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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/30326-8.txt b/30326-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..10a7261 --- /dev/null +++ b/30326-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6281 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Thread of Gold, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Thread of Gold + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Release Date: October 25, 2009 [EBook #30326] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREAD OF GOLD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +THE THREAD OF GOLD + + +BY ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON + + +FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE + +AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF QUIET" + + + + _Quem locum nôsti mihi destinatum?_ + _Quo meos gressus regis?_ + + + +LONDON + +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W + +1912 + + + + + FIRST EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1906 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1906 + SECOND EDITION, . . . . . . . . . December 1906 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1907 + THIRD EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . October 1907 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1907 + FOURTH EDITION (1/- net) . . . . . May 1910 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1910 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1911 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . May 1911 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . July 1912 + + + + +[Transcriber's note: The source book had no Table of Contents and its +chapters were numbered only, not titled. However, its pages had +running headers which changed with each chapter. Those headers have +been converted to chapter titles, and collected here as the Table of +Contents.] + + +CONTENTS + + Preface + Introduction (1906) + Introduction + I. The Red Spring + II. The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House + III. Leucocholy + IV. The Flower + V. The Fens + VI. The Well and the Chapel + VII. The Cuckoo + VIII. Spring-time + IX. The Hare + X. The Diplodocus + XI. The Beetle + XII. The Farm-yard + XIII. The Artist + XIV. Young Love + XV. A Strange Gathering + XVI. The Cripple + XVII. Oxford + XVIII. Authorship + XIX. Hamlet + XX. A Sealed Spirit + XXI. Leisure + XXII. The Pleasures of Work + XXIII. The Abbey + XXIV. Wordsworth + XXV. Dorsetshire + XXVI. Portland + XXVII. Canterbury Tower + XXVIII. Prayer + XXIX. The Death-bed of Jacob + XXX. By the Sea of Galilee + XXXI. The Apocalypse + XXXII. The Statue + XXXIII. The Mystery of Suffering + XXXIV. Music + XXXV. The Faith of Christ + XXXVI. The Mystery of Evil + XXXVII. Renewal + XXXVIII. The Secret + XXXIX. The Message + XL. After Death + XLI. The Eternal Will + XLII. Until the Time + Conclusion + + + + +PREFACE + +I sate to-day, in a pleasant hour, at a place called _The Seven +Springs_, high up in a green valley of the _Cotswold_ hills. Close +beside the road, seven clear rills ripple out into a small pool, and +the air is musical with the sound of running water. Above me, in a +little thicket, a full-fed thrush sent out one long-drawn cadence after +another, in the joy of his heart, while the lengthening shadows of bush +and tree crept softly over the pale sward of the old pasture-lands, in +the westering light of the calm afternoon. + +These springs are the highest head-waters of the _Thames_, and that +fact is stated in a somewhat stilted Latin hexameter carved on a stone +of the wall beside the pool. The so-called _Thames-head_ is in a +meadow down below _Cirencester_, where a deliberate engine pumps up, +from a hidden well, thousands of gallons a day of the purest water, +which begins the service of man at once by helping to swell the scanty +flow of the _Thames_ and _Severn Canal_. But _The Seven Springs_ are +the highest hill-fount of Father _Thames_ for all that, streaming as +they do from the eastward ridge of the great oolite crest of the downs +that overhang _Cheltenham_. As soon as those rills are big enough to +form a stream, the gathering of waters is known as the _Churn_, which, +speeding down by _Rendcomb_ with its ancient oaks, and _Cerney_, in a +green elbow of the valley, join the _Thames_ at _Cricklade_. + +It was of the essence of poetry to feel that the water-drops which thus +babbled out at my feet in the spring sunshine would be moving, how many +days hence, beside the green playing-fields at _Eton_, scattered, +diminished, travel-worn, polluted; but still, under night and stars, +through the sunny river-reaches, through hamlet and city, by +water-meadow or wharf, the same and no other. And half in fancy, half +in earnest, I bound upon the heedless waters a little message of love +for the fields and trees so dear to me. + +What a strange parable it all made! the sparkling drops so soon lost to +sight and thought alike, each with its own definite place in the +limitless mind of God, all numbered, none forgotten; each +drop,--bright, new-born, and fresh as it appeared, racing out so +light-heartedly into the sun,--yet as old, and older, than the rocks +from which it sprang! How often had those water-drops been woven into +cloud-wreaths, through what centuries they had leapt and plunged among +sea-billows, or lain cold and dark in the ocean depths, since the day +when this mass of matter that we call the earth had been cut off and +sent whirling into space, a molten drop from the fierce vortex of its +central sun! And, what is the strangest thought of all, I can sit here +myself, a tiny atom spun from drift of storms, and concourse of frail +dust, and, however dimly and faintly, depict the course of things, +trace, through some subtle faculty, the movement of the mind of God +through the aeons; and yet, though I can send my mind into the past and +the future, though I can see the things that are not and the things +that are, I am denied the least inkling of what it all signifies, what +the slow movement of the ages is all aimed at, and even what the swift +interchange of light and darkness, pain and pleasure, sickness and +health, love and hate, is meant to mean to me--whether there _is_ a +purpose and an end at all, or whether I am just allowed, for my short +space of days, to sit, a bewildered spectator, at some vast and +unintelligible drama. + +Yet to-day the soft sunshine, the babbling springs, the valley brimmed +with haze, the bird's sweet song, all seem framed to assure me that God +means us well, urgently, intensely well. "My Gospel," wrote one to me +the other day, whose feet move lightly on the threshold of life, "is +the Gospel of contentment. I do not see the necessity of asking myself +uneasy and metaphysical questions about the Why and the Wherefore and +the What." The necessity? Ah, no! But if one is forced, against +one's will and hope, to go astray in the wilderness out of the way, to +find oneself lonely and hungry, one must needs pluck the bitter berries +of the place for such sustenance as one can. I doubt, indeed, whether +one is able to compel oneself into and out of certain trains of +thought. If one dislikes and dreads introspection, one will doubtless +be happier for finding something definite to do instead. But even so, +the thoughts buzz in one's ears; and then, too, the very wonder about +such things has produced some of the most beautiful things in the +world, such as _Hamlet_, or Keats' _Ode to the Nightingale_, things we +could not well do without. Who is to decide which is the nobler, +wiser, righter course? To lose oneself in a deep wonder, with an +anxious hope that one may discern the light; or, on the other hand, to +mingle with the world, to work, to plan, to strive, to talk, to do the +conventional things? We choose (so we call it) the path that suits us +best, though we disguise our motives in many ways, because we hardly +dare to confess to ourselves how frail is our faculty of choice at all. +But, to speak frankly, what we all do is to follow the path where we +feel most at home, most natural; and the longer I live the more I feel +that we do the things we are impelled to do, the works prepared for us +to walk in, as the old collect says. How often, in real life, do we +see any one making a clean sweep of all his conditions and +surroundings, to follow the path of the soul? How often do we see a +man abjure wealth, or resist ambition, or disregard temperament, +_unexpectedly_? Not once, I think, to speak for myself, in the whole +of my experience. + +This, then, is the _motif_ of the following book: that whether we are +conquerors or conquered, triumphant or despairing, prosperous or +pitiful, well or ailing, we are all these things through Him that loves +us. We are here, I believe, to learn rather than to teach, to endure +rather than to act, to be slain rather than to slay; we are tolerated +in our errors and our hardness, in our conceit and our security, by the +great, kindly, smiling Heart that bade us be. We can make things a +little easier for ourselves and each other; but the end is not there: +what we are meant to become is joyful, serene, patient, waiting +momently upon God; we are to become, if we can, content not to be +content, full of tenderness and loving-kindness for all the frail +beings that, like ourselves, suffer and rejoice. But though we are +bound to ameliorate, to improve, to lessen, so far as we can, the +brutal promptings of the animal self that cause the greatest part of +our unhappiness, we have yet to learn to hope that when things seem at +their worst, they are perhaps at their best, for then we are, indeed, +at work upon our hard lesson; and perhaps the day may come when, +looking back upon the strange tangle of our lives, we may see that the +time was most wasted when we were serene, easy, prosperous, and +unthinking, and most profitable when we were anxious, overshadowed, and +suffering. _The Thread of Gold_ is the fibre of limitless hope that +runs through our darkest dreams; and just as the water-drop which I saw +break to-day from the darkness of the hill, and leap downwards in its +channel, will see and feel, in its seaward course, many sweet and +gentle things, as well as many hard and evil matters, so I, in a year +of my pilgrimage, have set down in this book, a frank picture of many +little experiences and thoughts, both good and evil. Sometimes the +water-drop glides in the sun among mossy ledges, or lingers by the edge +of the copse, where the hazels lean together; but sometimes it is +darkened and polluted, so that it would seem that the foul oozings that +infect it could never be purged away. But the turbid elements, the +scum, the mud, the slime--each of which, after all, have their place in +the vast economy of things--float and sink to their destined abode; and +the crystal drop, released and purified, runs joyfully onwards in its +appointed way. + +A. C. B. + +CIRENCESTER, 8_th April_ 1907. + + + + +INTRODUCTION (1906) + +I am glad to have the opportunity of saying a few words in my own name +about this book, because the original introduction seems to have misled +some of my readers; and as I have had many kind, encouraging, and +sacred messages about the book from very unexpected quarters, I should +like to add a few further words of explanation. + +One of the difficulties under which literary art seems to me to labour +is that it feels bound to run in certain channels, to adopt stereotyped +and conventional media of expression. What can be more conventional +than the average play, or the average novel? People in real life do +not behave or talk--at least, this is my experience--in the smallest +degree as they behave or talk in novels or plays; life as a rule has no +plot, and very few dramatic situations. In real life the adventures +are scanty, and for most of us existence moves on in a commonplace and +inconsequent way. Misunderstandings are not cleared up, complexities +are not unravelled. I think it is time that more unconventional forms +of expression should be discovered and used; and at least, we can try +experiments; the experiment that I have here tried, is to present a +sort of _liber studiorum_, a portfolio of sketches and impressions. +The only coherence they possess is that, at the time when they were +written, I was much preoccupied with the wonder as to whether an +optimistic view of life was justified. The world is a very mysterious +place, and at first sight it presents a sad scene of confusion. The +wrong people often seem to be punished; blessings, such as those heaped +upon the head of the patriarch Job, do not seem to be accumulated upon +the righteous. In fact, the old epigram that prosperity is the +blessing of the Old Testament, adversity the blessing of the New, seems +frequently justified. But, after all, the only soul-history that one +knows well enough to say whether or not the experience of life is +adapted to the qualities of the particular soul, is one's own history; +and, speaking for myself, I can but say, looking back upon my life, +that it does seem to have been regulated hitherto by a very tender and +intimate kind of guidance, though I did not always see how delicate the +adaptation of it was at the time. The idea of this book, that there is +a certain golden thread of hope and love interwoven with all our lives, +running consistently through the coarsest and darkest fabric, was what +I set out to illustrate rather than to prove. Everything that bore +upon this fact, while the book was being written, I tried to express as +simply and as lucidly as I could. The people who have thought the book +formless or lacking in structure, are perfectly right. It is not, and +it did not set out to be, a finished picture, with a due subordination +of groups and backgrounds. To me personally, though a finished picture +is a beautiful and an admirable thing, the loose, unconsidered sketches +and studies of an artist have a special charm. Of an artist, I say; +have I then a claim to be considered an artist? I cannot answer that +question, but I will go further and say that the sketches of the +humblest amateur have an interest for me, which their finished pictures +often lack. One sees a revelation of personality, one sees what sort +of things strike an individual mind as beautiful, one sees the method +with which it deals with artistic difficulties. The most interesting +things of the kind I have ever seen are the portfolios of sketches by +Leonardo da Vinci in the Royal library at Windsor; outlines of heads, +features, flowers, backgrounds, strange engines of war, wings of +birds--the _débris_, almost, of the studio--are there piled up in +confusion. And in a lesser degree the same is true of all such +collections, though perhaps this shows that one is more interested in +personality than in artistic performance. + +A good many people, too, have a gift for presenting a simple impression +of a beautiful thing, who have not the patience or the power of +combination necessary for working out a finished design; and surely it +is foolish to let the convention of art overrule a man's capacities? +To allow that, to acquiesce in silence, to say that because one cannot +express a thing in a certain way, one will not express it at all, seems +to me to be making an instinct into a moral sanction. One must express +whatever one desires to express, as clearly and as beautifully as +possible, and one must take one's chance as to whether it is a work of +art. To hold one's tongue, if anything appears to be worth saying, +because one does not know the exact code of the professionals, is as +foolish as if a man born in a certain class of society were to say that +he would never go to any social gathering except those of his precise +social equals, because he was afraid of making mistakes of etiquette. +Etiquette is not a matter of principle; it was not one of the things of +which Moses saw the pattern in the Mount! The only rule is not to be +pretentious or assuming, not to claim that one's efforts are +necessarily worthy of admiration and attention. + +There is a better reason too. Orthodoxy in art is merely compliance +with the instinctive methods of great artists, and no one ever +succeeded in art who did not make a method of his own. Originality is +like a fountain-head of fresh water; orthodoxy is too often only the +unimpeachable fluid of the water company. The best hope for the art +and literature of a nation is that men should try to represent and +express things that they have thought beautiful in an individual way. +They do not always succeed, it is true; sometimes they fail for lack of +force, sometimes for lack of a sympathetic audience. I have found, in +the case of this book, a good deal of sincere sympathy; and where it +fails, it fails through lack of force to express thoughts that I have +felt with a profound intensity. I have had critics who have frankly +disliked the book, and I do not in the least quarrel with them for +expressing their opinion; but one does not write solely for the +critics; and on the other hand, I can humbly and gratefully say that I +have received many messages, of pleasure in, and even gratitude for, +the book which leave me in no sort of doubt that it was worth writing; +though I wish with all my heart that it had been worthier of its +motive, and had been better able to communicate the delight of my +visions and dreams. + +ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON. + + MAGDALENE COLLEGE, + CAMBRIDGE, 24_th November_ 1906. + + + + +THE THREAD OF GOLD + + +INTRODUCTION + +I have for a great part of my life desired, perhaps more than I have +desired anything else, to make a beautiful book; and I have tried, +perhaps too hard and too often, to do this, without ever quite +succeeding; by that I mean that my little books, when finished, were +not worthy to be compared with the hope that I had had of them. I +think now that I tried to do too many things in my books, to amuse, to +interest, to please persons who might read them; and I fear, too, that +in the back of my mind there lay a thought, like a snake in its +hole--the desire to show others how fine I could be. I tried honestly +not to let this thought rule me; whenever it put its head out, I drove +it back; but of course I ought to have waited till it came out, and +then killed it, if I had only known how to do that; but I suppose I had +a secret tenderness for the little creature as being indeed a part of +myself. + +But now I have hit upon a plan which I hope may succeed. I do not +intend to try to be interesting and amusing, or even fine. I mean to +put into my book only the things that appear to me deep and strange and +beautiful; and I can happily say that things seem to me to be more and +more beautiful every day. As when a man goes on a journey, and sees, +in far-off lands, things that please him, things curious and rare, and +buys them, not for himself or for his own delight, but for the delight +of one that sits at home, whom he loves and thinks of, and wishes every +day that he could see;--well, I will try to be like that. I will keep +the thought of those whom I love best in my mind--and God has been very +good in sending me many, both old and young, whom I love--and I will +try to put down in the best words that I can find the things that +delight me, not for my sake but for theirs. For one of the strangest +things of all about beauty is, that it is often more clearly perceived +when expressed by another, than when we see it for ourselves. The only +difficulty that I see ahead is that many of the things that I love best +and that give me the best joy, are things that cannot be told, cannot +be translated into words: deep and gracious mysteries, rays of light, +delicate sounds. + +But I will keep out of my book all the things, so far as I can, which +bring me mere trouble and heaviness; cares and anxieties and bodily +pains and dreariness and unkind thoughts and anger, and all +uncleanness. I cannot tell why our life should be so sadly bound up +with these matters; the only comfort is that even out of this dark and +heavy soil beautiful flowers sometimes spring. For instance, the +pressure of a care, an anxiety, a bodily pain, has sometimes brought +with it a perception which I have lacked when I have been bold and +joyful and robust. A fit of anger too, by clearing away little clouds +of mistrust and suspicion, has more than once given me a friendship +that endures and blesses me. + +But beauty, innocent beauty of thought, of sound, of sight, seems to me +to be perhaps the most precious thing in the world, and to hold within +it a hope which stretches away even beyond the grave. Out of silence +and nothingness we arise; we have our short space of sight and hearing; +and then into the silence we depart. But in that interval we are +surrounded by much joy. Sometimes the path is hard and lonely, and we +stumble in miry ways; but sometimes our way is through fields and +thickets, and the valley is full of sunset light. If we could be more +calm and quiet, less anxious about the impression we produce, more +quick to welcome what is glad and sweet, more simple, more contented, +what a gain would be there! I wonder more and more every day that I +live that we do not value better the thought of these calmer things, +because the least effort to reach them seems to pull down about us a +whole cluster of wholesome fruits, grapes of Eschol, apples of +Paradise. We are kept back, it seems to me, by a kind of silly fear of +ridicule, from speaking more sincerely and instantly of these delights. + +I read the _Life_ of a great artist the other day who received a title +of honour from the State. I do not think he cared much for the title +itself, but he did care very much for the generous praise of his +friends that the little piece of honour called forth. I will not quote +his exact words, but he said in effect that he wondered why friends +should think it necessary to wait for such an occasion to indulge in +the noble pleasure of praising, and why they should not rather have a +day in the year when they could dare to write to the friends whom they +admired and loved, and praise them for being what they were. Of course +if such a custom were to become general, it would be clumsily spoilt by +foolish persons, as all things are spoilt which become conventional. +But the fact remains that the sweet pleasure of praising, of +encouraging, of admiring and telling our admiration, is one that we +English people are sparing of, to our own loss and hurt. It is just as +false to refrain from saying a generous thing for fear of being thought +insincere and what is horribly called gushing, as it is to say a hard +thing for the sake of being thought straightforward. If a hard thing +must be said, let us say it with pain and tenderness, but faithfully. +And if a pleasant thing can be said, let us say it with joy, and with +no less faithfulness. + +Now I must return to my earlier purpose, and say that I mean that this +little book shall go about with me, and that I will write in it only +strange and beautiful things. I have many businesses in the world, and +take delight in many of them; but we cannot always be busy. So when I +have seen or heard something that gives me joy, whether it be a new +place, or, what is better still, an old familiar place transfigured by +some happy accident of sun or moon into a mystery; or if I have been +told of a generous and beautiful deed, or heard even a sad story that +has some seed of hope within it; or if I have met a gracious and kindly +person; or if I have read a noble book, or seen a rare picture or a +curious flower; or if I have heard a delightful music; or if I have +been visited by one of those joyful and tender thoughts that set my +feet the right way, I will try to put it down, God prospering me. For +thus I think that I shall be truly interpreting his loving care for the +little souls of men. And I call my book _The Thread of Gold_, because +this beauty of which I have spoken seems to me a thing which runs like +a fine and precious clue through the dark and sunless labyrinths of the +world. + +And, lastly, I pray God with all my heart, that he may, in this matter, +let me help and not hinder his will. I often cannot divine what his +will is, but I have seen and heard enough to be sure that it is high +and holy, even when it seems to me hard to discern, and harder still to +follow. Nothing shall here be set down that does not seem to me to be +perfectly pure and honest; nothing that is not wise and true. It may +be a vain hope that I nourish, but I think that God has put it into my +heart to write this book, and I hope that he will allow me to +persevere. And yet indeed I know that I am not fit for so holy a task, +but perhaps he will give me fitness, and cleanse my tongue with a coal +from his altar fire. + + + + +I + +The Red Spring + +Very deep in this enchanted land of green hills in which I live, lies a +still and quiet valley. No road runs along it; but a stream with many +curves and loops, deep-set in hazels and alders, moves brimming down. +There is no house to be seen; nothing but pastures and little woods +which clothe the hill-sides on either hand. In one of these fields, +not far from the stream, lies a secluded spot that I visit duly from +time to time. It is hard enough to find the place; and I have +sometimes directed strangers to it, who have returned without +discovering it. Some twenty yards away from the stream, with a ring of +low alders growing round it, there is a pool; not like any other pool I +know. The basin in which it lies is roughly circular, some ten feet +across. I suppose it is four or five feet deep. From the centre of +the pool rises an even gush of very pure water, with a certain hue of +green, like a faintly-tinted gem. The water in its flow makes a +perpetual dimpling on the surface; I have never known it to fail even +in the longest droughts; and in sharp frosty days there hangs a little +smoke above it, for the water is of a noticeable warmth. + +This spring is strongly impregnated with iron, so strongly that it has +a sharp and medical taste; from what secret bed of metal it comes I do +not know, but it must be a bed of great extent, for, though the spring +runs thus, day by day and year by year, feeding its waters with the +bitter mineral over which it passes, it never loses its tinge; and the +oldest tradition of the place is that it was even so centuries ago. + +All the rest of the pool is full of strange billowy cloudlike growths, +like cotton-wool or clotted honey, all reddened with the iron of the +spring; for it rusts on thus coming to the air. But the orifice you +can always see, and that is of a dark blueness; out of which the pure +green water rises among the vaporous and filmy folds, runs away briskly +out of the pool in a little channel among alders, all stained with the +same orange tints, and falls into the greater stream at a loop, tinging +its waters for a mile. + +It is said to have strange health-giving qualities; and the water is +drunk beneath the moon by old country folk for wasting and weakening +complaints. Its strength and potency have no enmity to animal life, +for the water-voles burrow in the banks and plunge with a splash in the +stream; but it seems that no vegetable thing can grow within it, for +the pool and channel are always free of weeds. + +I like to stand upon the bank and watch the green water rise and dimple +to the top of the pool, and to hear it bickering away in its rusty +channel. But the beauty of the place is not a simple beauty; there is +something strange and almost fierce about the red-stained water-course; +something uncanny and terrifying about the filmy orange clouds that +stir and sway in the pool; and there sleeps, too, round the edges of +the basin a bright and viscous scum, with a certain ugly radiance, shot +with colours that are almost too sharp and fervid for nature. It seems +as though some diligent alchemy was at work, pouring out from moment to +moment this strangely tempered potion. In summer it is more bearable +to look upon, when the grass is bright and soft, when the tapestry of +leaves and climbing plants is woven over the skirts of the thicket, +when the trees are in joyful leaf. But in the winter, when all tints +are low and spare, when the pastures are yellowed with age, and the +hillside wrinkled with cold, when the alder-rods stand up stiff and +black, and the leafless tangled boughs are smooth like wire; then the +pool has a certain horror, as it pours out its rich juice, all overhung +with thin steam. + +But I doubt not that I read into it some thoughts of my own; for it was +on such a day of winter, when the sky was full of inky clouds, and the +wood murmured like a falling sea in the buffeting wind, that I made a +grave and sad decision beside the red pool, that has since tinged my +life, as the orange waters tinge the pale stream into which they fall. +The shadow of that severe resolve still broods about the place for me. +How often since in thought have I threaded the meadows, and looked with +the inward eye upon the green water rising, rising, and the crowded +orange fleeces of the pool! But stern though the resolve was, it was +not an unhappy one; and it has brought into my life a firm and tonic +quality, which seems to me to hold within it something of the +astringent savour of the medicated waters, and perhaps something of +their health-giving powers as well. + + + + +II + +The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House + +I was making a vague pilgrimage to-day in a distant and unfamiliar part +of the country, a region that few people ever visit, and saw two things +that moved me strangely. I left the high-road to explore a hamlet that +lay down in a broad valley to the left; and again diverged from the +beaten track to survey an old grange that lay at a little distance +among the fields. Turning a corner by some cottages, I saw a small +ancient chapel, of brown weathered stone, covered with orange lichen, +the roof of rough stone tiles. In the narrow graveyard round it, the +grass grew long and rank; the gateway was choked by briars. I could +see that the windows of the tiny building were broken. I have never +before in England seen a derelict church, and I clambered over the wall +to examine it more closely. It stood very beautifully; from the low +wall of the graveyard, on the further side, you could look over a wide +extent of rich water-meadows, fed by full streams; there was much +ranunculus in flower on the edges of the water-courses, and a few +cattle moved leisurely about with a peaceful air. Far over the +meadows, out of a small grove of trees, a manor-house held up its +enquiring chimneys. The door of the chapel was open, and I have seldom +seen a more pitiful sight than it revealed. The roof within was of a +plain and beautiful design, with carved bosses, and beams of some dark +wood. The chapel was fitted with oak Jacobean woodwork, pews, a +reading-desk, and a