or nearly all\nof the beautiful things that were to him the very essence of life;\nand, what was worse still, he perceived that the very faculty of higher\nenjoyment was lacking, the instinct for beauty having been atrophied\nand almost eradicated by sad inheritance, He saw that not only did the\nworkers not feel the joyful love of art and natural beauty, but that\nthey could not have enjoyed such pleasures, even if they were to be\nbrought near to them; and then came the further and darker thought, that\nmodern art was, after all, a hollow and a soulless thing. He saw around\nhim beautiful old houses like his own, old churches which spoke of a\nhigh natural instinct for fineness of form and detail. These things\nseemed to stand for a widespread and lively joy in simple beauty which\nseemed to have vanished out of the world. In ancient times it was\nnatural to the old builders if they had, say, a barn to build, to make\nit strong and seemly and graceful; to buttress it with stone, to bestow\ncare and thought upon coign and window-ledge and dripstone, to prop the\nroof on firm and shapely beams, and to cover it with honest stone tiles,\neach one of which had an individuality of its own. But now he saw that\nif people built naturally, they ran up flimsy walls of brick, tied them\ntogether with iron rods, and put a curved roof of galvanised iron on the\ntop. It was bad enough that it should be built so, but what was worse\nstill was that no one saw or heeded the difference; they thought the\nnew style was more convenient, and the question of beauty never entered\ntheir minds at all. They remorselessly pulled down, or patched meanly\nand sordidly, the old work. And thus he began to feel that modern\nart was an essentially artificial thing, a luxury existing for a few\nleisurely people, and no longer based on a deep universal instinct.\nHe thought that art was wounded to death by competition and hurry and\nvulgarity and materialism, and that it must die down altogether before a\nsweet natural product could arise from the stump.\n\nThen, too, Morris was not an individualist; he cared, one may think,\nabout things more than people. A friend of his once complained that, if\nhe were to die, Morris would no doubt grieve for him and even miss him,\nbut that it would make no gap in his life, nor interrupt his energy of\nwork. He cared for movements, for classes, for groups of men, more than\nhe cared for persons. And thus the idea came to him, in a mournful year\nof reflection, that it was not only a mistake, but of the nature of sin,\nto isolate himself in a little Paradise of art of his own making, and to\nallow the great noisy, ugly, bewildered world to go on its way. It was\na noble grief. The thought of the bare, uncheered, hopeless lives of the\npoor came to weigh on him like an obsession, and he began to turn over\nin his mind what he could do to unravel the knotted skein.\n\n\n\"I am rather in a discouraged mood,\" he wrote on New Year's Day 1880,\n\"and the whole thing seems almost too tangled to see through and too\nheavy to move.\" And again:\n\n\"I have of late been somewhat melancholy (rather too strong a word, but\nI don't know another); not so much so as not to enjoy life in a way, but\njust so much as a man of middle age who has met with rubs (though less\nthan his share of them) may sometimes be allowed to be. When one is just\nso much subdued one is apt to turn more specially from thinking of one's\nown affairs to more worthy matters; and my mind is very full of the\ngreat change which I hope is slowly coming over the world.\"\n\n\nAnd so he plunged into Socialism. He gave up his poetry and much of his\ncongenial work. He attended meetings and committees; he wrote leaflets\nand pamphlets; he lavished money; he took to giving lectures and\naddresses; he exposed himself to misunderstandings and insults. He spoke\nin rain at street corners to indifferent loungers; he pushed a little\ncart about the squares selling Socialist literature; he had collisions\nwith the police; he was summoned before magistrates: the \"poetic\nupholsterer,\" as he was called, became an object of bewildered contempt\nto friends and foes alike. The work was not congenial to him, but he\ndid it well, developing infinite tolerance and good-humour, and even\ntactfulness, in his relations with other men. The exposure to the\nweather, the strain, the neglect of his own physical needs, brought on,\nundoubtedly, the illness of which he eventually died; and worst of all\nwas the growing shadow of discouragement, which made him gradually aware\nthat the times were not ripe, and that even if the people could seize\nthe power they desired, they could not use it. He became aware that the\nworker's idea of rising in the social scale was not the idea of gaining\nsecurity, leisure, independence, and love of honest work, but the hope\nof migrating to the middle class, and becoming a capitalist on a small\nscale. That was the last thing that Morris desired. Most of all he felt\nthe charge of inconsistency that was dinned into his ears. It was held\nridiculous that a wealthy capitalist and a large employer of labour,\nliving, if not in luxury, at least in considerable stateliness, should\nprofess Socialist ideas without attempting to disencumber himself of his\nwealth. He wrote in answer to a loving remonstrance:\n\n\n\"You see, my dear, I can't help it. The ideas which have taken hold of\nme will not let me rest; nor can I see anything else worth thinking\nof. How can it be otherwise, when to me society, which to many seems\nan orderly arrangement for allowing decent people to get through their\nlives creditably and with some pleasure, seems mere cannibalism; nay,\nworse (for there ought to be hope in that), is grown so corrupt, so\nsteeped in hypocrisy and lies, that one turns from one stratum of it to\nanother with hopeless loathing.... Meantime, what a little ruffles me\nis this, that if I do a little fail in my duty some of my friends will\npraise me for failing instead of blaming me.\"\n\n\nAnd then at last, after every sordid circumstance of intrigue and\nsquabble and jealousy, one after another of the organisations he joined\nbroke down. Half gratefully and half mournfully he disengaged himself,\nnot because he did not believe in his principles, but because he saw\nthat the difficulties were insuperable. He came back to the old life; he\nflung himself with renewed ardour into art and craftsmanship. He began\nto write the beautiful and romantic prose tales, with their enchanting\ntitles, which are, perhaps, his most characteristic work. He learnt by\nslow degrees that a clean sweep of an evil system cannot be made in a\nperiod or a lifetime by an individual, however serious or strenuous\nhe may be; he began to perceive that, if society is to put ideas in\npractice, the ideas must first be there, clearly defined and widely\napprehended; and that it is useless to urge men to a life of which they\nhave no conception and for which they have no desire. He had always\nheld it to be a sacred duty for people to live, if possible, in whatever\nsimplicity, among beautiful things; and it may be said that no one man\nin one generation has ever effected so much in this direction. He\nhas, indeed, leavened and educated taste; he has destroyed a vile and\nhypocritical tradition of domestic art; by his writings he has opened a\ndoor for countless minds into a remote and fragrant region of unspoilt\nromance; and, still more than this, he remains an example of one who\nmade a great and triumphant resignation of all that he held most\ndear, for the sake of doing what he thought to be right. He was not an\nascetic, giving up what is half an incumbrance and half a terror; nor\nwas he naturally a melancholy and detached person; but he gave up\nwork which he loved passionately, and a life which he lived in a\nfull-blooded, generous way, that he might try to share his blessings\nwith others, out of a supreme pity for those less richly endowed than\nhimself.\n\nHow, then, should not this corner of the world, which he loved so\ndearly, speak to the spirit with a voice and an accent far louder and\nmore urgent than its own tranquil habit of sunny peace and green-shaded\nsweetness! \"You know my faith,\" wrote Morris from Kelmscott in a\nbewildered hour, \"and how I feel I have no sort of right to revenge\nmyself for any of my private troubles on the kind earth; and here I feel\nher kindness very specially, and am bound not to meet it with a long\nface.\" Noble and high-hearted words! for he of all men seemed made by\nnature to enjoy security and beauty and the joys of living, if ever man\nwas so made. His very lack of personal sensitiveness, his unaptness to\nbe moved by the pathetic appeal of the individual, might have been made\na shield for his own peace; but he laid that shield down, and bared\nhis breast to the sharp arrows; and in his noble madness to redress the\nwrongs of the world he was, perhaps, more like one of his great generous\nknights than he himself ever suspected.\n\nThis, then, I think is the reason why this place--a grey grange at the\nend of a country lane, among water meadows--has so ample a call for the\nspirit. A place of which Morris wrote, \"The scale of everything of the\nsmallest, but so sweet, so unusual even; it was like the background\nof an innocent fairy-story.\" Yes, it might have been that! Many of the\nsimplest and quietest of lives had been lived there, no doubt, before\nMorris came that way. But with him came a realisation of its virtues, a\nperception that in its smallness and sweetness it yet held imprisoned,\nlike the gem that sits on the smallest finger of a hand, an ocean of\nlight and colour. The two things that lend strength to life are, in the\nfirst place, an appreciation of its quality, a perception of its intense\nand awful significance--the thought that we here hold in our hands,\nif we could but piece it all together, the elements and portions of a\nmighty, an overwhelming problem. The fragments of that mighty mystery\nare sorrow, sin, suffering, joy, hope, life, death. Things of their\nnature sharply opposed, and yet that are, doubtless, somehow and\nsomewhere, united and composed and reconciled. It is at this sad point\nthat many men and most artists stop short. They see what they love and\ndesire; they emphasise this and rest upon it; and when the surge of\nsuffering buffets them away, they drown, bewildered, struggling for\nbreath, complaining.\n\nBut for the true man it is otherwise. He is penetrated with the desire\nthat all should share his joy and be emboldened by it. It casts a cold\nshadow over the sunshine, it mars the scent of the roses, it wails\nacross the cooing of the doves--the sense that others suffer and toil\nunhelped; and still more grievous to him is the thought that, were these\nduller natures set free from the galling yoke, their mirth would be evil\nand hideous, they would have no inkling of the sweeter and the purer\njoy. And then, if he be wise, he tries his hardest, in slow and wearied\nhours, to comfort, to interpret, to explain; in much heaviness and\ndejection he labours, while all the time, though he knows it not, the\nsweet ripple of his thoughts spreads across the stagnant pool. He may be\nflouted, contemned, insulted, but he heeds it not; while all the strands\nof the great mystery, dark and bright alike, work themselves, delicately\nand surely, into the picture of his life, and the picture of other lives\nas well. Larger and richer grows the great design, till it is set in\nsome wide hall or corridor of the House of Life; and the figure of\nthe toil-worn knight, with armour dinted and brow dimmed with dust\nand sweat, kneeling at the shrine, makes the very silence of the place\nbeautiful; while those that go to and fro rejoice, not in the suffering\nand weariness, not in the worn face and the thin, sun-browned hands, but\nin the thought that he loved all things well; that his joy was pure and\nhigh, that his clear eyes pierced the dull mist that wreathed cold field\nand dripping wood, and that, when he sank, outworn and languid after the\nday's long toil, the jocund trumpets broke out from the high-walled town\nin a triumphant concert, because he had done worthily, and should now\nsee greater things than these.\n\n\n\n\nXII. A SPEECH-DAY\n\n\nIn the course of the summer it was my lot to attend the Speech-Day\nfestivities of a certain school--indeed, I attended at more than one\nsuch gathering, vocatus atque non vocatus, as Horace says. They are not\nthe sort of entertainments I should choose for pleasure; one feels\ntoo much like a sheep, driven from pen to pen, kindly and courteously\ndriven, but still driven. One is fed rather than eats. One meets a\nnumber of charming and interesting people, and one has no time to\ntalk to them. But I am always glad to have gone, and one carries away\npleasant memories of kindness and courtesy, of youth and hope.\n\nThis particular occasion was so very typical that I am going to try and\ngather up my impressions and ideas. It was an old school and a famous\nschool, though not one of the most famous. The buildings large and\neffective, full of modern and up-to-date improvements, with a mellow\ncore of antiquity, in the shape of a venerable little courtyard in\nthe centre. There were green lawns and pleasant gardens and umbrageous\ntrees; and it was a beautiful day, too, sunny and fresh, so that one was\nneither baked nor boiled. The first item was a luncheon, at which I\nsate between two very pleasant strangers and exchanged cautious views\non education. We agreed that the value of the classics as a staple of\nmental training was perhaps a little overrated, and that possibly too\nmuch attention was nowadays given to athletics; but that after all the\npublic-school system was the backbone of the country, and taught boys\nhow to behave like gentlemen, and how to govern subject races. We\nagreed that they were ideal training-grounds for character, and that our\npublic-schools were the envy of the civilised world. In such profound\nand suggestive interchange of ideas the time sped rapidly away.\n\nThen we were gathered into a big hall. It was pleasant to see proud\nparents and charming sisters, wearing their best, clustered excitedly\nround some sturdy and well-brushed young hero, the hope of the race;\npleasant to see frock-coated masters, beaming with professional\nbenevolence, elderly gentlemen smilingly recalling tales of youthful\nprowess, which had grown quite epical in the lapse of time; it was\ninspiriting to feel one of a big company of people, all bent on being\nfor once as good-humoured and cheerful as possible, and all inspired by\na vague desire to improve the occasion.\n\nThe prizes were given away to the accompaniment of a rolling thunder\nof applause; we had familiar and ingenuous recitations from youthful\norators, who desired friends, Romans, and countrymen to lend them their\nears, or accepted the atrocious accusation of being a young man;\nand then a Bishop, who had been a schoolmaster himself, delivered an\naddress. It was delightful to see and hear the good man expatiate. I did\nnot believe much in what he said, nor could I reasonably endorse many\nof his statements; but he did it all so genially and naturally that one\nfelt almost ashamed to question the matter of his discourse. Yet I could\nnot help wondering why it is thought advisable always to say exactly the\nsame things on these occasions. The good man began by asserting that\nthe boys would never be so happy or so important again in their lives as\nthey were at school, and that all grown-up people were envying them. I\ndon't know whether any one believed that; I am sure the boys did not,\nif I can judge by what my own feelings used to be on such occasions.\nPersonally I used to think my school a very decent sort of place, but I\nlooked forward with excitement and interest to the liberty and life of\nthe larger world; and though perhaps in a way we elders envied the boys\nfor having the chances before them that we had so many of us neglected\nto seize, I don't suppose that with the parable of Vice Versa before us\nwe would really have changed places with them. Would any one ever return\nwillingly to discipline and barrack-life? [Yes--ed.] Would any one under\ndiscipline refuse independence if it were offered him on easy terms? I\ndoubt it!\n\nThen the Bishop went on to talk about educational things; and he said\nwith much emphasis that in spite of all that was said about modern\neducation, we most of us realised as we grew older that all culture was\nreally based upon the Greek and Latin classics. We all stamped on the\nground and cheered at that, I as lustily as the rest, though I am quite\nsure it is not true. All that the Bishop really meant was that such\nculture as he himself possessed had been based on the classics. Now the\nBishop is a robust, genial, and sensible man, but he is not a strictly\ncultured man. He is only sketchily varnished with culture. He thinks\nthat German literature is nebulous, and French literature immoral.\nI don't suppose he ever reads an English book, except perhaps an\necclesiastical biography; he would say that he had no time to read a\nnovel; probably he glances at the Christian Year on Sundays, and peruses\na Waverley novel if he is kept in bed by a cold. Yet he considers\nhimself, and would be generally considered, a well-educated man. I\nbelieve myself that the reason why we as a nation love good literature\nso little is because we are starved at an impressionable age on a diet\nof classics; and to persist in regarding the classics as the high-water\nmark of the human intellect seems to me to argue a melancholy want\nof faith in the progress of the race. However, for the moment we all\nbelieved ourselves to be men of a high culture, soundly based on the\ncorner-stone of Latin and Greek. Then the Bishop went on to speak of\nathletics with a solemn earnestness, and he said, with deep conviction,\nthat experience had taught him that whatever was worth doing was worth\ndoing well. He did not argue the point as to whether all games were\nworth playing, or whether by filling up all the spare time of boys\nwith them, by crowning successful athletes with glory and worship, by\nengaging masters who will talk with profound seriousness about bowling\nand batting, rowing and football, one might not be developing a\nperfectly false sense of proportion. He told the boys to play games\nwith all their might, and he left on their minds the impression that\nathletics were certainly things to be ranked among the Christian\ngraces. Of course he sincerely believed in them himself. He would have\nmaintained that they developed manliness and vigour, and discouraged\nloafing and uncleanness. I am not at all sure myself that games as at\npresent organised do minister directly to virtue. The popularity of the\nathlete is a dangerous thing if he is not virtuously inclined; while\nthe excessive organisation of games discourages individuality, and\nemphasises a very false standard of success in the minds of many boys.\nBut the Bishop was not invited that he might say unconventional things.\nHe was asked on purpose to bless things as they were, and he blessed\nthem with all his might.\n\nThen he went on to say that the real point after all was character and\nconduct; that intellect was a gift of God, and that conspicuous athletic\ncapacity was a gift--he did not like to say of God, so he said of\nProvidence; but that in one respect we were all equal, and that was in\nour capacity for moral effort; and that the boy who came to the front\nwas not always the distinguished scholar or the famous athlete, but the\nindustrious, trustworthy, kindly, generous, public-spirited boy. This he\nsaid with deep emotion, as though it were rather a daring and unexpected\nstatement, but discerned by a vigilant candour; and all this with the\nair that he was testifying faithfully to the true values of life, and\nsweeping aside with a courageous hand the false glow and glamour of\nthe world. We did not like to applaud at this, but we made a subdued\ndrumming with our heels, and uttered a sort of murmurous assent to a\nnoble and far from obvious proposition.\n\nBut here again I felt that the thing was somehow not quite as\nhigh-minded as it seemed. The goal designated was, after all, the goal\nof success. It was not suggested that the unrewarded and self-denying\nlife was perhaps the noblest. The point was to come to the front\nsomehow, and it was only indicating a sort of waiting game for the boys\nwho were conscious neither of intellectual nor athletic capacity. It was\na sort of false socialism, this pretence of moral equality, a kind of\nconsolation prize that was thus emphasised. And I felt that here again\nthe assumption was an untrue one. That is the worst of life, if one\nexamines it closely, that it is by no means wholly run on moral lines.\nIt is strength that is rewarded, rather than good desires. The Bishop\nseemed to have forgotten the ancient maxim that prosperity is the\nblessing of the Old Testament, and affliction the blessing of the\nNew. These qualities that were going to produce ultimate\nsuccess--conscientiousness, generosity, modesty, public spirit--they\nare, after all, as much gifts as any other gifts of intellect and bodily\nskill. How often has one seen boys who are immodest, idle, frivolous,\nmean-spirited, and ungenerous attain to the opposite virtues? Not often,\nI confess. Who does not know of abundant instances of boys who have\nbeen selfish, worthless, grasping, unprincipled, who have yet achieved\nsuccess intellectually and athletically, and have also done well for\nthemselves, amassed money, and obtained positions for themselves in\nafter life. Looking back on my own school days, I cannot honestly say\nthat the prizes of life have fallen to the pure-minded, affectionate,\nhigh-principled boys. The boys I remember who have achieved conspicuous\nsuccess in the world have been hard-hearted, prudent, honourable\ncharacters with a certain superficial bonhomie, who by a natural\ninstinct did the things that paid. Stripped of its rhetoric, the\nBishop's address resolved itself into a panegyric of success, and\nthe morality of it was that if you could not achieve intellectual\nand athletic prominence, you might get a certain degree of credit by\nunostentatious virtue. What I felt was that somehow the goal proposed\nwas--dare I hint it?--a vulgar one; that it was a glorification of\nprudence and good-humoured self-interest; and yet if the Bishop had\npreached the gospel of disinterestedness and quiet faithfulness and\ndevotion, he would have had few enthusiastic hearers. If he had said\nthat an awkward and surly manner, no matter what virtues it concealed,\nwas the greatest bar to ultimate mundane success, it would have been\nquite true, though perhaps not particularly edifying. But what I desired\nwas not startling paradox or cynical comment, but something more really\nmanly, more just, more unconventional, more ardent, more disinterested.\nThe boys were not exhorted to care for beautiful things for the sake of\ntheir beauty; but to care for attractive things for the sake of their\nacceptability.\n\nAnd yet in a way it did us all good to listen to the great man. He was\nso big and kindly and fatherly and ingenuous; he had made virtue pay; I\ndo not suppose he had ever had a low or an impure or a spiteful thought;\nbut his path had been easy from the first; he was a scholar and an\nathlete, and he had never pursued success, for the simple reason that it\nhad fallen from heaven like manna round about his dwelling, with perhaps\na few dozen quails as well! Boys, parents, masters, young and old alike,\nwere assembled that day to worship success, and the Bishop prophesied\ngood concerning them. It entered no one's head that success, in its\nsimplest analysis, means thrusting some one else aside from a place\nwhich he desires to fill. But why on such a day should one think of the\nfeelings of others? we were all bent on virtuously gratifying our own\ndesires. The boys who were left out were the weak and the timid, the\nailing and the erring, the awkward and the unpopular, the clumsy and the\nstupid; they were not bidden to take courage, they were rather bidden\nto envy the unattainable, and to submit with such grace as they could\nmuster. But we pushed all such vague and unsatisfactory thoughts in the\nbackground; we sounded the clarion and filled the fife, and were at case\nin Zion, while we worshipped the great, brave, glittering world.