little screen. At the west was a tiny balustraded +gallery. But the whole was a scene of wretched confusion. The +woodwork was mouldering, the red cloth of the pulpit hung raggedly +down, the leaves of the great prayer-book fluttered about the pavement, +in the draught from the door. The whole place was gnawed by rats and +shockingly befouled by birds; there was a litter of rotting nests upon +the altar itself. Yet in the walls were old memorial tablets, and the +passage of the nave was paved with lettered graves. It brought back to +me the beautiful lines-- + + "En ara, ramis ilicis obsita, + Quae sacra Chryses nomina fert deae, + Neglecta; jamdudum sepultus + Aedituus jacet et sacerdos." + +Outside the sun fell peacefully on the mellow walls, and the starlings +twittered in the roof; but inside the deserted shrine there was a sense +of broken trust, of old memories despised, of the altar of God shamed +and dishonoured. It was a pious design to build the little chapel +there for the secluded hamlet; and loving thought and care had gone to +making the place seemly and beautiful. The very stone of the wall, and +the beam of the roof cried out against the hard and untender usage that +had laid the sanctuary low. Here children had been baptized, tender +marriage vows plighted, and the dead laid to rest; and this was the +end. I turned away with a sense of deep sadness; the very sunshine +seemed blurred with a shadow of dreariness and shame. + +Then I made my way, by a stony road, towards the manor-house; and +presently could see its gables at the end of a pleasant avenue of +limes; but no track led thither. The gate was wired up, and the drive +overgrown with grass. Soon, however, I found a farm-road which led up +to the house from the village. On the left of the manor lay prosperous +barns and byres, full of sleek pigs and busy crested fowls. The teams +came clanking home across the water-meadows. The house itself became +more and more beautiful as I approached. It was surrounded by a moat, +and here, close at hand, stood another ancient chapel, in seemly +repair. All round the house grew dense thickets of sprawling laurels, +which rose in luxuriance from the edge of the water. Then I crossed a +little bridge with a broken parapet; and in front of me stood the house +itself. I have seldom seen a more perfectly proportioned or +exquisitely coloured building. There were three gables in the front, +the central one holding a beautiful oriel window, with a fine oak door +below. The whole was built of a pale red brick, covered with a grey +lichen that cast a shimmering light over the front. Tall chimneys of +solid grace rose from a stone-shingled roof. The coigns, parapets and +mullions were all of a delicately-tinted orange stone. To the right +lay a big walled garden, full of flowers growing with careless +richness, the whole bounded by the moat, and looking out across the +broad green water-meadows, beyond which the low hills rose softly in +gentle curves and dingles. + +A whole company of amiable dogs, spaniels and terriers, came out with +an effusive welcome; a big black yard-dog, after a loud protesting +bark, joined in the civilities. And there I sat down in the warm sun, +to drink in the beauty of the scene, while the moor-hens cried +plaintively in the moat, and the dogs disposed themselves at my feet. +The man who designed this old place must have had a wonderful sense of +the beauty of proportion, the charm of austere simplicity. Generation +after generation must have loved the gentle dignified house, with its +narrow casements, its high rooms. Though the name of the house, though +the tale of its dwellers was unknown to me, I felt the appeal of the +old associations that must have centred about it. The whole air, that +quiet afternoon, seemed full of the calling of forgotten voices, and +dead faces looked out from the closed lattices. So near to my heart +came the spirit of the ancient house, that, as I mused, I felt as +though even I myself had made a part of its past, and as though I were +returning from battling with the far-off world to the home of +childhood. The house seemed to regard me with a mournful and tender +gaze, as though it knew that I loved it, and would fain utter its +secrets in a friendly ear. Is it strange that a thing of man's +construction should have so wistful yet so direct a message for the +spirit? Well, I hardly know what it was that it spoke of; but I felt +the care and love that had gone to the making of it, and the dignity +that it had won from rain and sun and the kindly hand of Nature; it +spoke of hope and brightness, of youth and joy; and told me, too, that +all things were passing away, that even the house itself, though it +could outlive a few restless generations, was indeed _debita morti_, +and bowed itself to its fall. + +And then I too, like a bird of passage that has alighted for a moment +in some sheltered garden-ground, must needs go on my way. But the old +house had spoken with me, had left its mark upon my spirit. And I know +that in weary hours, far hence, I shall remember how it stood, peering +out of its tangled groves, gazing at the sunrise and the sunset over +the green flats, waiting for what may be, and dreaming of the days that +are no more. + + + + +III + +Leucocholy + +I have had to taste, during the last few days, I know not why, of the +cup of what Gray called Leucocholy; it is not Melancholy, only the pale +shadow of it. That dark giant is, doubtless, stalking somewhere in the +background, and the shadow cast by his misshapen head passes over my +little garden ground. + +I do not readily submit to this mood, and I would wish it away. I +would rather feel joyful and free from blame; but Gray called it a good +easy state, and it certainly has its compensations. It does not, like +Melancholy, lay a dark hand on duties and pleasures alike; it is +possible to work, to read, to talk, to laugh when it is by. But it +sends flowing through the mind a gentle current of sad and weary images +and thoughts, which still have a beauty of their own; it tinges one's +life with a sober greyness of hue; it heightens perception, though it +prevents enjoyment. In such a mood one can sit silent a long time, +with one's eyes cast upon the grass; one sees the delicate forms of the +tender things that spring softly out of the dark ground; one hears with +a poignant delight the clear notes of birds; something of the spring +languors move within the soul. There is a sense, too, of reaching out +to light and joy, a stirring of the vague desires of the heart, a +tender hope, an upward-climbing faith; the heart sighs for a peace that +it cannot attain. + +To-day I walked slowly and pensively by little woods and pastures, +taking delight in all the quiet life I saw, the bush pricked with +points of green, the boughs thickened with small reddening buds, the +slow stream moving through the pasture; all the tints faint, airy, and +delicate; the life of the world seemed to hang suspended, waiting for +the forward leap. In a little village I stood awhile to watch the +gables of an ancient house, the wing of a ruined grange, peer solemnly +over the mellow brick wall that guarded a close of orchard trees. A +little way behind, the blunt pinnacles of the old church-tower stood +up, blue and dim, over the branching elms; beyond all ran the long, +pure line of the rising wold. Everything seemed so still, so serene, +as a long, pale ray of the falling sun, which laboured among flying +clouds, touched the westward gables with gold--and mine the only +troubled, unquiet spirit. Hard by there was an old man tottering about +in a little garden, fumbling with some plants, like Laertes on the +upland farm. His worn face, his ragged beard, his pitifully-patched +and creased garments made him a very type of an ineffectual sadness. +Perhaps his thoughts ran as sadly as my own, but I do not think it was +so, because the minds of many country-people, and of almost all the +old, of whatever degree, seem to me free from what is the curse of +delicately-trained and highly-strung temperaments--namely, the +temptation to be always reverting to the past, or forecasting the +future. Simple people and aged people put that aside, and live quite +serenely in the moment; and that is what I believe we ought all to +attempt, for most moments are bearable, if one only does not import +into them the weight of the future and the regret of the past. To +seize the moment with all its conditions, to press the quality out of +it, that is the best victory. But, alas! we are so made that though we +may know that a course is the wise, the happy, the true course, we +cannot always pursue it. I remember a story of a public man who bore +his responsibilities very hardly, worried and agonised over them, +saying to Mr Gladstone, who was at that time in the very thick of a +fierce political crisis: "But don't you find you lie awake at night, +thinking how you ought to act, and how you ought to have acted?" Mr +Gladstone turned his great, flashing eyes upon his interlocutor, and +said, with a look of wonder: "No, I don't; where would be the use of +that?" And again I remember that old Canon Beadon--who lived, I think, +to his 104th year--said to a friend that the secret of long life in his +own case was that he had never thought of anything unpleasant after ten +o'clock at night. Of course, if you have a series of compartments in +your brain, and at ten o'clock can turn the key quietly upon the room +that holds the skeletons and nightmares, you are a very fortunate man. + +But still, we can all of us do something. If one has the courage and +good sense, when in a melancholy mood, to engage in some piece of +practical work, it is wonderful how one can distract the great beast +that, left to himself, crops and munches the tender herbage of the +spirit. For myself I have generally a certain number of dull tasks to +perform, not in themselves interesting, and out of which little +pleasure can be extracted, except the pleasure which always results +from finishing a piece of necessary work. When I am wise, I seize upon +a day in which I am overhung with a shadow of sadness to clear off work +of this kind. It is in itself a distraction, and then one has the +pleasure both of having fought the mood and also of having left the +field clear for the mind, when it has recovered its tone, to settle +down firmly and joyfully to more congenial labours. + +To-day, little by little, the cloudy mood drew off and left me smiling. +The love of the peaceful and patient earth came to comfort me. How +pure and free were the long lines of ploughland, the broad back of the +gently-swelling down! How clear and delicate were the February tints, +the aged grass, the leafless trees! What a sense of coolness and +repose! I stopped a long time upon a rustic-timbered bridge to look at +a little stream that ran beneath the road, winding down through a rough +pasture-field, with many thorn-thickets. The water, lapsing slowly +through withered flags, had the pure, gem-like quality of the winter +stream; in summer it will become dim and turbid with infusorial life, +but now it is like a pale jewel. How strange, I thought, to think of +this liquid gaseous juice, which we call water, trickling in the cracks +of the earth! And just as the fish that live in it think of it as +their world, and have little cognisance of what happens in the acid, +unsubstantial air above, except the occasional terror of the dim, +looming forms which come past, making the soft banks quiver and stir, +so it may be with us; there may be a great mysterious world outside of +us, of which we sometimes see the dark manifestations, and yet of the +conditions of which we are wholly unaware. + +And now it grew dark; the horizon began to redden and smoulder; the +stream gleamed like a wan thread among the distant fields. It was time +to hurry home, to dip in the busy tide of life again. Where was my sad +mood gone? The clear air seemed to have blown through my mind, hands +had been waved to me from leafless woods, quiet voices of field and +stream had whispered me their secrets; "We would tell, if we could," +they seemed to say. And I, listening, had learnt patience, too--for +awhile. + + + + +IV + +The Flower + +I have made friends with a new flower. If it had a simple and +wholesome English name, I would like to know it, though I do not care +to know what ugly and clumsy title the botany books may give it; but it +lives in my mind, a perfect and complete memory of brightness and +beauty, and, as I have said, a friend. + +It was in a steep sea-cove that I saw it. Round a small circular basin +of blue sea ran up gigantic cliffs, grey limestone bluffs; here and +there, where they were precipitous, slanted the monstrous wavy lines of +distorted strata, thrust up, God alone knows how many ages ago, by some +sharp and horrible shiver of the boiling earth. Little waves broke on +the pebbly beach at our feet, and all the air was full of pleasant +sharp briny savours. A few boats were drawn up on the shingle; +lobster-pots, nets, strings of cork, spars, oars, lay in pleasant +confusion, by the sandy road that led up to the tiny hamlet above. We +had travelled far that day and were comfortably weary; we found a +sloping ledge of turf upon which we sat, and presently became aware +that on the little space of grass between us and the cliff must once +have stood a cottage and a cottage garden. There was a broken wall +behind us, and the little platform still held some garden flowers +sprawling wildly, a stunted fruitbush or two, a knotted apple-tree. + +My own flower, or the bushes on which it grew, had once, I think, +formed part of the cottage hedge; but it had found a wider place to its +liking, for it ran riot everywhere; it scaled the cliff, where, too, +the golden wall-flowers of the garden had gained a footing; it fringed +the sand-patches beyond us, it rooted itself firmly in the shingle. +The plant had rough light-brown branches, which were now all starred +with the greenest tufts imaginable; but the flower itself! On many of +the bushes it was not yet fully out, and showed only in an abundance of +small lilac balls, carefully folded; but just below me a cluster had +found the sun and the air too sweet to resist, and had opened to the +light. The flower was of a delicate veined purple, a five-pointed +star, with a soft golden heart. All the open blossoms stared at me +with a tranquil gaze, knowing I would not hurt them. + +Below, two fishermen rowed a boat quietly out to sea, the sharp +creaking of the rowlocks coming lazily to our ears in the pauses of the +wind. The little waves fell with a soft thud, followed by the crisp +echo of the surf, feeling all round the shingly cove. The whole place, +in that fresh spring day, was unutterably peaceful and content. + +And I too forgot all my busy schemes and hopes and aims, the tiny part +I play in the world, with so much petty energy, such anxious +responsibility. My purple-starred flower approved of my acquiescence, +smiling trustfully upon me. "Here," it seemed to say, "I bloom and +brighten, spring after spring. No one regards me, no one cares for me; +no one praises my beauty; no one sorrows when these leaves grow pale, +when I fall from my stem, when my dry stalks whisper together in the +winter wind. But to you, because you have seen and loved me, I whisper +my secret." And then the flower told me something that I cannot write +even if I would, because it is in the language unspeakable, of which St +Paul wrote that such words are not lawful for a man to utter; but they +are heard in the third heaven of God. + +Then I felt that if I could but remember what the flower said I should +never grieve or strive or be sorrowful any more; but, as the wise +Psalmist said, be content to tarry the Lord's leisure. Yet, even when +I thought that I had the words by heart, they ceased like a sweet music +that comes to an end, and which the mind cannot recover. + +I saw many other things that day, things beautiful and wonderful, no +doubt; but they had no voice for me, like the purple flower; or if they +had, the sea wind drowned them in the utterance, for their voices were +of the earth; but the flower's voice came, as I have said, from the +innermost heaven. + +I like well to go on pilgrimage; and in spite of weariness and rainy +weather, and the stupid chatter of the men and women who congregate +like fowls in inn-parlours, I pile a little treasure of sights and +sounds in my guarded heart, memories of old buildings, spring woods, +secluded valleys. All these are things seen, impressions registered +and gratefully recorded. But my flower is somehow different from all +these; and I shall never again hear the name of the place mentioned, or +even see a map of that grey coast, without a quiet thrill of gladness +at the thought that there, spring by spring, blooms my little friend, +whose heart I read, who told me its secret; who will wait for me to +return, and indeed will be faithfully and eternally mine, whether I +return or no. + + + + +V + +The Fens + +I have lately become convinced--and I do not say it either +sophistically, to plead a bad cause with dexterity, or resignedly, to +make the best out of a poor business; but with a true and hearty +conviction--that the most beautiful country in England is the flat +fenland. I do not here mean moderately flat country, low sweeps of +land, like the heaving of a dying groundswell; that has a miniature +beauty, a stippled delicacy of its own, but it is not a fine quality of +charm. The country that I would praise is the rigidly and +mathematically flat country of Eastern England, lying but a few feet +above the sea, plains which were once the bottoms of huge and ancient +swamps. + +In the first place, such country gives a wonderful sense of expanse and +space; from an eminence of a few feet you can see what in other parts +of England you have to climb a considerable hill to discern. I love to +feast my eyes on the interminable rich level plain, with its black and +crumbling soil; the long simple lines of dykes and water-courses carry +the eye peacefully out to a great distance; then, too, by having all +the landscape compressed into so narrow a space, into a belt of what +is, to the eye, only a few inches in depth, you get an incomparable +richness of colour. The solitary distant clumps of trees surrounding a +lonely farm gain a deep intensity of tint from the vast green level all +about them; and the line of the low far-off wolds, that close the view +many miles away, is of a peculiar delicacy and softness; the eye, too, +is provided with a foreground of which the elements are of the +simplest; a reedy pool enclosed by willows, the clustered buildings of +a farmstead; a grey church-tower peering out over churchyard elms; and +thus, instead of being checked by near objects, and hemmed in by the +limited landscape, the eye travels out across the plain with a sense of +freedom and grateful repose. Then, too, there is the huge perspective +of the sky; nowhere else is it possible to see, so widely, the slow +march of clouds from horizon to horizon; it all gives a sense of +largeness and tranquillity such as you receive upon the sea, with the +additional advantage of having the solid earth beneath you, green and +fertile, instead of the steely waste of waters. + +A day or two ago I found myself beside the lower waters of the Cam, in +flat pastures, full of ancient thorn-trees just bursting into bloom. I +gained the towing-path, which led me out gradually into the heart of +the fen; the river ran, or rather moved, a sapphire streak, between its +high green flood-banks; the wide spaces between the embanked path and +the stream were full of juicy herbage, great tracts of white +cow-parsley, with here and there a reed-bed. I stood long to listen to +the sharp song of the reed-warbler, slipping from spray to spray of a +willow-patch. Far to the north the great tower of Ely rose blue and +dim above the low lines of trees; in the centre of the pastures lay the +long brown line of the sedge-beds of Wicken Mere, almost the only +untouched tract of fenland; slow herds of cattle grazed, more and more +minute, in the unhedged pasture-land, and the solitary figure of a +labourer moving homeward on the top of the green dyke, seemed in the +long afternoon to draw no nearer. Here and there were the floodgates +of a lode, with the clear water slowly spilling itself over the rim of +the sluice, full of floating weed. There was something infinitely +reposeful in the solitude, the width of the landscape; there was no +sense of crowded life, no busy figures, intent on their small aims, to +cross one's path, no conflict, no strife, no bitterness, no insistent +voice; yet there was no sense of desolation, but rather the spectacle +of glad and simple lives of plants and birds in the free air, their +wildness tamed by the far-off and controlling hand of man, the calm +earth patiently serving his ends. I seemed to have passed out of +modern life into a quieter and older world, before men congregated into +cities, but lived the quiet and sequestered life of the country side; +and little by little there stole into my heart something of a dreamful +tranquillity, the calm of the slow brimming stream, the leisurely +herds, the growing grass. All seemed to be moving together, neither +lingering nor making haste, to some far-off end within the quiet mind +of God. Everything seemed to be waiting, musing, living the untroubled +life of nature, with no thought of death or care or sorrow. I passed a +trench of still water that ran as far as the eye could follow it across +the flat; it was full from end to end of the beautiful water violet, +the pale lilac flowers, with their faint ethereal scent, clustered on +the head of a cool emerald spike, with the rich foliage of the plant, +like fine green hair, filling the water. The rising of these beautiful +forms, by some secret consent, in their appointed place and time, out +of the fresh clear water, brought me a wistful sense of peace and +order, a desire for I hardly know what--a poised stateliness of life, a +tender beauty--if I could but win it for myself! + +On and on, hour by hour, that still bright afternoon, I made my slow +way over the fen; insensibly and softly the far-off villages fell +behind; and yet I seemed to draw no nearer to the hills of the horizon. +Now and then I passed a lonely grange; once or twice I came near to a +tall shuttered engine-house of pale brick, and heard the slow beat of +the pumps within, like the pulse of a hidden heart, which drew the +marsh-water from a hundred runlets, and poured it slowly seawards. +Field after field slid past me, some golden from end to end with +buttercups, some waving with young wheat, till at last I reached a +solitary inn beside a ferry, with the quaint title: "_No hurry! five +miles from anywhere._" And here I met with a grave and kindly welcome, +such as warms the heart of one who goes on pilgrimage: as though I was +certainly expected, and as if the lord of the place had given charge +concerning me. It would indeed hardly have surprised me if I had been +had into a room, and shown strange symbols of good and evil; or if I +had been given a roll and a bottle, and a note of the way. But no such +presents were made to me, and it was not until after I had left the +little house, and had been ferried in an old blackened boat across the +stream, that I found that I had the gifts in my bosom all the while. + +The roll was the fair sight that I had seen, in this world where it is +so sweet to live. My cordial was the peace within my spirit. And as +for the way, it seemed plain enough that day, easy to discern and +follow; and the heavenly city itself as near and visible as the blue +towers that rose so solemnly upon the green horizon. + + + + +VI + +The Well and the Chapel + +It is not often that one is fortunate enough to see two perfectly +beautiful things in one day. But such was my fortune in the late +summer, on a day that was in itself perfect enough to show what +September can do, if he only has a mind to plan hours of delight for +man. The distance was very blue and marvellously clear. The trees had +the bronzed look of the summer's end, with deep azure shadows. The +cattle moved slowly about the fields, and there was harvesting going +on, so that the villages we passed seemed almost deserted. I will not +say whence we started or where we went, and I shall mention no names at +all, except one, which is of the nature of a symbol or incantation; for +I do not desire that others should go where I went, unless I could be +sure that they went with the same peace in their hearts that I bore +with me that day. + +One of the places we visited on purpose; the other we saw by accident. +On the small map we carried was marked, at the corner of a little wood +that seemed to have no way to it, a well with the name of a saint, of +whom I never heard, though I doubt not she is written in the book of +God. + +We reached the nearest point to the well upon the road, and we struck +into the fields; that was a sweet place where we found ourselves! In +ancient days it had been a marsh, I think. For great ditches ran +everywhere, choked with loose-strife and water-dock, and the ground +quaked as we walked, a pleasant springy black mould, the dust of +endless centuries of the rich water plants. + +To the left, the ground ran up sharply in a minute bluff, with the soft +outline of underlying chalk, covered with small thorn-thickets; and it +was all encircled with small, close woods, where we heard the pheasants +scamper. We found an old, slow, bovine man, with a cheerful face, who +readily threw aside some fumbling work he was doing, and guided us; and +we should never have found the spot without him. He led us to a +stream, crossed by a single plank with a handrail, on which some +children had put a trap, baited with nuts for the poor squirrels, that +love to run chattering across the rail from wood to wood. Then we +entered a little covert; it was very pleasant in there, all dark and +green and still; and here all at once we came to the place; in the +covert were half a dozen little steep pits, each a few yards across, +dug out of the chalk. From each of the pits, which lay side by side, a +channel ran down to the stream, and in each channel flowed a small +bickering rivulet of infinite clearness. The pits themselves were a +few feet deep; at the bottom of each was a shallow pool, choked with +leaves; and here lay the rare beauty of the place. The water rose in +each pit out of secret ways, but in no place that we could see. The +first pit was still when we looked upon it; then suddenly the water +rose in a tiny eddy, in one corner, among the leaves, sending a little +ripple glancing across the pool. It was as though something, branch or +insect, had fallen from above, the water leapt so suddenly. Then it +rose again in another place, then in another; then five or six little +freshets rose all at once, the rings crossing and recrossing. And it +was the same in all the pits, which we visited one by one; we descended +and drank, and found the water as cold as ice, and not less pure; while +the old man babbled on about the waste of so much fine water, and of +its virtues for weak eyes: "Ain't it cold, now? Ain't it, then? My +God, ain't it?"