\n\nWhat I desired was that, in the height of our jubilant self-gratulation,\nsome sweet and gracious figure, full of heavenly wisdom, could have\ntwitched the gaudy curtain aside for a moment and shown us other things\nthan these; who could have assured us that we all, however stupid and\ndreary and awkward and indolent, however vexed with low dreams and ugly\ntemptations, yet had our share and place in the rich inheritance of\nlife; and that even if it was to be all a record of dull failure,\ncommonplace sinfulness cheered by no joyful triumph, no friendly\nsmile--yet if we fought the fault and did the dull task faithfully,\nand desired to be but a little better, a little stronger, a little more\nunselfish, that the pilgrimage with all its sandy tracts and terrifying\nspectres would not be traversed in vain; and then I think we might have\nbeen brought together with a sense of sweeter and truer unity, and might\nhave thought of life as a thing to be shared, and joy as a thing to be\nlavished, and not have rather conceived of the world as a place full\nof fine things, of which we were all to gather sedulously as many as we\ncould grasp and retain.\n\nOr even if the good Bishop had taken a simpler line and told the boys\nsome old story, like the story of Polycrates of Samos, I should have\nbeen more comfortable. Polycrates was the tyrant with whom everything\nwent well that he set his hand to, so that to avoid the punishment of\nundue prosperity he threw his great signet-ring into the sea; but when\nhe was served a day or two later with a slice of fish at his banquet,\nthere was the ring sticking in its ribs. The Bishop might have said that\nthis should teach us not to try and seize all the good things we could,\nand that the reason of it was not, as the old Greeks thought, that the\ngods envied the prosperity of mortals, but that our prosperity was often\ndashed very wisely and tenderly from our lips, because one of the worst\nfoes that a man can have, one of the most blinding and bewildering of\nfaults, is the sense of self-sufficiency and security. That would not\nhave spoilt the pleasure of those brisk boys, but would have given them\nsomething wholesome to take away and think about, like the prophet's\nroll that was sweet in the mouth and bitter in the belly.\n\nIt may be thought that I have thus dilated on the Bishop's address for\nthe sole purpose of showing what a much better address I could have\nmade. That is not the case at all. I could not have done the thing at\nall to start with, and, given both the nerve and the presence and the\npractice of the man, I could not have done it a quarter as well, because\nhe was in tune with his audience and I should not have been. That was\nto me part of the tragedy. The Bishop's voice fell heavily and steadily,\nlike a stream of water from a great iron pipe that fills a reservoir.\nThe audience, too, were all in the most elementary mood. Boys of course\nfrankly desire success without any disguise. And parents less frankly\nbut no less hungrily, in an almost tigerish way, desire it for their\nchildren. The intensity of belief felt by a parent in a stupid or even\nvicious boy would be one of the most pathetic things I know, if it were\nnot also one of the primal forces of the world.\n\nAnd thus the tide being high the Bishop went into harbour at the top of\nthe flood. I don't even complain of the nature of the address; it was\nfrankly worldly, such as might have been given by a Sadducee in the\ntime of Christ. But the interesting thing about it was that most of\nthe people present believed it to be an ethical and even a religious\naddress. It was the ethic of a professional bowler and the religion of\na banker. If a boy had been for all intents and purposes a professional\nbowler to the age of twenty-three, and a professional banker afterwards,\nhe would almost exactly have fulfilled the Bishop's ideal. I do not\nthink it is a bad ideal either. I only say that it is not an exalted\nideal, and it is not a Christian ideal. It is the world in disguise,\nthe wolf in sheep's clothing over again. We were taken in. We said to\nourselves, \"This is an animal certainly clothed as a sheep--and we must\nremember the old proverb and be careful.\" But as the Bishop's address\nproceeded, and the fragrant oil fell down to the skirts of our clothing,\nwe said, \"There is certainly a sheep inside.\"\n\nThen a choir of strong, rough, boyish voices sang an old glee or\ntwo--\"Glorious Apollo\" and \"Hail smiling Morn,\" and a school song about\nthe old place that made some of us bite our lips and furtively brush\naway an unexpected and inexplicable moisture from our eyes, at the\nthought of the fine fellows we had ourselves sat side by side with\nthirty and forty years ago, now scattered to all ends of the earth, and\nsome of them gone from the here to the everywhere, as the poet says. And\nthen we adjourned to see the School Corps inspected--such solemn little\nsoldiers, marching past in their serviceable uniforms, the line rising\nand falling with the inequalities of the ground, and bowing out a good\ndeal in the centre, at the very moment that the good-natured old Colonel\nwas careful to look the other way. Then there was a leisurely game\nof cricket, with a lot of very old boys playing with really amazing\nagility; and then I fell in with an old acquaintance, and we strolled\nabout together, and got a friendly master to show us over the\nschoolrooms and one of the houses, and admired the excellent\narrangements, and peeped into some studies crowded with pleasant\nboyish litter, and talked to some of the boys with an attempt at light\njuvenility, and enjoyed ourselves in a thoroughly absurd and leisurely\nfashion. And then I was left alone, and walking about, abandoned myself\nto sentiment pure and simple; it was hard to analyse that feeling which\nwas stirred by the sight of all those fresh-faced boys, flowing like\na stream through the old buildings, and just leaving their own little\nmark, for good or evil, on the place--a painted name on an Honours\nboard, initials cut in desk or panel, a memory or two, how soon to\ngrow dim in the minds of the new generation, who would be so full of\nthemselves and of the present, turning the sweet-scented manuscript of\nyouth with such eager fingers, that they could give but little thought\nto the future and none at all to the past. And then one remembered,\nwith a curious sense of wistful pain, how rapidly the cards of life were\nbeing dealt out to one, and how long it was since one had played the\ncard of youth so heedlessly and joyfully away; that at least could not\nreturn. And then there came the thought of all the hope and love that\ncentred upon these children, and all the possibilities which lay before\nthem. And I began to think of my own contemporaries and of how little\non the whole they had done; it was not fair perhaps to say that most\nof them had made a mess of their lives, because they were honest,\nhonourable citizens many of them. It was not the poor thing called\nsuccess that I was thinking of, but a sort of high-hearted and generous\ndealing with life, making the most of one's faculties and qualities,\ndiffusing a glow of love and enthusiasm and brave zest about one--how\nfew of us had done that! We had grown indolent and money-loving and\ncommonplace. Some of those we looked to to redeem and glorify the world\nhad failed most miserably, through unchecked faults of temperament. Some\nhad declined with a sort of unambitious comfort, some had fallen\ninto the trough of Toryism, and spent their time in holding fast to\nconventional and established things; one or two had flown like Icarus so\nnear the sun that their waxen wings had failed them; and yet some of us\nhad missed greatness by so little. Was it to be always so? Was it always\nto be a battle against hopeless odds? Was defeat, earlier or later,\ninevitable? The tamest defeat of all was to lapse smoothly into easy\nconventional ways, to adopt the standards of the world, and rake\ntogether contentedly and seriously the straws and dirt of the street.\nIf that was to be the destiny of most, why were we haunted in youth with\nthe sight of that cloudy, gleaming crown within our reach, that sense\nof romance, that phantom of nobleness? What was the significance of the\naspirations that made the heart beat high on fresh sunlit mornings,\nthe dim and beautiful hopes that came beckoning as we looked from our\nwindows in a sunset hour, with the sky flushing red behind the old\ntowers, the sense of illimitable power, of stainless honour, that came\nso bravely, when the organ bore the voices aloft in the lighted chapel\nat evensong? Was all that not a real inspiration at all, but a mere\naccident of boyish vigour? No, it was not a delusion--that was life as\nit was meant to be lived, and the best victory was to keep that hope\nalive in the heart amid a hundred failures, a thousand cares.\n\nAs I walked thus full of fancies, the boys singly or in groups kept\npassing me, smiling, full of delighted excitement and chatter, all\nintent on themselves and their companions. I heard scraps of their\ntalk, inconsequent names, accompanied with downright praise or blame,\nunintelligible exploits, happy nonsense. How odd it is to note that when\nwe Anglo-Saxons are at our happiest and most cheerful, we expend so much\nof our steam in frank derision of each other! Yet though I can hardly\nremember a single conversation of my school days, the thought of\nmy friendships and alliances is all gilt with a sense of delightful\neagerness. Now that I am a writer of books, it matters even more how I\nsay a thing than what I say. But then it was the other way. It was what\nwe felt that mattered, and talk was but the sparkling outflow of trivial\nthought. What heroes we made of sturdy, unemphatic boys, how we repeated\neach other's jokes, what merciless critics we were of each other, how\nlittle allowance we made for weakness or oddity, how easily we condoned\nall faults in one who was good-humoured and strong! How the little web\nof intrigue and gossip, of likes and dislikes, wove and unwove\nitself! What hopeless Tories we were! How we stood upon our rights and\nprivileges! I have few illusions as to the innocence or the justice\nor the generosity of boyhood; what boys really admire are grace and\neffectiveness and readiness. And yet, looking back, one has parted\nwith something, a sort of zest and intensity that one would fain\nhave retained. I felt that I would have given much to be able to have\ncommunicated a few of the hard lessons of experience that I have learnt\nby my errors and mistakes, to these jolly youngsters; but there again\ncomes in the pathos of boyhood, that one can make no one a present of\nexperience, and that virtue cannot be communicated, or it ceases to be\nvirtue. They were bound, all those ingenuous creatures, to make their\nown blunders, and one could not save them a single one, for all one's\nhankering to help. That is of course the secret, that we are here for\nthe sake of experience, and not for the sake of easy happiness. Yet one\nwould keep the hearts of these boys pure and untarnished and strong, if\none could, though even as one walked among them one could see faces on\nwhich temptation and sin had already written itself in legible signs.\n\nThe cricket drew to an end; the shadows began to lengthen on the turf.\nThe mimic warriors were disbanded. The tea-tables made their appearance\nunder the elms, where one was welcomed and waited upon by cheerful\nmatrons and neat maidservants, and delightfully zealous and inefficient\nboys. One had but to express a preference to have half-a-dozen\nplates pressed upon one by smiling Ganymedes. If schools cannot alter\ncharacter, they certainly can communicate to our cheerful English boys\nthe most delightful manners in the world, so unembarrassed,\ncourteous, easy, graceful, without the least touch of exaggeration or\nself-consciousness. I suppose one has insular prejudices, for we are\ncertainly not looked upon as models of courtesy or consideration by our\nContinental neighbours. I suppose we reserve our best for ourselves.\nI expressed a wish to look at some of the new buildings, and a young\ngentleman of prepossessing exterior became my unaffected cicerone. He\nwas not one who dealt in adjectives; his highest epithet of praise was\n\"pretty decent,\" but one detected an honest and unquestioning pride in\nthe place for all that.\n\nPerhaps the best point of all about these schools of ours, is that the\naspect of the place and the tone of the dwellers in it does not vary\nappreciably on days of festival and on working days. The beauty of it is\na little focused and smartened, but that is all. There is no covering up\nof deficiencies or hiding desolation out of sight. If one goes down to\na public-school on an ordinary day, one finds the same brave life, the\nsame unembarrassed courtesy prevailing. There is no sense of being taken\nby surprise; the life is all open to inspection on any day and at any\nhour. We do not reserve ourselves for occasions in England. The meat\ncuts wholesomely and pleasantly wherever it is sampled.\n\nThe disadvantage of this is that we are misjudged by foreigners because\nwe are seen, not at our best, but as we are. We do not feel the need of\nrecommending ourselves to the favourable consideration of others;\nnot that that is a virtue, it is rather the shadow of complacency and\npatriotism.\n\nBut at last a feeling begins to arise in the minds both of hosts\nand guests that the play is played out for the day, that the little\nfestivity is over. On the part of our hosts that feeling manifests\nitself in a tendency to press departing guests to stay a little longer.\nAn old acquaintance of mine, a shy man, once gave a large garden-party\nand had a band to play. He did his best for a time and times and\nhalf-a-time; but at last he began to feel that the strain was becoming\nintolerable. With desperate ingenuity he sought out the band-master,\ntold him to leave out the rest of the programme, and play \"God Save the\nKing,\"--the result being a furious exodus of his guests. Today no such\ndevice is needed. We melt away, leaving our kind entertainers to the\npleasant weariness that comes of sustained geniality, and to the sense\nthat three hundred and sixty-four days have to elapse before the next\nsimilar festival.\n\nAnd, for myself, I carry away with me a gracious memory of a day\nthrilled by a variety of conflicting and profound emotions; and if I\nfeel that perhaps life would be both easier and simpler, if we could\nthrow off a little more of our conventional panoply of thought, could\nface our problems with a little more candour and directness, yet I\nhave had a glimpse of a community living an eager, full, vigorous life,\nguarded by sufficient discipline to keep the members of it wholesomely\nand honourably obedient, and yet conceding as much personal liberty of\nthought and action as the general interest of the body can admit. I have\nseen a place full of high possibilities and hopes, bestowing a treasure\nof bright memories of work, of play, of friendship, upon the majority of\nits members, and upholding a Spartan ideal of personal subordination to\nthe common weal, an ideal not enforced by law so much as sustained by\nhonour, an institution which, if it does not encourage originality, is\nyet a sound reflection of national tendencies, and one in which the\nmen who work it devote themselves unaffectedly and ungrudgingly to\nthe interests of the place, without sentiment perhaps, but without\nostentation or priggishness. A place indeed to which one would wish\nperhaps to add a certain intellectual stimulus, a mental liberty, yet\nfrom which there is little that one would desire to take away. For if\none would like to see our schools strengthened, amplified and expanded,\nyet one would wish the process to continue on the existing lines, and\nnot on a different method. So, in our zeal for cultivating the further\nhope, let us who would fain see a purer standard of morals, a more\nvigorous intellectual life prevail in our schools, not overlook the\nmarvellous progress that is daily and hourly being made, and keep the\ntaint of fretful ingratitude out of our designs; and meanwhile let\nus, in the spirit of the old Psalm, wish Jerusalem prosperity \"for our\nbrethren and companions' sakes.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIII. LITERARY FINISH\n\n\nI had two literary men staying with me a week ago, both of them\naccomplished writers, and interested in their art, not professionally\nand technically only, but ardently and enthusiastically. I here label\nthem respectively Musgrave and Herries. Musgrave is a veteran writer,\na man of fifty, who makes a considerable income by writing, and\nhas succeeded in many departments--biography, criticism, poetry,\nessay-writing; he lacks, however, the creative and imaginative gift; his\nobservation is acute, and his humour considerable; but he cannot infer\nand deduce; he cannot carry a situation further than he can see it.\nHerries on the other hand is a much younger man, with an interest in\nhuman beings that is emotional rather than spectacular; while Musgrave\nis interested mainly in the present, Herries lives in the past or the\nfuture. Musgrave sees what people do and how they behave, while Herries\nis for ever thinking how they must have behaved to produce their\npresent conditions, or how they would be likely to act under different\nconditions. Musgrave's one object is to discover what he calls the\ntruth; Herries thrives and battens upon illusions. Musgrave is fond\nof the details of life, loves food and drink, conviviality and social\nengagements, new people and unfamiliar places--Herries is quite\nindifferent to the garniture of life, lives in great personal\ndiscomfort, dislikes mixed assemblies and chatter, and has a fastidious\ndislike of the present, whatever it is, from a sense that possibilities\nare so much richer than performances. Musgrave admits that he has been\nmore successful as a writer than he deserves; Herries is likely, I\nthink, to disappoint the hopes of his friends, and will not do justice\nto his extraordinary gifts, from a certain dreaminess and lack of\nvitality. Musgrave loves the act of writing, and is always full to the\nbrim of matter. Herries dislikes composition, and is yet drawn to it by\na sense of fearful responsibility. Neither have, fortunately, the least\nartistic jealousy. Herries regards a man like Musgrave with a sort of\nincredulous stupefaction, as a stream of inexplicable volume. Herries\nhas to Musgrave all the interest of a very delicate and beautiful type,\nwhose fastidiousness he can almost envy. As a rule, literary men will\nnot discuss their art among themselves; they have generally arrived at\na sort of method of their own, which may not be ideal, but which is the\nbest practical solution for themselves, and they would rather not be\ndisquieted about it; literary talk, too, tends to partake of the\nnature of shop, and busy men, as a rule, like to talk the shop of their\nrecreations rather than the shop of their employment. But Musgrave will\ndiscuss anything; and as for Herries, writing is not an occupation, so\nmuch as a divine vocation which he regards with a holy awe.\n\nThe discussion began at dinner, and I was amused to see how it affected\nthe two men. Musgrave, by an incredible mental agility, contrived to\ncontinue to take a critical interest in the meal and the argument at\nthe same time; Herries thrust away an unfinished plate, refused what\nwas offered to him, pushed his glasses about as if they were\nchessmen, filled the nearest with water at intervals--he is a rigid\nteetotaller--and drank out of them alternately with an abstracted air.\n\nThe point was the question of literary finish, and the degree to which\nit can or ought to be practised. Herries is of the school of Flaubert,\nand holds that there may be several ways of saying a thing, but only one\nbest way, and that it is alike the duty and the goal of the writer to\nfind that way. This he enunciated with some firmness.\n\n\"No,\" said Musgrave, \"I think that is only a theory, and breaks down, as\nall theories do, when it is put in practice: look at all the really big\nwriters: look at Shakespeare--to me his work gives the impression of\nbeing both hasty and uncorrected. If he says a thing in one way, and\nwhile he is doing it thinks of a more telling form of expression, he\ndoesn't erase the first statement; he merely says it over again more\neffectively. He is full of lapses and inappropriate passages--and it is\nthat very thing which gives him such an air of reality.\"\n\n\"Well, there is a good deal in that,\" said Herries, \"but I do not see\nhow you are going to prove that it is not deliberate. Shakespeare wrote\nlike that in his plays, breathlessly and eagerly, because that was the\naim he had in view; if he makes one of his people say a thing tamely,\nand then more pointedly, it is because it is exactly what people do in\nreal life, and Shakespeare was thinking with their mind for the time\nbeing. He is behind the person he has made, moving his arms, looking\nthrough his eyes, breathing through his mouth; and just as life itself\nis hurried and inconsequent, so the perfection of art is, not to be\nhurried and inconsequent, but to give one the impression of being so. I\ndon't believe he left his work uncorrected out of mere impatience. Look\nat the way he wrote when he was writing in a different manner--look at\nthe Sonnets, for instance--there is plenty of calculated art there!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"there is art there, but I don't think it is very\ndeliberate art. I don't believe they were written SLOWLY. Of course\none can hardly be breathless in a sonnet. The rhymes are all stretched\nacross the ground, like wires, and one has to pick one's way among\nthem.\"\n\n\"Well, take another instance,\" said Musgrave. \"Look at Scott. He speaks\nhimself of his 'hurried frankness of execution.' His proof-sheets are\nthe most extraordinary things, full of impossible sentences, lapses\nof grammar, and so forth. He did not do much correcting himself, but I\nbelieve I am right in saying that his publishers did, and spent hours in\nreducing the chaos to order.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course I don't deny,\" said Herries, \"that volume and vitality\nare what matters most. Scott's imagination was at once prodigious and\nprofound. He seems to me to have said to his creations, 'Let the young\nmen now arise and play before us.' But I don't think his art was the\nbetter for his carelessness. Great and noble as the result was, I think\nit would have been greater if he had taken more pains. Of course\none regards men of genius like Scott and Shakespeare with a kind of\nterror--one can forgive them anything; but it is because they do by a\nsort of prodigal instinct what most people have to do by painful\neffort. If one's imagination has the poignant rightness of Scott's or\nShakespeare's, one's hurried work is better than most people's finished\nwork. But people of lesser force and power, if they get their stitches\nwrong, have to unpick them and do it all over again. Sometimes I have\nan uneasy sense, when I am writing, that my characters are feeling as if\ntheir clothes do not fit. Then they have to be undressed, so to speak,\nthat one may see where the garments gall them. Now, take a book like\nMadame Bovary, painfully and laboriously constructed--it seems obvious\nenough, yet the more one reads it the more one becomes aware how every\nstroke and detail tell. What almost appals me about that book is the way\nin which the end is foreseen in the beginning, the way in which Flaubert\nseems to have carried the whole thing in his head all the time, to have\nknown exactly where he was going and how fast he was going.\"\n\n\"That is perfectly true,\" I said. \"But take an instance of another of\nFlaubert's books, Bouvard et Pecuchet, where the same method is pursued\nwith what I can only call deplorable results. Every detail is perfect of\nits kind. The two grotesque creatures take up one pursuit after another,\nagriculture, education, antiquities, horticulture, distilling perfumes,\nmaking jam. In each they make exactly the absurd mistakes that such\npeople would have made; but one loses all sense of reality, because one\nfeels that they would not have taken up so many things; it is only a\ncollection of typical absurdities. Given the men and the particular\npursuit, it is all natural enough, but one wearies of the same process\nbeing applied an impossible number of times, just as Flaubert was often\nso intolerable in real life, because he ran a joke to death, and never\nknew when to put it down. The result in Bouvard et Pecuchet is a lack of\nproportion and subordination. It is like one of the early Pre-Raphaelite\npictures, in which every detail is painted with minute perfection. It\nwas all there, no doubt, and it was all exactly like that; but that is\nnot how the human eye apprehends a scene. The human mind takes a central\npoint, and groups the accessories round it. In art, I think everything\ndepends upon centralisation. Two lovers part, and the birds' faint chirp\nfrom the leafless tree, the smouldering rim of the sunset over misty\nfields, are true and symbolical parts of the scene; but if you deal in\nbotany and ornithology and meteorology at such a moment, you cloud and\ndim the central point--you digress when you ought only to emphasise.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Herries with a sigh, \"that is all right enough--it all\ndepends upon proportion; and the worst of all these discussions on\npoints of art is that each person has to find his own standard--one\ncan't accept other people's standards. To me Bouvard et Pecuchet is\na piece of almost flawless art--it is there--it lives and breathes. I\ndon't like it all, of course, but I don't doubt that it happened so.\nThere must be an absolute rightness behind all supreme writing. Art must\nhave laws as real and immutable and elaborate as those of science and\nmetaphysics and religion--that is the central article of my creed.\"\n\n\"But the worst of that theory is,\" I said, \"that one lays down canons\nof taste, which are very neat and pretty; and then there comes some\nnew writer of genius, knocks all the old canons into fragments, and\nestablishes a new law. Canons of art seem to me sometimes nothing more\nthan classifications of the way that genius works. I find it very hard\nto believe that there is a pattern, so to speak, for the snuffers and\nthe candlesticks, revealed to Moses in the mount. It was Moses' idea of\na pair of snuffers, when all is said.\"\n\n\"I entirely agree,\" said Musgrave; \"the only ultimate basis of all\ncriticism is, 'I like it because I like it'--and the connoisseurs of any\nage are merely the people who have the faculty of agreeing, I won't say\nwith the majority, but with the majority of competent critics.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Herries, raising his mournful eyes to Musgrave's face,\n\"don't talk like that! You take my faith away from me. Surely there must\nbe some central canon of morality in art, just as there is in ethics.\nFor instance, in ethics, is it conceivable that cruelty might become\nright, if only enough people thought it was right? Is there no absolute\nprinciple at all? In art, what about the great pictures and the great\npoems, which have approved themselves to the best minds in generation\nafter generation? Their rightness and their beauty are only attested by\ncritics, they are surely not created by them? My view is that there\nis an absolute law of beauty, and that we grow nearer to it by slow\ndegrees. Sometimes, as with the Greeks, people got very near to it\nindeed. Is it conceivable, for instance, that men could ever come to\nregard the Venus of Milo as ugly?\"\n\n\"Why yes,\" said Musgrave, laughing, \"I suppose that if humanity\ndeveloped on different lines, and a new type of beauty became desirable,\nwe might come to look upon the Venus of Milo as a barbarous and savage\nkind of object, a dreadful parody of what we had become, like a female\nchimpanzee. To a male chimpanzee, the wrinkled brow, the long upper lip,\nthe deeply indented lines from nose to mouth, of a female chimpanzee in\nthe prime of adolescence, is, I suppose, almost intolerably dazzling and\nadorable--beauty can only be a relative thing, when all is said.\"\n\n\"We are drifting away from our point,\" I said. \"The question really is\nwhether, as art expands, the principles become fewer or more numerous.\nMy own belief is that the principles do become fewer, but the varieties\nof expression more numerous. Keats tried to sum it up by saying, 'Beauty\nis Truth, Truth Beauty'; but it is not a successful maxim, because, as a\npeevish philosopher said, 'Why in that case have two words for the same\nthing?'\"\n\n\"But it is true, in a sense, for all that,\" said Herries. \"What we HAVE\nlearnt is that the subject is of very little importance in art--it is\nthe expression that matters. Genre pictures, plots of novels, incidents\nof plays--they are all rather elementary things. Flaubert looked forward\nto a time in art when there should be no subjects at all, when art\nshould aspire to the condition of music, and express the intangible.\"\n\n\"I confess,\" said Musgrave, laughing, \"that that statement conveys\nnothing to me. A painter, on that line, would depict nothing, but simply\nproduce a sort of harmony of colour. A picture would become simply\na texture of colour-vibrations. My own view is rather that it is a\nquestion of accurate observation, followed by an extreme delicacy and\nsuggestiveness of expression. Some people would say that it was all a\nquestion of reality; and that the point is that the writer shall suggest\na reality to his reader, even though the picture he evoked in the\nreader's mind was not the same as the picture in his own mind--but that\nis to me pure symbolism.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Herries, \"and the more symbolical that art becomes, the\npurer it becomes--that is precisely what I am aiming at.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"that gives me an opportunity of making a confession.\nI have never really been able to understand what technical symbolism\nin art is. A symbol in the plain sense is something which recalls\nor suggests to you something else; and thus the whole of art is pure\nsymbolism. The flick of colour gives you a distant woodland, the phrase\ngives you a scene or an emotion. Five printed words upon a page make one\nsuffer or rejoice imaginatively; and my idea of the most perfect art is\nnot the art which gives one a sense of laborious finish, but the art\nin which you never think of the finish at all, but only of the thing\ndescribed. The end of effort is to conceal effort, as the old adage\nsays. Some people, I suppose, attain it through a series of misses; but\nthe best art of all goes straight to the heart of the thing.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Musgrave, \"my own feeling is that the mistake is to consider\nit can only be done in one way. Each person has his own way; but I agree\nin thinking that the best art is the most effortless.\"\n\n\"From the point of view of the onlooker, perhaps,\" said Herries, \"but\nnot from the point of view of the craftsman. The pleasure of art, for\nthe craftsman, is to see what the difficulty was, and to discern how the\nartist triumphed over it. Think of the delightful individual roughness\nof old work as opposed to modern machine-made things. There is an\nappropriate irregularity, according to the medium employed. The\nworkmanship of a gem is not the same as that of a building; the essence\nof the gem is to be flawless; but in the building there is a pleasure in\nthe tool-dints, like the pleasure of the rake-marks on the gravel\npath. Of course music must be flawless too--firm, resolute, inevitable,\nbecause the medium demands it; but in a big picture--why, the other day\nI saw a great oil-painting, a noble piece of art--I came upon it in\nthe Academy, by a side door close upon it. The background was a great\ntangled mass of raw crude smears, more like coloured rags patched\ntogether than paint; but a few paces off, the whole melted into a great\nriver-valley, with deep water-meadows of summer grass and big clumps\nof trees. That is the perfect combination. The man knew exactly what he\nwanted--he got his effect--the structure was complete, and yet there\nwas the added pleasure of seeing how he achieved it. That is the kind of\nfinish I desire.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" said Musgrave, \"we should all agree about that; but my\nfeeling would be that the way to do it is for the artist to fill himself\nto the brim with the subject, and to let it burst out. I do not at all\nbelieve in the painful pinching and pulling together of a particular bit\nof work. That sort of process is excellent practice, but it seems to me\nlike the receipt in one of Edwin Lear's Nonsense Books for making some\nnoisome dish, into which all sorts of ingredients of a loathsome kind\nwere to be put; and the directions end with the words: 'Serve up in a\ncloth, and throw all out of the window as soon as possible.' It is an\nexcellent thing to take all the trouble, if you throw it away when it is\ndone; you will do your next piece of real work all the better; but for\na piece of work to have the best kind of vitality, it must flow, I\nbelieve, easily and sweetly from the teeming mind. Take such a book as\nNewman's Apologia, written in a few weeks, a piece of perfect art--but\nthen it was written in tears.\"\n\n\"But on the other hand,\" said I, \"look at Ariosto's Orlando; it took ten\nyears to write and sixteen more to correct--and there is not a forced or\na languid line in the whole of it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Musgrave, \"it is true, of course, that people must do things\nin their own way. But, on the whole, the best work is done in speed\nand glow, and derives from that swift handling a unity, a curve,\nthat nothing else can give. What matters is to have a clear sense\nof structure, and that, at all events, cannot be secured by poky and\nfretful treatment. That is where intellectual grasp comes in. But, even\nso, it all depends upon what one likes, and I confess that I like large\nhandling better than perfection of detail.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" I said, \"that we really all agree. We all believe in\nlargeness and vitality as the essential qualities. But in the lesser\nkinds of art there is a delicacy and a perfection which are appropriate.\nAn attention to minutiae which the graving of a gem or the making of a\nsonnet demands is out of place in a cathedral or an epic. We none of us\nwould approve of hasty, slovenly, clumsy work anywhere; all that is to\nbe demanded is that such irregularity as can be detected should not be\ninappropriate irregularity. What we disagree about is only the precise\namount of finish which is appropriate to the particular work. Musgrave\nwould hold, in the case of Flaubert, that he was, in his novels, trying\nto give to the cathedral the finish of the gem, and polishing a colossal\nstatue as though it were a tiny statuette.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Herries mournfully, \"I suppose that is right; though when\nI read of Flaubert spending hours of torture in the search for a single\nepithet, I do not feel that the sacrifice was made in vain if only the\nresult was achieved.\"\n\n\"But I,\" said Musgrave, \"grudge the time so spent. I would rather have\nmore less-finished work than little exquisite work--though I suppose\nthat we shall come to the latter sometime, when the treasures of art\nhave accumulated even more hopelessly than now, and when nothing but\nperfect work will have a chance of recognition. Then perhaps a man\nwill spend thirty years in writing a short story, and twenty more in\npolishing it! But at present there is much that is unsaid which may\nwell be said, and I confess that I do not hanker after this careful and\ntroubled work. It reminds me of the terrible story of the Chinaman who\nspent fifty years in painting a vase which cracked in the furnace. It\nseems to me like the worst kind of waste.\"\n\n\"And I, on the other hand,\" said Herries gravely, \"think that such a\nlife is almost as noble a one as I can well conceive.\"\n\nHis words sounded to me like a kind of pontifical blessing pronounced\nat the end of a liturgical service; and, dinner now being over, we\nadjourned to the library. Then Musgrave entertained us with an\naccount of a squabble he had lately had with a certain editor, who had\ncommissioned him to write a set of papers on literary subjects, and then\nhad objected to his treatment. Musgrave had trailed his coat before\nthe unhappy man, laid traps for him by dint of asking him ingenuous\nquestions, had written an article elaborately constructed to parody\nderisively the editor's point of view, had meekly submitted it as one\nof the series, and then, when the harried wretch again objected, had\nconfronted him with illustrative extracts from his own letters. It was a\nmirthful if not a wholly good-natured performance. Herries had listened\nwith ill-concealed disgust, and excused himself at the end of the\nrecital on the plea of work.\n\nAs the door closed behind him, Musgrave said with a wink, \"I am afraid\nmy story has rather disgusted our young transcendentalist. He has no\npleasure in a wholesome row; he thinks the whole thing vulgar--and I\nbelieve he is probably right; but I can't live on his level, though I am\nsure it is very fine and all that.\"\n\n\"But what do you really think of his work?\" I said. \"It is very\npromising, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Musgrave reflectively, \"that is just what it is--he has got\na really fine literary gift; but he is too uncompromising. Idealism in\nart is a deuced fine thing, and every now and then there comes a man\nwho can keep it up, and can afford to do so. But what Herries does\nnot understand is that there are two sides to art--the theory and the\npractice. It is just the same with a lot of things--education, for\ninstance, and religion. But the danger is that the theorists become\npedantic. They get entirely absorbed in questions of form, and the plain\ntruth is that however good your form is, you have got to get hold of\nyour matter too. The point after all is the application of art to life,\nand you have got to condescend. Things of which the ultimate end is to\naffect human beings must take human beings into account. If you aim at\nappealing only to other craftsmen, it becomes an erudite business: you\nbecome like a carpenter who makes things which are of no use except to\nwin the admiration of other carpenters. Of course it may be worth doing\nif you are content with indicating a treatment which other people can\napply and popularise. But if you isolate art into a theory which has no\napplication to life, you are a savant and not an artist. You can't be\nan artist without being a man, and therefore I hold that humanity comes\nfirst. I don't mean that one need be vulgar. Of course I am a mere\nprofessional, and my primary aim is to earn an honest livelihood.\nI frankly confess that I don't pose, even to myself, as a public\nbenefactor. But Herries does not care either about an income, or about\ntouching other people. Of course I should like to raise the standard.\nI should like to see ordinary people capable of perceiving what is good\nart, and not so wholly at the mercy of conventional and melodramatic\nart. But Herries does not care twopence about that. He is like the\nCalvinist who is sure of his own salvation, has his doubts about the\nminister, and thinks every one else irreparably damned. As I say, it is\na lofty sort of ideal, but it is not a good sign when that sort of thing\nbegins. The best art of the world--let us say Homer, Virgil, Dante,\nShakespeare--was contributed by people who probably did not think about\nit as art at all. Fancy Homer going in for questions of form! It is\nalways, I believe, a sign of decadence when formalism begins. It is just\nlike religion, which starts with a teacher who has an overwhelming sense\nof the beauty of holiness; and then that degenerates into theology.\nThese young men are to art what the theologians are to religion.\nThey lose sight of the object of the whole thing in codification and\ndefinition. My own idea of a great artist is a man who finds beauty so\nhopelessly attractive and desirable that he can't restrain his speech.\nIt all has to come out; he cannot hold his peace. And then a number of\npeople begin to see that it was what they had been vaguely admiring and\ndesiring all the time; and then a few highly intellectual people think\nthat they can analyse it, and produce the same effects by applying their\nanalysis. It can't be done so; art must have a life of its own.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I think you are right. Herries is ascetic and\neremitical--a beautiful thing in many ways; but there is no transmission\nof life in such art; it is a sterile thing after all, a seedless\nflower.\"\n\n\"Let us express the vulgar hope,\" said Musgrave, \"that he may fall in\nlove; that will bring him to his moorings! And now,\" he added, \"we will\ngo to the music-room and I will see if I cannot tempt the shy bird from\nhis roost.\" And so we did--Musgrave is an excellent musician. We flung\nthe windows open; he embarked upon a great Bach \"Toccata\"; and before\nmany bars were over, our idealist crept softly into the room, with an\nair of apologetic forgiveness.\n\n\n\n\nXIV. A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM\n\n\nI suppose that every one knows by experience how certain days in one's\nlife have a power of standing out in the memory, even in a tract of\npleasant days, all lit by a particular brightness of joy. One does not\nalways know at the time that the day is going to be so crowned; but the\nweeks pass on, and the one little space of sunlight, between dawn and\neve, has orbed itself\n\n\n           \"into the perfect star\n     We saw not, when we moved therein.\"\n\n\nThe thing that in my own case most tends to produce this \"grace\nof congruity,\" as the schoolmen say, is the presence of the right\ncompanion, and it is no less important that he should be in the right\nmood. Sometimes the right companion is tiresome when he should be\ngracious, or boisterous when he should be quiet; but when he is in the\nright mood, he is like a familiar and sympathetic guide on a mountain\npeak. He helps one at the right point; his desire to push on or to stop\ncoincides with one's own; he is not a hired assistant, but a brotherly\ncomrade. On the day that I am thinking of I had just such a companion.\nHe was cheerful, accessible, good-humoured. He followed when I wanted\nto lead, he led when I was glad to follow. He was not ashamed of\nbeing unaffectedly emotional, and he was not vaporous or quixotically\nsentimental. He did not want to argue, or to hunt an idea to death; and\nwe had the supreme delight of long silences, during which our thoughts\nled us to the same point, the truest test that there is some subtle\nelectrical affinity at work, moving viewlessly between heart and brain.\n\nWhat no doubt heightened the pleasure for me was that I had been passing\nthrough a somewhat dreary period. Things had been going wrong, had tied\nthemselves into knots. Several people whose fortunes had been bound\nup with my own had been acting perversely and unreasonably--at least I\nchose to think so. My own work had come to a standstill. I had pushed\non perhaps too fast, and I had got into a bare sort of moorland tract of\nlife, and could not discern the path in the heather. There did not\nseem any particular task for me to undertake; the people whom it was\nmy business to help, if I could, seemed unaccountably and aggravatingly\nprosperous and independent. Not only did no one seem to want my opinion,\nbut I did not feel that I had any opinions worth delivering. Who\ndoes not know the frame of mind? When life seems rather an objectless\nbusiness, and one is tempted just to let things slide; when energy\nis depleted, and the springs of hope are low; when one feels like\nthe family in one of Mrs. Walford's books, who all go out to dinner\ntogether, and of whom the only fact that is related is that \"nobody\nwanted them.\" So fared it with my soul.\n\nBut that morning, somehow, the delicious sense had returned, of its own\naccord, of a beautiful quality in common things. I had sought it in vain\nfor weeks; it had behaved as a cat behaves, the perverse, soft, pretty,\nindifferent creature. It had stared blankly at my beckoning hand; it had\ngambolled away into the bushes when I strove to capture it, and looked\nout at me when I desisted with innocent grey eyes; and now it had\nsuddenly returned uncalled, to caress me as though I had been a\nlong-lost friend, diligently and anxiously sought for in vain. That\nmorning the very scent of breakfast being prepared came to my nostrils\nlike the smoke of a sacrifice in my honour; the shape and hue of the\nflowers were full of gracious mystery; the green pasture seemed a\nplace where a middle-aged man might almost venture to dance. The sharp\nchirping of the birds in the shrubbery seemed a concert arranged for my\near. We were soon astir. Like Wordsworth we said that this one day\nwe would give to idleness, though the profane might ask to what that\nleisurely poet consecrated the rest of his days.\n\nWe found ourselves deposited, by a brisk train--the very stoker seemed\nto be engaged in the joyful conspiracy--at the little town of St. Ives.\nI should like to expatiate upon the charms of St. Ives, its clear,\nbroad, rush-fringed river, its quaint brick houses, with their little\nwharf-gardens, where the trailing nasturtium mirrors itself in the slow\nflood, its embayed bridge, with the ancient chapel buttressed over the\nstream--but I must hold my hand; I must not linger over the beauties of\nthe City of Destruction, which I have every reason to believe was a very\npicturesque place, when our hearts were set on pilgrimage. Suffice it\nto say that we walked along a pretty riverside causeway, under enlacing\nlimes, past the fine church, under the hanging woods of Houghton\nHill--and here we found a mill, a big, timbered place, with a tiled\nroof, odd galleries and projecting pent-houses, all pleasantly dusted\nwith flour, where a great wheel turned dripping in a fern-clad cavern\nof its own, with the scent of the weedy river-water blown back from\nthe plunging leat. Oh, the joyful place of streams! River and leat and\nback-water here ran clear among willow-clad islands, all fringed deep\nwith meadow-sweet and comfrey and butterbur and melilot. The sun shone\noverhead among big, white, racing clouds; the fish poised in mysterious\npools among trailing water-weeds; and there was soon no room in my heart\nfor anything but the joy of earth and the beauty of it. What did the\nweary days before and behind matter? What did casuistry and determinism\nand fate and the purpose of life concern us then, my friend and me? As\nlittle as they concerned the gnats that danced so busily in the golden\nlight, at the corner where the alder dipped her red rootlets to drink\nthe brimming stream.