--he was a man with a rich store of simple +asseverations,--"And ain't it good for weak eyes neither! You must +just come to the place the first thing in the morning, and wash your +eyes in the water, and ain't it strengthening then!" So he chirped on, +saying everything over and over, like a bird among the thickets. + +We paid him for his trouble, with a coin that made him so gratefully +bewildered that he said to us: "Now, gentlemen, if there's anything +else that you want, give it a name; and if you meet any one as you go +away, say 'Perrett told me' (Perrett's my name), and then you'll see!" +What the precise virtue of this invocation was, we did not have an +opportunity of testing, but that it was a talisman to unlock hidden +doors, I make no doubt. + +We went back silently over the fields, with the wonder of the thing +still in our minds. To think of the pure wells bubbling and flashing, +by day and by night, in the hot summer weather, when the smell of the +wood lies warm in the sun; on cold winter nights under moon and stars, +for ever casting up the bright elastic jewel, that men call water, and +feeding the flowing stream that wanders to the sea. I was very full of +gratitude to the pure maiden saint that lent her name to the well and I +am sure she never had a more devout pair of worshippers. + +So we sped on in silence, thinking--at least I thought--how the water +leaped and winked in the sacred wells, and how clear showed the chalk, +and the leaves that lay at the bottom: till at last we drew to our +other goal. "Here is the gate," said my companion at last. + +On one side of the road stood a big substantial farm; on the other, by +a gate, was a little lodge. Here a key was given us by an old hearty +man, with plenty of advice of a simple and sententious kind, until I +felt as though I were enacting a part in some little _Pilgrim's +Progress_, and as if _Mr Interpreter_ himself, with a very grave smile, +would come out and have me into a room by myself, to see some odd +pleasant show that he had provided. But it was perhaps more in the +manner of _Evangelist_, for our guide pointed with his finger across a +very wide field, and showed us a wicket to enter in at. + +Here was a great flat grassy pasture, the water again very near the +surface, as the long-leaved water-plants, that sprawled in all the +ditches, showed. But when we reached the wicket we seemed to be as far +removed from humanity as dwellers in a lonely isle. A few cattle +grazed drowsily, and the crisp tearing of the grass by their big lips +came softly across the pasture. Inside the wicket stood a single +ancient house, uninhabited, and festooned with ivy into a thing more +bush than house; though a small Tudor window peeped from the leaves, +like the little suspicious eye of some shaggy beast. + +A stone's throw away lay a large square moat, full of water, all +fringed with ancient gnarled trees; the island which it enclosed was +overgrown with tiny thickets of dishevelled box-trees, and huge +sprawling laurels; we walked softly round it, and there was our goal: a +small church of a whitish stone, in the middle of a little close of old +sycamores in stiff summer leaf. + +It stood so remote, so quietly holy, so ancient, that I could think of +nothing but the "old febel chapel" of the _Morte d'Arthur_. It had, I +know not why, the mysterious air of romance all about it. It seemed to +sit, musing upon what had been and what should be, smilingly guarding +some tender secret for the pure-hearted, full of the peace the world +cannot give. + +Within it was cool and dark, and had an ancient holy smell; it was +furnished sparely with seat and screen, and held monuments of old +knights and ladies, sleeping peacefully side by side, heads pillowed on +hands, looking out with quiet eyes, as though content to wait. + +Upon the island in the moat, we learned, had stood once a flourishing +manor, but through what sad vicissitudes it had fallen into dust I care +not. Enough that peaceful lives had been lived there; children had +been born, had played on the moat-edge, had passed away to bear +children of their own, had returned with love in their hearts for the +old house. From the house to the church children had been borne for +baptism; merry wedding processions had gone to and fro, happy Christmas +groups had hurried backwards and forwards; and the slow funeral pomp +had passed thither, under the beating of the slow bell, bearing one +that should not return. + +Something of the love and life and sorrow of the good days passed into +my mind, and I gave a tender thought to men and women whom I had never +known, who had tasted of life, and of joyful things that have an end; +and who now know the secret of the dark house to which we all are bound. + +When we at last rose unwillingly to go, the sun was setting, and flamed +red and brave through the gnarled trunks of the little wood; the mist +crept over the pasture, and far away the lights of the lonely farm +began to wink through the gathering dark. + +But I had seen! Something of the joy of the two sweet places had +settled in my mind; and now, in fretful, weary, wakeful hours, it is +good to think of the clear wells that sparkle so patiently in the dark +wood; and, better still, to wander in mind about the moat and the +little silent church; and to wonder what it all means; what the love is +that creeps over the soul at the sight of these places, so full of a +remote and delicate beauty; and whether the hunger of the heart for +peace and permanence, which visits us so often in our short and +difficult pilgrimage, has a counterpart in the land that is very far +off. + + + + +VII + +The Cuckoo + +I have been much haunted, indeed infested, if the word may be pardoned, +by cuckoos lately. When I was a child, acute though my observation of +birds and beasts and natural things was, I do not recollect that I ever +saw a cuckoo, though I often tried to stalk one by the ear, following +the sweet siren melody, as it dropped into the expectant silence from a +hedgerow tree; and I remember to have heard the notes of two, that +seemed to answer each other, draw closer each time they called. + +But of late I have become familiar with the silvery grey body and the +gliding flight; and this year I have been almost dogged by them. One +flew beside me, as I rode the other day, for nearly a quarter of a mile +along a hedgerow, taking short gliding flights, and settling till I +came up; I could see his shimmering wings and his long barred tail. I +dismounted at last, and he let me watch him for a long time, noting his +small active head, his decent sober coat. Then, when he thought I had +seen enough, he gave one rich bell-like call, with the full force of +his soft throat, and floated off. + +He seemed loath to leave me. But what word or gift, I thought, did he +bring with him, false and pretty bird? Do I too desire that others +should hatch my eggs, content with flute-like notes of pleasure? + +And yet how strange and marvellous a thing this instinct is; that one +bird, by an absolute and unvarying instinct, should forego the dear +business of nesting and feeding, and should take shrewd advantage of +the labours of other birds! It cannot be a deliberately reasoned or +calculated thing; at least we say that it cannot; and yet not Darwin +and all his followers have brought us any nearer to the method by which +such an instinct is developed and trained, till it has become an +absolute law of the tribe; making it as natural a thing for the cuckoo +to search for a built nest, and to cast away its foundling egg there, +as it is for other birds to welcome and feed the intruder. It seems so +satanically clever a thing to do; such a strange fantastic whim of the +Creator to take thought in originating it! It is this whimsicality, +the _bizarre_ humour in Nature, that puzzles me more than anything in +the world, because it seems like the sport of a child with odd +inconsequent fancies, and with omnipotence behind it all the time. It +seems strange enough to think of the laws that govern the breeding, +nesting, and nurture of birds at all, especially when one considers all +the accidents that so often make the toil futile, like the stealing of +eggs by other birds, and the predatory incursions of foes. One would +expect a law, framed by omnipotence, to be invariable, not hampered by +all kinds of difficulties that omnipotence, one might have thought, +could have provided against. And then comes this further strange +variation in the law, in the case of this single family of birds, and +the mystery thickens and deepens. And stranger than all is the +existence of the questioning and unsatisfied human spirit, that +observes these things and classifies them, and that yet gets no nearer +to the solution of the huge, fantastic, patient plan! To make a law, +as the Creator seems to have done; and then to make a hundred other +laws that seem to make the first law inoperative; to play this gigantic +game century after century; and then to put into the hearts of our +inquisitive race the desire to discover what it is all about; and to +leave the desire unsatisfied. What a labyrinthine mystery! Depth +beyond depth, and circle beyond circle! + +It is a dark and bewildering region that thus opens to the view. But +one conclusion is to beware of seeming certainties, to keep the windows +of the mind open to the light; not to be over-anxious about the little +part we have to play in the great pageant, but to advance, step by +step, in utter trustfulness. + +Perhaps that is your message to me, graceful bird, with the rich joyful +note! With what a thrill, too, do you bring back to me the brightness +of old forgotten springs, the childish rapture at the sweet tunable +cry! Then, in those far-off days, it was but the herald of the glowing +summer days, the time of play and flowers and scents. But now the soft +note, it seems, opens a door into the formless and uneasy world of +speculation, of questions that have no answer, convincing me of +ignorance and doubt, bidding me beat in vain against the bars that hem +me in. Why should I crave thus for certainty, for strength? Answer +me, happy bird! Nay, you guard your secret. Softer and more distant +sound the sweet notes, warning me to rest and believe, telling me to +wait and hope. + +But one further thought! One is expected, by people of conventional +and orthodox minds, to base one's conceptions of God on the writings of +frail and fallible men, and to accept their slender and eager testimony +to the occurrence of abnormal events as the best revelation of God that +the world contains. And all the while we disregard his own patient +writing upon the wall. Every day and every hour we are confronted with +strange marvels, which we dismiss from our minds because, God forgive +us, we call them natural; and yet they take us back, by a ladder of +immeasurable antiquity, to ages before man had emerged from a savage +state. Centuries before our rude forefathers had learned even to +scratch a few hillocks into earthworks, while they lived a brutish +life, herding in dens and caves, the cuckoo, with her traditions +faultlessly defined, was paying her annual visits, fluting about the +forest glades, and searching for nests into which to intrude her +speckled egg. The patient witness of God! She is as direct a +revelation of the Creator's mind, could we but interpret the mystery of +her instincts, as Augustine himself with his scheme of salvation +logically defined. Each of these missions, whether of bird or man, a +wonder and a marvel! But do we not tend to accept the eager and +childish hopes of humanity, arrayed with blithe certainty, as a nearer +evidence of the mind of God than the bird that at his bidding pursues +her annual quest, unaffected by our hasty conclusions, unmoved by our +glorified visions? I have sometimes thought that Christ probably spoke +more than is recorded about the observation of Nature; the hearts of +those that heard him were so set on temporal ends and human +applications, that they had not perhaps leisure or capacity to +recollect aught but those few scattered words, that seem to speak of a +deep love for and insight into the things of earth. They remembered +better that Christ blasted a fig-tree for doing what the Father bade +the poor plant do, than his tender dwelling upon grasses and lilies, +sparrow and sheep. The withering of the tree made an allegory: while +the love of flowers and streams was to those simple hearts perhaps an +unaccountable, almost an eccentric thing. But had Christ drawn human +breath in our bleaker Northern air, he would have perhaps, if those +that surrounded him had had leisure and grace to listen, drawn as grave +and comforting a soul-music from our homely cuckoo, with her punctual +obedience, her unquestioning faith, as he did from the birds and +flowers of the hot hillsides, the pastoral valleys of Palestine. I am +sure he would have loved the cuckoo, and forgiven her her heartless +customs. Those that sing so delicately would not have leisure and +courage to make their music so soft and sweet, if they had not a hard +heart to turn to the sorrows of the world. + +Yet still I am no nearer the secret. God sends me, here the frozen +peak, there the blue sea; here the tiger, there the cuckoo; here +Virgil, there Jeremiah; here St Francis of Assisi, there Napoleon. And +all the while, as he pushes his fair or hurtful toys upon the stage, +not a whisper, not a smile, not a glance escapes him; he thrusts them +on, he lays them by; but the interpretation he leaves with us, and +there is never a word out of the silence to show us whether we have +guessed aright. + + + + +VIII + +Spring-time + +Yesterday was a day of brisk airs. The wind was at work brushing great +inky clouds out of the sky. They came sailing up, those great rounded +masses of dark vapour, like huge galleons driving to the West, spilling +their freight as they came. The air would be suddenly full of tall +twisted rain-streaks, and then would come a bright burst of the sun. + +But a secret change came in the night; some silent power filled the air +with warmth and balm. And to-day, when I walked out of the town with +an old and familiar friend, the spring had come. A maple had broken +into bloom and leaf; a chestnut was unfolding his gummy buds; the +cottage gardens were full of squills and hepatica; and the mezereons +were all thick with damask buds. In green and sheltered underwoods +there were bursts of daffodils; hedges were pricked with green points; +and a delicate green tapestry was beginning to weave itself over the +roadside ditches. + +The air seemed full of a deep content. Birds fluted softly, and the +high elms which stirred in the wandering breezes were all thick with +their red buds. There was so much to look at and to point out that we +talked but fitfully; and there was, too, a gentle languor abroad which +made us content to be silent. + +In one village which we passed, a music-loving squire had made a +concert for his friends and neighbours, and doubtless, too, for our +vagrant delight; we stood uninvited to listen to a tuneful stir of +violins, which with a violoncello booming beneath, broke out very +pleasantly from the windows of a village school-room. + +When body and mind are fresh and vigorous, these outside impressions +often lose, I think, their sharp savours. One is preoccupied with +one's own happy schemes and merry visions; the bird sings shrill within +its cage, and claps its golden wings. But on such soft and languorous +days as these days of early spring, when the body is unstrung, and the +bonds and ties that fasten the soul to its prison are loosened and +unbound, the spirit, striving to be glad, draws in through the passages +of sense these swift impressions of beauty, as a thirsty child drains a +cup of spring-water on a sun-scorched day, lingering over the limpid +freshness of the gliding element. The airy voices of the strings being +stilled, with a sort of pity for those penned in the crowded room, +interchanging the worn coinage of civility, we stood a while looking in +at a gate, through which we could see the cool front of a Georgian +manor-house, built of dusky bricks, with coigns and dressings of grey +stone. The dark windows with their thick white casements, the +round-topped dormers, the steps up to the door, and a prim circle of +grass which seemed to lie like a carpet on the pale gravel, gave the +feeling of a picture; the whole being framed in the sombre yews of +shrubberies which bordered the drive. It was hard to feel that the +quiet house was the scene of a real and active life; it seemed so full +of a slumberous peace, and to be tenanted only by soft shadows of the +past. And so we went slowly on by the huge white-boarded mill, its +cracks streaming with congealed dust of wheat, where the water +thundered through the sluices and the gear rattled within. + +We crossed the bridge, and walked on by a field-track that skirted the +edge of the wold. How thin and clean were the tints of the dry +ploughlands and the long sweep of pasture! Presently we were at the +foot of a green drift-road, an old Roman highway that ran straight up +into the downs. On such a day as this, one follows a spirit in one's +feet, as Shelley said; and we struck up into the wold, on the green +road, with its thorn-thickets, until the chalk began to show white +among the ruts; and we were soon at the top. A little to the left of +us appeared, in the middle of the pasture, a tiny round-topped tumulus +that I had often seen from a lower road, but never visited. It was +fresher and cooler up here. On arriving at the place we found that it +was not a tumulus at all, but a little outcrop of the pure chalk. It +had steep, scarped sides with traces of caves scooped in them. The +grassy top commanded a wide view of wold and plain. + +Our talk wandered over many things, but here, I do not know why, we +were speaking of the taking up of old friendships, and the comfort and +delight of those serene and undisturbed relations which one sometimes +establishes with a congenial person, which no lapse of time or lack of +communication seems to interrupt--the best kind of friendship. There +is here no blaming of conditions that may keep the two lives apart; no +feverish attempt to keep up the relation, no resentment if mutual +intercourse dies away. And then, perhaps, in the shifting of +conditions, one's life is again brought near to the life of one's +friend, and the old easy intercourse is quietly resumed. My companion +said that such a relation seemed to him to lie as near to the solution +of the question of the preservation of identity after death as any +other phenomenon of life. "Supposing," he said, "that such a +friendship as that of which we have spoken is resumed after a break of +twenty years. One is in no respect the same person; one looks +different, one's views of life have altered, and physiologists tell us +that one's body has changed perhaps three times over, in the time, so +that there is not a particle of our frame that is the same; and yet the +emotion, the feeling of the friendship remains, and remains unaltered. +If the stuff of our thoughts were to alter as the materials of our body +alter, the continuity of such an emotion would be impossible. Of +course it is difficult to see how, divested of the body, our +perceptions can continue; but almost the only thing we are really +conscious of is our own identity, our sharp separation from the mass of +phenomena that are not ourselves. And, if an emotion can survive the +transmutation of the entire frame, may it not also survive the +dissolution of that frame?" + +"Could it be thus?" I said. "A ray of light falls through a chink in a +shutter; through the ray, as we watch it, floats an infinite array of +tiny motes, and it is through the striking of the light upon them that +we are aware of the light; but they are never the same. Yet the ray +has a seeming identity, though even the very ripples of light that +cause it are themselves ever changing, ever renewed. Could not the +soul be such a ray, illuminating the atoms that pass through it, and +itself a perpetual motion, a constant renewal?" + +But the day warned us to descend. The shadows grew longer, and a great +pale light of sunset began to gather in the West. We came slowly down +through the pastures, till we joined the familiar road again. And at +last we parted, in that wistful silence that falls upon the mood when +two spirits have achieved a certain nearness of thought, have drawn as +close as the strange fence of identity allows. But as I went home, I +stood for a moment at the edge of a pleasant grove, an outlying +pleasaunce of a great house on the verge of the town. The trees grew +straight and tall within it, and all the underwood was full of spring +flowers and green ground-plants, expanding to light and warmth; the sky +was all full of light, dying away to a calm and liquid green, the +colour of peace. Here I encountered another friend, a retiring man of +letters, who lives apart from the world in dreams of his own. He is a +bright-eyed, eager creature, tall and shadowy, who has but a slight +hold upon the world. We talked for a few moments of trivial things, +till a chance question of mine drew from him a sad statement of his own +health. He had been lately, he said, to a physician, and had been +warned that he was in a somewhat precarious condition. I tried to +comfort him, but he shook his head; and though he tried to speak +lightly and cheerfully, I could see that there was a shadow of doom +upon him. + +As I turned to go, he held up his hand, "Listen to the birds!" he said. +We were silent, and could hear the clear flute-like notes of thrushes +hidden in the tall trees, and the soft cooing of a dove. "That gives +one," he said, "some sense of the happiness which one cannot capture +for oneself!" He smiled mournfully, and in a moment I saw his light +figure receding among the trees. What a world it is for sorrow! My +friend was going, bearing the burden of a lonely grief, which I could +not lighten for him; and yet the whole scene was full of so sweet a +content, the birds full of hope and delight, the flowers and leaves +glad to feel themselves alive. What was one to make of it all? Where +to turn for light? What conceivable benefit could result from thus +perpetually desiring to know and perpetually being baffled? + +Yet, after all, to-day has been one of those rare days, like the gold +sifted from the _débris_ of the mine, which has had for me, by some +subtle alchemy of the spirit, the permanent quality which is often +denied to more stirring incidents and livelier experiences. I had seen +the mysteries of life and death, of joy and sorrow, sharply and sadly +contrasted. I had been one with Nature, with all her ardent ecstasies, +her vital impulses; and then I had seen too the other side of the +picture, a soul confronted with the mystery of death, alone in the +shapeless gloom; the very cries and stirrings and joyful dreams of +Nature bringing no help, but only deepening the shadow. + +And there came too the thought of how little such easy speculations as +we had indulged in on the grassy mound, thoughts which seemed so +radiant with beauty and mystery, how little they could sustain or +comfort the sad spirit which had entered into the cloud. + +So that bright first day of spring shaped itself for me into a day when +not only the innocent and beautiful flowers of the world rose into life +and sunshine; but a day when sadder thoughts raised their head too, red +flowers of suffering, and pale blooms of sadness; and yet these too can +be woven into the spirit's coronal, I doubt not, if one can but find +heart to do it, and patience for the sorrowful task. + + + + +IX + +The Hare + +I have just read a story that has moved me strangely, with a helpless +bewilderment and a sad anger of mind. When the doors of a factory, in +the heart of a northern town, were opened one morning, a workman, going +to move a barrel that stood in a corner, saw something crouching behind +it that he believed to be a dog or cat. He pushed it with his foot, +and a large hare sprang out. I suppose that the poor creature had been +probably startled by some dog the evening before, in a field close to +the town, had fled in the twilight along the streets, frightened and +bewildered, and had slipped into the first place of refuge it had +found; had perhaps explored its prison in vain, when the doors were +shut, with many dreary perambulations, and had then sunk into an uneasy +sleep, with frequent timid awakenings, in the terrifying unfamiliar +place. + +The man who had disturbed it shouted aloud to the other workmen who +were entering; the doors were shut, and the hare was chased by an eager +and excited throng from corner to corner; it fled behind some planks; +the planks were taken up; it made, in its agony of fear, a great leap +over the men who were bending down to catch it; it rushed into a corner +behind some tanks, from which it was dislodged with a stick. For half +an hour the chase continued, until at last it was headed into a +work-room, where it relinquished hope; it crouched panting, with its +long ears laid back, its pretty brown eyes wide open, as though +wondering desperately what it had done to deserve such usage; until it +was despatched with a shower of blows, and the limp, bleeding body +handed over to its original discoverer. + +Not a soul there had a single thought of pity for the creature; they +went back to work pleased, excited, amused. It was a good story to +tell for a week, and the man who had struck the last blows became a +little hero for his deftness. The old savage instinct for prey had +swept fiercely up from the bottom of these rough hearts--hearts +capable, too, of tenderness and grief, of compassion for suffering, +gentle with women and children. It seems to be impossible to blame +them, and such blame would have been looked upon as silly and misplaced +sentiment. Probably not even an offer of money, far in excess of the +market value of the dead body, if the hare could be caught unharmed, +would have prevailed at the moment over the instinct for blood. + +There are many hares in the world, no doubt, and _nous sommes tous +condamnés_. But that the power which could call into being so +harmless, pretty, and delicately organised a creature does not care or +is unable to protect it better, is a strange mystery. It cannot be +supposed that the hare's innocent life deserved such chastisement; and +it is difficult to believe that suffering, helplessly endured at one +point of the creation, can be remedial at another. Yet one cannot bear +to think that the extremity of terror and pain, thus borne by a +sensitive creature, either comes of neglect, or of cruel purpose, or is +merely wasted. And yet the chase and the slaughter of the unhappy +thing cannot be anything but debasing to those who took part in it. +And at the same time, to be angry and sorry over so wretched an episode +seems like trying to be wiser than the mind that made us. What single +gleam of brightness is it possible to extract from the pitiful little +story? Only this: that there must lie some tender secret, not only +behind what seems a deed of unnecessary cruelty, but in the implanting +in us of the instinct to grieve with a miserable indignation over a +thing we cannot cure, and even in the withholding from us any hope that +might hint at the solution of the mystery. + +But the thought of the seemly fur stained and bedabbled, the bright +hazel eyes troubled with the fear of death, the silky ears, in which +rang the horrid din of pursuit, rises before me as I write, and casts +me back into the sad mood, that makes one feel that the closer that one +gazes into the sorrowful texture of the world, the more glad we may +well be to depart. + + + + +X + +The Diplodocus + +I have had my imagination deeply thrilled lately by reading about the +discovery in America of the bones of a fossil animal called the +_Diplodocus_. I hardly know what the word is derived from, but it +might possibly mean an animal which _takes twice as much_, of +nourishment, perhaps, or room; either twice as much as is good for it, +or twice as much as any other animal. In either case it seems a +felicitous description. The creature was a reptile, a gigantic toad or +lizard that lived, it is calculated, about three million years ago. It +was in Canada that this particular creature lived. The earth was then +a far hotter place than now; a terrible steaming swamp, full of rank +and luxuriant vegetation, gigantic palms, ferns as big as trees. The +diplodocus was upwards of a hundred feet long, a vast inert creature, +with a tough black hide. In spite of its enormous bulk its brain was +only the size of a pigeon's egg, so that its mental processes must have +been of the simplest. It had a big mouth full of rudimentary teeth, of +no use to masticate its food, but just sufficing to crop the luxuriant +juicy vegetable stalks on which it lived, and of which it ate in the +course of the day as much as a small hayrick would contain. The +poisonous swamps in which it crept can seldom have seen the light of +day; perpetual and appalling torrents of rain must have raged there, +steaming and dripping through the dim and monstrous forests, with their +fallen day, varied by long periods of fiery tropical sunshine. In this +hot gloom the diplodocus trailed itself about, eating, eating; living a +century or so; loving, as far as a brain the size of a pigeon's egg can +love, and no doubt with a maternal tenderness for its loathly +offspring. It had but few foes, though, in the course of endless +generations, there sprang up a carnivorous race of creatures which seem +to have found the diplodocus tender eating. The particular diplodocus +of which I speak probably died of old age in the act of drinking, and +was engulfed in a pool of the great curdling, reedy river that ran +lazily through the forest. The imagination sickens before the thought +of the speedy putrefaction of such a beast under such conditions; but +this process over, the creature's bones lay deep in the pool. + +Another feature of the earth at that date must have been the vast +volcanic agencies at work; whole continents were at intervals submerged +or uplifted. In this case the whole of the forest country, where the +diplodocus lay, was submerged beneath the sea, and sank to a depth of +several leagues; for, in the course of countless ages, sea-ooze, to a +depth of at least three miles, was deposited over the forest, +preserving the trunks and even the very sprays of the tropical +vegetation. Who would suppose that the secret history of this great +beast would ever be revealed, as it lay century after century beneath +the sea-floor? But another convulsion took place, and a huge ridge of +country, forming the rocky backbone of North and South America, was +thrust up again by a volcanic convulsion, so that the diplodocus now +lay a mile above the sea, with a vast pile of downs over his head which +became a huge range of snow mountains. Then the rain and the sun began +their work; and the whole of the immense bed of uplifted ocean-silt, +now become chalk, was carried eastward by mighty rivers, forming the +whole continent of North America, between these mountains and the +eastern sea. At last the tropic forest was revealed again, a wide +tract of petrified tree-trunks and fossil wood. And then out of an +excavation, made where one of the last patches of the chalk still lay +in a rift of the hills, where the old river-pool had been into which +the great beast had sunk, was dug the neck-bone of the creature. +Curiosity was aroused by the sight of this fragment of an unknown +animal, and bit by bit the great bones came to light; some portions +were missing, but further search revealed the remains of three other +specimens of the great lizard, and a complete skeleton was put together. + +The mind positively reels before the story that is here revealed; we, +who are feebly accustomed to regard the course of recorded history as +the crucial and critical period of the life of the world, must be +sobered by the reflection that the whole of the known history of the +human race is not the thousandth, not the ten-thousandth part of the +history of the planet. What does this vast and incredible panorama +mean to us? What is it all about? This ghastly force at work, dealing +with life and death on so incredible a scale, and yet guarding its +secret so close? The diplodocus, I imagine, seldom indulged in +reveries as to how it came to be there; it awoke to life; its business +was to crawl about in the hot gloom, to eat, and drink, and sleep, to +propagate its kind; and not the least amazing part of the history is +that at length should have arisen a race of creatures, human beings, +that should be able to reconstruct, however faintly, by investigation, +imagination, and deduction, a picture of the dead life of the world. +It is this capacity for arriving at what has been, for tracing out the +huge mystery of the work of God, that appears to me the most wonderful +thing of all. And yet we seem no nearer to the solution of the secret; +we come into the world with this incredible gift of placing ourselves, +so to speak, on the side of the Creator, of surveying his work; and yet +we cannot guess what is in his heart; the stern and majestic eyes of +Nature behold us stonily, permitting us to make question, to explore, +to investigate, but withholding the secret. And in the light of those +inscrutable eyes, how weak and arrogant appear our dogmatic systems of +religion, that would profess to define and read the very purposes of +God; our dearest conceptions of morality, our pathetic principles, pale +and fade before these gigantic indications of mysterious, indifferent +energy. + +Yet even here, I think, the golden thread gleams out in the darkness; +for slight and frail as our so-called knowledge, our beliefs, appear, +before that awful, accumulated testimony of the past, yet the latest +development is none the less the instant guiding of God; it is all as +much a gift from him as the blind impulses of the great lizard in the +dark forest; and again there emerges the mighty thought, the only +thought that can give us the peace we seek, that we are all in his +hand, that nothing is forgotten, nothing is small or great in his +sight; and that each of our frail, trembling spirits has its place in +the prodigious scheme, as much as the vast and fiery globe of the sun +on the one hand, and, on the other, the smallest atom of dust that +welters deep beneath the sea. All that is, exists; indestructible, +august, divine, capable of endless rearrangement, infinite +modifications, but undeniably there. + +This truth, however dimly apprehended, however