\n\nThere we chartered a boat, and all that hot forenoon rowed lazily on,\nthe oars grunting and dripping, the rudder clicking softly through\navenues of reeds and water-plants, from reach to reach, from pool to\npool. Here we had a glimpse of the wide-watered valley rich in grass,\nhere of silent woods, up-piled in the distance, over which quivered the\nhot summer air. Here a herd of cattle stood knee-deep in the shallow\nwater, lazily twitching their tails and snuffing at the stream. The\nbirds were silent now in the glowing noon; only the reeds shivered and\nbowed. There, beside a lock with its big, battered timbers, the water\npoured green and translucent through a half-shut sluice. Now and then\nthe springs of thought brimmed over in a few quiet words, that came and\npassed like a breaking bubble--but for the most part we were silent,\ncontent to converse with nod or smile. And so we came at last to our\ngoal; a house embowered in leaves, a churchyard beside the water, and\na church that seemed to have almost crept to the brink to see itself\nmirrored in the stream. The place mortals call Hemingford Grey, but\nit had a new name for me that day which I cannot even spell--for the\nperennial difficulty that survives a hundred disenchantments, is to\nfeel that a romantic hamlet seen thus on a day of pilgrimage, with its\nclustering roofs and chimneys, its waterside lawns, is a real place at\nall. I suppose that people there live dull and simple lives enough,\nbuy and sell, gossip and back-bite, wed and die; but for the pilgrim it\nseems an enchanted place, where there can be no care or sorrow, nothing\nhard, or unlovely, or unclean, but a sort of fairy-land, where men seem\nto be living the true and beautiful life of the soul, of which we are\nalways in search, but which seems to be so strangely hidden away. It\nmust have been for me and my friend that the wise and kindly artist\nwho lives there in a paradise of flowers had filled his trellises with\nclimbing roses, and bidden the tall larkspurs raise their azure spires\nin the air. How else had he brought it all to such perfection for that\ngolden hour? Perhaps he did not even guess that he had done it all for\nmy sake, which made it so much more gracious a gift. And then we learned\ntoo from a little red-bound volume which I had thought before was a\nguide-book, but which turned out to-day to be a volume of the Book of\nLife, that the whole place was alive with the calling of old voices. At\nthe little church there across the meadows the portly, tender-hearted,\ngenerous Charles James Fox had wedded his bride. Here, in the pool\nbelow, Cowper's dog had dragged out for him the yellow water-lily that\nhe could not reach; and in the church itself was a little slab where two\ntiny maidens sleep, the sisters of the famous Miss Gunnings, who set\nall hearts ablaze by their beauty, who married dukes and earls, and had\nspent their sweet youth in a little ruined manor-house hard by. I wonder\nwhether after all the two little girls, who died in the time of roses,\nhad not the better part; and whether the great Duchess, who showed\nherself so haughty to poor Boswell, when he led his great dancing Bear\nthrough the grim North, did not think sometimes in her state of the\nchildish sisters with whom she had played, before they came to be laid\nin the cool chancel beside the slow stream.\n\nAnd then we sate down for a little on the churchyard wall, and watched\nthe water-grasses trail and the fish poise. In that sweet corner of the\nchurchyard, at a certain season of the year, grow white violets; they\nhad dropped their blooms long ago; but they were just as much alive as\nwhen they were speaking aloud to the world with scent and colour; I can\nnever think of flowers and trees as not in a sense conscious; I believe\nall life to be conscious of itself, and I am sure that the flowering\ntime is the happy time for flowers as much as it is for artists.\n\nClose to us here was a wall, with a big, solid Georgian house peeping\nover, blinking with its open windows and sun-blinds on to a smooth,\nshaded lawn, full of green glooms and leafy shelters. Why did it all\ngive one such a sense of happiness and peace, even though one had no\nshare in it, even though one knew that one would be treated as a rude\nand illegal intruder if one stepped across and used it as one's own?\n\nThis is a difficult thing to analyse. It all lies in the imagination;\none thinks of a long perspective of sunny afternoons, of leisurely\npeople sitting out in chairs under the big sycamore, reading perhaps,\nor talking quietly, or closing the book to think, the memory re-telling\nsome old and pretty tale; and then perhaps some graceful girl comes out\nof the house with a world of hopes and innocent desires in her wide-open\neyes; or a tall and limber boy saunters out bare-headed and flannelled,\nconscious of life and health, and steps down to the punt that lies\nswinging at its chain--one hears it rattle as it is untied and flung\ninto the prow; and then the dripping pole is plunged and raised, and the\npunt goes gliding away, through zones of glimmering light and shadow,\nto the bathing-pool. All that comes into one's mind; one takes life, and\nsubtracts from it all care and anxiety, all the shadow of failure and\nsuffering, sees it as it might be, and finds it good. That is the first\nelement of the charm. And then there comes into the picture a further\nand more reflective charm, that which Tennyson called the passion of the\npast; the thought that all this beautiful life is slipping away, even\nas it forms itself, that one cannot stay it for an instant, but that the\nshadow creeps across the dial, and the church-clock tells the hours of\nthe waning day. It is a mistake to think that such a sense comes of age\nand experience; it is rather the other way, for never is the regretful\nsense of the fleeting quality of things realised with greater poignancy\nthan when one is young. When one grows older one begins to expect a good\ndeal of dissatisfaction and anxiety to be mingled with it all, one finds\nthe old Horatian maxim becoming true:\n\n\n     \"Vitae summa brevis nos spem vitat inchoare longam,\"\n\n\nand one learns to be grateful for the sunny hour; but when one is young,\none feels so capable of enjoying it all, so impatient of shadow and\nrain, that one cannot bear that the sweet wine of life should be\ndiluted.\n\nThat is, I believe, the analysis of the charm of such a scene; the\npossibility of joy, and permanence, tinged with the pathos that it\nhas no continuance, but rises and falls and fades like a ripple in the\nstream.\n\nThe disillusionment of experience is a very different thing from the\npathos of youth; for in youth the very sense of pathos is in itself an\nadded luxury of joy, giving it a delicate beauty which, if it were not\nso evanescent, it could not possess.\n\nBut then comes the real trouble, the heavy anxiety, the illness, the\nloss; and those things, which looked so romantic in the pages of poets\nand the scenes of story-writers, turn out not to be romantic at all,\nbut frankly and plainly disagreeable and intolerable things. The boy\nwho swept down the shining reaches with long, deft strokes becomes a\nman--money runs short, his children give him anxiety, his wife becomes\nailing and fretful, he has a serious illness; and when after a day of\npain he limps out in the afternoon to the shadow of the old plane-tree,\nhe must be a very wise and tranquil and patient man, if he can still\nfeel to the full the sweet influences of the place, and be still\nabsorbed and comforted by them.\n\nAnd here lies the weakness of the epicurean and artistic attitude, that\nit assorts so ill with the harder and grimmer facts of life. Life has\na habit of twitching away the artistic chair with all its cushions from\nunder one, with a rude suddenness, so that one has, if one is wise, to\nlearn a mental agility and to avoid the temptation of drowsing in the\nland where it is always afternoon. The real attitude is to be able to\nplay a robust and manful part in the world, and yet to be able to banish\nthe thought of the bank-book and the ledger from the mind, and to submit\noneself to the sweet influences of summer and sun.\n\n\n     \"He who of such delights can judge, and spare\n      To interpose them oft is not unwise.\"\n\n\nSo sang the old Puritan poet; and there is a large wisdom in the word\nOFT which I have abundantly envied, being myself an anxious-minded man!\n\nThe solution is BALANCE--not to think that the repose of art is all,\nand yet on the other hand not to believe that life is always jogging\nand hustling one. The way in which one can test one's progress is by\nconsidering whether activities and tiresome engagements are beginning to\nfret one unduly, for if so one is becoming a hedonist; and on the other\nhand by being careful to observe whether one becomes incapable of taking\na holiday; if one becomes bored and restless and hipped in a cessation\nof activities, then one is suffering from the disease of Martha in the\nGospel story; and of the two sisters we may remember that Martha was the\none who incurred a public rebuke.\n\nWhat one has to try to perceive is that life is designed not wholly for\ndiscomfort, or wholly for ease, but that we are here as learners, one\nand all. Sometimes the lesson comes whispering through the leaves of the\nplane-tree, with the scent of violets in the air; sometimes it comes in\nthe words and glances of a happy circle full of eager talk, sometimes\nthrough the pages of a wise book, and sometimes in grim hours, when\none tosses sleepless on one's bed under the pressure of an intolerable\nthought--but in each and every case we do best when we receive the\nlesson as willingly and large-heartedly as we can.\n\nPerhaps, in some of my writings, those who have read them have thought\nthat I have unduly emphasised the brighter, sweeter, more tranquil side\nof life. I have done so deliberately, because I believe that we should\nfollow innocent joy as far as we can. But it is not because I am unaware\nof the other side. I do not think that any of the windings of the dark\nwood of which Dante speaks are unknown to me, and there are few tracts\nof dreariness that I have not trodden reluctantly. I have had physical\nhealth and much seeming prosperity; but to be acutely sensitive to the\npleasures of happiness and peace is generally to be morbidly sensitive\nto the burden of cares. Unhappiness is a subjective thing. As Mrs.\nGummidge so truly said, when she was reminded that other people had\ntheir troubles, \"I feel them more.\" And if I have upheld the duty of\nseeking peace, it has been like a preacher who preaches most urgently\nagainst his own bosom-sins. But I am sure of this, that however\nimpatiently one mourns one's fault and desires to be different, the\nsecret of growth lies in that very sorrow, perhaps in the seeming\nimpotence of that sorrow. What one must desire is to learn the truth,\nhowever much one may shudder at it; and the longer that one persists in\none's illusions, the longer is one's learning-time. Is it not a bitter\ncomfort to know that the truth is there, and that what we believe or do\nnot believe about it makes no difference at all? Yes, I think it is\na comfort; at all events upon that foundation alone is it possible to\nrest.\n\nHow far one drifts in thought away from the sweet scene which grows\nsweeter every hour. The heat of the day is over now; the breeze curls\non the stream, the shadow of the tower falls far across the water. My\ncompanion rises and smiles, thinking me lost in indolent content; he\nhardly guesses how far I have been voyaging\n\n\n     \"On strange seas of thought alone.\"\n\n\nDoes he guess that as I look back over my life, pain has so far\npreponderated over happiness that I would not, if I could, live it\nagain, and that I would not in truth, if I could choose, have lived it\nat all? And yet, even so, I recognise that I am glad not to have the\nchoice, for it would be made in an indolent and timid spirit, and I do\nindeed believe that the end is not yet, and that the hour will assuredly\ncome when I shall rejoice to have lived, and see the meaning even of my\nfears.\n\nAnd then we retrace our way, and like the Lady of Shalott step down into\nthe boat, to glide along the darkling water-way in the westering light.\nWhy cannot I speak to my friend of such dark things as these? It would\nbe better perhaps if I could, and yet no hand can help us to bear our\nown burden.\n\nBut the dusk comes slowly on, merging reed and pasture and gliding\nstream in one indistinguishable shade; the trees stand out black against\nthe sunset, thickening to an emerald green. A star comes out over the\ndark hill, the lights begin to peep out in the windows of the clustering\ntown as we draw nearer. As we glide beneath the dark houses, with their\ngables and chimneys dark against the glowing sky, how everything that\nis dull and trivial and homely is blotted out by the twilight, leaving\nnothing but a sense of romantic beauty of mysterious peace! The little\ntown becomes an enchanted city full of heroic folk; the figure that\nleans silently over the bridge to see us pass, to what high-hearted\nbusiness is he vowed, burgher or angel? A spell is woven of shadow and\nfalling light, and of chimes floating over meadow and stream. Yet\nthis sense of something remotely and unutterably beautiful, this\ntransfiguration of life, is as real and vital an experience as the\ndaily, dreary toil, and to be welcomed as such. Nay, more! it is better,\nbecause it gives one a deepened sense of value, of significance, of\neternal greatness, to which we must cling as firmly as we may, because\nit is there that the final secret lies; not in the poor struggles, the\nanxious delays, which are but the incidents of the voyage, and not the\nserene life of haven and home.\n\n\n\n\nXV. SYMBOLS\n\n\nThe present time is an era when intellectual persons are ashamed of\nbeing credulous. It is the perfectly natural and desirable result of\nthe working of the scientific spirit. Everything is relentlessly\ninvestigated, the enormous structure of natural law is being discovered\nto underlie all the most surprising, delicate, and apparently fortuitous\nprocesses, and no one can venture to forecast where the systematisation\nwill end. The result is a great inrush of bracing and invigorating\ncandour. It is not that our liberty of reflection and action is\nincreased. It is rather increasingly limited. But at least we are\ngrowing to discern where our boundaries are, and it is deeply refreshing\nto find that the boundaries erected by humanity are much closer and more\ncramping than the boundaries determined by God. We are no longer bound\nby human authority, by subjective theories, by petty tradition. We\nare no longer required to tremble before thaumaturgy and conjuring and\noccultism. It is true that science has hitherto confined itself mainly\nto the investigation of concrete phenomena; but the same process is sure\nto be applied to metaphysics, to sociology, to psychology; and the day\nwill assuredly come when the human race will analyse the laws which\ngovern progress, which regulate the exact development of religion and\nmorality.\n\nThe demolition of credulity is, as I have said, a wholly desirable and\nbeneficial thing. Most intelligent people have found some happiness in\nlearning that the dealings of God--that is, the creative and originative\npower behind the universe--are at all events not whimsical, however\nunintelligible they may be. No one at all events is now required to\nreconcile with his religious faith a detailed belief in the Mosaic\ncosmogony, or to accept the fact that a Hebrew prophet was enabled to\nsummon bears from a wood to tear to pieces some unhappy boys who found\nfood for mirth in his personal appearance. That is a pure gain. But\nside by side with this entirely wholesome process, there are a good\nmany people who have thrown overboard, together with their credulity, a\nquality of a far higher and nobler kind, which may be called faith. Men\nwho have seen many mysteries explained, and many dark riddles solved in\nnature, have fallen into what is called materialism, from the mistaken\nidea that the explanation of material phenomena will hold good for\nthe discernment of abstract phenomena. Yet any one who approaches the\nresults of scientific investigation in a philosophical and a poetical\nspirit, sees clearly enough that nothing has been attempted but\nanalysis, and that the mystery which surrounds us is only thrust a\nlittle further off, while the darkness is as impenetrable and profound\nas ever. All that we have learnt is how natural law works; we have\nnot come near to learning why it works as it does. All we have really\nacquired is a knowledge that the audacious and unsatisfactory theories,\nsuch, for instance, as the old-fashioned scheme of redemption, by which\nmen have attempted with a pathetic hopefulness to justify the ways\nof God to man, are, and are bound to be, despairingly incomplete. The\ndanger of the scientific spirit is not that it is too agnostic, but that\nit is not agnostic enough: it professes to account for everything when\nit only has a very few of the data in its grasp. The materialistic\nphilosophy tends to be a tyranny which menaces liberty of thought. Every\none has a right to deduce what theory he can from his own experience.\nThe one thing that we have no sort of right to do is to enforce that\ntheory upon people whose experience does not confirm it. We may invite\nthem to act upon our assumptions, but we must not blame them if they end\nby considering them to be baseless. I was talking the other day to an\nardent Roman Catholic, who described by a parable the light in which he\nviewed the authority of the Church. He said that it was as if he were\nhalf-way up a hill, prevented from looking over into a hidden valley by\nthe slope of the ground. On the hill-top, he said, might be supposed to\nstand people in whose good faith and accuracy of vision he had complete\nconfidence. If they described to him what they saw in the valley beyond,\nhe would not dream of mistrusting them. But the analogy breaks down at\nevery point, because the essence of it is that every one who reached\nthe hill-top would inevitably see the same scene. Yet in the case of\nreligion, the hill-top is crowded by people, whose good faith is\nequally incontestable, but whose descriptions of what lies beyond are at\nhopeless variance. Moreover all alike confess that the impressions they\nderive are outside the possibility of scientific or intellectual tests,\nand that it is all a matter of inference depending upon a subjective\nconsent in the mind of the discerner to accept what is incapable of\nproof. The strength of the scientific position is that the scientific\nobserver is in the presence of phenomena confirmed by innumerable\ninvestigations, and that, up to a certain point, the operation of a\nlaw has been ascertained, which no reasonable man has any excuse for\ndoubting. Whenever that law conflicts with religious assumptions, which\nin any case cannot be proved to be more than subjective assumptions,\nthe unverifiable theory must go down before the verifiable. Religion may\nassume, for instance, that life is an educative process; but that theory\ncannot be considered proved in the presence of the fact that many\nhuman beings close their eyes upon the world before they are capable of\nexercising any moral or intellectual choice whatever.\n\nIt may prove, upon investigation, that all religious theories and all\ncreeds are nothing more than the desperate and pathetic attempts of\nhumanity, conscious of an instinctive horror of suffering, and of an\ninalienable sense of their right to happiness, to provide a solution for\nthe appalling fact that many human beings seem created only to suffer\nand to be unhappy. The mystery is a very dark one; and philosophy is\nstill not within reach of explaining how it is that a sense of justice\nshould be implanted in man by the Power that appears so often to violate\nthat conception of justice.\n\nThe fact is that the progress of science has created an immense demand\nfor the quality of faith and hopefulness, by revealing so much that is\npessimistic in the operation of natural law. If we are to live with any\nmeasure of contentment or tranquillity, we must acquire a confidence\nthat God has not, as science tends to indicate, made all men for nought.\nWe must, if we can, acquire some sort of hope that it is not in mere\nwantonness and indifference that He confronts us with the necessity for\nbearing the things that He has made us most to dread. It may be easy\nenough for robust, vigorous, contented persons to believe that God means\nus well; but the only solution that is worth anything is a solution that\nshall give us courage, patience, and even joy, at times when everything\nabout us seems to speak of cruelty and terror and injustice. One of\nthe things that has ministered comfort in large measure to souls so\nafflicted is the power of tracing a certain beauty and graciousness\nin the phenomena that surround us. Who is there who in moments of\nbewildered sorrow has not read a hint of some vast lovingness, moving\ndimly in the background of things, in the touch of familiar hands or in\nthe glances of dear eyes? Surely, they have said to themselves, if love\nis the deepest, strongest, and most lasting force in the world, the same\nquality must be hidden deepest in the Heart of God. This is the unique\nstrength of the Christian revelation, the thought of the Fatherhood of\nGod, and His tender care for all that he has made. Again, who is there\nwho in depression and anxiety has not had his load somewhat lightened\nby the sight of the fresh green of spring foliage against a blue sky, by\nthe colour and scent of flowers, by the sweet melody of musical chords?\nThe aching spirit has said, \"They are there--beauty, and peace, and\njoy--if I could but find the way to them.\" Who has not had his fear of\ndeath alleviated by the happy end of some beloved life, when the dear\none has made, as it were, solemn haste to be gone, falling gently into\nslumber? Who is there, who, speeding homewards in the sunset, has seen\nthe dusky orange veil of flying light drawn softly westward over misty\nfields, where the old house stands up darkling among the glimmering\npastures, and has not felt the presence of some sweet secret waiting for\nhim beyond the gates of life and death? All these things are symbols,\nbecause the emotions they arouse are veritably there, as indisputable a\nphenomenon as any fact which science has analysed. The miserable mistake\nthat many intellectual people make is to disregard what they would call\nvague emotions in the presence of scientific truth. Yet such emotions\nhave a far more intimate concern for us than the dim sociology of bees,\nor the concentric forces of the stars. Our emotions are far more true\nand vivid experiences for us than indisputable laws of nature which\nnever cut the line of our life at all. We may wish, perhaps, that the\nlaws of such emotions were analysed and systematised too, for it is a\nvery timid and faltering spirit that thinks that definiteness is the\nsame as profanation. We may depend upon it that the deeper we can probe\ninto such secrets, the richer will our conceptions of life and God\nbecome.\n\nThe mistake that is so often made by religious organisations, which\ndepend so largely upon symbolism, is the terrible limiting of this\nsymbolism to traditional ceremonies and venerable ritual. It has been\nsaid that religion is the only form of poetry accessible to the poor;\nand it is true in the sense that anything which hallows and quickens the\nmost normal and simple experiences of lives divorced from intellectual\nand artistic influences is a very real and true kind of symbolism. It\nmay be well to give people such symbolism as they can understand, and\nthe best symbols of all are those that deal with the commonest emotions.