fitfully followed, ought +to give us a certain confidence, a certain patience. In careless moods +we may neglect it; in days of grief and pain we may feel that it cannot +help us; but it is the truth; and the more we can make it our own, the +deeper that we can set it in our trivial spirits, the better are we +prepared to learn the lesson which the deepest instinct of our nature +bids us believe, that the Father is trying to teach us, or is at least +willing that we should learn if we can. + + + + +XI + +The Beetle + +How strange it is that sometimes the smallest and commonest incident, +that has befallen one a hundred times before, will suddenly open the +door into that shapeless land of fruitless speculation; the land on to +which, I think, the Star Wormwood fell, burning it up and making it +bitter; the land in which we most of us sometimes have to wander, and +always alone. + +It was such a trifling thing after all. I was bicycling very +pleasantly down a country road to-day, when one of those small pungent +beetles, a tiny thing, in black plate-armour, for all the world like a +minute torpedo, sailed straight into my eye. The eyelid, quicker even +than my own thought, shut itself down, but too late. The little fellow +was engulphed in what Walt Whitman would call the liquid rims. These +small, hard creatures are tenacious of life, and they have, moreover, +the power of exuding a noxious secretion--an acrid oil, with a strong +scent, and even taste, of saffron. It was all over in a moment. I +rubbed my eye, and I suppose crushed him to death; but I could not get +him out, and I had no companion to extract him; the result was that my +eye was painful and inflamed for an hour or two, till the tiny, black, +flattened corpse worked its way out for itself. + +Now, that is not a very marvellous incident; but it set me wondering. +In the first place, what a horrible experience for the creature; in a +moment, as he sailed joyfully along, saying, "Aha," perhaps, like the +war-horse among the trumpets, on the scented summer breeze, with the +sun warm on his mail, to find himself stuck fast in a hot and oozy +crevice, and presently to be crushed to death. His little taste of the +pleasant world so soon over, and for me an agreeable hour spoilt, so +far as I could see, to no particular purpose. + +Now, one is inclined to believe that such an incident is what we call +fortuitous; but the only hope we have in the world is to believe that +things do not happen by chance. One believes, or tries to believe, +that the Father of all has room in his mind for the smallest of his +creatures; that not a sparrow, as Christ said, falls to the ground +without his tender care. Theologians tell us that death entered into +the world by sin; but it is not consistent to believe that, whereas +both men and animals suffer and die, the sufferings and death of men +are caused by their sins, or by the sins of their ancestors, while +animals suffer and die without sin being the cause. Surely the cause +must be the same for all the creation? and still less is it possible to +believe that the suffering and death of creatures is caused by the sin +of man, because they suffered and died for thousands of centuries +before man came upon the scene. + +If God is omnipotent and all-loving, we are bound to believe that +suffering and death are sent by him deliberately, and not cruelly. One +single instance, however minute, that established the reverse, would +vitiate the whole theory; and if so, then we are the sport of a power +that is sometimes kind and sometimes malignant. An insupportable +thought! + +Is it possible to conceive that the law of sin works in the lower +creation, and that they, too, are punished, or even wisely corrected, +for sinning against such light as they have? Had the little beetle +that sailed across my path acted in such a way that he had deserved his +fate? Or was his death meant to make him a better, a larger-minded +beetle? I cannot bring myself to believe that. Perhaps a +philosophical theologian would say that creation was all one, and that +suffering at one point was remedial at some other point. I am not in a +position to deny the possibility of that, but I am equally unable to +affirm that it is so. There is no evidence which would lead me to +think it. It only seems to me necessary to affirm it, in order to +confirm the axiom that God is omnipotent and all-loving. Much in +nature and in human life would seem to be at variance with that. + +It may be said that one is making too much of a minute incident; but +such incidents are of hourly occurrence all the world over; and the +only possible method for arriving at truth is the scientific method of +cumulative evidence. The beetle was small, indeed, and infinitely +unimportant in the scheme of things. But he was all in all to himself. +The world only existed so far as he was concerned, through his tiny +consciousness. + +The old-fashioned religious philosophers held that man was the crown +and centre of creation, and that God was mainly preoccupied with man's +destiny. They maintained that all creatures were given us for our use +and enjoyment. The enjoyment that I derived from the beetle, in this +case, was not conspicuous. But I suppose that such cheerful optimists +would say that the beetle was sent to give me a little lesson in +patience, to teach me not to think so much about myself. But, as a +matter of fact, the little pain I suffered made me think more of myself +than I had previously been doing; it turned me for the time from a +bland and hedonistic philosopher into a petulant pessimist, because it +seemed that no one was the better for the incident; certainly, if life +is worth having at all, the beetle was no better off, and in my own +case I could trace no moral improvement. I had been harmlessly enough +employed in getting air and exercise in the middle of hard work. It +was no vicious enjoyment that was temporarily suspended. + +Again, there are people who would say that to indulge in such reveries +is morbid; that one must take the rough with the smooth, and not +trouble about beetles or inflamed eyes. But if one is haunted by the +hopeless desire to search out the causes of things, such arguments do +not assist one. Such people would say, "Oh, you must take a larger or +wider view of it all, and not strain at gnats!" But the essence of +God's omnipotence is, that while he can take the infinitely wide view +of all created things, he can also take, I would fain believe, the +infinitely just and minute point of view, and see the case from the +standpoint of the smallest of his creatures! + +What, then, is my solution? That is the melancholy part of it; I am +not prepared to offer one. I am met on every side by hopeless +difficulties. I am tempted to think that God is not at all what we +imagine him to be; that our conceptions of benevolence and justice and +love are not necessarily true of him at all. That he is not in the +least like our conceptions of him; that he has no particular tenderness +about suffering, no particular care for animal life. Nature would seem +to prove that at every turn; and yet, if it be true, it leaves me +struggling in a sad abyss of thought; it substitutes for our grave, +beautiful, and hopeful conceptions of God a kind of black mystery +which, I confess, lies very heavy on the heart, and seems to make +effort vain. + +And thus I fall back again upon faith and hope. I know that I wish all +things well, that I desire with all my heart that everything that +breathes and moves should be happy and joyful; and I cannot believe in +my heart that it is different with God. And thus I rest in the trust +that there is somewhere, far-off, a beauty and a joy in suffering; and +that, perhaps, death itself is a fair and a desirable thing. + +As I rode to-day in the summer sun, far off, through the haze, I could +see the huge Cathedral towers and portals looming up over the trees. +Even so might be the gate of death! As we fare upon our pilgrimage, +that shadowy doorway waits, silent and sombre, to receive us. That +gate, the gate of death, seems to me, as in strength and health I sweep +along the pleasant road of life, a terrible, an appalling place. But +shall I feel so, when indeed I tread the threshold, and see the dark +arches, the mysterious windows to left and right? It may prove a cool +and secure haven of beauty and refreshment, rich in memory, echoing +with melodious song. The poor beetle knows about it now, whatever it +is; he is wise with the eternal wisdom of all that have entered in, +leaving behind them the frail and delicate tabernacle, in which the +spirit dwelt, and which is so soon to moulder into dust. + + + + +XII + +The Farm-yard + +There is a big farm-yard close to the house where I am staying just +now; it is a constant pleasure, as I pass that way, to stop and watch +the manners and customs of the beasts and birds that inhabit it; I am +ashamed to think how much time I spend in hanging over a gate, to watch +the little dramas of the byre. I am not sure that pigs are an +altogether satisfactory subject of contemplation. They always seem to +me like a fallen race that has seen better days. They are able, +intellectual, inquisitive creatures. When they are driven from place +to place, they are not gentle or meek, like cows and sheep, who follow +the line of least resistance. The pig is suspicious and cautious; he +is sure that there is some uncomfortable plot on foot, not wholly for +his good, which he must try to thwart if he can. Then, too, he never +seems quite at home in his deplorably filthy surroundings; he looks at +you, up to the knees in ooze, out of his little eyes, as if he would +live in a more cleanly way, if he were permitted. Pigs always remind +me of the mariners of Homer, who were transformed by Circe; there is a +dreadful humanity about them, as if they were trying to endure their +base conditions philosophically, waiting for their release. + +But cows bring a deep tranquillity into the spirit; their glossy skins, +their fragrant breath, their contented ease, their mild gaze, their +Epicurean rumination tend to restore the balance of the mind, and make +one feel that vegetarianism must be a desirable thing. There is the +dignity of innocence about the cow, and I often wish that she did not +bear so poor a name, a word so unsuitable for poetry; it is lamentable +that one has to take refuge in the archaism of _kine_, when the thing +itself is so gentle and pleasant. + +But the true joy of the farm-yard is, undoubtedly, in the domestic +fowls. It is long since I was frightened of turkeys; but I confess +that there is still something awe-inspiring about an old turkey-cock, +with a proud and angry eye, holding his breath till his wattles are +blue and swollen, with his fan extended, like a galleon in full sail, +his wings held stiffly down, strutting a few rapid steps, and then +slowly revolving, like a king in royal robes. There is something +tremendous about his supremacy, his almost intolerable pride and glory. + +And then we come to cocks and hens. The farm-yard cock is an +incredibly grotesque creature. His furious eye, his blood-red crest, +make him look as if he were seeking whom he might devour. But he is +the most craven of creatures. In spite of his air of just anger, he +has no dignity whatever. To hear him raise his voice, you would think +that he was challenging the whole world to combat. He screams +defiance, and when he has done, he looks round with an air of +satisfaction. "There! that is what you have to expect if you interfere +with me!" he seems to say. But an alarm is given; the poultry seek +refuge in a hurried flight. Where is the champion? You would expect +to see him guarding the rear, menacing his pursuer; but no, he has +headed the flight, he is far away, leading the van with a desperate +intentness. + +This morning I was watching the behaviour of a party of fowls, who were +sitting together on a dusty ledge above the road, sheltering from the +wind. I do not know whether they meant to be as humorous as they were, +but I can hardly think they were not amused at each other. They stood +and lay very close together, with fierce glances, and quick, jerky +motions of the head. Now and then one, tired of inaction, raised a +deliberate claw, bowed its head, scratched with incredible rapidity, +shook its tumbled feathers, and looked round with angry +self-consciousness, as though to say: "I will ask any one to think me +absurd at his peril." Now and then one of them kicked diligently at +the soil, and then, turning round, scrutinised the place intently, and +picked delicately at some minute object. One examined the neck of her +neighbour with a fixed stare, and then pecked the spot sharply. One +settled down on the dust, and gave a few vigorous strokes with her legs +to make herself more comfortable. Occasionally they all crooned and +wailed together, and at the passing of a cart all stood up defiantly, +as if intending to hold their fort at all hazards. Presently a woman +came out of a house-door opposite, at which the whole party ran +furiously and breathlessly across the road, as if their lives depended +upon arriving in time. There was not a gesture or a motion that was +not admirably conceived, intensely dramatic. + +Again, what is more delightfully absurd than to see a hen find a large +morsel which she cannot deal with at one gulp? She has no sense of +diplomacy or cunning; her friends, attracted by her motions, close in +about her; she picks up the treasured provender, she runs, bewildered +with anxiety, till she has distanced her pursuers; she puts the object +down and takes a couple of desperate pecks; but her kin are at her +heels; another flight follows, another wild attempt; for half an hour +the same tactics are pursued. At last she is at bay; she makes one +prodigious effort, and gets the treasure down with a convulsive +swallow; you see her neck bulge with the moving object; while she looks +at her baffled companions with an air of meek triumph. + +Ducks, too, afford many simple joys to the contemplative mind. A slow +procession of white ducks, walking delicately, with heads lifted high +and timid eyes, in a long line, has the air of an ecclesiastical +procession. The singers go before, the minstrels follow after. There +is something liturgical, too, in the way in which, as if by a +preconcerted signal, they all cry out together, standing in a group, +with a burst of hoarse cheering, cut off suddenly by an intolerable +silence. The arrival of ducks upon the scene, when the fowls are fed, +is an impressive sight. They stamp wildly over the pasture, falling, +stumbling, rising again, arrive on the scene with a desperate +intentness, and eat as though they had not seen food for months. + +The pleasure of these farm-yard sights is two-fold. It is partly the +sense of grave, unconscious importance about the whole business, +serious lives lived with such whole-hearted zeal. There is no sense of +divided endeavour; the discovery of food is the one thing in the world, +and the sense of repletion is also the sense of virtue. But there is +something pathetic, too, about the taming to our own ends of these +forest beasts, these woodland birds; they are so unconscious of the sad +reasons for which we desire their company, so unsuspicious, so serene! +Instead of learning by the sorrowful experience of generations what our +dark purposes are, they become more and more fraternal, more and more +dependent. And yet how little we really know what their thoughts are. +They are so unintelligent in some regions, so subtly wise in others. +We cannot share our thoughts with them; we cannot explain anything to +them. We can sympathise with them in their troubles, but cannot convey +our sympathy to them. There is a little bantam hen here, a great pet, +who comes up to the front door with the other bantams to be fed. She +has been suffering for some time from an obscure illness. She arrives +with the others, full of excitement, and begins to pick at the grain +thrown them; but the effort soon exhausts her; she goes sadly apart, +and sits with dim eye and ruffled plumage, in silent suffering, +wondering, perhaps, why she is not as brisk and joyful as ever, what is +the sad thing that has befallen her. And one can do nothing, express +nothing of the pathetic sorrow that fills one's mind. But, none the +less, one tries to believe, to feel, that this suffering is not +fortuitous, is not wasted--how could one endure the thought otherwise, +if one did not hope that "the earnest expectation of the creature +waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God!" + + + + +XIII + +The Artist + +I have been reading with much emotion the life of a great artist. It +is a tender, devoted record; and there is an atmosphere of delicate +beauty about the style. It is as though his wife, who wrote the book, +had gained through the years of companionship, a pale, pure reflection +of her husband's simple and impassioned style, just as the moon's +clear, cold light is drawn from the hot fountains of the sun. And yet, +there is an individuality about the style, and the reflection is rather +of the same nature as the patient likeness of expression which is to be +seen in the faces of an aged pair, who have travelled in love and unity +down the vale of years together. + +In this artist's own writing, which has a pure and almost childlike +_naďveté_ of phrasing, there is a glow, not of rhetoric or language, +but of emotion, an almost lover-like attitude towards his friends, +which is yet saved from sentimentality by an obvious sincerity of +feeling. In this he seems to me to be different from the majority of +artistic natures and temperaments. It is impossible not to feel, as a +rule, when one is brought into contact with an artistic temperament, +that the basis of it is a kind of hardness, a fanaticism of spirit. +There is, of course, in the artistic temperament, an abundance of +sensitiveness which is often mistaken for feeling. But it is not +generally an unselfish devotion, which desires to give, to lavish, to +make sacrifices for the sake of the beloved. It is, after all, +impossible to serve two masters; and in the highly developed artist, +the central passion is the devotion to art, and sins against art are +the cardinal and unpardonable sins. The artist has an eager thirst for +beautiful impressions, and his deepest concern is how to translate +these impressions into the medium in which he works. Many an artist +has desired and craved for love. But even love in the artist is not +the end; love only ministers to the sacred fire of art, and is treated +by him as a costly and precious fuel, which he is bound to use to feed +the central flame. If one examines the records of great artistic +careers, this will, I think, be found to be a true principle; and it +is, after all, inevitable that it should be so, in the case of a nature +which has the absorbing desire for self-expression. Perhaps, it is not +always consciously recognised by the artist, but the fact is there; he +tends to regard the deepest and highest experiences of life as +ministering to the fulness of his nature. I remember hearing a great +master of musical art discussing the music of a young man of +extraordinary promise; he said: "Yes, it is very beautiful, very pure; +he is perfect in technique and expression, as far as it goes; but it is +incomplete and undeveloped. What he wants is to fall in love." + +A man who is not bound by the noble thraldom of art, who is full of +vitality and emotion, but yet without the imperative desire for +self-expression, regards life in a different mood. He may be fully as +eager to absorb beautiful impressions, he may love the face of the +earth, the glories of hill and plain, the sweet dreams of art, the +lingering cadences of music; but he takes them as a child takes food, +with a direct and eager appetite, without any impulse to dip them in +his own personality, or to find an expression for them. The point for +him is not how they strike him and affect him, but that they are there. +Such a man will perhaps find his deepest experience in the mysteries of +human relationship; and he will so desire the happiness of those he +loves, that he will lose himself in efforts to remove obstacles, to +lighten burdens, to give rather than to receive joy. And this, I +think, is probably the reason why so few women, even those possessed of +the most sensitive perception and apprehension, achieve the highest +triumphs of art; because they cannot so subordinate life to art, +because they have a passionate desire for the happiness of others, and +find their deepest satisfaction in helping to further it. Who does not +know instances of women of high possibilities, who have quietly +sacrificed the pursuit of their own accomplishments to the tendance of +some brilliant self-absorbed artist? With such love is often mingled a +tender compassionateness, as of a mother for a high-spirited and eager +child, who throws herself with perfect sympathy into his aims and +tastes, while all the time there sits a gentle knowledge in the +background of her heart, of the essential unimportance of the things +that the child desires so eagerly, and which she yet desires so +whole-heartedly for him. Women who have made such a sacrifice do it +with no feeling that they are resigning the best for the second best, +but because they have a knowledge of mysteries that are even higher +than the mysteries of art; and they have their reward, not in the +contemplation of the sacrifice that they have made, but in having +desired and attained something that is more beautiful still than any +dream that the artist cherishes and follows. + +Yet the fact remains that it is useless to preach to the artist the +mystery that there is a higher region than the region of art. A man +must aim at the best 'that he can conceive; and it is not possible to +give men higher motives, by removing the lower motives that they can +comprehend. Such an attempt is like building without foundations; and +those who have relations with artists should do all they can to +encourage them to aim at what they feel to be the highest. + +But, on the other hand, it is a duty for the artist to keep his heart +open, if he can, to the higher influences. He must remember, that +though the eye can see certain colours, and hear certain vibrations of +sound, yet there is an infinite scale of colour, and an infinite +gradation of sound, both above and below what the eye and the ear can +apprehend, and that mortal apprehension can only appropriate to itself +but a tiny fragment of the huge gamut. He ought to believe that if he +is faithful to the best that he can apprehend, a door may be opened to +him which may lead him into regions which are at present closed to him. +To accept the artistic conscience, the artistic aim, as the highest +ideal of which the spirit is capable, is to be a Pharisee in art, to be +self-sufficient, arrogant, limited. It is a kind of spiritual pride, a +wilful deafness to more remote voices; and it is thus of all sins, the +one which the artist, who lives the life of perception, whose mind +must, above all things, be open and transparent, should be loth to +commit. He should rather keep his inner eye--for the artist is like +the great creatures that, in the prophet's vision, stood nearest to the +presence, who were full of eyes, without and within--open to the +unwonted apparition which may, suddenly, like a meteor of the night, +sail across the silent heaven. It may be that, in some moment of +fuller perception, he may even have to divorce the sweeter and more +subtle mistress in exchange for one who comes in a homelier guise, and +take the beggar girl for his queen. But the abnegation will be no +sacrifice; rather a richer and livelier hope. + + + + +XIV + +Young Love + +We had a charming idyll here to-day. A young husband and wife came to +stay with us in all the first flush of married happiness. One realised +all day long that other people merely made a pleasant background for +their love, and that for each there was but one real figure on the +scene. This was borne witness to by a whole armoury of gentle looks, +swift glances, silent gestures. They were both full to the brim of a +delicate laughter, of over-brimming wonder, of tranquil desire. And we +all took part in their gracious happiness. In the evening they sang +and played to us, the wife being an accomplished pianist, the husband a +fine singer. But though the glory of their art fell in rainbow showers +on the audience, it was for each other that they sang and played. We +sat in the dim light of a little panelled room, the lamps making a +circle of light about the happy pair; seldom have I felt the revelation +of personality more. The wife played to us a handful of beautiful +things; but I noticed that she could not interpret the sadder and +darker strains, into which the shadow and malady of a suffering spirit +had passed; but into little tripping minuets full of laughter and +light, and into melodies that spoke of a pure passion of sweetness and +human delight, her soul passed, till the room felt as though flooded +with the warmth of the sun. And he, too, sang with all his might some +joyful and brave utterances, with the lusty pride of manhood; and in a +gentler love-song too, that seemed to linger in a dream of delight by +crystal streams, the sweet passion of the heart rose clear and true. +But when he too essayed a song of sorrow and reluctant sadness, there +was no spirit in it; it seemed to him, I suppose, so unlike life, and +the joy of life,--so fantastic and unreal an outpouring of the heart. + +We sat long in the panelled room, till it seemed all alive with soft +dreams and radiant shapes, that floated in a golden air. All that was +dark and difficult seemed cast out and exercised. But it was all so +sincere and contented a peace that the darker and more sombre shadows +had no jealous awakening; for the two were living to each other, not in +a selfish seclusion, but as though they gave of their joy in handfuls +to the whole world. The raptures of lovers sometimes take them back so +far into a kind of unashamed childishness that the spectacle rouses the +contempt and even the indignation of world-worn and cynical people. +But here it never deviated from dignity and seemliness; it only seemed +new and true, and the best gift of God. These two spirits seemed, with +hands intertwined, to have ascended gladly into the mountain, and to +have seen a transfiguration of life: which left them not in a blissful +eminence of isolation, but rather, as it were, beckoning others +upwards, and saying that the road was indeed easy and plain. And so +the sweet hour passed, and left a fragrance behind it; whatever might +befall, they had tasted of the holy wine of joy; they had blessed the +cup, and bidden us too to set our lips to it. + + + + +XV + +A Strange Gathering + +I was walking one summer day in the pleasant hilly country near my +home. There is a road which I often traverse, partly because it is a +very lonely one, partly because it leads out on a high brow or shoulder +of the uplands, and commands a wide view of the plain. Moreover, the +road is so deeply sunken between steep banks, overgrown with hazels, +that one is hardly aware how much one climbs, and the wide clear view +at the top always breaks upon the eye with a certain shock of agreeable +surprise. A little before the top of the hill a road turns off, +leading into a long disused quarry, surrounded by miniature cliffs, +full of grassy mounds and broken ground, overgrown with thickets and +floored with rough turf. It is a very enchanting place in spring, and +indeed at all times of the year; many flowers grow there, and the birds +sing securely among the bushes. I have always imagined that the Red +Deeps, in _The Mill on the Floss_, was just such a place, and the +scenes described as taking place there have always enacted themselves +for me in the quarry. I have always had a fancy too that if there are +any fairies hereabouts, which I very much doubt, for I fear that the +new villas which begin to be sprinkled about the countryside have +scared them all away, they would be found here. I visited the place +one moonlight night, and I am sure that the whole dingle was full of a +bright alert life which mocked my clumsy eyes and ears. If I could +have stolen upon the place unawares, I felt that I might have seen +strange businesses go forward, and tiny revels held. + +That afternoon, as I drew near, I was displeased to see that my little +retreat was being profaned by company. Some brakes were drawn up in +the road, and I heard loud voices raised in untuneful mirth. As I came +nearer I was much bewildered to divine who the visitors were. They +seemed on the point of departing; two of the brakes were full, and into +another some men were clambering. As I came close to them I was still +more puzzled. The majority of the party were dressed all alike, in +rough brown clothes, with soft black felt hats; but in each of the +brakes that were tenanted sat a man as well, with a braided cap, in a +sort of uniform. Most of the other men were old or elderly; some had +white beards or whiskers, almost all were grizzled. They were talking, +too, in an odd, inconsequent, chirping kind of way, not listening to +each other; and moreover they were strangely adorned. Some had their +hats stuck full of flowers, others were wreathed with leaves. A few +had chains of daisies round their necks. They seemed as merry and as +obedient as children. Inside the gate, in the centre of the quarry, +was a still stranger scene. Here was a ring of elderly and aged men, +their hats wreathed with garlands, hand-in-hand, executing a slow and +solemn dance in a circle. One, who seemed the moving spirit, a small +wiry man with a fresh-coloured face and a long chin-beard, was leaping +high in the air, singing some rustic song, and dragging his less active +companions round and round. The others all entered into the spirit of +the dance. One very old and feeble man, with a smile on his face, was +executing little clumsy hops, deeply intent on the performance. A few +others stood round admiring the sport; a little apart was a tall grave +man, talking loudly to himself, with flowers stuck all over him, who +was spinning round and round in an ecstasy of delight. Becoming giddy, +he took a few rapid steps to the left, but fell to the ground, where he +lay laughing softly, and moving his hands in the air. Presently one of +the officials said a word to the leader of the dance; the ring broke +up, and the performers scattered, gathering up little bundles of leaves +and flowers that lay all about in some confusion, and then trooping out +to the brakes. The quarry was deserted. Several of the group waved +their hands to me, uttering unintelligible words, and holding out +flowers. + +I was so much surprised at the odd scene that I asked one of the +officials what it all meant. He said politely that it was a picnic +party from the Pauper Lunatic Asylum at H----. The