\nBut it is a lean wisdom that emphasises a limited range of emotions at\nthe expense of a larger range; and the spirit which limits the sacred\ninfluences of religion to particular buildings and particular rites is\nvery far removed from the spirit of Him who said that neither at Gerizim\nnor in Jerusalem was the Father to be worshipped, but in spirit and in\ntruth. At the same time the natural impatience of one who discerns a\nsymbolism all about him, in tree and flower, in sunshine and rain, and\nwho hates to see the range restricted, is a feeling that a wise and\ntolerant man ought to resist. It is ill to break the pitcher because\nthe well is at hand! One does not make a narrow soul broader by breaking\ndown its boundaries, but by revealing the beauty of the further horizon.\nEven the false feeling of compassion must be resisted. A child is more\nencouraged by listening patiently to its tale of tiny exploits, than by\ncasting ridicule upon them.\n\nBut on the other hand it is a wholly false timidity for one who has been\nbrought up to love and reverence the narrower range of symbols, to choke\nand stifle the desires that stir in his heart for the wider range, out\nof deference to authority and custom. One must not discard a cramping\ngarment until one has a freer one to take its place; but to continue\nin the confining robe with the larger lying ready to one's hand, from\na sense of false pathos and unreasonable loyalty, is a piece of\nfoolishness.\n\nThere are, I believe, hundreds of men and women now alive, who have\noutgrown their traditional faith, through no fault of their own; but who\nout of terror at the vague menaces of interested and Pharisaical persons\ndo not dare to break away. One must of course weigh carefully whether\none values comfort or liberty most. But what I would say is that it is\nof the essence of a faith to be elastic, to be capable of development,\nto be able to embrace the forward movement of thought. Now so far am I\nfrom wishing to suggest that we have outgrown Christianity, that I would\nassert that we have not yet mastered its simplest principles. I believe\nwith all my soul that it is still able to embrace the most daring\nscientific speculations, for the simple reason that it is hardly\nconcerned with them at all. Where religious faith conflicts with science\nis in the tenacity with which it holds to the literal truth of the\nmiraculous occurrences related in the Scriptures. Some of these present\nno difficulty, some appear to be scientifically incredible. Yet these\nlatter seem to me to be but the perfectly natural contemporary setting\nof the faith, and not to be of the essence of Christianity at all.\nMiracles, whether they are true or not, are at all events unverifiable,\nand no creed that claims to depend upon the acceptance of unverifiable\nevents can have any vitality. But the personality, the force, the\nperception of Christ Himself emerges with absolute distinctness from the\nsurrounding details. We may not be in a position to check exactly what\nHe said and what He did not say, but just as no reasonable man can hold\nthat He was merely an imaginative conception invented by people who\nobviously did not understand Him, so the general drift of His teaching\nis absolutely clear and convincing.\n\nWhat I would have those do who can profess themselves sincerely\nconvinced Christians, in spite of the uncertainty of many of the\nrecorded details, is to adopt a simple compromise; to claim their part\nin the inheritance of Christ, and the symbols of His mysteries, but not\nto feel themselves bound by any ecclesiastical tradition. No one can\nforbid, by peevish regulations, direct access to the spirit of Christ\nand to the love of God. Christ's teaching was a purely individualistic\nteaching, based upon conduct and emotion, and half the difficulties of\nthe position lie in His sanction and guidance having been claimed for\nwhat is only a human attempt to organise a society with a due deference\nfor the secular spirit, its aims and ambitions. The sincere Christian\nshould, I believe, gratefully receive the simple and sweet symbols of\nunity and forgiveness; but he should make his own a far higher and\nwider range of symbols, the symbols of natural beauty and art and\nliterature--all the passionate dreams of peace and emotion that have\nthrilled the yearning hearts of men. Wherever those emotions have led\nmen along selfish, cruel, sensual paths, they must be distrusted, just\nas we must distrust the religious emotions which have sanctioned such\ndivergences from the spirit of Christ. We must believe that the essence\nof religion is to make us alive to the love of God, in whatever writing\nof light and air, of form and fragrance it is revealed; and we must\nfurther believe that religion is meant to guide and quicken the tender,\ncompassionate, brotherly emotions, by which we lean to each other in\nthis world where so much is dark. But to denounce the narrower forms\nof religion, or to abstain from them, is utterly alien to the spirit\nof Christ. He obeyed and reverenced the law, though He knew that the\nexpanding spirit of His own teaching would break it in pieces. Of\ncourse, since liberty is the spirit of the Gospel, a liberty conditioned\nby the sense of equality, there may be occasions when a man is bound to\nresist what appears to him to be a moral or an intellectual tyranny. But\nshort of that, the only thing of which one must beware is a conscious\ninsincerity; and the limits of that a man must determine for himself.\nThere are occasions when consideration for the feelings of others seems\nto conflict with one's own sense of sincerity; but I think that one\nis seldom wrong in preferring consideration for others to the personal\nindulgence of one's own apparent sincerity.\n\nPeace and gentleness always prevail in the end over vehemence and\nviolence, and a peaceful revolution brings about happier results for\na country, as we have good reason to know, than a revolution of force.\nEven now the narrower religious systems prevail more in virtue of the\ngentleness and goodwill and persuasion of their ministers than through\nthe spiritual terrors that they wield--the thunders are divorced from\nthe lightning.\n\nThus may the victories of faith be won, not by noise and strife, but by\nthe silent motion of a resistless tide. Even now it creeps softly\nover the sand and brims the stagnant pools with the freshening and\ninvigorating brine.\n\nBut in the worship of the symbol there is one deep danger; and that\nis that if one rests upon it, if one makes one's home in the palace of\nbeauty or philosophy or religion, one has failed in the quest. It is the\npursuit not of the unattained but of the unattainable to which we are\nvowed. Nothing but the unattainable can draw us onward. It is rest that\nis forbidden. We are pilgrims yet; and if, intoxicated and bemused by\nbeauty or emotion or religion, we make our dwelling there, it is as\nthough we slept in the enchanted ground. Enough is given us, and no\nmore, to keep us moving forwards. To be satisfied is to slumber. The\nmelancholy that follows hard in the footsteps of art, the sadness\nhaunting the bravest music, the aching, troubled longing that creeps\ninto the mind at the sight of the fairest scene, is but the warning\npresence of the guide that travels with us and fears that we may linger.\nWho has not seen across a rising ground the gables of the old house,\nthe church tower, dark among the bare boughs of the rookery in a smiling\nsunset, and half lost himself at the thought of the impossibly beautiful\nlife that might be lived there? To-day, just when the western sun began\nto tinge the floating clouds with purple and gold, I saw by the roadside\nan old labourer, fork on back, plodding heavily across a ploughland all\nstippled with lines of growing wheat. Hard by a windmill whirled its\nclattering arms. How I longed for something that would render permanent\nthe scene, sight, and sound alike. It told me somehow that the end\nwas not yet. What did it stand for? I hardly know; for life, slow and\nhaggard with toil, hard-won sustenance, all overhung with the crimson\nglories of waning light, the wet road itself catching the golden hues of\nheaven. A little later, passing by the great pauper asylum that stands\nup so naked among the bare fields, I looked over a hedge, and there,\nbehind the engine-house with its heaps of scoriae and rubbish, lay a\nlittle trim ugly burial-ground, with a dismal mortuary, upon which\nsome pathetic and tawdry taste had been spent. There in rows lay\nthe mouldering bones of the failures of life and old sin; not even a\nheadstone over each with a word of hope, nothing but a number on a tin\ntablet. Nothing more incredibly sordid could be devised. One thought of\nthe sad rite, the melancholy priest, the handful of relatives glad at\nheart that the poor broken life was over and the wretched associations\nat an end. Yet even that sight too warned one not to linger, and that\nthe end was not yet. Presently, in the gathering twilight, I was making\nmy way through the streets of the city. The dusk had obliterated all\nthat was mean and dreary. Nothing but the irregular housefronts stood up\nagainst the still sky, the lighted windows giving the sense of home and\nease. A quiet bell rang for vespers in a church tower, and as I passed\nI heard an organ roll within. It all seemed a sweetly framed message to\nthe soul, a symbol of joy and peace.\n\nBut then I reflected that the danger was of selecting, out of the\nsymbols that crowded around one on every side, merely those that\nministered to one's own satisfaction and contentment. The sad horror of\nthat other place, the little bare place of desolate graves--that must be\na symbol as well, that must stand as a witness of some part of the awful\nmind of God, of the strange flaw or rent that seems to run through His\nworld. It may be more comfortable, more luxurious to detach the symbol\nthat testifies to the satisfaction of our needs; but not thus do we draw\nnear to truth and God. And then I thought that perhaps it was best, when\nwe are secure and careless and joyful, to look at times steadily into\nthe dark abyss of the world, not in the spirit of morbidity, not with\nthe sense of the macabre--the skeleton behind the rich robe, death at\nthe monarch's shoulder; but to remind ourselves, faithfully and wisely,\nthat for us too the shadow waits; and then that in our moments of\ndreariness and heaviness we should do well to seek for symbols of our\npeace, not thrusting them peevishly aside as only serving to remind us\nof what we have lost and forfeited, but dwelling on them patiently and\nhopefully, with a tender onlooking to the gracious horizon with all\nits golden lights and purple shadows. And thus not in a mercantile\nmood trafficking for our delight in the mysteries of life--for not by\nprudence can we draw near to God--but in a childlike mood, valuing the\nkindly word, the smile that lights up the narrow room and enriches\nthe austere fare, and paying no heed at all to the jealousies and the\ncovetous ingathering that turns the temple of the Father into a house of\nmerchandise.\n\nFor here, deepest of all, lies the worth of the symbol; that this life\nof ours is not a little fretful space of days, rounded with a sleep, but\nan integral part of an inconceivably vast design, flooding through and\nbehind the star-strewn heavens; that there is no sequence of events as\nwe conceive, that acts are not done or words said, once and for all, and\nthen laid away in the darkness; but that it is all an ever-living thing,\nin which the things that we call old are as much present in the mind of\nGod as the things that shall be millions of centuries hence. There is no\nuncertainty with Him, no doubt as to what shall be hereafter; and if we\nonce come near to that truth, we can draw from it, in our darkest hours,\na refreshment that cannot fail; for the saddest thought in the mind of\nman is the thought that these things could have been, could be other\nthan they are; and if we once can bring home to ourselves the knowledge\nthat God is unchanged and unchangeable, our faithless doubts, our\nmelancholy regrets melt in the light of truth, as the hoar-frost fades\nupon the grass in the rising sun, when every globed dewdrop flashes like\na jewel in the radiance of the fiery dawn.\n\n\n\n\nXVI. OPTIMISM\n\n\nWe Anglo-Saxons are mostly optimists at heart; we love to have things\ncomfortable, and to pretend that they are comfortable when they\nobviously are not. The brisk Anglo-Saxon, if he cannot reach the grapes,\ndoes not say that the grapes are sour, but protests that he does not\nreally care about grapes. A story is told of a great English proconsul\nwho desired to get a loan from the Treasury of the Government over which\nhe practically, though not nominally, presided. He went to the Financial\nSecretary and said: \"Look here, T----, you must get me a loan for a\nbusiness I have very much at heart.\" The secretary whistled, and then\nsaid: \"Well, I will try; but it is not the least use.\" \"Oh, you\nwill manage it somehow,\" said the proconsul, \"and I may tell you\nconfidentially it is absolutely essential.\" The following morning the\nsecretary came to report: \"I told you it was no use, sir, and it wasn't;\nthe Board would not hear of it.\" \"Damnation!\" said the proconsul, and\nwent on writing. A week after he met the secretary, who felt a little\nshy. \"By the way, T----,\" said the great man, \"I have been thinking over\nthat matter of the loan, and it was a mercy you were not successful;\nit would have been a hopeless precedent, and we are much better without\nit.\"\n\nThat is the true Anglo-Saxon spirit of optimism. The most truly British\nperson I know is a man who will move heaven and earth to secure a post\nor to compass an end; but when he fails, as he does not often fail, he\nsays genially that he is more thankful than he can say; it would have\nbeen ruin to him if he had been successful. The same quality runs\nthrough our philosophy and our religion. Who but an Anglo-Saxon would\nhave invented the robust theory, to account for the fact that prayers\nare often not granted, that prayers are always directly answered whether\nyou attain your desire or not? The Greeks prayed that the gods would\ngrant them what was good even if they did not desire it, and withhold\nwhat was evil even if they did desire it. The shrewd Roman said: \"The\ngods will give us what is most appropriate; man is dearer to them than\nto himself.\" But the faithful Anglo-Saxon maintains that his prayer is\nnone the less answered even if it be denied, and that it is made up to\nhim in some roundabout way. It is inconceivable to the Anglo-Saxon that\nthere may be a strain of sadness and melancholy in the very mind of\nGod; he cannot understand that there can be any beauty in sorrow. To the\nCelt, sorrow itself is dear and beautiful, and the mournful wailing\nof winds, the tears of the lowering cloud, afford him sweet and even\nluxurious sensations. The memory of grief is one of the good things\nthat remains to him, as life draws to its close; for love is to him\nthe sister of grief rather than the mother of joy. But this is to\nthe Anglo-Saxon mind a morbid thing. The hours in which sorrow has\noverclouded him are wasted, desolated hours, to be forgotten and\nobliterated as soon as possible. There is nothing sacred about them;\nthey are sad and stony tracts over which he has made haste to cross, and\nthe only use of them is to heighten the sense of security and joy. And\nthus the sort of sayings that satisfy and sustain the Anglo-Saxon mind\nare such irrepressible outbursts of poets as \"God's in His heaven;\nall's right with the world\"--the latter part of which is flagrantly\ncontradicted by experience; and, as for the former part, if it be true,\nit lends no comfort to the man who tries to find his God in the world.\nAgain, when Browning says that the world \"means intensely and means\ngood,\" he is but pouring oil upon the darting flame of optimism, because\nthere are many people to whom the world has no particular meaning, and\nfew who can re-echo the statement that it means good. That some rich\nsurprise, in spite of palpable and hourly experience to the contrary,\nmay possibly await us, is the most that some of us dare to hope.\n\nMy own experience, the older I grow, and the more I see of life, is that\nI feel it to be a much more bewildering and even terrifying thing than\nI used to think it. To use a metaphor, instead of its being a patient\neducational process, which I would give all that I possessed to be able\nsincerely to believe it to be, it seems to me arranged far more upon\nthe principle of a game of cricket--which I have always held to be, in\ntheory, the most unjust and fortuitous of games. You step to the wicket,\nyou have only a single chance; the boldest and most patient man may make\none mistake at the outset, and his innings is over; the timid tremulous\nplayer may by undeserved good luck contrive to keep his wicket up,\ntill his heart has got into the right place, and his eye has wriggled\nstraight, and he is set.\n\nThat is the first horrible fact about life--that carelessness is often\nnot penalised at all, whereas sometimes it is instantly and fiercely\npenalised. One boy at school may break every law, human and divine, and\ngo out into the world unblemished. Another timid and good-natured child\nmay make a false step, and be sent off into life with a permanent\ncloud over him. School life often emphasises the injustice of the world\ninstead of trying to counteract it. Schoolmasters tend to hustle the\nweak rather than to curb the strong.\n\nAnd then we pass into the larger world, and what do we see? A sad\nconfusion everywhere. We see an innocent and beautiful girl struck down\nby a long and painful disease--a punishment perhaps appropriate to some\nrobust and hoary sinner, who has gathered forbidden fruit with both his\nhands, and the juices of which go down to the skirts of his clothing;\nor a brave and virtuous man, with a wife and children dependent on him,\nneeded if ever man was, kind, beneficent, strong, is struck down out of\nlife in a moment. On the other hand, we see a mean and cautious sinner,\nwith no touch of unselfishness and affection, guarded and secured in\nmaterial contentment. Let any one run over in his mind the memories of\nhis own circle, fill up the gaps, and ask himself bravely and frankly\nwhether he can trace a wise and honest and beneficent design all\nthrough. He may try to console himself by saying that the disasters of\ngood people, after all, are the exceptions, and that, as a rule, courage\nand purity of heart are rewarded, while cowardice and filthiness are\npunished. But what room is there for exceptions in a world governed by\nGod Whom we must believe to be all-powerful, all-just, and all-loving?\nIt is the wilful sin of man, says the moralist, that has brought these\nhard things upon him. But that is no answer, for the dark shadow lies\nas sombrely over irresponsible nature, which groans over undeserved\nsuffering. And then, to make the shadow darker still, we have all the\nsame love of life, the same inalienable sense of our right to happiness,\nthe same inheritance of love. If we could but see that in the end pain\nand loss would be blest, there is nothing that we would not gladly bear.\nYet that sight, too, is denied us.\n\nAnd yet we live and laugh and hope, and forget. We take our fill of\ntranquil days and pleasant companies, though for some of us the thought\nthat it is all passing, passing, even while we lean towards it smiling,\ntouches the very sunlight with pain. \"How morbid, how self-tormenting!\"\nsays the prudent friend, if such thoughts escape us. \"Why not enjoy the\ndelight and bear the pain? That is life; we cannot alter it.\" But not on\nsuch terms, can I, for one, live. To know, to have some assurance--that\nis the one and only thing that matters at all. For if I once believed\nthat God were careless, or indifferent, or impotent, I would fly from\nlife as an accursed thing; whereas I would give all the peace, and\njoy, and contentment, that may yet await me upon earth, and take up\ncheerfully the heaviest burden that could be devised of darkness and\npain, if I could be sure of an after-life that will give us all the\nunclouded serenity, and strength, and love, for which we crave every\nmoment. Sometimes, in a time of strength and calm weather, when the\nsun is bright and the friend I love is with me, and the scent of\nthe hyacinths blows from the wood, I have no doubt of the love and\ntenderness of God; and, again, when I wake in the dreadful dawn to the\nsharp horror of the thought that one I love is suffering and crying out\nin pain and drifting on to death, the beauty of the world, the familiar\nscene, is full of a hateful and atrocious insolence of grace and\nsweetness; and then I feel that we are all perhaps in the grip of some\nrelentless and inscrutable law that has no care for our happiness\nor peace at all, and works blindly and furiously in the darkness,\nbespattering some with woe and others with joy. Those are the blackest\nand most horrible moments of life; and yet even so we live on.\n\nAs I write at my ease I see the velvety grass green on the rich pasture;\nthe tall spires of the chestnut perch, and poise, and sway in the sun; a\nthrush sings hidden in the orchard; it is all caressingly, enchantingly\nbeautiful, and I am well content to be alive. Looking backwards, I\ndiscern that I have had my share, and more than my share, of good\nthings. But they are over; they are mine no longer. And even as I think\nthe thought, the old church clock across the fields tells out another\nhour that is fallen softly into the glimmering past. If I could discern\nany strength or patience won from hours of pain and sorrow it would be\neasier; but the memory of pain makes me dread pain the more, the thought\nof past sorrow makes future sorrow still more black. I would rather have\nstrength than tranquillity, when all is done; but life has rather taught\nme my weakness, and struck the garland out of my reluctant hand.\n\nTo-day I have been riding quietly among fields deep with buttercups and\nfringed by clear, slow streams. The trees are in full spring leaf, only\nthe oaks and walnuts a little belated, unfurling their rusty-red fronds.\nA waft of rich scent comes from a hawthorn hedge where a hidden cuckoo\nflutes, or just where the lane turns by the old water-mill, which throbs\nand grumbles with the moving gear, a great lilac-bush leans out of a\ngarden and fills the air with perfume. Yet, as I go, I am filled with\na heavy anxiety, which plays with my sick heart as a cat plays with a\nmouse, letting it run a little in the sun, and then pouncing upon it in\nterror and dismay. The beautiful sounds and sights round me--the sight\nof the quiet, leisurely people I meet--ought, one would think, to soothe\nand calm the unquiet heart. But they do not; they rather seem to mock\nand flout me with a savage insolence of careless welfare. My thoughts go\nback, I do not know why, to an old house where I spent many happy days,\nnow in the hands of strangers. I remember sitting, one of a silent and\nhappy party, on a terrace in the dusk of a warm summer night, and how\none of those present called to the owls that were hooting in the hanging\nwood above the house, so that they drew near in answer to the call,\nflying noiselessly, and suddenly uttering their plaintive notes from\nthe heart of the great chestnut on the lawn. Below I can see the dewy\nglimmering fields, the lights of the little port, the pale sea-line. It\nseems now all impossibly beautiful and tranquil; but I know that even\nthen it was often marred by disappointments, and troubles, and fears.\nLittle anxieties that have all melted softly into the past, that were\neasily enough borne, when it came to the point, yet, looming up as they\ndid in the future, filled the days with the shadow of fear. That is the\nphantom that one ought to lay, if it can be laid. And is there\nhidden somewhere any well of healing, any pure source of strength and\nrefreshment, from which we can drink and be calm and brave? That is a\nquestion which each has to answer tor himself. For myself, I can only\nsay that strength is sometimes given, sometimes denied. How foolish to\nbe anxious! Yes, but how inevitable! If the beauty and the joy of the\nworld gave one assurance in dark hours that all was certainly well, the\npilgrimage would be an easy one. But can one be optimistic by resolving\nto be? One can of course control oneself, one can let no murmur of pain\nescape one, one can even enunciate deep and courageous maxims, because\none would not trouble the peace of others, waiting patiently till the\ngolden mood returns. But what if the desolate conviction forces itself\nupon the mind that sorrow is the truer thing? What if one tests one's\nown experience, and sees that, under the pressure of sorrow, one after\nanother of the world's lights are extinguished, health, and peace, and\nbeauty, and delight, till one asks oneself whether sorrow is not perhaps\nthe truest and most actual thing of all? That is the ghastliest of\nmoments, when everything drops from us but fear and horror, when we\nthink that we have indeed found truth at last, and that the answer to\nPilate's bitter question is that pain is the nearest thing to truth\nbecause it is the strongest. If I felt that, says the reluctant heart,\nI should abandon myself to despair. No, says sterner reason, you would\nbear it because you cannot escape from it. Into whatever depths of\ndespair you fell, you would still be upheld by the law that bids you be.\n\nWhere, then, is the hope to be found? It is here. One is tempted to\nthink of God through human analogies and symbols. We think of Him as of\na potter moulding the clay to his will; as of a statesman that sways a\nstate; as of an artist that traces a fair design. But all similitudes\nand comparisons break down, for no man can create anything; he can but\nmodify matter to his ends, and when he fails, it is because of some\nnatural law that cuts across his design and thwarts him relentlessly.\nBut the essence of God's omnipotence is that both law and matter are His\nand originate from Him; so that, if a single fibre of what we know to be\nevil can be found in the world, either God is responsible for that, or\nHe is dealing with something He did not originate and cannot overcome.\nNothing can extricate us from this dilemma, except the belief that what\nwe think evil is not really evil at all, but hidden good; and thus we\nhave firm ground under our feet at last, and can begin to climb out of\nthe abyss. And then we feel in our own hearts how indomitable is our\nsense of our right to happiness, how unconquerable our hope; how swiftly\nwe forget unhappiness; how firmly we remember joy; and then we see that\nthe one absolutely permanent and vital power in the world is the power\nof love, which wins victories over every evil we can name; and if it\nis so plain that love is the one essential and triumphant force in the\nworld, it must be the very heartbeat of God; till we feel that when soon\nor late the day comes for us, when our swimming eyes discern ever more\nfaintly the awestruck pitying faces round us, and the senses give up\ntheir powers one by one, and the tides of death creep on us, and the\ndaylight dies--that even so we shall find that love awaiting us in\nthe region to which the noblest and bravest and purest, as well as the\nvilest and most timid and most soiled have gone.\n\nThis, then, is the only optimism that is worth the name; not the feeble\noptimism that brushes away the darker side of life impatiently and\nfretfully, but the optimism that dares to look boldly into the fiercest\nmiseries of the human spirit, and to come back, as Perseus came, pale\nand smoke-stained, from the dim underworld, and say that there is yet\nhope brightening on the verge of the gloom.\n\nWhat one desires, then, is an optimism which arises from taking a wide\nview of things as they are, and taking the worst side into account,\nnot an optimism which is only made possible by wearing blinkers. I was\nreading a day or two ago a suggestive and brilliant book by one of our\nmost prolific critics, Mr. Chesterton, on the subject of Dickens. Mr.\nChesterton is of opinion that our modern tendency to pessimism results\nfrom our inveterate realism. Contrasting modern fictions with the old\nheroic stories, he says that we take some indecisive clerk for the\nsubject of a story, and call the weak-kneed cad \"the hero.\" He seems\nto think that we ought to take a larger and more robust view of human\npossibilities, and keep our eyes steadily fixed upon more vigorous\nand generous characters. But the result of this is the ugly and\nunphilosophical kind of optimism after all, that calls upon God to\ndespise the work of His own hands, that turns upon all that is feeble\nand unsightly and vulgar with anger and disdain, like the man in the\nparable who took advantage of his being forgiven a great debt to exact\na tiny one. The tragedy is that the knock-kneed clerk is all in all to\nhimself. In clear-sighted and imaginative moments, he may realise in a\nsudden flash of horrible insight that he is so far from being what he\nwould desire to be, so unheroic, so loosely strung, so deplorable--and\nyet that he can do so little to bridge the gap. The only method of\nmanufacturing heroes is to encourage people to believe in themselves and\ntheir possibilities, to assure them that they are indeed dear to\nGod; not to reveal relentlessly to them their essential lowness and\nshabbiness. It is not the clerk's fault that his mind is sordid and\nweak, and that his knees knock together; and no optimism is worth the\nname that has not a glorious message for the vilest. Or, again, it is\npossible to arrive at a working optimism by taking a very dismal view of\neverything. There is a story of an old Calvinist minister whose daughter\nlay dying, far away, of a painful disease, who wrote her a letter of\nconsolation, closing with the words, \"Remember, dear daughter, that all\nshort of Hell is mercy.\" Of course if one can take so richly decisive a\nview of the Creator's purpose for His creatures, and look upon Hell\nas the normal destination from which a few, by the overpowering\ncondescension of God, are saved and separated, one might find matter\nof joy in discovering one soul in a thousand who was judged worthy of\nsalvation. But this again is a clouded view, because it takes no account\nof the profound and universal preference for happiness in the human\nheart, and erects the horrible ideal of a Creator who deliberately\ncondemns the vast mass of His creatures to a fate which He has no less\ndeliberately created them to abhor and dread.\n\nOur main temptation after all lies in the fact that we are so impatient\nof any delay or any uneasiness. We are like the child who, when first\nconfronted with suffering, cannot bear to believe in its existence, and\nwho, if it is prolonged, cannot believe in the existence of anything\nelse. What we have rather to do is to face the problem strongly and\ncourageously, to take into account the worst and feeblest possibilities\nof our nature, and yet not to overlook the fact that the worst and\nlowest specimen of humanity has a dim inkling of something higher and\nhappier, to which he would attain if he knew how.\n\nI had a little object-lesson a few days ago in the subject. It was a\nBank Holiday, and I walked pensively about the outskirts of a big town.\nThe streets were crowded with people of all sorts and sizes. I confess\nthat a profound melancholy was induced in me by the spectacle of the\nyoung of both sexes. They were enjoying themselves, it is true, with all\ntheir might; and I could not help wondering why, as a rule, they should\nenjoy themselves so offensively. The girls walked about, tittering\nand ogling, the young men were noisy, selfish, ill-mannered, enjoying\nnothing so much as the discomfiture of any passer-by. They pushed each\nother into ditches, they tripped up a friend who passed on a bicycle,\nand all roared in concert at the rueful way in which he surveyed a muddy\ncoat and torn trousers. There seemed to be not the slightest idea among\nthem of contributing to each other's pleasure. The point was to be\namused at the expense of another, and to be securely obstreperous.\n\nBut among these there were lovers walking, faint and pale with mutual\nadmiration; a young couple led along a hideous over-dressed child,\nand had no eyes for anything except its clumsy movements and fatuous\nquestions. Or an elderly couple strolled along, pleased and contented,\nwith a married son and daughter. The cure of the vile mirth of youth\nseemed after all to be love and the anxious care of other lives.\n\nAnd thus indeed a gentle optimism did emerge, after all, from the\ntangle. I felt that it was strange that there should be so much to breed\ndissatisfaction. I struck out of the town, and soon was passing a mill\nin broad water-meadows, overhung by great elms; the grass was golden\nwith buttercups, the foliage was rich upon the trees. The water bubbled\npleasantly in the great pool, and an old house thrust a pretty gable out\nover lilacs clubbed with purple bloom. The beauty of the place was put\nto my lips, like a cup of the waters of comfort. The sadness was the\ndrift of human life out of sweet places such as this, into the town\nthat overflowed the meadows with its avenues of mean houses, where the\nrailway station, with its rows of stained trucks, its cindery floor, its\nsmoking engines, buzzed and roared with life.\n\nBut the pessimism of one who sees the simple life fading out, the\nancient quietude invaded, the country caught in the feelers of the\ntown, is not a real pessimism at all, or rather it is a pessimism\nwhich results from a deficiency of imagination, and is only a matter of\npersonal taste, perhaps of personal belatedness. Twelve generations of\nmy own family lived and died as Yorkshire yeomen-farmers, and my own\npreference is probably a matter of instinctive inheritance. The point is\nnot what a few philosophers happen to like, but what humanity likes, and\nwhat it is happiest in liking. I should have but small confidence in the\nPower that rules the world, if I did not believe that the vast social\ndevelopment of Europe, its civilisation, its network of communications,\nits bustle, its tenser living, its love of social excitement was not\nall part of a great design. I do not believe that humanity is perversely\nastray, hurrying to destruction. I believe rather that it is working\nout the possibilities that lie within it; and if human beings had been\nframed to live quiet pastoral lives, they would be living them still.\nThe one question for the would-be optimist is whether humanity is\ngrowing nobler, wiser, more unselfish; and of that I have no doubt\nwhatever. The sense of equality, of the rights of the weak, compassion,\nbrotherliness, benevolence, are living ideas, throbbing with life; the\ngrowth of the power of democracy, much as it may tend to inconvenience\none personally, is an entirely hopeful and desirable thing; and if a\nman is disposed to pessimism, he ought to ask himself seriously to what\nextent his pessimism is conditioned by his own individual prospect of\nhappiness. It is quite possible to conceive of a man without any hope of\npersonal immortality, or the continuance of individual identity, whose\nfuture might be clouded, say, by his being the victim of a painful and\nincurable disease, and who yet might be a thoroughgoing optimist with\nregard to the future of humanity. Nothing in the world could be so\nindicative of the rise in the moral and emotional temperature of the\nworld as the fact that men are increasingly disposed to sacrifice their\nown ambitions and their own comfort for the sake of others, and are\nwilling to suffer, if the happiness of the race may be increased; and\nmuch of the pessimism that prevails is the pessimism of egotists and\nindividualists, who feel no interest in the rising tide, because it does\nnot promise to themselves any increase in personal satisfaction. No\nman can possibly hold the continuance of personal identity to be an\nindisputable fact, because there is no sort of direct evidence on the\nsubject; and indeed all the evidence that exists is rather against the\nbelief than for it. The belief is in reality based upon nothing but\ninstinct and desire, and the impossibility of conceiving of life as\nexisting apart from one's own perception. But even if a man cannot hold\nthat it is in any sense a certainty, he may cherish a hope that it is\ntrue, and he may be generously and sincerely grateful for having been\nallowed to taste, through the medium of personal consciousness, the\nmarvellous experience of the beauty and interest of life, its emotions,\nits relationships, its infinite yearnings, even though the curtain may\ndescend upon his own consciousness of it, and he himself may become as\nthough he had never been, his vitality blended afresh in the vitality\nof the world, just as the body of his life, so near to him, so seemingly\nhis own, will undoubtedly be fused and blent afresh in the sum of\nmatter. A man, even though racked with pain and tortured with anxiety,\nmay deliberately and resolutely throw himself into sympathy with\nthe mighty will of God, and cherish this noble and awe-inspiring\nthought--the thought of the onward march of humanity; righting wrongs,\namending errors, fighting patiently against pain and evil, until\nperhaps, far-off and incredibly remote, our successors and descendants,\nlinked indeed with us in body and soul alike, may enjoy that peace\nand tranquillity, that harmony of soul, which we ourselves can only\nmomentarily and transitorily obtain.\n\n\n\n\nXVII. JOY\n\n\nDr. Arnold somewhere says that the schoolmaster's experience of being\ncontinually in the presence of the hard mechanical high spirits of\nboyhood is an essentially depressing thing. It seemed to him depressing,\njust because that happiness was so purely incidental to youth and\nhealth, and did not proceed from any sense of principle, any reserve of\nemotion, any self-restraint, any activity of sympathy. I confess that\nin my own experience as a schoolmaster the particular phenomenon was\nsometimes a depressing thing and sometimes a relief. It was depressing\nwhen one was overshadowed by a fretful anxiety or a real sorrow, because\nno appeal to it seemed possible: it had a heartless quality. But again\nit was a relief when it distracted one from the pressure of a troubled\nthought, as when, in the Idylls of the King, the sorrowful queen\nwas comforted by the little maiden \"who pleased her with a babbling\nheedlessness, which often lured her from herself.\"\n\nOne felt that one had no right to let the sense of anxiety overshadow\nthe natural cheerfulness of boyhood, and then one made the effort to\ndetach oneself from one's preoccupations, with the result that they\npresently weighed less heavily upon the heart.\n\nThe blessing would be if one could find in experience a quality of\njoy which should be independent of natural high spirits altogether, a\ncheerful tranquillity of outlook, which should become almost instinctive\nthrough practice, a mood which one could at all events evoke in such a\nway as to serve as a shield and screen to one's own private troubles,\nor which at least would prevent one from allowing the shadow of our\ndiscontent from falling over others. But it must be to a certain\nextent temperamental. Just as high animal spirits in some people are\nirrepressible, and bubble up even under the menace of irreparable\ncalamity, so gloom of spirit is a very contagious thing, very difficult\nto dissimulate. Perhaps the best practical thing for a naturally\nmelancholy person to try and do, is to treat his own low spirits,\nas Charles Lamb did, ironically and humorously; and if he must spin\nconversation incessantly, as Dr. Johnson said, out of his own bowels,\nto make sure that it is the best thread possible, and of a gossamer\nquality.\n\nThe temperamental fact upon which the possibility of such a\nphilosophical cheerfulness is based is after all an ultimate\nhopefulness. Some people have a remarkable staying power, a power of\nlooking through and over present troubles, and consoling themselves with\npleasant visions of futurity. This is commoner with women than with men,\nbecause women derive a greater happiness from the happiness of those\nabout them than men do. A woman as a rule would prefer that the people\nwho surround her should be cheerful, even if she were not cheerful\nherself; whereas a man is often not ill-pleased that his moods should be\nfelt by his circle, and regards it as rather an insult that other\npeople should be joyful when he is ill-at-ease. Some people, too, have\na stronger dramatic sense than others, and take an artistic pleasure\nin playing a part. I knew a man who was a great invalid and a frequent\nsufferer, who took a great pleasure in appearing in public functions. He\nwould drag himself from his bed to make a public appearance of any kind.\nI think that he consoled himself by believing that he did so from a\nstrong and sustaining sense of duty; but I believe that the pleasure of\nthe thing was really at the root of his effort, as it is at the root of\nmost of the duties we faithfully perform. I do not mean that he had\na strong natural vanity, though his enemies accused him of it. But\npublicity was naturally congenial to him, and the only sign, as a rule,\nthat he was suffering, when he made such an appearance, was a greater\ndeliberation of movement, and a ghastly fixity of smile. As to the\nlatter phenomenon, a man with the dramatic sense strongly developed,\nwill no doubt take a positive pleasure in trying to obliterate from his\nface and manner all traces of his private discomfort. Such stoicism is\na fine quality in its way, but the quality that I am in search of is an\neven finer one than that. My friend's efforts were ultimately based on\na sort of egotism, a profound conviction that a public part suited him,\nand that he performed it well. What one rather desires to attain is\na more sympathetic quality, an interest in other people so vital and\ninspiring that one's own personal sufferings are light in the scale when\nweighed against the enjoyment of others. It is not impossible to develop\nthis in the face of considerable bodily suffering. One of the most\ninveterately cheerful people I have ever known was a man who suffered\nfrom a painful and irritating complaint, but whose geniality and\ngood-will were so strong that they not only overpowered his malaise, but\nactually afforded him considerable relief. Some people who suffer can\nonly suffer in solitude. They have to devote the whole of their nervous\nenergies to the task of endurance; but others find society an agreeable\ndistraction, and fly to it as an escape from discomfort. I suppose that\nevery one has experienced at times that extraordinary rebellion, so to\nspeak, of cheerfulness against an attack of physical pain. There have\nbeen days when I have suffered from some small but acutely disagreeable\nailment, and yet found my cheerfulness not only not dimmed but\napparently enhanced by the physical suffering. Of course there are\nmaladies even of a serious kind of which one of the symptoms is a great\nmental depression, but there are other maladies which seem actually to\nproduce an instinctive hopefulness.\n\nBut the question is whether it is possible, by sustained effort, to\nbehave independently of one's mood, and what motive is strong enough\nto make one detach oneself resolutely from discomforts and woes. Good\nmanners provide perhaps the most practical assistance. The people who\nare brought up with a tradition of highbred courtesy, and who learn\nalmost instinctively to repress their own individuality, can generally\ntriumph over their moods. Perhaps in their expansive moments they lose\na little spontaneity in the process; they are cheerful rather than\nbuoyant, gentle rather than pungent. But the result is that when the\nmood shifts into depression, they are still imperturbably courteous and\nconsiderate. A near relation of a great public man, who suffered greatly\nfrom mental depression, has told me that some of the most painful\nminutes he has ever been witness of were, when the great man, after\nbehaving on some occasion of social festivity with an admirable and\nsustained gaiety, fell for a moment into irreclaimable and hopeless\ngloom and fatigue, and then again, by a resolute effort, became\nstrenuously considerate and patient in the privacy of the family circle.\n\nSome people achieve the same mastery over mood by an intensity of\nreligious conviction. But the worst of that particular triumph is that\nan attitude of chastened religious patience is, not unusually, a rather\ndepressing thing. It is so restrained, so pious, that it tends to\ndeprive life of natural and unaffected joy. If it is patient and\nsubmissive in affliction, it is also tame and mild in cheerful\nsurroundings. It issues too frequently in a kind of holy tolerance\nof youthful ebullience and vivid emotions. It results in the kind of\ncharacter that is known as saintly, and is generally accompanied by\na strong deficiency in the matter of humour. Life is regarded as too\nserious a business to be played with, and the delight in trifles,\nwhich is one of the surest signs of healthy energy, becomes ashamed and\nabashed in its presence. The atmosphere that it creates is oppressive,\nremote, ungenial. \"I declare that Uncle John is intolerable, except when\nthere is a death in the family--and then he is insupportable,\" said a\nyouthful nephew of a virtuous clergyman of this type in my presence the\nother day, adding, after reflection, \"He seems to think that to die is\nthe only really satisfactory thing that any one ever does.\" That is the\nworst of carrying out the precept, \"Set your affections on things above,\nnot on things of the earth,\" too literally. It is not so good a precept,\nafter all, as \"If a man love not his brother, whom he hath seen, how\nshall he love God, Whom he hath not seen?\" It is somehow an incomplete\nphilosophy to despise the only definite existence we are certain of\npossessing. One desires a richer thing than that, a philosophy that ends\nin temperance, rather than in a harsh asceticism.\n\nThe handling of life that seems the most desirable is the method which\nthe Platonic Socrates employed. Perhaps he was an ideal figure; but\nyet there are few figures more real. There we have an elderly man of\nincomparable ugliness, who is yet delightfully and perennially youthful,\nbubbling over with interest, affection, courtesy, humour, admiration.\nWith what a delicious mixture of irony and tenderness he treats the\nyoung men who surround him! When some lively sparks made up their minds\nto do what we now call \"rag\" him, dressed themselves up as Furies, and\nran out upon him as he turned a dark corner on his way home, Socrates\nwas not in the least degree disturbed, but discoursed with them readily\non many matters and particularly on temperance; when at the banquet the\ntopers disappear, one by one, under the table, Socrates, who, besides\ntaking his due share of the wine, had filled and drunk the contents of\nthe wine-cooler, is found cheerfully sitting, crowned with roses, among\nthe expiring lamps, in the grey of the morning, discussing the higher\nmathematics. He is never sick or sorry; he is poor and has a scolding\nwife; he fasts or eats as circumstances dictate; he never does anything\nin particular, but he has always infinite leisure to have his talk\nout. Is he drawn for military service? he goes off, with an entire\nindifference to the hardships of the campaign. When the force is routed,\nhe stalks deliberately off the field, looking round him like a great\nbird, with the kind of air that makes pursuers let people alone, as\nAlcibiades said. And when the final catastrophe draws near, he defends\nhimself under a capital charge with infinite good-humour; he has cared\nnothing for slander and misrepresentation all his life, and why should\nhe begin now? In the last inspired scene, he is the only man of the\ngroup who keeps his courteous tranquillity to the end; he had been\nsent into the world, he had lived his life, why should he fear to\nbe dismissed? It matters little, in the presence of this august\nimagination, if the real Socrates was a rude and prosy person, who came\nby his death simply because the lively Athenians could tolerate anything\nbut a bore!