mystery was +explained. I said: "They seem to be enjoying themselves." "Yes, +indeed, sir," he said, "they are like children; they look forward to +this all the year; there is no greater punishment than to deprive a man +of his outing." He entered the last brake as he said these words, and +the carriages moved off, a shrill and aged cheer rising from thin and +piping voices on the air. + +The whole thing did not strike me as grotesque, but as infinitely +pathetic and even beautiful. Here were these old pitiful creatures, so +deeply afflicted, condemned most of them to a lifelong seclusion, who +were recalling and living over again their childish sports and +delights. What dim memories of old spring days, before their sad +disabilities had settled upon them, were working in those aged and +feeble brains! What pleased me best was the obvious and light-hearted +happiness of the whole party, a compensation for days of starved +monotony. No party of school-children on a holiday could have been +more thoughtlessly, more intently gay. Here was a desolate company, +one would have thought, of life's failures, facing one of the saddest +and least hopeful prospects that the world can afford; yet on this day +at least they were full to the brim of irresponsible and complete +happiness and delight, tasting an enjoyment, it seemed, more vivid than +often falls to my own lot. In the presence of such happiness it seemed +so useless, so unnecessary to ask why so heavy a burden was bound on +their backs, because here at all events was a scene of the purest and +most innocent rapture. I went on my way full of wonder and even of +hope. I could not fathom the deep mystery of the failure, the +suffering, the weakness that runs across the world like an ugly crack +across the face of a fair building. But then how tenderly and wisely +does the great Artificer lend consolation and healing, repairing and +filling so far as he may, the sad fracture; he seems to know better +than we can divine the things that belong to our peace; so that as I +looked across the purple rolling plain, with all its wooded ridges, its +rich pastures, the smoke going up from a hundred hamlets, a confidence, +a quiet trust seemed to rise in my mind, filling me with a strange +yearning to know what were the thoughts of the vast Mind that makes us +and sustains us, mingled with a faith in some large and far-off issue +that shall receive and enfold our little fretful spirits, as the sea +receives the troubled leaping streams, to move in slow unison with the +wide and secret tides. + + + + +XVI + +The Cripple + +I went to-day to see an old friend whom I had not met for ten years. +Some time ago he had a bad fall which for a time crippled him, but from +which it was hoped he would recover; but he must have received some +obscure and deep-seated injury, because after improving for a time, he +began to go backwards, and has now to a great extent lost the use of +his limbs. He was formerly a very active man, both intellectually and +physically. He had a prosperous business in the country town on the +outskirts of which he lives. He was one of those tall spare men, +black-haired and black-eyed, capable of bearing great fatigue, full to +the brim of vitality. He was a great reader, fond of music and art; +married to a no less cultivated and active wife, but childless. There +never was a man who had a keener enjoyment of existence in all its +aspects. It used to be a marvel to me to see at how many points a man +could touch life, and the almost child-like zest which he threw into +everything which he did. + +On arriving at the house, a pleasant old-fashioned place with a big +shady garden, I was shown into a large book-lined study, and there +presently crept and tottered into the room, leaning on two sticks, a +figure which I can only say in no respect recalled to me the +recollection of my friend. He was bent and wasted, his hair was white; +and there was that sunken look about the temples, that tracery of lines +about the eyes that tells of constant suffering. But the voice was +unaltered, full, resonant, and distinct as ever. He sat down and was +silent for a moment. I think that the motion even from one room into +another caused him great pain. Then he began to talk; first he told me +of the accident, and his journeys in search of health. "But the +comfort is," he added, "that the doctors have now decided that they can +do no more for me, and I need leave home no more." He told me that he +still went to his business every day--and I found that it was +prospering greatly--and that though he could not drive, he could get +out in a wheeled chair; he said nothing of his sufferings, and +presently began to talk of books and politics. Gradually I realised +that I was in the company of a thoroughly cheerful man. It was not the +cheerfulness that comes of effort, of a determined attempt to be +interested in old pursuits, but the abundant and overflowing +cheerfulness of a man who has still a firm grasp on life. He argued, +he discussed with the same eager liveliness; and his laugh had the +careless and good-humoured ring of a man whose mind was entirely +content. + +His wife soon entered; and we sat for a long time talking. I was +keenly moved by the relations between them; she displayed none of that +minute attention to his needs, none of that watchful anxiety which I +have often thought, tenderly lavished as it is upon invalids, must +bring home to them a painful sense of their dependence and +helplessness; and he too showed no trace of that fretful exigence which +is too often the characteristic of those who cannot assist themselves, +and which almost invariably arises in the case of eager and active +temperaments thus afflicted, those whose minds range quickly from +subject to subject, and who feel their disabilities at every turn. At +one moment he wanted his glasses to read something from a book that lay +beside him. He asked his wife with a gentle courtesy to find them. +They were discovered in his own breast-pocket, into which he could not +even put his feeble hand, and he apologised for his stupidity with an +affectionate humility which made me feel inclined to tears, especially +when I saw the pleasure which the performance of this trifling service +obviously caused her. It was just the same, I afterwards noticed, with +a young attendant who waited on him at luncheon, an occasion which +revealed to me the full extent of his helplessness. + +I gathered from his wife in the course of the afternoon that though his +life was not threatened, yet that there was no doubt that his +helplessness was increasing. He could still hold a book and turn the +pages; but it was improbable that he could do so for long, and he was +amusing himself by inventing a mechanical device for doing this. But +she too talked of the prospect with a quiet tranquillity. She said +that he was making arrangements to direct his business from his house, +as it was becoming difficult for him to enter the office. + +He himself showed the same unabated cheerfulness during the whole of my +visit, and spoke of the enjoyment it had brought him. There was not +the slightest touch of self-pity about his talk. + +I should have admired and wondered at the fortitude of this gallant +pair, if I had seen signs of repression and self-conquest about them; +if they had relapsed even momentarily into repining, if they had shown +signs of a faithful determination to make the best of a bad business. +But I could discern no trace of such a mood about either of them. +Whether this kindly and sweet patience has been acquired, after hard +and miserable wrestlings with despair and wretchedness, I cannot say, +but I am inclined to think that it is not so. It seems to me rather to +be the display of perfect manliness and womanliness in the presence of +an irreparable calamity, a wonderful and amazing compensation, sent +quietly from the deepest fortress of Love to these simple and generous +natures, who live in each other's lives. I tried to picture to myself +what my own thoughts would be if condemned to this sad condition; I +could only foresee a fretful irritability, a wild anguish, alternating +with a torpid stupefaction. "I seem to love the old books better than +ever," my friend had said, smiling softly, in the course of the +afternoon; "I used to read them hurriedly and greedily in the old days, +but now I have time to think over them--to reflect--I never knew what a +pleasure reflection was." I could not help feeling as he said the +words that with me such a stroke as he had suffered would have dashed +the life, the colour, out of books, and left them faded and withered +husks. Half the charm of books, I have always thought, is the +inter-play of the commentary of life and experience. I ventured to ask +him if this was not the case. "No," he said, "I don't think it is--I +seem more interested in people, in events, in thoughts than ever; and +one gets them from a purer spring--I don't know if I can explain," he +added, "but I think that one sees it all from a different perspective, +in a truer light, when one's own desires and possibilities are so much +more limited." When I said good-bye to him, he smiled at me and hoped +that I should repeat my visit. "Don't think of me as unhappy," he +added, and his wife, who was standing by him, said, "Indeed you need +not;" and the two smiled at each other in a way which made me feel that +they were speaking the simple truth, and that they had found an +interpretation of life, a serene region to abide in, which I, with all +my activities, hopes, fears, businesses, had somehow missed. The pity +of it! and yet the beauty of it! as I went away I felt that I had +indeed trodden on holy ground, and seen the transfiguration of humanity +and pain into something august, tranquil, and divine. + + + + +XVII + +Oxford + +There are certain things in the world that are so praiseworthy that it +seems a needless, indeed an almost laughable thing to praise them; such +things are love and friendship, food and sleep, spring and summer; such +things, too, are the wisest books, the greatest pictures, the noblest +cities. But for all that I mean to try and make a little hymn in prose +in honour of Oxford, a city I have seen but seldom, and which yet +appears to me one of the most beautiful things in the world. + +I do not wish to single out particular buildings, but to praise the +whole effect of the place, such as it seemed to me on a day of bright +sun and cool air, when I wandered hour after hour among the streets, +bewildered and almost intoxicated with beauty, feeling as a poor man +might who has pinched all his life, and made the most of single coins, +and who is brought into the presence of a heap of piled-up gold, and +told that it is all his own. + +I have seen it said in foolish books that it is a misfortune to Oxford +that so many of the buildings have been built out of so perishable a +vein of stone. It is indeed a misfortune in one respect, that it +tempts men of dull and precise minds to restore and replace buildings +of incomparable grace, because their outline is so exquisitely blurred +by time and decay. I remember myself, as a child, visiting Oxford, and +thinking that some of the buildings were almost shamefully ruinous of +aspect; now that I am wiser I know that we have in these battered and +fretted palace-fronts a kind of beauty that fills the mind with an +almost despairing sense of loveliness, till the heart aches with +gratitude, and thrills with the desire to proclaim the glory of the +sight aloud. + +These black-fronted blistered facades, so threatening, so sombre, yet +screening so bright and clear a current of life; with the tender green +of budding spring trees, chestnuts full of silvery spires, +glossy-leaved creepers clinging, with tiny hands, to cornice and +parapet, give surely the sharpest and most delicate sense that it is +possible to conceive of the contrast on which the essence of so much +beauty depends. To pass through one of these dark and smoke-stained +courts, with every line mellowed and harmonised, as if it had grown up +so out of the earth; to find oneself in a sunny pleasaunce, carpeted +with velvet turf, and set thick with flowers, makes the spirit sigh +with delight. Nowhere in the world can one see such a thing as those +great gate-piers, with a cognisance a-top, with a grille of iron-work +between them, all sweetly entwined with some slim vagrant creeper, that +give a glimpse and a hint--no more--of a fairy-land of shelter and +fountains within. I have seen such palaces stand in quiet and stately +parks, as old, as majestic, as finely proportioned as the buildings of +Oxford; but the very blackness of the city air, and the drifting smoke +of the town, gives that added touch of grimness and mystery that the +country airs cannot communicate. And even fairer sights are contained +within; those panelled, dark-roofed halls, with their array of +portraits gravely and intently regarding the stranger; the chapels, +with their splendid classical screens and stalls, rich and dim with +ancient glass. The towers, domes, and steeples; and all set not in a +mere paradise of lawns and glades, but in the very heart of a city, +itself full of quaint and ancient houses, but busy with all the +activity of a brisk and prosperous town; thereby again giving the +strong and satisfying sense of contrast, the sense of eager and +every-day cares and pleasures, side by side with these secluded havens +of peace, the courts and cloister, where men may yet live a life of +gentle thought and quiet contemplation, untroubled, nay, even +stimulated, by the presence of a bustling life so near at hand, which +yet may not intrude upon the older dream. + +I do not know whether my taste is entirely trustworthy, but I confess +that I find the Italianate and classical buildings of Oxford finer than +the Gothic buildings. The Gothic buildings are quainter, perhaps, more +picturesque, but there is an air of solemn pomp and sober dignity about +the classical buildings that harmonises better with the sense of wealth +and grave security that is so characteristic of the place. The Gothic +buildings seem a survival, and have thus a more romantic interest, a +more poetical kind of association. But the classical porticos and +facades seem to possess a nobler dignity, and to provide a more +appropriate setting for modern Oxford; because the spirit of Oxford is +more the spirit of the Renaissance than the spirit of the Schoolmen; +and personally I prefer that ecclesiasticism should be more of a +flavour than a temper; I mean that though I rejoice to think that sober +ecclesiastical influences contribute a serious grace to the life of +Oxford, yet I am glad to feel that the spirit of the place is liberal +rather than ecclesiastical. Such traces as one sees in the chapels of +the Oxford Movement, in the shape of paltry stained glass, starved +reredoses, modern Gothic woodwork, would be purely deplorable from the +artistic point of view, if they did not possess a historical interest. +They speak of interrupted development, an attempt to put back the +shadow on the dial, to return to a narrower and more rigid tone, to put +old wine into new bottles, which betrays a want of confidence in the +expansive power of God. I hate with a deep-seated hatred all such +attempts to bind and confine the rising tide of thought. I want to see +religion vital and not formal, elastic and not cramped by precedent and +tradition. And thus I love to see worship enshrined in noble classical +buildings, which seem to me to speak of a desire to infuse the +intellectual spirit of Greece, the dignified imperialism of Rome into +the more timid and secluded ecclesiastical life, making it fuller, +larger, more free, more deliberate. + +But even apart from the buildings, which are after all but the body of +the place, the soul of Oxford, its inner spirit, is what lends it its +satisfying charm. On the one hand, it gives the sense of the dignity +of the intellect; one reflects that here can be lived lives of stately +simplicity, of high enthusiasm, apart from personal wealth, and yet +surrounded by enough of seemly dignity to give life the charm of grave +order and quiet solemnity. Here are opportunities for peaceful and +congenial work, to the sound of mellodious bells; uninterrupted hours, +as much society of a simple kind as a man can desire, and the whole +with a background of exquisite buildings and rich gardens. And then, +too, there is the tide of youthful life that floods every corner of the +place. It is an endless pleasure to see the troops of slim and alert +young figures, full of enjoyment and life, with all the best gifts of +life, health, work, amusement, society, friendship, lying ready to +their hand. The sense of this beating and thrilling pulse of life +circulating through these sombre and splendid buildings is what gives +the place its inner glow; this life full of hope, of sensation, of +emotion, not yet shadowed or disillusioned or weary, seems to be as the +fire on the altar, throwing up its sharp darting tongues of flame, its +clouds of fragrant smoke, giving warmth and significance and a fiery +heart to a sombre shrine. + +And so it is that Oxford is in a sort a magnetic pole for England; a +pole not, perhaps, of intellectual energy, or strenuous liberalism, or +clamorous aims, or political ideas; few, perhaps, of the sturdy forces +that make England potently great, centre there. The greatness of +England is, I suppose, made up by her breezy, loud-voiced sailors, her +lively, plucky soldiers, her ardent, undefeated merchants, her tranquil +administrators; by the stubborn adventurous spirit that makes itself at +home everywhere, and finds it natural to assume responsibilities. But +to Oxford set the currents of what may be called intellectual emotion, +the ideals that may not make for immediate national greatness, but +which, if delicately and faithfully nurtured, hold out at least a hope +of affecting the intellectual and spiritual life of the world. There +is something about Oxford which is not in the least typical of England, +but typical of the larger brotherhood that is independent of +nationalities; that is akin to the spirit which in any land and in +every age has produced imperishable monuments of the ardent human soul. +The tribe of Oxford is the tribe from whose heart sprang the Psalms of +David; Homer and Sophocles, Plato and Virgil, Dante and Goethe are all +of the same divine company. It may be said that John Bull, the sturdy +angel of England, turns his back slightingly upon such influences; that +he regards Oxford as an incidental ornament of his person, like a seal +that jingles at his fob. But all generous and delicate spirits do her +a secret homage, as a place where the seeds of beauty and emotion, of +wisdom and understanding, are sown, as in a secret garden. Hearts such +as these, even whirling past that celestial city, among her poor +suburbs, feel an inexpressible thrill at the sight of her towers and +domes, her walls and groves. _Quam dilecta sunt tabernacula_, they +will say; and they will breathe a reverent prayer that there may be no +leading into captivity and no complaining in her streets. + + + + +XVIII + +Authorship + +I found myself at dinner the other day next to an old friend, whom I +see but seldom; a quiet, laborious, able man, with the charm of perfect +modesty and candour, who, moreover, writes a very beautiful and lucid +style. I said to him that I conceived it to be my mission, whenever I +met him, to enquire what he was writing, and to beg him to write more. +He said smilingly that he was very much occupied in his work, which is +teaching, and found little time to write; "besides," he said, "I think +that one writes too much." He went on to say that though he loved +writing well enough when he was in the mood for it, yet that the labour +of shaping sentences, and lifting them to their places, was very severe. + +I felt myself a little rebuked by this, for I will here confess that +writing is the one pleasure and preoccupation of my own life, though I +do not publish a half of what I write. It set me wondering whether I +did indeed write too much; and so I said to him: "You mean, I suppose, +that one gets into the habit of serving up the same ideas over and over +again, with a different sauce, perhaps; but still the same ideas?" +"Yes," he said, "that is what I mean. When I have written anything +that I care about, I feel that I must wait a long time before the +cistern fills again." + +We went on to talk of other things; but I have since been reflecting +whether there is truth in what my friend said. If his view is true of +writing, then it is surely the only art that is so hampered. We should +never think that an artist worked too much; we might feel that he did +not perhaps finish his big pictures sufficiently; but if he did not +spare labour in finishing his pictures, we should never find fault with +him for doing, say, as Turner did, and making endless studies and +sketches, day after day, of all that struck him as being beautiful. We +should feel indeed that some of these unconsidered and rapid sketches +had a charm and a grace that the more elaborate pictures might miss; +and in any case we should feel that the more that he worked, the firmer +and easier would become his sweep of hand, the more deft his power of +indicating a large effect by an economy of resource. The musician, +too: no one would think of finding fault with him for working every day +at his art; and it is the same with all craftsmen; the more they +worked, the surer would their touch be. + +Now I am inclined to believe that what makes writing good is not so +much the pains taken with a particular piece of work, the retouching, +the corrections, the dear delays. Still more fruitful than this labour +is the labour spent on work that is never used, that never sees the +light. Writing is to me the simplest and best pleasure in the world; +the mere shaping of an idea in words is the occupation of all others I +most love; indeed, to speak frankly, I plan and arrange all my days +that I may secure a space for writing, not from a sense of duty, but +merely from a sense of delight. The whole world teems with subjects +and thoughts, sights of beauty and images of joy and sorrow, that I +desire to put into words; and to forbid myself to write would be to +exercise the strongest self-denial of which I am capable. Of course I +do not mean that I can always please myself. I have piles of +manuscripts laid aside which fail either in conception or expression, +or in both. But there are a dozen books I would like to write if I had +the time. + +To be honest, I do not believe in fretting too much over a piece of +writing. Writing, laboriously constructed, painfully ornamented, is +often, I think, both laborious and painful to read; there is a sense of +strain about it. It is like those uneasy figures that one sees in the +carved gargoyles of old churches, crushed and writhing for ever under a +sense of weight painfully sustained, or holding a gaping mouth open, +for the water-pipe to discharge its contents therethrough. However +ingenious these carvings are, they always give a sense of tension and +oppression to the mind; and it is the same with laboured writers; my +theory of writing rather is that the conception should be as clear as +possible, and then that the words should flow like a transparent +stream, following as simply as possible the shape and outline of the +thought within, like a waterbreak over a boulder in a stream's bed. +This, I think, is best attained by infinite practice. If a piece of +work seems to be heavy and muddy, let it be thrown aside ungrudgingly; +but the attempt, even though it be a failure, makes the next attempt +easier. + +I do not think that one can write for very long at a time to much +purpose; I take the two or three hours when the mind is clearest and +freshest, and write as rapidly as I can; this secures, it seems to me, +a clearness and a unity which cannot be attained by fretful labour, by +poking and pinching at one's work. One avoids by rapidity and ardour +the dangerous defect of repetition; a big task must be divided into +small sharp episodes to be thus swiftly treated. The thought of such a +writer as Flaubert lying on his couch or pacing his room, the racked +and tortured medium of his art, spending hours in selecting the one +perfect word for his purpose, is a noble and inspiring picture; but +such a process does not, I fear, always end in producing the effect at +which it aims; it improves the texture at a minute point; it sacrifices +width and freedom. + +Together with clearness of conception and resource of vocabulary must +come a certain eagerness of mood. When all three qualities are +present, the result is good work, however rapidly it may be produced. +If one of the three is lacking, the work sticks, hangs, and grates; and +thus what I feel that the word-artist ought to do is to aim at working +on these lines, but to be very strict and severe about the ultimate +selection of his work. If, for instance, in a big task, a section has +been dully and impotently written, let him put the manuscript aside, +and think no more of it for a while; let him not spend labour in +attempting to mend bad work; then, on some later occasion, let him +again get his conception clear, and write the whole section again; if +he loves writing for itself he will not care how often this process is +repeated. + +I am speaking here very frankly; and I will own that for myself, when +the day has rolled past and when the sacred hour comes, I sit down to +write with an appetite, a keen rapture, such as a hungry man may feel +when he sits down to a savoury meal. There is a real physical emotion +that accompanies the process; and it is a deep and lively distress that +I feel when I am living under conditions that do not allow me to +exercise my craft, at being compelled to waste the appropriate hours in +other occupations. + +It may be fairly urged that with this intense impulse to write, I ought +to have contrived to make myself into a better writer; and it might be +thought that there is something either grotesque or pathetic in so much +emotional enjoyment issuing in so slender a performance. But the +essence of the happiness is that the joy resides in the doing of the +work and not in the giving it to the world; and though I do not pretend +not to be fully alive to the delight of having my work praised and +appreciated, that is altogether a secondary pleasure which in no way +competes with the luxury of expression. + +I am not ungrateful for this delight; it may, I know, be withdrawn from +me; but meanwhile the world seems to be full to the brim of expressive +and significant things. There is a beautiful old story of a saint who +saw in a vision a shining figure approaching him, holding in his hand a +dark and cloudy globe. He held it out, and the saint looking +attentively upon it, saw that it appeared to represent the earth in +miniature; there were the continents and seas, with clouds sweeping +over them; and, for all that it was so minute, he could see cities and +plains, and little figures moving to and fro. The angel laid his +finger on a part of the globe, and detached from it a small cluster of +islands, drawing them out of the sea; and the saint saw that they were +peopled by a folk, whom he knew, in some way that he could not wholly +understand, to be dreary and uncomforted. He heard a voice saying, +"_He taketh up the isles as a very small thing_"; and it darted into +his mind that his work lay with the people of those sad islands; that +he was to go thither, and speak to them a message of hope. + +It is a beautiful story; and it has always seemed to me that the work +of the artist is like that. He is to detach from the great peopled +globe what little portion seems to appeal to him most; and he must then +say what he can to encourage and sustain men, whatever thoughts of joy +and hope come most home to him in his long and eager pilgrimage. + + + + +XIX + +Hamlet + +We were talking yesterday about the stage, a subject in which I am +ashamed to confess I take but a feeble interest, though I fully +recognise the appeal of the drama to certain minds, and its +possibilities. One of the party, who had all his life been a great +frequenter of theatres, turned to me and said: "After all, there is one +play which seems to be always popular, and to affect all audiences, the +poor, the middle-class, the cultivated, alike--_Hamlet_." "Yes," I +said, "and I wonder why that is?" "Well," he said, "it is this, I +think: that beneath all its subtleties, all its intellectual force, it +has an emotional appeal to every one who has lived in the world; every +one sees himself more or less in Hamlet; every one has been in a +situation in which he felt that circumstances were too strong for him; +and then, too," he added, "there is always a deep and romantic interest +about the case of a man who has every possible external advantage, +youth, health, wealth, rank, love, ardour, and zest, who is yet utterly +miserable, and moves to a dark end under a shadow of doom." + +I thought, and think this a profound and delicate criticism. There is, +of course, a great deal more in _Hamlet_; there is its high poetry, its +mournful dwelling upon deep mysteries, its supernatural terrors, its +worldly wisdom, its penetrating insight; but these are all accessories +to the central thought; the conception is absolutely firm throughout. +The hunted soul of Hamlet, after a pleasant and easy drifting upon the +stream of happy events, finds a sombre curtain suddenly twitched aside, +and is confronted with a tragedy so dark, a choice so desperate, that +the reeling brain staggers, and can hardly keep its hold upon the +events and habits of life. Day by day the shadow flits beside him; +morning after morning he uncloses his sad eyes upon a world, which he +had found so sweet, and which he now sees to be so terrible; the +insistent horror breeds a whole troop of spectres, so that all the +quiet experiences of life, friendship, love, nature, art, become big +with uneasy speculations and surmises; from the rampart-platform by the +sea until the peal of ordnance is shot off, as the poor bodies are +carried out, every moment brings with it some shocking or brooding +experience. Hamlet is not strong enough to close his eyes to these +things; if for a moment he attempts this, some tragic thought plucks at +his shoulder, and bids the awakened sleeper look out into the +struggling light. Neither is he strong enough to face the situation +with resolution and courage. He turns and doubles before the pursuing +Fury; he hopes against hope that a door of escape may be opened. He +poisons the air with gloom and suspicion; he feeds with wilful sadness +upon the most melancholy images of death and despair. And though the +great creator of this mournful labyrinth, this atrocious dilemma, can +involve the sad spirit with an art that thrills all the most delicate +fibres of the human spirit, he cannot stammer