\n\nThe Socratic attitude is better than the high-bred attitude; it is\nbetter than the stoical attitude; it is even better than the pious\nattitude, because it depends upon living life to the uttermost, rather\nthan upon detaching oneself from what one considers rather a poor\nbusiness. The attitude of Socrates is based upon courage, generosity,\nsimplicity. He knows that it is with fear that we weight our melancholy\nsensibilities, that it is with meanness and coldness that we poison\nlife, that it is with complicated conventional duties that we fetter our\nweakness. Socrates has no personal ambitions, and thus he is rid of all\nenvy and uncharitableness; he sees the world as it is, a very bright and\nbrave place, teeming with interesting ideas and undetermined problems.\nWhere Christianity has advanced upon this--for it has advanced\nsplendidly and securely--is in interpreting life less intellectually.\nThe intellectual side of life is what Socrates adores; the Christian\nfaith is applicable to a far wider circle of homely lives. Yet\nChristianity too, in spite of ecclesiasticism, teems with ideas. Its\nessence is an unprejudiced freedom of soul. Its problems are problems\nof character which the simplest child can appreciate. But Christianity,\ntoo, is built upon a basis of joy. \"Freely ye have received, freely\ngive,\" is its essential maxim.\n\nThe secret then is to enjoy; but the enjoyment must not be that of the\nspoiler who carries away all that he can, and buries it in his tent; but\nthe joy of relationship, the joy of conspiring together to be happy, the\njoy of consoling and sympathising and sharing, because we have received\nso much. Of course there remain the limitations of temperament, the\ndifficulty of preventing our own acrid humours from overflowing into\nother lives; but this cannot be overcome by repression; it can only\nbe overcome by tenderness. There are very few people who have not the\nelements of this in their character. I can count upon my fingers the\nmalevolent men I know, who prefer making others uncomfortable to trying\nto make them glad; and all these men have been bullied in their youth,\nand are unconsciously protecting themselves against bullying still. We\ngrow selfish, no doubt, for want of practice; ill-health makes villains\nof some of us. But we can learn, if we desire it, to keep our gruffness\nfor our own consumption, and a very few experiments will soon convince\nus that there are few pleasures in the world so reasonable and so cheap,\nas the pleasure of giving pleasure.\n\nBut, after all, the resolute cheerfulness that can be to a certain\nextent captured and secured by an effort of the will, though it is\nperhaps a more useful quality than natural joy, and no doubt ranks\ntogether in the moral scale, is not to be compared with a certain\nunreasoning, incommunicable rapture which sometimes, without conscious\neffort or desire, descends upon the spirit, like sunshine after rain.\nLet me quote a recent experience of my own which may illustrate it.\n\nA few days ago, I had a busy tiresome morning hammering into shape a\nstupid prosaic passage, of no suggestiveness; a mere statement, the only\nbeauty of which could be that it should be absolutely lucid; and this\nbeauty it resolutely refused to assume. Then the agent called to see me,\nand we talked business of a dull kind. Then I walked a little way among\nfields; and when I was in a pleasant flat piece of ground, full of\nthickets, where the stream makes a bold loop among willows and alders,\nthe sun set behind a great bastion of clouds that looked like a huge\nfortification. It had been one of those days of cloudless skies, all\nflooded with the pale cold honey-coloured light of the winter sun, until\na sense almost of spring came into the air; and in a sheltered place I\nfound a little golden hawk-weed in full flower.\n\nIt had not been a satisfactory day at all to me. The statement that I\nhad toiled so hard all the morning to make clear was not particularly\nworth making; it could effect but little at best, and I had worked at\nit in a British doggedness of spirit, regardless of its value and only\nbecause I was determined not to be beaten by it.\n\nBut for all that I came home in a rare and delightful frame of mind, as\nif I had heard a brief and delicate passage of music, a conspiracy\nof sweet sounds and rich tones; or as if I had passed through a sweet\nscent, such as blows from a clover-field in summer. There was no\ndefinite thought to disentangle: it was rather as if I had had a glimpse\nof the land which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, had seen\nthe towers of a castle rise over a wood of oaks; met a company of\nserious people in comely apparel riding blithely on the turf of a forest\nroad, who had waved me a greeting, and left me wondering out of what\nrich kind of scene they had stepped to bless me. It left me feeling\nas though there were some beautiful life, very near me, all around me,\nbehind the mirror, outside of the door, beyond the garden-hedges, if I\ncould but learn the spell which would open it to me; left me pleasantly\nand happily athirst for a life of gracious influences and of an unknown\nand perfect peace; such as creeps over the mind for the moment at the\nsight of a deep woodland at sunset, when the forest is veiled in the\nsoftest of blue mist; or at the sound of some creeping sea, beating\nsoftly all night on a level sand; or at the prospect of a winter sun\ngoing down into smoky orange vapours over a wide expanse of pastoral\ncountry; or at the soft close of some solemn music--when peace seems not\nonly desirable beyond all things but attainable too.\n\nHow can one account for this sudden and joyful visitation? I am going to\ntry and set down what I believe to be the explanation, if I can\nreduce to words a thought which is perfectly clear to me, however\ntranscendental it may seem.\n\nWell, at such a moment as this, one feels just as one may feel when from\nthe streets of a dark and crowded city, with the cold shadow of a\ncloud passing over it, one sees the green head of a mountain over the\nhousetops, all alone with the wind and the sun, with its crag-bastions,\nits terraces and winding turf ways.\n\nThe peace that thus blesses one is not, I think, a merely subjective\nmood, an imagined thing. It is, I believe, a real and actual thing which\nis there. One's consciousness does not create its impressions, one does\nnot make for oneself the moral and artistic ideas that visit one; one\nperceives them. Education is not a process of invention--it is a process\nof discovery; a process of learning the names given to things that are\nall present in one's own mind. One knows things long before one knows\nthe names for them, by instinct and by intuition; and one's own mind is\nsimply a part of a large and immortal life, which for a time is fenced\nby a little barrier of identity, just as a tiny pool of sea-water on a\nsea-beach is for a few hours separated from the great tide to which it\nbelongs. All our regrets, remorses, anxieties, troubles arise from our\nnot realising that we are but a part of this greater and wider life,\nfrom our delusion that we are alone and apart instead of, as is the\ncase, one with the great ocean of life and joy.\n\nSometimes, I know not why and how, we are for a moment or two in touch\nwith the larger life--to some it comes in religion, to some in love,\nto some in art. Perhaps a wave of the onward sweeping tide beats for\nan instant into the little pool we call our own, stirring the fringing\nweed, bubbling sharply and freshly upon the sleeping sand.\n\nThe sad mistake we make is, when such a moment comes, to feel as though\nit were only the stirring of our own feeble imagination. What we ought\nrather to do is by every effort we can make to welcome and comprehend\nthis dawning of the larger life upon us; not to sink back peevishly into\nour own limits and timidly to deplore them, but resolutely to open the\ndoor again and again--for the door can be opened--to the light of the\ngreat sun that lies so broadly about us. Every now and then we have some\nstartling experience which reveals to us our essential union with other\nindividuals. We have many of us had experiences which seem to indicate\nthat there is at times a direct communication with other minds,\nindependent of speech or writing; and even if we have not had such\nexperiences, it has been scientifically demonstrated that such things\ncan occur. Telepathy, as it is clumsily called, which is nothing more\nthan this direct communication of mind, is a thing which has been\ndemonstrated in a way which no reasonable person can reject. We may call\nit abnormal if we like, and it is true that we do not as yet know\nunder what conditions it exists; but it is as much there as electrical\ncommunication, and just as the electrician does not create the viewless\nripples which his delicate instruments can catch and record, but merely\nmakes it a matter of mechanics to detect them, so the ripple of human\nintercommunication is undoubtedly there; and when we have discovered\nwhat its laws are, we shall probably find that it underlies many things,\nsuch as enthusiasms, movements, the spirit of a community, patriotism,\nmartial ardour, which now appear to us to be isolated and mysterious\nphenomena.\n\nBut there is a larger thing than even that behind. In humanity we have\nmerely a certain portion of this large life, which may spread for all we\nknow beyond the visible universe, globed and bounded, like the spray\nof a fountain, into little separate individualities. Some of the\nurgent inexplicable emotions which visit us from time to time, immense,\nfar-reaching, mysterious, are, I believe with all my heart, the\npulsations of this vast life outside us, stirring for an instant the\nsilence of our sleeping spirit. It is possible, I cannot help feeling,\nthat those people live the best of all possible lives who devote\nthemselves to receiving these pulsations. It may well be that in\nfollowing anxiously the movement of the world, in giving ourselves to\npolitics or business, or technical religion, or material cares, we are\nbut delaying the day of our freedom by throwing ourselves intently into\nour limitations, and forgetting the wider life. It may be that the life\nwhich Christ seems to have suggested as the type of Christian life--the\nlife of constant prayer, simple and kindly relations, indifference to\nworldly conditions, absence of ambitions, fearlessness, sincerity--may\nbe the life in which we can best draw near to the larger spirit--for\nChrist spoke as one who knew some prodigious secret, as one in whose\nsoul the larger life leapt and plunged like fresh sea-billows; who was\nincapable of sin and even of temptation, because His soul had free\nand open contact with the all-pervading spirit, and to whom the human\nlimitations were no barrier at all.\n\nWe do not know as yet the mechanical means, so to speak, by which the\nconnection can be established, the door set wide. But we can at least\nopen our soul to every breathing of divine influences; and when the\ngreat wind rises and thunders in our spirits, we can see that no claim\nof business, or weakness, or comfort, or convention shall hinder us from\nadmitting it.\n\nAnd thus when one of these sweet, high, uplifting thoughts draws near\nand visits us, we can but say, as the child Samuel said in the dim-lit\ntemple, \"Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.\" The music comes upon the\nair, in faint and tremulous gusts; it dies away across the garden, over\nthe far hill-side, into the cloudless sky; but we have heard; we are not\nthe same; we are transfigured.\n\nWhy then, lastly, it may be asked, do these experiences befall us so\nfaintly, so secretly, so seldom; if it is the true life that beats so\nurgently into our souls, why are we often so careful and disquieted, why\ndo we fare such long spaces without the heavenly vision, why do we see,\nor seem to see, so many of our fellows to whom such things come rarely\nor not at all? I cannot answer that; yet I feel that the life is there;\nand I can but fall back upon the gentle words of the old saint, who\nwrote: \"I know not how it is, but the more the realities of heaven are\nclothed with obscurity, the more they delight and attract; and nothing\nso much heightens longing as such tender refusal.\"\n\n\n\n\nXVIII. THE LOVE OF GOD\n\n\nHow strange it is that what is often the latest reward of the toiler\nafter holiness, the extreme solace of the outwearied saint, should be\ntoo often made the first irksome article of a childish creed! To tell\na child that it is a duty to love God better than father or mother,\nsisters and brothers, better than play, or stories, or food, or toys,\nwhat a monstrous thing is that! It is one of the things that make\nreligion into a dreary and darkling shadow, that haunts the path of the\ninnocent. The child's love is all for tangible, audible, and visible\nthings. Love for him means kind words and smiling looks, ready comfort\nand lavished kisses; the child does not even love things for being\nbeautiful, but for being what they ARE--curious, characteristic,\ninteresting. He loves the odd frowsy smell of the shut-up attic, the\nbright ugly ornaments of the chimney-piece, the dirt of the street. He\nhas no sense of critical taste. Besides, words mean so little to him, or\neven bear quaint, fantastic associations, which no one can divine, and\nwhich he himself is unable to express; he has no notion of an abstract,\nessential, spiritual thing, apart from what is actual to his senses. And\nthen into this little concrete mind, so full of small definite images,\nso faltering and frail, is thrust this vast, remote notion--that he is\nbound to love something hidden and terrible, something that looks at\nhim from the blank sky when he is alone among the garden beds, something\nwhich haunts empty rooms and the dark brake of the woodland. Moreover,\na child, with its preternatural sensitiveness to pain, its bewildered\nterror of punishment, learns, side by side with this, that the God Whom\nhe is to love thus tenderly is the God Who lays about Him so fiercely\nin the Old Testament, slaying the innocent with the guilty, merciless,\nharsh, inflicting the irreparable stroke of death, where a man would\nbe concerned with desiring amendment more than vengeance. The simple\nquestions with which the man Friday poses Robinson Crusoe, and to which\nhe receives so ponderous an answer, are the questions which naturally\narise in the mind of any thoughtful child. Why, if God be so kind and\nloving, does He not make an end of evil at once? Yet, because such\nquestions are unanswerable by the wisest, the child is, for the\nconvenience of his education, made to feel that he is wicked if he\nquestions what he is taught. How many children will persevere in the\ninnocent scepticism which is so natural and so desirable, under a sense\nof disapproval? One of my own earliest experiences in the ugly path of\nreligious gloom was that I recognised quite clearly to myself that I did\nnot love God at all. I did not know Him, I had no reason to think\nHim kind; He was angry with me, I gathered, if I was ill-tempered or\nuntruthful. I was well enough aware by childish instinct that my mother\ndid not cease to love me when I was naughty, but I could not tell about\nGod. And yet I knew that, with His terrible power of knowing everything,\nHe was well aware that I did not love Him. It was best to forget about\nHim as much as possible, for it spoiled one's pleasure to think about\nit. All the little amusements and idle businesses that were so dear to\nme, He probably disapproved of them all, and was only satisfied when I\nwas safe at my lessons or immured in church. Sunday was the sort of day\nHe liked, and how I detested it!--the toys put away, little ugly books\nabout the Holy Land to read, an air of deep dreariness about it all.\nThus does religion become a weariness from the outset.\n\nHow slowly, and after what strange experience, by what infinite delay of\ndeduction, does the love of God dawn upon the soul! Even then how faint\nand subtle an essence it is! In deep anxiety, under unbearable strain,\nin the grip of a dilemma of which either issue seems intolerable, in\nweariness of life, in hours of flagging vitality, the mighty tide begins\nto flow strongly and tranquilly into the soul. One did not make oneself;\none did not make one's sorrows, even when they arose from one's own\nweakness and perversity. There was a meaning, a significance about it\nall; one was indeed on pilgrimage; and then comes the running to the\nFather's knee, and the casting oneself in utter broken weakness upon the\none Heart that understands perfectly and utterly, and which does, which\nmust, desire the best and truest. \"Give me courage, hope, confidence,\"\nsays the desolate soul.\n\n\n     \"I can endure Thy bitterest decrees,\n      If CERTAIN of Thy Love.\"\n\n\nHow would one amend all this if one had the power? Alas! it could only\nbe by silencing all stupid and clumsy people, all rigid parents, all\ndiplomatic priests, all the horrible natures who lick their lips with\na fierce zest over the pains that befall the men with whom they do not\nagree. I would teach a child, in defiance even of reason, that God is\nthe one Power that loves and understands him through thick and thin;\nthat He punishes with anguish and sorrow; that He exults in forgiveness\nand mercy; that He rejoices in innocent happiness; that He loves\ncourage, and brightness, and kindness, and cheerful self-sacrifice; that\nthings mean, and vile, and impure, and cruel, are things that He does\nnot love to punish, but sad and soiling stains that He beholds with\nshame and tears. This, it seems to me, is the Gospel teaching about God,\nimpossible only because of the hardness of our hearts. But if it were\npossible, a child might grow to feel about sin, not that it was a\nhorrible and unpardonable failure, a thing to afflict oneself drearily\nabout, but that it was rather a thing which, when once spurned, however\nhumiliating, could minister to progress, in a way in which untroubled\nhappiness could not operate--to be forgotten, perhaps, but certainly to\nbe forgiven; a privilege rather than a hindrance, a gate rather than a\nbarrier; a shadow upon the path, out of which one would pass, with such\nspeed as one might, into the blitheness of the free air and the warm\nsun. I remember a terrible lecture which I heard as a little bewildered\nboy at school, anxious to do right, terrified of oppression, and\ncoldness, and evil alike; given by a worthy Evangelical clergyman, with\nlarge spectacles, and a hollow voice, and a great relish for spiritual\nterrors. The subject was \"the exceeding sinfulness of sin,\" a\nproposition which I now see to be as true as if one lectured on the\nexceeding carnality of flesh. But the lecture spoke of the horrible\nand filthy corruption of the human heart, its determined delight in\nwallowing in evil, its desperate wickedness. I believed it, dully and\nhopelessly, as a boy believes what is told him by a voluble elderly\nperson of obvious respectability. But what a detestable theory of life,\nwhat an ugly picture of Divine incompetence!\n\nOf course there are abundance of facts in the world which look\nlike anything but love;--the ruthless and merciless punishment of\ncarelessness and ignorance, the dark laws of heredity, the wastefulness\nand cruelty of disease, the dismal acquiescence of stupid, healthy,\nvirtuous persons, without sympathy or imagination, in the hardships\nwhich they were strong enough to bear unscathed. One of the prime\nterrors of religion is the thought of the heavy-handed, unintelligent,\ntiresome men who would make it a monopoly if they could, and bear\nit triumphantly away from the hands of modest, humble, quiet, and\ntender-hearted people, chiding them as nebulous optimists.\n\nWho are the people in this short life of ours whom one remembers with\ndeep and abiding gratitude? Not those who have rebuked, and punished,\nand satirised, and humiliated us, striking down the stricken, and\nflattening the prostrate--but the people who have been patient with us,\nand kind, who have believed in us, and comforted us, and welcomed us,\nand forgiven us everything; who have given us largely of their love, who\nhave lent without requiring payment, who have given us emotional rather\nthan prudential reasons, who have cared for us, not as a duty but by\nsome divine instinct, who have made endless excuses for us, believing\nthat the true self was there and would emerge, who have pardoned our\nmisdeeds and forgotten our meannesses.\n\nThis is what I would believe of God--that He is not our censorious and\nsevere critic, but our champion and lover, not loving us in spite of\nwhat we are, but because of what we are; Who in the days of our strength\nrejoices in our joy, and does not wish to overshadow it, like the\nconscientious human mentor, with considerations that we must yet be\nwithered like grass; and Who, when the youthful ebullience dies away,\nand the spring grows weak, and we wonder why the zest has died out of\nsimple pleasures, out of agreeable noise and stir, is still with us,\nreminding us that the wisdom we are painfully and surely gaining is a\ndeeper and more lasting quality than even the hot impulses of youth.\n\nOnce in my life have I conceived what might have been, if I had had the\nskill to paint it, an immortal picture. It was thus. I was attending a\nChristmas morning service in a big parish church. I was in a pew facing\neast; close to me, in a transept, in a pew facing sideways, there sat a\nlittle old woman, who had hurried in just before the service began. She\nwas a widow, living, I afterwards learnt, in an almshouse hard by.\nShe was old and feeble, very poor, and her life had been a series of\ncalamities, relieved upon a background of the hardest and humblest\ndrudgery. She had lost her husband years ago by a painful and terrible\nillness. She had lost her children one by one; she was alone in the\nworld, save for a few distant and indifferent relatives. To get into the\nalmshouse had been for her a stroke of incredible and inconceivable good\nfortune. She had a single room, with a tiny kitchen off it. She had\nvery little to say for herself; she could hardly read. No one took any\nparticular interest in her; but she was a kindly, gallant, unselfish old\nsoul, always ready to bear a hand, full of gratitude for the kindnesses\nshe had received--and God alone knows how few they had been.\n\nShe had a small, ugly, homely face, withered and gnarled hands; and she\nwas dressed that day in a little old bonnet of unheard-of age, and in\ndingy, frowsy black clothes, shiny and creased, that came out of their\nbox perhaps half-a-dozen times a year.\n\nBut this morning she was in a festal mood. She had tidied up her little\nroom; she was going to have a bit of meat for dinner, given her by a\nneighbour. She had been sent a Christmas card that morning, and had\npored over it with delight. She liked the stir and company of the\nchurch, and the cheerful air of the holly-berries. She held her book up\nbefore her, though I do not suppose she was even at the right page. She\nkept up a little faint cracked singing in her thin old voice; but when\nthey came to the hymn \"Hark, the herald angels sing,\" which she had\nalways known from childhood, she lifted up her head and sang more\ncourageously:\n\n\n     \"Join the triumph of the skies!\n      With the angelic host proclaim,\n      Christ is born in Bethlehem!\"\n\n\nIt was then that I had my vision. I do not know why, but at the sight of\nthe wrinkled face and the sound of the plaintive uplifted voice, singing\nsuch words, a sudden mist of tears came over my eyes. Then I saw that\nclose behind the old dame there stood a very young and beautiful man. I\ncould see the fresh curling hair thrown back from the clear brow. He was\nclothed in a dim robe, of an opalescent hue and misty texture, and his\nhands were clasped together. It seemed that he sang too; but his eyes\nwere bent upon the old woman with a look, half of tender amusement, and\nhalf of unutterable lovingness. The angelic host! This was one of that\nbright company indeed, going about the Father's business, bringing a\njoyful peace into the hearts of those among whom he moved. And of all\nthe worshippers in that crowded church he had singled out the humblest\nand simplest for his friend and sister. I saw no more that day, for\nthe lines of that presence faded out upon the air in the gleams of the\nfrosty sunshine that came and went among the pillars. But if I could\nhave painted the scene, the pure, untroubled face so close to the old\nworn features, the robes of light side by side with the dingy human\nvesture, it would be a picture that no living eye that had rested on it\nshould forget.\n\nAlas, that one cannot live in moments of inspiration like these! As\nlife goes on, and as we begin perhaps to grow a little nearer to God by\nfaith, we are confronted in our own lives, or in the life of one very\nnear us, by some intolerable and shameful catastrophe. A careless sin\nmakes havoc of a life, and shadows a home with shame; or some generous\nor unselfish nature, useful, beneficent, urgently needed, is struck down\nwith a painful and hopeless malady. This too, we say to ourselves, must\ncome from God; He might have prevented it if He had so willed. What are\nwe to make of it? How are we to translate into terms of love what seems\nlike an act of tyrannous indifference, or deliberate cruelty? Then, I\nthink, it is well to remind ourselves that we can never know exactly the\nconditions of any other human soul. How little we know of our own! How\nlittle we could explain our case to another, even if we were utterly\nsincere! The weaknesses of our nature are often, very tenderly I would\nbelieve, hidden from us; we think ourselves sensitive and weak, when\nin reality we are armed with a stubborn breastplate of complacency\nand pride; or we think ourselves strong, only because the blows of\ncircumstance have been spared us. The more one knows of the most\nafflicted lives, the more often the conviction flashes across us that\nthe affliction is not a wanton outrage, but a delicately adjusted\ntreatment. I remember once that a friend of mine had sent him a rare\nplant, which was set in a big flower-pot, close to a fountain-basin.\nIt never throve; it lived indeed, putting out in the spring a delicate\nstunted foliage, though my friend, who was a careful gardener, could\nnever divine what ailed it. He was away for a few weeks, and the day\nafter he was gone, the flower-pot was broken by a careless garden-boy,\nwho wheeled a barrow roughly past it; the plant, earth and all, fell\ninto the water; the boy removed the broken pieces of the pot, and seeing\nthat the plant had sunk to the bottom of the little pool, never troubled\nhis head to fish it out. When my friend returned, he noticed one day in\nthe fountain a new and luxuriant growth of some unknown plant. He made\ncareful inquiries and found out what had happened. It then came out that\nthe plant was in reality a water-plant, and that it had pined away in\nthe stifling air for want of nourishment, perhaps dimly longing for the\nfresh bed of the pool.\n\nEven so has it been, times without number, with some starving and\nthirsty soul, that has gone on feebly trying to live a maimed life, shut\nup in itself, ailing, feeble. There has descended upon it what looks\nat first sight like a calamity, some affliction unaccountable and\nirreparable; and then it proves that this was the one thing needed; that\nsorrow has brought out some latent unselfishness, or suffering energised\nsome unused faculty of strength and patience.\n\nBut even if it is not so, if we cannot trace in our own lives or the\nlives of others the beneficent influence of suffering, we can always\ntake refuge in one thought. We can see that the one mighty and\ntransforming power on earth is the power of love; we see people\nmake sacrifices, not momentary sacrifices, but lifelong patient\nrenunciations, for the sake of one whom they love; we see a great and\npassionate affection touch into being a whole range of unsuspected\npowers; we see men and women utterly unconscious of pain and weariness,\nutterly unaware that they are acting without a thought of self, if they\ncan but soothe the pain of one dear to them, or win a smile from beloved\nlips; it is not that the selfishness, the indolence, is not there, but\nit is all borne away upon a mighty stream, as the river-wrack spins upon\nthe rising flood.\n\nIf then this marvellous, this amazing power of love can cause men to\nmake, with joy and gladness, sacrifices of which in their loveless\ndays they would have deemed themselves and confessed themselves wholly\nincapable, can we not feel with confidence that the power, which lies\nthus deepest in the heart of the world, lies also deepest in the heart\nof God, of Whom the world is but a faint reflection? It cannot be\notherwise. We may sadly ponder, indeed, why the love that has been, or\nthat might have been, the strength of weary lives should be withdrawn\nor sternly withheld, but we need not be afraid, if we have one generous\nimpulse for another, if we ever put aside a delight that may please or\nattract us, for the sake of one who expects or would value any smallest\nservice--and there are few who cannot feel this--we need not then, I\nsay, doubt that the love which we desire, and which we have somehow\nmissed or lost, is there waiting for us, ours all the time, if we but\nknew it.\n\nAnd even if we miss the sweet influence of love in our lives, is there\nany one who has not, in solitude and dreariness, looked back upon\nthe time when he was surrounded by love and opportunities of love, in\nchildhood or in youth, with a bitter regret that he did not make more of\nit when it was so near to him, that he was so blind and selfish, that he\nwas not a little more tender, a little more kind? I will speak frankly\nfor myself and say that the memories which hurt me most, when I stumble\nupon them, are those of the small occasions when I showed myself\nperverse and hard; when eyes, long since closed, looked at me with\na pathetic expectancy; when I warded off the loving impulse by some\njealous sense of my own rights, some peevish anger at a fancied\ninjustice; when I stifled the smile and withheld the hand, and turned\naway in silence, glad, in that poisonous moment, to feel that I could at\nall events inflict that pain in base requital. One may know that it is\nall forgiven, one may be sure that the misunderstanding has faded in the\nlight of the other dawn, but still the cold base shadow, the thought of\none's perverse cruelty, strikes a gloom upon the mind.\n\nBut with God, when one once begins to draw near to Him, one need have no\nsuch poignant regrets or overshadowing memories; one may say to Him in\none's heart, as simply as a child, that He knows what one has been and\nis, what one might have been and what one desires to be; and one may\ncast oneself at His feet in the overwhelming hope that He will make of\noneself what He would have one to be.\n\nIn the parable of the Prodigal Son, it is not the poor wretch himself,\nwhose miserable motive for returning is plainly indicated--that instead\nof pining in cold and hunger he may be warmed and clothed--who is the\nhero of the story; still less is it the hard and virtuous elder son. The\nhero of the tale is the patient, tolerant, loving father, who had acted,\nas a censorious critic might say, foolishly and culpably, in supplying\nthe dissolute boy with resources, and taking him back without a word of\njust reproach. A sad lack of moral discipline, no doubt! If he had kept\nthe boy in fear and godliness, if he had tied him down to honest work,\nthe disaster need never have happened. Yet the old man, who went so\noften at sundown, we may think, to the crest of the hill, from which he\ncould see the long road winding over the plain to the far-off city, the\nroad by which he had seen his son depart, light-heartedly and full\nof fierce joyful impulses, and along which he was to see the dejected\nfigure, so familiar, so sadly marred, stumbling home--he is the\nmaster-spirit of the sweet and comforting scene. His heart is full of\nutter gladness, for the lost is found. He smiles upon the servants; he\nbids the household rejoice; he can hardly, in his simple joy of heart,\nbelieve that the froward elder brother is vexed and displeased; and his\nwords of entreaty that the brother, too, will enter into the spirit of\nthe hour, are some of the most pathetic and beautiful ever framed in\nhuman speech: \"Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine;\nit was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother\nwas dead, and is alive again, and was lost, and is found.\"\n\nAnd this is, after all, the way in which God deals with us. He gives us\nour portion to spend as we choose; He holds nothing back; and when we\nhave wasted it and brought misery upon ourselves, and return to Him,\neven for the worst of reasons, He has not a word of rebuke or caution;\nHe is simply and utterly filled with joy and love. There are a thousand\ntexts that would discourage us, would bid us believe that God deals\nhardly with us, but it is men that deal hardly with us, it is we\nthat deal hardly with ourselves. This story, which is surely the most\nbeautiful story in the world, gives us the deliberate thought of the\nSaviour, the essence of His teaching; and we may fling aside the bitter\nwarnings of jealous minds, and cast ourselves upon the supreme hope\nthat, if only we will return, we are dealt with even more joyfully than\nif we had never wandered at all.\n\nAnd then perhaps at last, when we have peeped again and again, through\nloss and suffering, at the dark background of life; when we have seen\nthe dreariest corner of the lonely road, where the path grows steep and\nmiry, and the light is veiled by scudding cloud and dripping rain, there\nbegins to dawn upon us the sense of a beautiful and holy patience, the\nthought that these grey ashes of life, in which the glowing cinders\nsink, which once were bright with leaping flame, are not the end--that\nthe flame and glow are there, although momently dispersed. They have\ndone their work; one is warmed and enlivened; one can sit still, feeding\none's fancy on the lapsing embers, just as one saw pictures in the\nfire as an eager child long ago. That high-hearted excitement and that\ncuriosity have faded. Life is very different from what we expected, more\nwholesome, more marvellous, more brief, more inconclusive; but there is\nan intenser, if quieter and more patient, curiosity to wait and see what\nGod is doing for us; and the orange stain and green glow of the sunset,\nthough colder and less jocund, is yet a far more mysterious, tender,\nand beautiful thing than the steady glow of the noonday sun, when the\nshining flies darted hither and thither, and the roses sent out their\nrich fragrance. There is fragrance still, the fragrance of the evening\nflowers, where the western windows look across the misty fields to the\nthickening shadows of the tall trees. But there is something that speaks\nin the gathering gloom, in the darkening sky with its flush of crimson\nfire, that did not speak in the sun-warmed garden and the dancing\nleaves; and what speaks is the mysterious love of God, a thing sweeter\nand more remote than the urgent bliss of the fiery noon, full of\ndelicate mysteries and appealing echoes. We have learnt that the\ndarkness is no darkness with Him; and the soul which beat her wings\nso passionately in the brighter light of the hot morning, now at last\nbegins to dream of whither she is bound, and the dear shade where she\nwill fold her weary wing.\n\nHow often has the soul in her dreariness cried out, \"One effort more!\"\nBut that is done with for ever. She is patient now; she believes at\nlast; she labours no longer at the oar, but she is borne upon the moving\ntide; she is on her way to the deep Heart of God.\n\n\n\n\nEPILOGUE\n\n\nI have wandered far enough in my thought, it would seem, from the lonely\ngrange in its wide pastures, and the calm expanse of fen; and I should\nwish once more to bring my reader back home with me to the sheltered\ngarden, and the orchard knee-deep in grass, and the embowering elms; for\nthere is one word more to be said, and that may be best said at home;\nthough our experience is not limited by time or place. It was on the\nlonely ridge, strewn with boulders and swept by night-winds, when the\ndarkness closed in drearily about him, that Jacob, a homeless exile, in\nthe hour of his utmost desolation, saw the ladder whose golden head was\nset at the very foot of God, thronged with bright messengers of strength\nand hope. And again it was in the familiar homestead, with every corner\nrich in gentle memories, that the spirit of terror turned the bitter\nstream of anguish, as from the vent of some thunderous cloud, upon the\nsad head of Job. We may turn a corner in life, and be confronted perhaps\nwith an uncertain shape of grief and despair, whom we would fain banish\nfrom our shuddering sight, perhaps with some solemn form of heavenly\nradiance, whom we may feel reluctant in our unworthiness to entertain.\nBut in either case, such times as those, when we wrestle all night with\nthe angel, not knowing if he wishes us well or ill, ignorant of his name\nand his mien alike, are better than hours spent in indolent contentment,\nin the realisation of our placid and petty designs. For, after all, it\nis the quality rather than the quantity of our experience that matters;\nit is easy enough to recognise that, when we are working light-heartedly\nand eagerly at some brave design, and seeing the seed we plant springing\nup all about us in fertile rows in the garden of God. But what of those\ndays when our lot seems only to endure, when we can neither scheme nor\nexecute, when the old volubility and vitality desert us, and our one\ncare is just to make our dreary presence as little of a burden and a\nshadow as possible to those whom we love? We must then remind ourselves,\nnot once or twice, that nothing can separate us from the Father of all,\neven though our own wilfulness and perversity may have drawn about us\na cloud of sorrow. We are perhaps most in God's mind when we seem most\nwithdrawn from Him. He is nearer us when we seek for Him and cannot find\nHim, than when we forget Him in laughter and self-pleasing. And we must\nremember too that it is neither faithful nor fruitful to abide wilfully\nin sadness, to clasp our cares close, to luxuriate in them. There is a\nbeautiful story of Mrs. Charles Kingsley, who long survived her husband.\nNever perhaps had two souls been united by so close a bond of chivalry\nand devotion. \"Whenever I find myself thinking too much about Charles,\"\nshe said in the days of her grief, \"I find and read the most sensational\nnovel I can. People may think it heartless, but hearts were given us to\nlove with, not to break.\" And we must deal with our sorrows as we\ndeal with any other gift of God, courageously and temperately, not\nfaint-heartedly or wilfully; not otherwise can they be blest to us. We\nmust not pettishly reject consolation and distraction. Pain is a\ngreat angel, but we must wrestle with him, until he bless us! and the\nblessings he can bring us are first a wholesome shame at our old selfish\ningratitude in the untroubled days, when we took care and pleasure\ngreedily; and next, if we meet him faithfully, he can make our heart\ngo out to all our brothers and sisters who suffer in this brief and\ntroubled life of ours. For we are here to learn something, if we can but\nspell it out; and thus it is morbid to indulge regrets and remorse too\nmuch over our failures and mistakes; for it is through them that we\nlearn. We must be as brave as we can, and dare to grudge no pang that\nbrings us nearer to the reality of things.\n\nReality! that is the secret; for we who live in dreams, who pursue\nbeauty, who are haunted as by a passion for that sweet quality that\nthrills alike in the wayside flower and the orange pomp of the setting\nsun, that throbs in written word and uttered melody, that calls to\nus suddenly and secretly in the glance of an eye and the gesture of a\nhand,--we, I say, who discern these gracious motions, tend to live\nin them too luxuriously, to idealise life, to make out of our daily\npilgrimage, our goings and comings, a golden untroubled picture; it\nneed not be a false or a base effort to escape from what is sordid\nor distasteful; but for all that we run a sore risk in yielding too\nplacidly to our visions; and as with the Lady of Shalott, it may be well\nfor us if our woven web be rent aside, and our magic mirror broken; nay,\neven if death comes to us at the close of the mournful song. Thus then\nwe draw near and look reluctant and dismayed into the bare truth of\nthings. We see, it may be, our poor pretences tossed aside, and the\nembroidered robe in which we have striven to drape our leanness torn\nfrom us; but we must gaze as steadily as we can, and pray that the\nvision be not withdrawn till it has wrought its perfect work within us;\nand then, with energies renewed, we may set out again on pilgrimage,\nhappy in this, that we no longer mistake the arbour of refreshment for\nthe goal of our journey, or the quiet house of welcome, that receives\nus in the hour of weariness, for the heavenly city, with all its bright\nmansions and radiant palaces.\n\nIt is experience that matters, as I have said; not what we do, but how\nwe do it. The material things that we collect about us in our passage\nthrough life, that we cling to so pathetically, and into which something\nof our very selves seems to pass, these things are little else than\nsnares and hindrances to our progress--like the clay that sticks to the\nfeet of the traveller, like the burden of useless things that he carries\npainfully with him, things which he cannot bring himself to throw away\nbecause they might possibly turn out to be useful, and which meanwhile\nclank and clatter fruitlessly about the laden beast, and weigh him down.\nWhat we have rather to do is to disengage ourselves from these things:\nfrom the money which we do not need, but which may help us some day;\nfrom the luxuries we do not enjoy; from the furniture we trail about\nwith us from home to home. All those things get a hold of us and tie\nus to earth, even when the associations with them are dear and tender\nenough. The mistake we make is not in loving them--they are or can be\nsigns to us of the love and care of God--but we must refrain from loving\nthe possession of them.\n\nTake, for instance, one of the least mundane of things, the knowledge we\npainfully acquire, and the possession of which breeds in us such lively\nsatisfaction. If it is our duty to acquire knowledge and to impart it,\nwe must acquire it; but it is the faithfulness with which we toil, not\nthe accumulations we gain that are blessed to us--\"knowledge comes but\nwisdom lingers,\" says the poet--and it is the heavenly wisdom of which\nwe ought to be in search; for what remains to us of our equipment, when\nwe part from the world and migrate elsewhere, is not the actual stuff\nthat we have collected, whether it be knowledge or money, but the\npatience, the diligence, the care which we have exercised in gaining\nthese things, the character, as affected by the work we have done;\nbut our mistake is to feel that we are idle and futile, unless we have\ntangible results to show; when perhaps the hours in which we sat idle,\nout of misery or mere feebleness, are the most fruitful hours of all for\nthe growth of the soul.\n\nThe great savant dies. What is lost? Not a single fact or a single\ntruth, but only his apprehension, his collection of certain truths; not\na single law of nature perishes or is altered thereby. We measure worth\nby prominence and fame; but the destiny of the simplest and vilest\nof the human race is as august, as momentous as the destiny of the\nmightiest king or conqueror; it is not our admiration of each other that\nweighs with God, but our nearness to, our dependence on Him. Yet, even\nso, we must not deceive ourselves in the matter. We must be sure that it\nis the peace of God that we indeed desire, and not merely a refined kind\nof leisure; that we are in search of simplicity, and not merely afraid\nof work. We must not glorify a mild spectatorial pleasure by the name of\nphilosophy, or excuse our indolence under the name of contemplation.\nWe must abstain deliberately, not tamely hang back; we must desire the\nKingdom of Heaven for itself, and not for the sake of the things that\nare added if we seek it. If the Scribes and Pharisees have their reward\nfor ambition and self-seeking, the craven soul has its reward too, and\nthat reward is a sick emptiness of spirit. And then if we have erred\nthus, if we have striven to pretend to ourselves that we were careless\nof the prize, when in reality we only feared the battle, what can we\ndo? How can we repair our mistake? There is but one way; we can own\nthe pitiful fault, and not attempt to glorify it; we can face the\nexperience, take our petty and shameful wages and cast ourselves afresh,\nin our humiliation and weakness, upon God, rejoicing that we can\nat least feel the shame, and enduring the chastisement with patient\nhopefulness; for that very suffering is a sign that God has not left us\nto ourselves, but is giving us perforce the purification which we could\nnot take to ourselves.\n\nAnd even thus, life is not all an agony, a battle, an endurance; there\nare sweet hours of refreshment and tranquillity between the twilight\nand the dawn; hours when we can rest a little in the shadow, and see the\nbrimming stream of life flowing quietly but surely to its appointed end.\nI watched to-day an old shepherd, on a wide field, moving his wattled\nhurdles, one by one, in the slow, golden afternoon; and a whole burden\nof anxious thoughts fell off me for a while, leaving me full of a quiet\nhope for an end which was not yet, but that certainly awaited me; of\na day when I too might perhaps move as unreflectingly, as calmly,\nin harmony with the everlasting Will, as the old man moved about his\nfamiliar task. Why that harmony should be so blurred and broken, why we\nshould leave undone the things that we desire to do, and do the things\nthat we do not desire, that is still a deep and sad mystery; yet even in\nthe hour of our utmost wilfulness, we can never wander beyond the range\nof the Will that has made us, and bidden us to be what we are. And thus\nas I sit in this low-lit hour, there steals upon the heart the message\nof hope and healing; the scent of the great syringa bush leaning out\ninto the twilight, the sound of the fitful breeze laying here and there\na caressing hand upon the leaves, the soft radiance of the evening star\nhung in the green spaces of the western sky, each and all blending into\nincommunicable dreams.","title":"At Large","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":83973}