out even the most +faltering solution, the smallest word of comfort or hope. He leaves +the problem, where he took it up, in the mighty hands of God. + +And thus the play stands as the supreme memorial of the tortured +spirit. The sad soul of the prince seems like an orange-banded bee, +buzzing against the glass of some closed chamber-window, wondering +heavily what is the clear yet palpable medium that keeps it, in spite +of all its efforts, from re-entering the sunny paradise of tree and +flower, that lies so close at hand, and that is yet unattainable; until +one wonders why the supreme Lord of the place cannot put forth a +finger, and release the ineffectual spirit from its fruitless pain. As +the play gathers and thickens to its crisis, one experiences--and this +is surely a test of the highest art--the poignant desire to explain, to +reason, to comfort, to relieve; even if one cannot help, one longs at +least to utter the yearning of the heart, the intense sympathy that one +feels for the multitude of sorrows that oppress this laden spirit; to +assuage if only for a moment, by an answering glance of love, the fire +that burns in those stricken eyes. And one must bear away from the +story not only the intellectual satisfaction, the emotional excitement, +but a deep desire to help, as far as a man can, the woes of spirits +who, all the world over, are in the grip of these dreary agonies. + +And that, after all, is the secret of the art that deals with the +presentment of sorrow; with the art that deals with pure beauty the end +is plain enough; we may stay our hearts upon it, plunge with gratitude +into the pure stream, and recognise it for a sweet and wholesome gift +of God; but the art that makes sorrow beautiful, what are we to do with +that? We may learn to bear, we may learn to hope that there is, in the +mind of God, if we could but read it, a region where both beauty and +sadness are one; and meanwhile it may teach us to let our heart go out, +in love and pity, to all who are bound upon their pilgrimage in +heaviness, and passing uncomforted through the dark valley. + + + + +XX + +A Sealed Spirit + +A few weeks ago I was staying with a friend of mine, a clergyman in the +country. He told me one evening a very sad story about one of his +parishioners. This was a man who had been a clerk in a London Bank, +whose eyesight had failed, and who had at last become totally blind. +He was, at the time when this calamity fell upon him, about forty years +of age. The Directors of the Bank gave him a small pension, and he had +a very small income of his own; he was married, with one son, who was +shortly after taken into the Bank as a clerk. The man and his wife +came into the parish, and took a tiny cottage, where they lived very +simply and frugally. But within a year or two his hearing had also +failed, and he had since become totally deaf. It is almost appalling +to reflect upon the condition of helplessness to which this double +calamity can reduce a man. To be cut off from the sights and sounds of +the world, with these two avenues of perception closed, so as to be +able to take cognisance of external things only through scent and +touch! It would seem to be well-nigh unendurable! He had learnt to +read raised type with his fingers, and had been presented by some +friends with two or three books of this kind. His speech was, as is +always the case, affected, but still intelligible. Only the simplest +facts could be communicated to him, by means of a set of cards, with +words in raised type, out of which a few sentences could be arranged. +But he and his wife had invented a code of touch, by means of which she +was able to a certain extent, though of course very inadequately, to +communicate with him. I asked how he employed himself, and I was told +that he wrote a good deal,--curious, rhapsodical compositions, dwelling +much on his own thoughts and fancies. "He sits," said the Vicar, "for +hours together on a bench in his garden, and walks about, guided by his +wife. His sense of both smell and touch have become extraordinarily +acute; and, afflicted as he is, I am sure he is not at all an unhappy +man." He produced some of the writings of which he had spoken. They +were written in a big, clear hand. I read them with intense interest. +Some of them were recollections of his childish days, set in a somewhat +antique and biblical phraseology. Some of them were curious reveries, +dwelling much upon the perception of natural things through scent. He +complained, I remember, that life was so much less interesting in +winter because scents were so much less sweet and less complex than in +summer. But the whole of the writings showed a serene exaltation of +mind. There was not a touch of repining or resignation about them. He +spoke much of the aesthetic pleasure that he received from an increased +power of disentangling the component elements of a scent, such as came +from his garden on a warm summer day. Some of the writings that were +shown me were religious in character, in which the man spoke of a +constant sense of the nearness of God's presence, and of a strange joy +that filled his heart. + +On the following day the Vicar suggested that we should go to see him; +we turned out of a lane, and found a little cottage with a thatched +roof, standing in a small orchard, bright with flowers. On a bench we +saw the man sitting, entirely unconscious of our presence. He was a +tall, strongly-built fellow with a beard, bronzed and healthy in +appearance. His eyes were wide open, and, but for a curious fixity of +gaze, I should not have suspected that he was blind. His hands were +folded on his knee, and he was smiling; once or twice I saw his lips +move as if he was talking to himself. "We won't go up to him," said +the Vicar, "as it might startle him; we will find his wife." So we +went up to the cottage door, and knocked. It was opened to us by a +small elderly woman, with a grave, simple look, and a very pleasant +smile. The little place was wonderfully clean and neat. The Vicar +introduced me, saying that I had been much interested in her husband's +writings, and had come to call on him. She smiled briskly, and said +that he would be much pleased. We walked down the path; when we were +within a few feet of him, he became aware of our presence, and turned +his head with a quiet, expectant air. His wife went up to him, took +his hand, and seemed to beat on it softly with her fingers; he smiled, +and presently raised his hat, as if to greet us, and then took up a +little writing-pad which lay beside him, and began to write. A little +conversation followed, his wife reading out what he had written, and +then interpreting our remarks to him. What struck me most was the +absence of egotism in what he wrote. He asked the Vicar one or two +questions, and desired to know who I was. I went and sate down beside +him; he wrote in his book that it was a pleasure to him to meet a +stranger. Might he take the liberty of seeing him in his own way? "He +means," said the wife, smiling, "might he put his hand on your +face--some people do not like it," she added apologetically, "and he +will quite understand if you do not." I said that I was delighted; and +the blind man thereupon laid his hand upon my sleeve, and with an +incredible deftness and lightness of touch, so that I hardly felt it, +passed his finger-tips over my coat and waistcoat, lingered for a +moment over my watch-chain, then over my tie and collar, and then very +gently over my face and hair; it did not last half a minute, and there +was something curiously magnetic in the touch of the slim firm fingers. +"Now I see him," he wrote; "please thank him." "It will please him," +said the Vicar, "if we ask him to describe you." In a moment, after a +few touches of his wife's hand, he smiled, and wrote down a really +remarkably accurate picture of my appearance. We then asked him a few +questions about himself. "Very well and very happy," he wrote, "full +of the love of God;" and then added, "You will perhaps think that I get +tired of doing nothing, but the time is too short for all I want to +do." "It is quite true," said his wife, smiling as she read it. "He +is as pleased as a child with everything, and every one is so good to +him." Presently she asked him to read aloud to us; and in a voice of +great distinctness, he read a few verses of the Book of Job from a big +volume. The voice was high and resonant, but varied strangely in +pitch. He asked at the end whether we had heard every word, and being +told that we had, smiled very sweetly and frankly, like a boy who has +performed a task well. The Vicar suggested that he should come for a +turn with us, at which he visibly brightened, and said he would like to +walk through the village. He took our arms, walking between us; and +with a delicate courtesy, knowing that we could not communicate with +him, talked himself, very quietly and simply, almost all the way, +partly of what he was convinced we were passing,--guessing, I imagine, +mainly by a sense of smell, and interpreting it all with astonishing +accuracy, though I confess I was often unable even to detect the scents +which guided him. We walked thus for half an hour, listening to his +quiet talk. Two or three people came up to us. Each time the Vicar +checked him, and he held out his hand to be shaken; in each case he +recognised the person by the mere touch of the hand. "Mrs Purvis, +isn't it? Well, you see me in very good company this morning, don't +you? It is so kind of the Vicar and his friend to take me out, and it +is pleasant to meet friends in the village." He seemed to know all +about the affairs of the place, and made enquiries after various people. + +It was a very strange experience to walk thus with a fellow-creature +suffering from these sad limitations, and yet to be conscious of being +in the presence of so perfectly contented and cheerful a spirit. +Before we parted, he wrote on his pad that he was working hard. "I am +trying to write a little book; of course I know that I can never see +it, but I should like to tell people that it is possible to live a life +like mine, and to be full of happiness; that God sends me abundance of +joy, so that I can say with truth that I am happier now than ever I was +in the old days. Such peace and joy, with so many to love me; so +little that I can do for others, except to speak of the marvellous +goodness of God, and of the beautiful thoughts he gives me." "Yes, he +has written some chapters," said the faithful wife; "but he does not +want any one to see them till they are done." + +I shall never forget the sight of the two as we went away: he stood, +smiling and waving his hand, under an apple-tree in full bloom, with +the sun shining on the flowers. It gave me the sense of a pure and +simple content such as I have rarely experienced. The beauty and +strength of the picture have dwelt with me ever since, showing me that +a soul can be thus shut up in what would seem to be so dark a prison, +with the windows, through which most of us look upon the world, closed +and shuttered; and yet not only not losing the joy of life, but seeming +to taste it in fullest measure. If one could but accept thus one's own +limitations, viewing them not as sources of pleasure closed, but as +opening the door more wide to what remains; the very simplicity and +rarity of the perceptions that are left, gaining in depth and quality +from their isolation. But beyond all this lies that well-spring of +inner joy, which seems to be withheld from so many of us. Is it indeed +withheld? Is it conferred upon this poor soul simply as a tender +compensation? Can we not by quiet passivity, rather than by resolute +effort, learn the secret of it? I believe myself that the source is +there in many hearts, but that we visit it too rarely, and forget it in +the multitude of little cares and businesses, which seem so important, +so absorbing. It is like a hidden treasure, which we go so far abroad +to seek, and for which we endure much weariness of wandering; while all +the while it is buried in our own garden-ground; we have paced to and +fro above it many times, never dreaming that the bright thing lay +beneath our feet, and within reach of our forgetful hand. + + + + +XXI + +Leisure + +It was a bright day in early spring; large, fleecy clouds floated in a +blue sky; the wind was cool, but the sun lay hot in sheltered places. + +I was spending a few days with an old friend, at a little house he +calls his Hermitage, in a Western valley; we had walked out, had passed +the bridge, and had stood awhile to see the clear stream flowing, a +vein of reflected sapphire, among the green water-meadows; we had +climbed up among the beech-woods, through copses full of primroses, to +a large heathery hill, where a clump of old pines stood inside an +ancient earth-work. The forest lay at our feet, and the doves cooed +lazily among the tree-tops; beyond lay the plain, with a long range of +smooth downs behind, where the river broadened to the sea-pool, which +narrowed again to the little harbour; and, across the clustered +house-roofs and the lonely church tower of the port, we could see a +glint of the sea. + +We sat awhile in silence; then "Come," I said, "I am going to be +impertinent! I am in a mood to ask questions, and to have full +answers." + +"And I," said my host placidly, "am always in the mood to answer +questions." + +I would call my friend a poet, because he is sealed of the tribe, if +ever man was; yet he has never written verses to my knowledge. He is a +big, burly, quiet man, gentle and meditative of aspect; shy before +company, voluble in private. Half-humorous, half melancholy. He has +been a man of affairs, prosperous, too, and shrewd. But nothing in his +life was ever so poetical as the way in which, to the surprise and even +consternation of all his friends, he announced one day, when he was +turned of forty, that he had had enough of work, and that he would do +no more. Well, he had no one to say him nay; he has but few relations, +none in any way dependent on him; he has a modest competence; and, +being fond of all leisurely things--books, music, the open air, the +country, flowers, and the like--he has no need to fear that his time +will be unoccupied. + +He looked lazily at me, biting a straw. "Come," said I again, "here is +the time for a catechism. I have reason to think you are over forty?" + +"Yes," said he, "the more's the pity!" + +"And you have given up regular work," I said, "for over a year; and how +do you like that?" + +"Like it?" he said. "Well, so much that I can never work again; and +what is stranger still is that I never knew what it was to be really +busy till I gave up work. Before, I was often bored; now, the day is +never long enough for all I have to do." + +"But that is a dreadful confession," I said; "and how do you justify +yourself for this miserable indifference to all that is held to be of +importance?" + +"Listen!" he said, smiling and holding up his hand. There floated up +out of the wood the soft crooning of a dove, like the over-brimming of +a tide of content. "There's the answer," he added. "How does that +dove justify his existence? and yet he has not much on his mind." + +"I have no answer ready," I said, "though there is one, I am sure, if +you will only give me time; but let that come later: more questions +first, and then I will deliver judgment. Now, attend to this +seriously," I said. "How do you justify it that you are alone in the +world, not mated, not a good husband and father? The dove has not got +that on his conscience." + +"Ah!" said my friend, "I have often asked myself that. But for many +years I had not the time to fall in love; if I had been an idle man it +would have been different, and now that I am free--well, I regard it +as, on the whole, a wise dispensation. I have no domestic virtues; I +am a pretty commonplace person, and I think there is no reason why I +should perpetuate my own feeble qualities, bind my dull qualities up +closer with the life of the world. Besides, I have a theory that the +world is made now very much as it was in the Middle Ages. There was +but one choice then--a soldier or a monk. Now, I have no combative +blood in me; I hate a row; I am a monk to the marrow of my bones, and +the monks are the failures from the point of view of race. No monk +should breed monks; there are enough of his kind in the hive already." + +"You a monk?" said I, laughing. "Why, you are nothing of the kind; you +are just the sort of man for an adoring wife and a handful of big +children. I must have a better answer." + +"Well, then," said he, rather seriously, "I will give you a better +answer. There are some people whose affections are made to run, strong +and straight, in a narrow channel. The world holds but one woman for a +man of that type, and it is his business to find her; but there are +others, and I am one, who dribble away their love in a hundred +channels--in art, in nature, among friends. To speak frankly, I have +had a hundred such passions. I made friends as a boy, quickly and +romantically, with all kinds of people--some old, some young. Then I +have loved books, and music, and, above all, the earth and the things +of the earth. To the wholesome, normal man these things are but an +agreeable background, and the real business of life lies with wife and +child and work. But to me the real things have been the beautiful +things--sunrise and sunset, streams and woods, old houses, talk, +poetry, pictures, ideas. And I always liked my work, too." + +"And you did it well?" I said. + +"Oh, yes, well enough," he replied. "I have a clear head, and I am +conscientious; and then there was some fun to be got out of it at +times. But it was never a part of myself for all that. And the reason +why I gave it up was not because I was tired of it, but because I was +getting to depend too much upon it. I should very soon have been +unable to do without it." + +"But what is your programme?" I said, rather urgently. "Don't you want +to be of some use in the world? To make other people better and +happier, for instance." + +"My dear boy," said my companion, with a smile, "do you know that you +are talking in a very conventional way? Of course, I desire that +people should be better and happier, myself among the number; but how +am I to set about it? Most people's idea of being better and happier +is to make other people subscribe to make them richer. They want more +things to eat and drink and wear; they want success and respectability, +to be sidesmen and town councillors, and even Members of Parliament. +Nothing is more hopelessly unimaginative than ordinary people's aims +and ideas, and the aims and ideas, too, that are propounded from +pulpits. I don't want people to be richer and more prosperous; I want +them to be poorer and simpler. Which is the better man, the shepherd +there on the down, out all day in the air, seeing a thousand pretty +things, or the grocer behind his counter, living in an odour of lard +and cheese, bowing and fussing, and drinking spirits in the evening? +Of course, a wholesome-minded man may be wholesome-minded everywhere +and anywhere; but prosperity, which is the Englishman's idea of +righteousness, is a very dangerous thing, and has very little of what +is divine about it. If I had stuck to my work, as all my friends +advised me, what would have been the result? I should have had more +money than I want, and nothing in the world to live for but my work. +Of course, I know that I run the risk of being thought indolent and +unpractical. If I were a prophet, I should find it easy enough to +scold everybody, and find fault with the poor, peaceful world. But as +I am not, I can only follow my own line of life, and try to see and +love as many as I can of the beautiful things that God flings down all +round us. I am not a philanthropist, I suppose; but most of the +philanthropists I have known have seemed to me tiresome, self-seeking +people, with a taste for trying to take everything out of God's hands. +I am an individualist, I imagine. I think that most of us have to find +our way, and to find it alone. I do try to help a few quiet people at +the right moment; but I believe that every one has his own circle--some +larger, some smaller--and that one does little good outside it. If +every one would be content with that, the world would be mended in a +trice." + +"I am glad that you, at least, admit that there is something to be +mended," I said. + +"Oh, yes," said he, "the general conditions seem to me to want mending; +but that, I humbly think, is God's matter, and not mine. The world is +slowly broadening and improving, I believe. In these days, when we +shoot our enemies and then nurse them, we are coming, I believe, to see +even the gigantic absurdity of war; but all that side of it is too big +for me. I am no philosopher! What I believe we ought to do is to be +patient, kind, and courageous in a corner. Now, I will give you an +instance. I had a friend who was a good, hard-working clergyman; a +brave, genial, courageous creature; he had a town parish not far from +here; he liked his work, and he did it well. He was the friend of all +the boys and girls in the parish; he worked a hundred useful, humble +institutions. He was nothing of a preacher, and a poor speaker; but +something generous, honest, happy seemed to radiate from the man. Of +course, they could not let him alone. They offered him a Bishopric. +All his friends said he was bound to take it; the poor fellow wrote to +me, and said that he dared not refuse a sphere of wider influence, and +all that. I wrote and told him my mind--namely, that he was doing a +splendid piece of quiet, sober work, and that he had better stick to +it. But, of course, he didn't. Well, what is the result? He is +worried to death. He has a big house and a big household; he is a +welcome guest in country-houses and vicarages; he opens churches, he +confirms; he makes endless poor speeches, and preaches weak sermons. +His time is all frittered away in directing the elaborate machinery of +a diocese; and all his personal work is gone. I don't say he doesn't +impress people. But his strength lay in his personal work, his work as +a neighbour and a friend. He is not a clever man; he never says a +suggestive thing--he is not a sower of thoughts, but a simple pastor. +Well, I regard it as a huge and lamentable mistake that he should ever +have changed his course; and the motive that made him do it was a bad +one, only disguised as an angel of light. Instead of being the stoker +of the train, he is now a distinguished passenger in a first-class +carriage." + +"Well," I said, "I admit that there is a good deal in what you say. +But if such a summons comes to a man, is it not more simple-minded to +follow it dutifully? Is it not, after all, part of the guiding of God?" + +"Ah!" said my host, "that is a hard question, I admit. But a man must +look deep into his heart, and face a situation of the kind bravely and +simply. He must be quite sure that it is a summons from God, and not a +temptation from the world. I admit that it may be the former. But in +the case of which I have just spoken, my friend ought to have seen that +it was the latter. He was made for the work he was doing; he was +obviously not made for the other. And to sum it up, I think that God +puts us into the world to live, not necessarily to get influence over +other people. If a man is worth anything, the influence comes; and I +don't call it living to attend public luncheons, and to write +unnecessary letters, because public luncheons are things which need not +exist, and are only amusements invented by fussy and idle people. I am +not at all against people amusing themselves. But they ought to do it +quietly and inexpensively, and not elaborately and noisily. The only +thing that is certain is that men must work and eat and sleep and die. +Well, I want them to enjoy their work, their food, their rest; and then +I should like them to enjoy their leisure hours peacefully and quietly. +I have done as much in my twenty years of business as a man in a +well-regulated state ought to do in the whole of his life; and the rest +I shall give, God willing, to leisure--not eating my cake in a corner, +but in quiet good fellowship, with an eye and an ear for this wonderful +and beautiful world." And my companion smiled upon me a large, gentle, +engaging smile. + +"Yes," I said, "you have answered well, and you have given me plenty to +think about. And at all events you have a point of view, and that is a +great thing." + +"Yes," said he, "a great thing, as long as one is not sure one is +right, but ready to learn, and not desirous to teach. That is the +mistake. We are children at school--we ought not to forget that; but +many of us want to sit in the master's chair, and rap the desk, and +cane the other children." + +And so our talk wandered to other things; then we were silent for a +little, while the birds came home to their roosts, and the trees +shivered in the breeze of sunset; till at last the golden glow gathered +in the west, and the sun went down in state behind the crimson line of +sea. + + + + +XXII + +The Pleasures of Work + +I desire to do a very sacred thing to-day: to enunciate a couple of +platitudes and attest them. It is always a solemn moment in life when +one can sincerely subscribe to a platitude. Platitudes are the things +which people of plain minds shout from the steps of the staircase of +life as they ascend; and to discover the truth of a platitude by +experience means that you have climbed a step higher. + +The first enunciation is, that in this world we most of us do what we +like. And the corollary to that is, that we most of us like what we do. + +Of course, we must begin by taking for granted that we most of us are +obliged to do something. But that granted, it seems to me that it is +very rare to find people who do not take a certain pleasure in their +work, and even secretly congratulate themselves on doing it with a +certain style and efficiency. To find a person who has not some +species of pride of this nature is very rare. Other people may not +share our opinion of our own work. But even in the case of those whose +work is most open to criticism, it is almost invariable to find that +they resent criticism, and are very ready to appropriate praise. I had +a curiously complete instance of this the other day. In a parish which +I often visit, the organ in the church is what is called presided over +by the most infamous executant I have ever heard--an elderly man, who +seldom plays a single chord correctly, and whose attempts to use the +pedals are of the nature of tentative and unsuccessful experiments. +His performance has lately caused a considerable amount of indignation +in the parish, for a new organ has been placed in the church, of far +louder tone than the old instrument, and my friend the organist is +hopelessly adrift upon it. The residents in the place have almost made +up their minds to send a round-robin to the Vicar to ask that the +_pulsator organorum_, the beater of the organ, as old Cathedral +statutes term him, may be deposed. The last time I attended service, +one of those strangely appropriate verses came up in the course of the +Psalms, which make troubled spirits feel that the Psalter does indeed +utter a message to faithful individual hearts. "_I have desired that +they, even my enemies,_" ran the verse, "_should not triumph over me; +for when my foot slipped, they rejoiced greatly against me._" In the +course of the verse the unhappy performer executed a perfect fandango +on the pedals. I looked guiltily at the senior churchwarden, and saw +his mouth twitch. + +In the same afternoon I fell in with the organist, in the course of a +stroll, and discoursed to him in a tone of gentle condolence about the +difficulties of a new instrument. He looked blankly at me, and then +said that he supposed that some people might find a change of +instrument bewildering, but that for himself he felt equally at home on +any instrument. He went on to relate a series of compliments that +well-known musicians had paid him, which I felt must either have been +imperfectly recollected, or else must have been of a consolatory or +even ironical nature. In five minutes, I discovered that my friend was +the victim of an abundant vanity, and that he believed that his +vocation in life was organ-playing. + +Again, I remember that, when I was a schoolmaster, one of my colleagues +was a perfect byword for the disorder and noise that prevailed in his +form. I happened once to hold a conversation with him on disciplinary +difficulties, thinking that he might have the relief of confiding his +troubles to a sympathising friend. What was my amazement when I +discovered that his view of the situation was, that every one was +confronted with the same difficulties as himself, and that he obviously +believed that he was rather more successful than most of us in dealing +with them tactfully and strictly. + +I believe my principle to be of almost universal application; and that +if one could see into the heart of the people who are accounted, and +rightly accounted, to be gross and conspicuous failures, we should find +that they were not free from a certain pleasant vanity about their own +qualifications and efficiency. The few people whom I have met who are +apt to despond over their work are generally people who do it +remarkably well, and whose ideal of efficiency is so high that they +criticise severely in themselves any deviation from their standard. +Moreover, if one goes a little deeper--if, for instance, one cordially +re-echoes their own criticisms upon their work--such criticisms are apt +to be deeply resented. + +I will go further, and say that only once in the course of my life have +I found a man who did his work really well, without any particular +pride and pleasure in it. To do that implies an extraordinary degree +of will-power and self-command. + +I do not mean to say that, if any professional person found himself +suddenly placed in the possession of an independent income, greater +than he had ever derived from his professional work, his pleasure in +his work would be sufficient to retain him in the exercise of it. We +have most of us an unhappy belief in our power of living a pleasurable +and virtuous life of leisure; and the desire to live what is called the +life of a gentleman, which character has lately been defined as a +person who has no professional occupation, is very strong in the hearts +of most of us. + +But, for all that, we most of us enjoy our work; the mere fact that one +gains facility, and improves from day to day, is a source of sincere +pleasure, however far short of perfection our attempts may fall; and, +generally speaking, our choice of a profession is mainly dictated by a +certain feeling of aptitude for and interest in what we propose to +undertake. + +It is, then, a happy and merciful delusion by which we are bound. We +grow, I think, to love our work, and we grow, too, to believe in our +method of doing it. We cannot, a great preacher once said, all delude +ourselves into believing that we are richer, handsomer, braver, more +distinguished than others; but there are few of us who do not cherish a +secret belief that, if only the truth were known, we should prove to be +more interesting than others. + +To leave our work for a moment, and to turn to ordinary social +intercourse. I am convinced that the only thing that can account for +the large number of bad talkers in the world is the wide-spread belief +that prevails among individuals as to their power of contributing +interest and amusement to a circle. One ought to keep this in mind, +and bear faithfully and patiently the stream of tiresome talk that +pours, as from a hose, from the lips of diffuse and lengthy +conversationalists. I once made a terrible mistake. I complimented, +from the mere desire of saying something agreeable, and finding my +choice of praiseworthy qualities limited, an elderly, garrulous +acquaintance on his geniality, on an evening when I had writhed +uneasily under a steady downpour of talk. I have bitterly rued my +insincerity. Not only have I received innumerable invitations from the +man whom the Americans would call my complimentee, but when I am in his +company I see him making heroic attempts to make his conversation +practically continuous. How often since that day have I sympathised +with St James in his eloquent description of the deadly and poisonous +power of the tongue! A bore is not, as is often believed, a merely +selfish and uninteresting person. He is often a man who labours +conscientiously and faithfully at an accomplishment, the exercise of +which has become pleasurable to him. And thus a bore is the hardest of +all people to convert, because he is, as a rule, conscious of virtue +and beneficence. + +On the whole, it is better not to disturb the amiable delusions of our +fellow-men, unless we are certain that we can improve them. To break +the spring of happiness in a virtuous bore is a serious responsibility. +It is better, perhaps, both in matters of work and in matters of social +life, to encourage our friends to believe in themselves. We must not, +of course, encourage them in vicious and hurtful enjoyment, and there +are, of course, bores whose tediousness is not only not harmless, but a +positively noxious and injurious quality. There are bores who have but +to lay a finger upon a subject of universal or special interest, to +make one feel that under no circumstances will one ever be able to +allow one's thoughts to dwell on the subject again; and such a person +should be, as far as possible, isolated from human intercourse, like a +sufferer from a contagious malady. But this extremity of noxiousness +is rare. And it may be said that, as a rule, one does more to increase +happiness by a due amount of recognition and praise, even when one is +recognising rather the spirit of a performance than the actual result; +and such a course of action has the additional advantage of making one +into a person who is eagerly welcomed and sought after in all kinds of +society. + + + + +XXIII + +The Abbey + +The fresh wind blew cheerily as we raced, my friend and I, across a +long stretch of rich fen-land. The sunlight, falling somewhat dimly +through a golden haze, lay very pleasantly on the large pasture-fields. +There are few things more beautiful, I think, than these great level +plains; they give one a delightful sense of space and repose. The +distant lines of trees, the far-off church towers, the long dykes, the +hamlets half-hidden in orchards, the "sky-space and field-silence," +give one a feeling of quiet rustic life lived on a large and simple +scale, which seems the natural life of the world. + +Our goal was the remains of an old religious house, now a farm. We +were soon at the place; it stood on a very gentle rising ground, once +an island above the fen. Two great columns of the Abbey Church served +as gate-posts. The house itself lay a little back from the road, a +comfortable cluster of big barns and outhouses, with great walnut trees +all about, in the middle of an ancient tract of pasture, full of +dimpled excavations, in which the turf grew greener and more compact. +The farm-house itself, a large irregular Georgian building covered with +rough orange plaster, showed a pleasant tiled roof among the barns, +over a garden set with venerable sprawling box-trees. We found a +friendly old labourer, full of simple talk, who showed us the orchard, +with its mouldering wall of stone, pierced with niches, the line of dry +stew-ponds, the refectory, now a great barn, piled high with heaps of +grain and straw. We walked through byres tenanted by comfortable pigs +routing in the dirt. We hung over a paling to watch the creased and +discontented face of an old hog, grunting in shrill anticipation of a +meal. Our guide took us to the house, where we found a transept of the +church, now used as a brew-house, with the line of the staircase still +visible, rising up to a door in the wall that led once to the +dormitory, down the steps of which, night after night, the shivering +and sleepy monks must have stumbled into their chilly church for +prayers. The hall of the house was magnificent with great Norman +arches, once the aisle of the nave. + +The whole scene had the busy, comfortable air of a place full of +patriarchal life, the dignity of a thing existing for use and not for +show, of quiet prosperity, of garnered provender and well-fed stock. +Though it made no deliberate attempt at beauty, it was full of a seemly +and homely charm. The face of the old fellow that led us about, +chirping fragments of local tradition, with a mild pride in the fact +that strangers cared to come and see the place, wore the contented, +weather-beaten look that comes of a life of easy labour spent in the +open air. His patched gaiters, the sacking tied round him with a cord +to serve as an apron, had the same simple appropriateness. We walked +leisurely about, gathering a hundred pretty impressions,--as the old +filbert-trees that fringed the orchard, the wall-flowers, which our +guide called the blood-warriors, on the ruined coping, a flight of +pigeons turning with a sharp clatter in the air. At last he left us to +go about his little business; and we, sitting on a broken +mounting-block in the sunshine, gazed lazily and contentedly at the +scene. + +We attempted to picture something of the life of the Benedictines who +built the house. It must have been a life of much quiet happiness. We +tried to see in imagination the quaint clustered fabrics, the ancient +church, the cloister, the barns, the out-buildings. The brethren must +have suffered much from cold in winter. The day divided by services, +the nights broken by prayers; probably the time was dull enough, but +passed quickly, like all lives full of monotonous engagements. They +were not particularly ascetic, these Benedictines, and insisted much on +manual labour in the open air. Probably at first the monks did their +farm-work as well; but as they grew richer, they employed labourers, +and themselves fell back on simpler and easier garden-work. Perhaps +some few were truly devotional spirits, with a fire of prayer and +aspiration burning in their hearts; but the majority would be quiet +men, full of little gossip about possible promotions, about lands and +crops, about wayfarers and ecclesiastics who passed that way and were +entertained. Very few, except certain officials like the Cellarer, who +would have to ride to market, ever left the precincts of the place, but +laid their bones in the little graveyard east of the church. We make a +mistake in regarding the life and the buildings as having been so +picturesque, as they now appear after the long lapse of time. The +church was more venerable than the rest; but the refectory, at the time +of the dissolution, cannot have been long built; still, the old tiled +place, with its rough stone walls, must have always had a quaint and +irregular air. + +Probably it was as a rule a contented and amiable society. The regular +hours, the wholesome fatigue which the rule entailed, must have tended +to keep the inmates in health and good-humour. But probably there was +much tittle-tattle; and a disagreeable, jealous, or scheming inmate +must have been able to stir up a good deal of strife in a society +living at such close quarters. One thinks loosely that it must have +resembled the life of a college at the University, but that is an +entire misapprehension; for the idea of a college is liberty with just +enough discipline to hold it together, while the idea of a monastery +was discipline with just enough liberty to make life tolerable. + +Well, it is all over now! the idea of the monastic life, which was to +make a bulwark for quiet-minded people against the rougher world, is no +longer needed. The work of the monks is done. Yet I gave an +affectionate thought across the ages to the old inmates of the place, +whose bones have mouldered into the dust of the yard where we sat. It +seemed half-pleasant, half-pathetic to think of them as they went about +their work, sturdy, cheerful figures, looking out over the wide fen +with all its clear pools and reed-beds, growing old in the familiar +scene, passing from the dormitory to the infirmary, and from the +infirmary to the graveyard, in a sure and certain hope. They too +enjoyed the first breaking of spring, the return of balmy winds, the +pushing up of the delicate flowers in orchard and close, with something +of the same pleasure that I experience to-day. The same wonder that I +feel, the same gentle thrill speaking of an unattainable peace, an +unruffled serenity that lies so near me in the spring sunshine, +flashed, no doubt, into those elder spirits. Perhaps, indeed, their +heart went out to the unborn that should come after them, as my heart +goes out to the dead to-day. + +And even the slow change that has dismantled that busy place, and +established it as the quiet farmstead that I see, holds a hope within +it. There must indeed have been a sad time when the buildings were +slipping into decay, and the church stood ruined and roofless. But how +soon the scars are healed! How calmly nature smiles at the eager +schemes of men, breaks them short, and then sets herself to harmonise +and adorn the ruin, till she makes it fairer than before, writing her +patient lesson of beauty on broken choir and tottering wall, flinging +her tide of fresh life over the rents, and tenderly drawing back the +broken fragments into her bosom. If we could but learn from her not to +fret or grieve, to gather up what remains, to wait patiently and wisely +for our change! + +So I reasoned softly to myself in a train of gentle thought, till the +plough-horses came clattering in, and the labourers plodded gratefully +home; and the sun went down over the flats in a great glory of orange +light. + + + + +XXIV + +Wordsworth + +I believe that I was once taken to Rydal Mount as a small boy, led +there meekly, no doubt, in a sort of dream; but I retain not the +remotest recollection of the place, except of a small flight of stone +steps, which struck me as possessing some attractive quality or other. +And I have since read, I suppose, a good many descriptions of the +place; but on visiting it, as I recently did, I discovered that I had +not the least idea of what it was like. And I would here shortly speak +of the extraordinary kindness which I received from the present +tenants, who are indeed of the hallowed dynasty; it may suffice to say +that I could only admire the delicate courtesy which enabled people, +who must have done the same thing a hundred times before, to show me +the house with as much zest and interest, as if I was the first pilgrim +that had ever visited the place. + +In the first place, the great simplicity of the whole struck me. It is +like a little grange or farm. The rooms are small and low, and of a +pleasant domesticity; it is a place apt for a patriarchal life, where +simple people might live at close quarters with each other. The house +is hardly visible from the gate. You turn out of a steep lane, +embowered by trees, into a little gravel sweep, approaching the house +from the side. But its position is selected with admirable art; the +ground falls steeply in front of it, and you look out over a wide +valley, at the end of which Windermere lies, a tract of sapphire blue, +among wooded hills and dark ranges. Behind, the ground rises still +more steeply, to the rocky, grassy heights of Nab Scar; and the road +leads on to a high green valley among the hills, a place of unutterable +peace. + +In this warm, sheltered nook, hidden in woods, with its southerly +aspect, the vegetation grows with an almost tropical luxuriance, so +that the general impression of the place is by no means typically +English. Laurels and rhododendrons grow in dense shrubberies; the +trees are full of leaf; flowers blossom profusely. There is a little +orchard beneath the house, and everywhere there is the fragrant and +pungent smell of sun-warmed garden-walks and box-hedges. There are +little terraces everywhere, banked up with stone walls built into the +steep ground, where stonecrops grow richly. One of these leads to a +little thatched arbour, where the poet often sat; below it, the ground +falls very rapidly, among rocks and copse and fern, so that you look +out on to the tree-tops below, and catch a glimpse of the steely waters +of the hidden lake of Rydal. + +Wordsworth lived there for more than thirty years; and half a century +has passed since he died. He was a skilful landscape gardener; and I +suppose that in his lifetime, when the walks were being constructed and +the place laid out, it must have had a certain air of newness, of +interference with the old wild peace of the hillside, which it has +since parted with. Now it is all as full of a quiet and settled order, +as if it had been thus for ever. One little detail deserves a special +mention; just below the house, there is an odd, circular, low, grassy +mound, said to be the old meeting-place for the village council, in +primitive and patriarchal days,--the Mount, from which the place has +its name. + +I thought much of the stately, simple, self-absorbed poet, whom somehow +one never thinks of as having been young; the lines of Milton haunted +me, as I moved about the rooms, the garden-terraces:-- + + "_In this mount he appeared; under this tree + Stood visible; among these pines his voice + I heard; here with him at this fountain talked._" + +The place is all permeated with the thought of him, his deep and +tranquil worship of natural beauty, his love of the kindly earth. + +I do not think that Wordsworth is one whose memory evokes a deep +personal attachment. I doubt if any figures of bygone days do that, +unless there is a certain wistful pathos about them; unless something +of compassion, some wish to proffer sympathy or consolation, mingles +with one's reverence. I have often, for instance, stayed at a house +where Shelley spent a few half-rapturous, half-miserable months. +There, meditating about him, striving to reconstruct the picture of his +life, one felt that he suffered much and needlessly; one would have +wished to shelter, to protect him if it had been possible, or at least +to have proffered sympathy to that inconsolable spirit. One's heart +goes out to those who suffered long years ago, whose love of the earth, +of life, of beauty, was perpetually overshadowed by the pain that comes +from realising transitoriness and decay. + +But Wordsworth is touched by no such pathos. He was extraordinarily +prosperous and equable; he was undeniably self-sufficient. Even the +sorrows and bereavements that he had to bear were borne gently and +philosophically. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and did it. +Those sturdy, useful legs of his bore him many a pleasant mile. He +always had exactly as much money as he needed, in order to live his +life as he desired. He chose precisely the abode he preferred; his +fame grew slowly and solidly. He became a great personage; he was +treated with immense deference and respect. He neither claimed nor +desired sympathy; he was as strong and self-reliant as the old yeomen +of the hills, of whom he indeed was one; his vocation was poetry, just +as their vocation was agriculture; and this vocation he pursued in as +business-like and intent a spirit as they pursued their farming. + +Wordsworth, indeed, was armed at all points by a strong and simple +pride, too strong to be vanity, too simple to be egotism. He is one of +the few supremely fortunate men in the history of literature, because +he had none of the sensitiveness or indecision that are so often the +curse of the artistic temperament. He never had the least misgivings +about the usefulness of his life; he wrote because he enjoyed it; he +ate and drank, he strolled and talked, with the same enjoyment. He had +a perfect balance of physical health. His dreams never left him cold; +his exaltations never plunged him into depression. He felt the +mysteries of the world with a solemn awe, but he had no uneasy +questionings, no remorse, no bewilderment, no fruitless melancholy. + +He bore himself with the same homely dignity in all companies alike; he +was never particularly interested in any one; he never had any fear of +being thought ridiculous or pompous. His favourite reading was his own +poetry; he wished every one to be interested in his work, because he +was conscious of its supreme importance. He probably made the mistake +of thinking that it was his sense of poetry and beauty that made him +simple and tranquil. As a matter of fact, it was the simplicity and +tranquillity of his temperament that gave him the power of enjoyment in +so large a measure. There is no growth or expansion about his life; he +did not learn his serene and impassioned attitude through failures and +mistakes: it was his all along. + +And yet what a fine, pure, noble, gentle life it was! The very thought +of him, faring quietly about among his hills and lakes, murmuring his +calm verse, in a sober and temperate joy, looking everywhere for the +same grave qualities among quiet homekeeping folk, brings with it a +high inspiration. But we tend to think of Wordsworth as a father and a +priest, rather than as a brother and a friend. He is a leader and a +guide, not a comrade. We must learn that, though he can perhaps turn +our heart the right way, towards the right things, we cannot +necessarily acquire that pure peace, that solemn serenity, by obeying +his precepts, unless we too have something of the same strong calmness +of soul. In some moods, far from sustaining and encouraging us, the +thought of his equable, impassioned life may only fill us with +unutterable envy. But still to have sat in his homely rooms, to have +paced his little terraces, does bring a certain imagined peace into the +mind, a noble shame for all that is sordid or mean, a hatred for the +conventional aims, the pitiful ambitions of the world. + +Alas, that the only sound from the little hill-platform, the embowered +walks, should be the dull rolling of wheels--motors, coaches, +omnibuses--in the road below! That is the shadow of his greatness. It +is a pitiable thought that one of the fruits of his genius is that it +has made his holy retreat fashionable. The villas rise in rows along +the edges of the clear lakes, under the craggy fell-sides, where the +feathery ashes root among the mimic precipices. A stream of +chattering, vacuous, indifferent tourists pours listlessly along the +road from _table-d'hôte_ to _table-d'hôte_. The turbid outflow of the +vulgar world seems a profanation of these august haunts. One hopes +despairingly that something of the spirit of lonely beauty speaks to +these trivial heads and hearts. But is there consolation in this? +What would the poet himself have felt if he could have foreseen it all? + +I descended the hill-road and crossed the valley highway; it was full +of dust; the vehicles rolled along, crowded with men smoking cigars and +reading newspapers, tired women, children whose idea of pleasure had +been to fill their hands with ferns and flowers torn from cranny and +covert. I climbed the little hill opposite the great Scar; its green +towering head, with its feet buried in wood, the hardy trees straggling +up the front wherever they could get a hold among the grey crags, rose +in sweet grandeur opposite to me. I threaded tracks of shimmering +fern, out of which the buzzing flies rose round me; I went by silent, +solitary places where the springs soak out of the moorland, while I +pondered over the bewildering ways of the world. The life, the ideals +of the great poet, set in the splendid framework of the great hills, +seemed so majestic and admirable a thing. But the visible results--the +humming of silly strangers round his sacred solitudes, the +contaminating influence of commercial exploitation--made one +fruitlessly and hopelessly melancholy. + +But even so the hills were silent; the sun went down in a great glory +of golden haze among the shadowy ridges. The valleys lay out at my +feet, the rolling woodland, the dark fells. There fell a mood of +strange yearning upon me, a yearning for the peaceful secret that, as +the orange sunset slowly waned, the great hills seemed to guard and +hold. What was it that was going on there, what solemn pageant, what +sweet mystery, that I could only desire to behold and apprehend? I +know not! I only know that if I could discern it, if I could tell it, +the world would stand to listen; its littleness, its meanness, would +fade in that august light; the peace of God would go swiftly and +secretly abroad. + + + + +XXV + +Dorsetshire + +I am travelling just now, and am this week at _Dorchester_, in the +company of my oldest and best friend. We like the same things; and I +can be silent if I will, while I can also say anything, however +whimsical, that comes into my mind; there are few things better than +that in the world, and I count the precious hours very gratefully; +_appono lucro_. + +Dorsetshire gives me the feeling of being a very old country. The big +downs seem like the bases of great rocky hills which have through long +ages been smoothed and worn away, softened and mellowed, the rocks, +grain by grain, carried downwards into the flat alluvial meadowlands +beneath. In these rich pastures, all intersected with clear streams, +runnels and water-courses, full at this season of rich water-plants, +the cattle graze peacefully. The downs have been ploughed and sown up +to the sky-line. Then there are fine tracts of heather and pines in +places. And then, too, there is a sense of old humanity, of ancient +wars about the land. There are great camps and earthworks everywhere, +with ramparts and ditches, both British and Roman. The wolds from +which the sea is visible are thickly covered with barrows, each holding +the mouldering bones of some forgotten chieftain, laid to rest, how +many centuries ago, with the rude mourning of a savage clan. I stood +on one of the highest of these the other day, on a great gorse-clad +headland, and sent my spirit out in quest of the old warrior that lay +below--"Audisne haec, Amphiaräe, sub terram condite?" But there was no +answer from the air; though in my sleep one night I saw a wild, +red-bearded man, in a coat of skins, with rude gaiters, and a hat of +foxes' fur on his head; he carried a long staff in his hand, pointed +with iron, and looked mutely and sorrowfully upon me. Who knows if it +was he? + +And then of later date are many ruinous strongholds, with Cyclopean +walls, like the huge shattered bulk of _Corfe_, upon its green hill, +between the shoulders of great downs. There are broken abbeys, +pinnacled church-towers in village after village. And then, too, in +hamlet after hamlet, rise quaint stone manors, high-gabled, +many-mullioned, in the midst of barns and byres. One of the sweetest +places I have seen is _Cerne Abbas_. The road to it winds gently up +among steep downs, a full stream gliding through flat pastures at the +bottom. The hamlet has a forgotten, wistful air; there are many houses +in ruins. Close to the street rises the church-tower, of rich and +beautiful design, with gurgoyles and pinnacles, cut out of a soft +orange stone and delicately weathered. At the end of the village +stands a big farm-house, built out of the abbey ruins, with a fine +oriel in one of the granaries. In a little wilderness of trees, the +ground covered with primroses, stands the exquisite old gatehouse with +mullioned windows. I have had for years a poor little engraving of the +place, and it seemed to greet me like an old friend. Then, in the +pasture above, you can see the old terraces and mounds of the monastic +garden, where the busy Benedictines worked day by day; further still, +on the side of the down itself, is cut a very strange and ancient +monument. It is the rude and barbarous figure of a naked man, sixty +yards long, as though moving northwards, and brandishing a huge knotted +club. It is carved deep into the turf, and is overgrown with rough +grass. No one can even guess at the antiquity of the figure, but it is +probably not less than three thousand years old. Some say that it +records the death of a monstrous giant of the valley. The good monks +Christianised it, and named it _Augustine_. But it seems to be +certainly one of the frightful figures of which Caesar speaks, on which +captives were bound with twisted osiers, and burnt to death for a +Druidical sacrifice. The thing is grotesque, vile, horrible; the very +stones of the place seemed soaked with terror, cruelty and death. Even +recently foul and barbarous traditions were practised there, it is +said, by villagers, who were Christian only in name. Yet it lay +peacefully enough to-day, the shadows of the clouds racing over it, the +wind rustling in the grass, with nothing to break the silence but the +twitter of birds, the bleat of sheep on the down, and the crying of +cocks in the straw-thatched village below. + +What a strange fabric of history, memory, and tradition is here +unrolled, of old unhappy far-off things! How bewildering to think of +the horrible agonies of fear, the helpless, stupefied creatures lying +bound there, the smoke sweeping over them and the flames crackling +nearer, while their victorious foes laughed and exulted round them, and +the priests performed the last hideous rites. And all the while God +watched the slow march of days from the silent heaven, and worked out +his mysterious purposes! And yet, surveying the quiet valley to-day, +it seems as though there were no memory of suffering or sorrow in it at +all. + +We climbed the down; and there at our feet the world lay like a map, +with its fields, woods, hamlets and church-towers, the great rich plain +rolling to the horizon, till it was lost in haze. How infinitely +minute and unimportant seemed one's own life, one's own thoughts, the +schemes of one tiny moving atom on the broad back of the hills. And +yet my own small restless identity is almost the only thing in the +world of which I am assured! + +There came to me at that moment a thrill of the spirit which comes but +rarely; a deep hope, the sense of a secret lying very near, if one +could only grasp it; an assurance that we are safe and secure in the +hand of God, and a certainty that there is a vast reality behind, +veiled from us only by the shadows of fears, ambitions, and desires. +And the thought, too, came that all the tiny human beings that move +about their tasks in the plain beneath--nay, the animals, the trees, +the flowers, every blade of grass, every pebble--each has its place in +the great and awful mystery. Then came the sense of the vast +fellowship of created things, the tender Fatherhood of the God who made +us all. I can hardly put the thought into words; but it was one of +those sudden intuitions that seem to lie deeper even than the mind and +the soul, a message from the heart of the world, bidding one wait and +wonder, rest and be still. + + + + +XXVI + +Portland + +I will put another little sketch side by side with the last, for the +sake of contrast; I think it is hardly possible within the compass of a +few days to have seen two scenes of such minute and essential +difference. At _Cerne_ I had the tranquil loneliness of the +countryside, the silent valley, the long faintly-tinted lines of +pasture, space and stillness; the hamlets nestled among trees in the +dingles of the down. To-day I went south along a dusty road; at first +there were quiet ancient sights enough, such as the huge grass-grown +encampment of _Maiden Castle_, now a space of pasture, but still +guarded by vast ramparts and ditches, dug in the chalk, and for a +thousand years or more deserted. The downs, where they faced the sea, +were dotted with grassy barrows, air-swept and silent. We topped the +hill, and in a moment there was a change; through the haze we saw the +roofs of _Weymouth_ laid out like a map before us, with the smoke +drifting west from innumerable chimneys; in the harbour, guarded by the +slender breakwaters, floated great ironclads, black and sinister bulks; +and beyond them frowned the dark front of _Portland_. Very soon the +houses began to close in upon the road,--brick-built, pretentious, +bow-windowed villas; then we were in the streets, showing a wholesome +antiquity in the broad-windowed mansions of mellow brick, which sprang +into life when the honest king George III. made the quiet port +fashionable by spending his simple summers there. There was the king's +lodging itself, Gloucester House, now embedded in a hotel, with the big +pilastered windows of its saloons giving it a faded courtly air. Soon +we were by the quays, with black red-funnelled steamers unloading, and +all the quaint and pretty bustle of a port. We went out to a +promontory guarded by an old stone fort, and watched a red merchant +steamer roll merrily in, blowing a loud sea-horn. Then over a +low-shouldered ridge, and we were by the great inner roads, full of +shipping; we sat for a while by the melancholy walls of an ancient +Tudor castle, now crumbling into the sea; and then across the narrow +causeway that leads on to _Portland_. On our right rose the _Chesil +Bank_, that mysterious mole of orange shingle, which the sea, for some +strange purpose of its own, has piled up, century after century, for +eighteen miles along the western coast. And then the grim front of +_Portland Island_ itself loomed out above us. The road ran up steeply +among the bluffs, through line upon line of grey-slated houses; to the +left, at the top of the cliff, were the sunken lines of the huge fort, +with the long slopes of its earthworks, the glacis overgrown with +grass, and the guns peeping from their embrasures; to the left, dipping +to the south, the steep grey crags, curve after curve. The streets +were alive with an abundance of merry young sailors and soldiers, +brisk, handsome boys, with the quiet air of discipline that converts a +country lout into a self-respecting citizen. An old bronzed sergeant +led a child with one hand, and with the other tried to obey her shrill +directions about whirling a skipping-rope, so that she might skip +beside him; he looked at us with a half-proud, half-shamefaced smile, +calling down a rebuke for his inattention from the girl. + +We wound slowly up the steep roads smothered in dust; landwards the +view was all drowned in a pale haze, but the steep grey cliffs by +_Lulworth_ gleamed with a tinge of gold across the sea. + +At the top, one of the dreariest landscapes I have ever seen met the +sight. The island lies, so to speak, like a stranded whale, the great +head and shoulders northwards to the land. The moment you surmount the +top, the huge, flat side of the monster is extended before you, +shelving to the sea. Hardly a tree grows there; there is nothing but a +long perspective of fields, divided here and there by stone walls, with +scattered grey houses at intervals. There is not a feature of any kind +on which the eye can rest. In the foreground the earth is all +tunnelled and tumbled; quarries stretch in every direction, with huge, +gaunt, straddling, gallows-like structures emerging, a wheel spinning +at the top, and ropes travelling into the abyss; heaps of grey +_débris_, interspersed with stunted grass, huge excavations, ugly +ravines with a spout of grim stone at the seaward opening, like the +burrowings of some huge mole. The placid green slopes of the fort give +an impression of secret strength, even grandeur. Otherwise it is but a +ragged, splashed aquarelle of grey and green. Over the _débris_ appear +at a distance the blunt ominous chimneys of the convict prison, which +seems to put the finishing touch on the forbidding character of the +scene. + +To-day the landward view was all veiled in haze, which seemed to shut +off the sad island from the world. On a clear day, no doubt, the view +must be full of grandeur, the inland downs, edged everywhere with the +tall scarped cliffs, headland after headland, with the long soft line +of the _Chesil Bank_ below them. But on a day of sea mist, it must be, +I felt, one of the saddest and most mournful regions in the world, with +no sound but the wail of gulls, and the chafing of the surge below. + + + + +XXVII + +Canterbury Tower + +To-day I had a singular pleasure heightened by an intermingled +strangeness and even terror--qualities which bring out the quality of +pleasure in the same way that a bourdon in a pedal-point passage brings +out the quality of what a German would, I think, call the _over-work_. +I was at _Canterbury_, where the great central tower is wreathed with +scaffolding, and has a dim, blurred outline from a distance, as though +it were being rapidly shaken to and fro. I found a friendly and +communicable man who offered to take me over it; we climbed a dizzy +little winding stair, with bright glimpses at intervals, through +loop-holes, of sunlight and wheeling birds; then we crept along the top +of a vaulted space with great pockets of darkness to right and left. +Soon we were in the gallery of the lantern, from which we could see the +little people crawling on the floor beneath, like slow insects. And +then we mounted a short ladder which took us out of one of the great +belfry windows, on to the lowest of the planked galleries. What a +frail and precarious structure it seemed: the planks bent beneath our +feet. And here came the first exquisite delight--that of being close +to the precipitous face of the tower, of seeing the carved work which +had never been seen close at hand since its erection except by the +jackdaws and pigeons. I was moved and touched by observing how fine +and delicate all the sculpture was. There were rows and rows of little +heraldic devices, which from below could appear only as tiny fretted +points; yet every petal of rose or _fleur-de-lys_ was as scrupulously +and cleanly cut as if it had been meant to be seen close at hand; a +waste of power, I suppose; but what a pretty and delicate waste! and +done, I felt, in faithful days, when the carving was done as much to +delight, if possible, the eye of God, as to please the eye of man. +Higher and higher we went, till at last we reached the parapet. And +then by a dizzy perpendicular ladder to which I committed myself in +faith, we reached a little platform on the very top of one of the +pinnacles. The vane had just been fixed, and the stone was splashed +with the oozing solder. And now came the delight of the huge view all +round: the wooden heights, the rolling hills; old church towers rose +from flowering orchards; a mansion peeped through immemorial trees; and +far to the north-east we could see the white cliff of _Pegwell Bay_; +endeared to me through the beautiful picture by Dyce, where the pale +crags rise from the reefs green with untorn weeds. There on the +horizon I could see shadowy sails on the steely sea-line. + +Near at hand there were the streets, and then the Close, with its +comfortable canonical houses, in green trim gardens, spread out like a +map at my feet. We looked down on to the tops of tall elm-trees, and +saw the rooks walking and sitting on the grey-splashed platforms of +twigs, that swayed horribly in the breeze. It was pleasant to see, as +I did, the tiny figure of my reverend host walking, a dot of black, in +his garden beneath, reading in a book. The long grey-leaded roof ran +broad and straight, a hundred feet below. One felt for a moment as a +God might feel, looking on a corner of his created world, and seeing +that it was good. One seemed to have surmounted the earth, and to +watch the little creeping orbits of men with a benevolent compassion, +perceiving how strait they were. The large air hissed briskly in the +pinnacles, and roared through the belfry windows beneath. I cannot +describe the eager exhilaration which filled me; but I guessed that the +impulse which bids men fling themselves from such heights is not a +morbid prepossession, not a physical dizziness, but an intemperate and +overwhelming joy. It seems at such a moment so easy to float and swim +through the viewless air, as if one would be borne up on the wings of +angels. + +But, alas! the hour warned us to return. On our way down we disturbed +a peevish jackdaw from her nest; she had dragged up to that intolerable +height a pile of boughs that would have made a dozen nests; she had +interwoven for the cup to hold her eggs a number of strips of purloined +canvas. There lay the three speckled eggs, the hope of the race, while +the chiding mother stood on a pinnacle hard by, waiting for the +intruder to begone. + +A strange sense of humiliation and smallness came upon me as we emerged +at last into the nave; the people that had seemed so small and +insignificant, were, alas! as big and as important as myself; I felt as +an exile from the porches of heaven, a fallen spirit. + + + + +XXVIII + +Prayer + +I am often baffled when I try to think what prayer is; if our thoughts +do indeed lie open before the eyes of the Father, like a little clear +globe of water which a man may hold in his hand--and I am sure they +do--it certainly seems hardly worth while to put those desires into +words. Many good Christians seem to me to conceive of prayers partly +as a kind of tribute they are bound to pay, and partly as requests that +are almost certain to be refused. With such people religion, then, +means the effort which they make to trust a Father who hears prayers, +and very seldom answers them. But this does not seem to be a very +reasonable attitude. + +I confess that liturgical prayer does not very much appeal to me. It +does not seem to me to correspond to any particular need in my mind. +It seems to me to sacrifice almost all the things that I mean by +prayer--the sustained intention of soul, the laying of one's own +problems before the Father, the expression of one's hopes for others, +the desire that the sorrows of the world should be lightened. Of +course, a liturgy touches these thoughts at many points; but the +exercise of one's own liberty of aspiration and wonder, the pursuing of +a train of thought, the quiet dwelling upon mysteries, are all lost if +one has to stumble and run in a prescribed track. To follow a service +with uplifted attention requires more mental agility than I possess; +point after point is raised, and yet, if one pauses to meditate, to +wonder, to aspire, one is lost, and misses the thread of the service. +I suppose that there is or ought to be something in the united act of +intercession. But I dislike all public meetings, and think them a +waste of time. I should make an exception in favour of the Sacrament, +but the rapid disappearance of the majority of a congregation before +the solemn act seems to me to destroy the sense of unity with singular +rapidity. As to the old theory that God requires of his followers that +they should unite at intervals in presenting him with a certain amount +of complimentary effusion, I cannot even approach the idea. The +holiest, simplest, most benevolent being of whom I can conceive would +be inexpressibly pained and distressed by such an intention on the part +of the objects of his care; and to conceive of God as greedy of +recognition seems to me to be one of the conceptions which insult the +dignity of the soul. + +I have heard lately one or two mediaeval stories which illustrate what +I mean. There is a story of a pious monk, who, worn out by long +vigils, fell asleep, as he was saying his prayers before a crucifix. +He was awakened by a buffet on the head, and heard a stern voice +saying, "Is this an oratory or a dormitory?" I cannot conceive of any +story more grotesquely human than the above, or more out of keeping +with one's best thoughts about God. Again, there is a story which is +told, I think, of one of the first monasteries of the Benedictine +order. One of the monks was a lay brother, who had many little menial +tasks to fulfil; he was a well-meaning man, but extremely forgetful, +and he was often forced to retire from some service in which he was +taking part, because he had forgotten to put the vegetables on to boil, +or omitted other duties which would lead to the discomfort of the +brethren. Another monk, who was fond of more secular occupations, such +as wood-carving and garden-work, and not at all attached to habits of +prayer, seeing this, thought that he would do the same; and he too used +to slip away from a service, in order to return to the business that he +loved better. The Prior of the monastery, an anxious, humble man, was +at a loss how to act; so he called in a very holy hermit, who lived in +a cell hard by, that he might have the benefit of his advice. The +hermit came and attended an Office. Presently the lay brother rose +from his knees and slipped out. The hermit looked up, followed him +with his eyes, and appeared to be greatly moved. But he took no +action, and only addressed himself more assiduously to his prayers. +Shortly after, the other brother rose and went out. The hermit looked +up, and seeing him go, rose too, and followed him to the door, where he +fetched him a great blow upon the head that nearly brought him to the +ground. Thereupon the stricken man went humbly back to his place and +addressed himself to his prayers; and the hermit did the same. + +The Office was soon over, and the hermit went to the Prior's room to +talk the matter over. The hermit said: "I bore in my mind what you +told me, dear Father, and when I saw one of the brethren rise from his +prayers, I asked God to show me what I should do; but I saw a wonderful +thing; there was a shining figure with our brother, his hand upon the +other's sleeve; and this fair comrade, I have no doubt, was an angel of +God, that led the brother forth, that he might be about his Father's +business. So I prayed the more earnestly. But when our other brother +rose, I looked up; and I saw that he had been plucked by the sleeve by +a little naked, comely boy, very swarthy of hue, that I saw had no +business among our holy prayers; he wore a mocking smile on his face, +as though he prevailed in evil. So I rose and followed; and just as +they came to the door, I aimed a shrewd blow, for it was told me what +to do, at the boy, and struck him on the head, so that he fell to the +ground, and presently went to his own place; and then our brother came +back to his prayers." + +The Prior mused a little over this wonder, and then he said, smiling: +"It seemed to me that it was our brother that was smitten." "Very +like," said the hermit, "for the two were close together, and I think +the boy was whispering in the brother's ear; but give God the glory; +for the dear brother will not offend again." + +There is an abundance of truth in this wholesome ancient tale; but I +will not draw the morals out here. All I will say is that the old +theory of prayer, simple and childlike as it is, seems to have a +curious vitality even nowadays. It presupposes that the act of prayer +is in itself pleasing to God; and that is what I am not satisfied of. + +That theory seems to prevail even more strongly in the Roman Church of +to-day than in our own. The Roman priest is not a man occupied +primarily with pastoral duties; his business is the business of prayer. +To neglect his daily offices is a mortal sin, and when he has said +them, his priestly duty is at an end. This does not seem to me to bear +any relation to the theory of prayer as enunciated in the Gospel. +There the practice of constant and secret prayer, of a direct and +informal kind, is enjoined upon all followers of Christ; but Our Lord +seems to be very hard upon the lengthy and public prayers of the +Pharisees, and indeed against all formality in the matter at all. The +only united service that he enjoined upon his followers was the +Sacrament of the common meal; and I confess that the saying of formal +liturgies in an ornate building seems to me to be a practice which has +drifted very far away from the simplicity of individual religion which +Christ appears to have aimed at. + +My own feeling about prayer is that it should not be relegated to +certain seasons, or attended by certain postures, or even couched in +definite language; it should rather be a constant uplifting of the +heart, a stretching out of the hands to God. I do not think we should +ask for definite things that we desire; I am sure that our definite +desires, our fears, our plans, our schemes, the hope that visits one a +hundred times a day, our cravings for wealth or success or influence, +are as easily read by God, as a man can discern the tiny atoms and +filaments that swim in his crystal globe. But I think we may ask to be +led, to be guided, to be helped; we may put our anxious little +decisions before God; we may ask for strength to fulfil hard duties; we +may put our desires for others' happiness, our hopes for our country, +our compassion for sorrowing or afflicted persons, our horror of +cruelty and tyranny before him; and here I believe lies the force of +prayer; that by practising this sense of aspiration in his presence, we +gain a strength to do our own part. If we abstain from prayer, if we +limit our prayers to our own small desires, we grow, I know, petty and +self-absorbed and feeble. We can leave the fulfilment of our concrete +aims to God; but we ought to be always stretching out our hands and +opening our hearts to the high and gracious mysteries that lie all +about us. + +A friend of mine told me that a little Russian peasant, whom he had +visited often in a military hospital, told him, at their last +interview, that he would tell him a prayer that was always effective, +and had never failed of being answered. "But you must not use it," he +said, "unless you are in a great difficulty, and there seems no way +out." The prayer which he then repeated was this: "Lord, remember King +David, and all his grace." + +I have never tested the efficacy of this prayer, but I have a thousand +times tested the efficacy of sudden prayer in moments of difficulty, +when confronted with a little temptation, when overwhelmed with +irritation, before an anxious interview, before writing a difficult +passage. How often has the temptation floated away, the irritation +mastered itself, the right word been said, the right sentence written! +To do all we are capable of, and then to commit the matter to the hand +of the Father, that is the best that we can do. + +Of course, I am well aware that there are many who find this kind of +help in liturgical prayer; and I am thankful that it is so. But for +myself, I can only say that as long as I pursued the customary path, +and confined myself to fixed moments of prayer, I gained very little +benefit. I do not forego the practice of liturgical attendance even +now; for a solemn service, with all the majesty of an old and beautiful +building full of countless associations, with all the resources of +musical sound and ceremonial movement, does uplift and rejoice the +soul. And even with simpler services, there is often something vaguely +sustaining and tranquillising in the act. But the deeper secret lies +in the fact that prayer is an attitude of soul, and not a ceremony; +that it is an individual mystery, and not a piece of venerable pomp. I +would have every one adopt his own method in the matter. I would not +for an instant discourage those who find that liturgical usage uplifts +them; but neither would I have those to be discouraged who find that it +has no meaning for them. The secret lies in the fact that our aim +should be a relation with the Father, a frank and reverent confidence, +a humble waiting upon God. That the Father loves all his children with +an equal love I doubt not. But he is nearest to those who turn to him +at every moment, and speak to him with a quiet trustfulness. He alone +knows why he has set us in the middle of such a bewildering world, +where joy and sorrow, darkness and light, are so strangely +intermingled; and all that we can do is to follow wisely and patiently +such clues as he gives us, into the cloudy darkness in which he seems +to dwell. + + + + +XXIX + +The Death-bed of Jacob + +I heard read the other morning, in a quiet house-chapel, a chapter +which has always seemed to me one of the most perfectly beautiful +things in the Bible. And as it was read, I felt, what is always a test +of the highest kind of beauty, that I had never known before how +perfect it was. It was the 48th chapter of Genesis, the blessing of +Ephraim and Manasses. Jacob, feeble and spent, is lying in the quiet, +tranquil passiveness of old age, with bygone things passing like dreams +before the inner eye of the spirit--in that mood, I think, when one +hardly knows where the imagined begins or the real ends. He is told +that his son Joseph is coming, and he strengthens himself for an +effort. Joseph enters, and, in a strain of high solemnity, Jacob +speaks of the promise made long before on the stone-strewn hills of +Bethel, and its fulfilment; but even so he seems to wander in his +thought, the recollection of his Rachel comes over him, and he cannot +forbear to speak of her: "_And as for me, when I came from Padan, +Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan, in the way, and when yet there +was but a little way to come unto Ephrath; and I buried her there in +the way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem._" + +Could there be anything more human, more tender than that? The memory +of the sad day of loss and mourning, and then the gentle, aged +precision about names and places, the details that add nothing, and yet +are so natural, so sweet an echo of the old tale, the symbols of the +story, that stand for so much and mean so little,--"_the same is +Bethlehem_." Who has not heard an old man thus tracing out the +particulars of some remote recollected incident, dwelling for the +hundredth time on the unimportant detail, the side-issue, so needlessly +anxious to avoid confusion, so bent on useless accuracy. + +Then, as he wanders thus, he becomes aware of the two boys, standing in +wonder and awe beside him; and even so he cannot at once piece together +the facts, but asks, with a sudden curiosity, "_Who are these?_" Then +it is explained very gently by the dear son whom he had lost, and who +stands for a parable of tranquil wisdom and loyal love. The old man +kisses and embraces the boys, and with a full heart says, "_I had not +thought to see thy face; and lo, God hath showed me also thy seed._" +And at this Joseph can bear it no more, puts the boys forward, who seem +to be clinging shyly to him, and bows himself down with his face to the +earth, in a passion of grief and awe. + +And then the old man will not bless them as intended, but gives the +richer blessing to the younger; with those words which haunt the memory +and sink into the heart: "_The angel which redeemed me from all evil, +bless the lads._" And Joseph is moved by what he thinks to be a +mistake, and would correct it, so as to give the larger blessing to his +firstborn. But Jacob refuses. "_I know it, my son, I know it ... he +also shall be great, but truly his younger brother shall be greater +than he._" + +And so he adds a further blessing; and even then, at that deep moment, +the old man cannot refrain from one flash of pride in his old prowess, +and speaks, in his closing words, of the inheritance he won from the +Amorite with his sword and bow; and this is all the more human because +there is no trace in the records of his ever having done anything of +the kind. He seems to have been always a man of peace. And so the +sweet story remains human to the very end. I care very little what the +critics may have to say on the matter. They may call it legendary if +they will, they may say that it is the work of an Ephraimite scribe, +bent on consecrating the Ephraimite supremacy by the aid of tradition. +But the incident appears to me to be of a reality, a force, a +tenderness, that is above historical criticism. Whatever else may be +true, there is a breathing reality in the picture of the old weak +patriarch making his last conscious effort; Joseph, that wise and +prudent servant, whose activities have never clouded his clear natural +affections; the boys, the mute and awed actors in the scene, not made +to utter any precocious phrases, and yet centring the tenderness of +hope and joy upon themselves. If it is art, it is the perfection of +art, which touches the very heart-strings into a passion of sweetness +and wonder. + +Compare this ancient story with other achievements of the human mind +and soul: with Homer, with Virgil, with Shakespeare. I think they pale +beside it, because with no sense of effort or construction, with all +the homely air of a simple record, the perfectly natural, the perfectly +pathetic, the perfectly beautiful, is here achieved. There is no +painting of effects, no dwelling on accessories, no consciousness of +beauty; and yet the heart is fed, the imagination touched, the spirit +satisfied. For here one has set foot in the very shrine of truth and +beauty, and the wise hand that wrote it has just opened the door of the +heart, and stands back, claiming no reward, desiring no praise. + + + + +XXX + +By the Sea of Galilee + +I have often thought that the last chapter of St John's Gospel is one +of the most bewildering and enchanting pieces of literature I know. I +suppose Robert Browning must have thought so, because he makes the +reading of it, in that odd rich poem, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, the +sign, together with testing a plough, of a man's conversion, from the +unreal life of talk and words, to the realities of life; though I have +never divined why he used this particular chapter as a symbol; and +indeed I hope no one will ever make it clear to me, though I daresay +the connection is plain enough. + +It is bewildering, because it is a postscript, added, with a singular +artlessness, after the Gospel has come to a full close. Perhaps St +John did not even write it, though the pretty childlike conclusion +about the world itself not being able to contain the books that might +be written about Christ has always seemed to me to be in his spirit, +the words of a very simple-minded and aged man. It is enchanting, +because it contains two of the most beautiful episodes in the whole of +the Gospel History, the charge to St Peter to feed the lambs and sheep +of the fold, where one of the most delicate nuances of language is lost +in the English translation, and the appearance of Jesus beside the sea +of Galilee. I must not here discuss the story of the charge to St +Peter, though I once heard it read, with exquisite pathos, when an +archbishop of Canterbury was being enthroned with all the pomp and +circumstance of ecclesiastical ceremony, in such a way that it brought +out, by a flash of revelation, the true spirit of the scene we were +attending; we were simple Christians, it seemed, assembled only to set +a shepherd over a fold, that he might lead a flock in green pastures +and by waters of comfort. + +But a man must not tell two tales at once, or he loses the savour of +both. Let us take the other story. + +The dreadful incidents of the Passion are over; the shame, the horror, +the humiliation, the disappointment. The hearts of the Apostles must +have been sore indeed at the thought that they had deserted their +friend and Master. Then followed the mysterious incidents of the +Resurrection, about which I will only say that it is plain from the +documents, if they are accepted as a record at all, from the +astonishing change which seems to have passed over the Apostles, +converting their timid faithfulness into a tranquil boldness, that +they, at all events, believed that some incredibly momentous thing had +happened, and that their Master was among them again, returning through +the gates of Death. + +They go back, like men wearied of inaction, tired of agitated thought, +to their homely trade. All night the boat sways in the quiet tide, but +they catch nothing. Then, as the morning begins to come in about the +promontories and shores of the lake, they see the figure of one moving +on the bank, who hails them with a familiar heartiness, as a man might +do who had to provide for unexpected guests, and had nothing to give +them to eat. I fancy, I know not whether rightly, that they see in him +a purchaser, and answer sullenly that they have nothing to sell. Then +follows a direction, which they obey, to cast the net on the right side +of the boat. Perhaps they thought the stranger--for it is clear that +as yet they had no suspicion of his identity--had seen some sign of a +moving shoal which had escaped them. They secure a great haul of fish. +Then John has an inkling of the truth; and I know no words which thrill +me more strangely than the simple expression that bursts from his lips: +_It is the Lord!_ With characteristic impetuosity Peter leaps into the +water, and wades or swims ashore. + +And then comes another of the surprising touches of the story. As a +mother might tenderly provide a meal for her husband and sons who have +been out all night, they find that their visitant has made and lit a +little fire, and is broiling fish, how obtained one knows not; then the +haul is dragged ashore, the big shoal leaping in the net; and then +follows the simple invitation and the distribution of the food. It +seems as though that memorable meal, by the shore of the lake, with the +fresh brightness of the morning breaking all about them, must have been +partaken of in silence; one can almost hear the soft crackling of the +fire, and the waves breaking on the shingle. They dared not ask him +who he was: they knew; and yet, considering that they had only parted +from him a few days before, the narrative implies that some mysterious +change must have passed over him. Perhaps they were wondering, as we +may wonder, how he was spending those days. He was seen only in sudden +and unexpected glimpses; where was he living, what was he doing through +those long nights and days in which they saw him not? I can only say +that for me a deep mystery broods over the record. The glimpses of +him, and even more his absences, seem to me to transcend the powers of +human invention. That these men lived, that they believed they saw the +Lord, seems to me the only possible explanation, though I admit to the +full the baffling mystery of it all. + +And then the scene closes with absolute suddenness; there is no attempt +to describe, to amplify, to analyse. There follows the charge to +Peter, the strange prophecy of his death, and the still stranger +repression of curiosity as to what should be the fate of St John. + +But the whole incident, coming to us as it does out of the hidden +ancient world, defying investigation, provoking the deepest wonder, +remains as faint and sweet as the incense of the morning, as the cool +breeze that played about the weary brows of the sleepless fishermen, +and stirred the long ripple of the clear lake. + + + + +XXXI + +The Apocalypse + +I think that there are few verses of the Bible that give one a more +sudden and startling thrill than the verse at the beginning of the +viiith chapter of the Revelation. _And when he had opened the seventh +seal there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour_. The +very simplicity of the words, the homely note of specified time, is in +itself deeply impressive. But further, it gives the dim sense of some +awful and unseen preparation going forward, a period allowed in which +those that stood by, august and majestic as they were, should collect +their courage, should make themselves ready with bated breath for some +dire pageant. Up to that moment the vision had followed hard on the +opening of each seal. Upon the opening of the first, had resounded a +peal of thunder, and the voice of the first beast had called the +awestruck eyes and the failing heart to look upon the sight: _Come and +see_! Then the white horse with the crowned conqueror had ridden +joyfully forth. At the opening of the second seal, had sprung forth +the red horse, and the rider with the great sword. When the third was +opened, the black horse had gone forth, the rider bearing the balances; +and then had followed the strange and naďve charge by the unknown +voice, which gives one so strong a sense that the vision was being +faithfully recorded rather than originated, the voice that quoted a +price for the grain of wheat and barley, and directed the protection of +the vineyard and olive-yard. This homely reference to the simple food +of earth keeps the mind intent upon the actual realities and needs of +life in the midst of these bewildering sights. Then at the fourth +opening, the pale horse, bestridden by Death, went mournfully abroad. +At the fifth seal, the crowded souls beneath the altar cry out for +restlessness; they are clothed in white robes, and bidden to be patient +for a while. Then, at the sixth seal, falls the earthquake, the +confusion of nature, the dismay of men, before the terror of the anger +of God; and the very words _the wrath of the Lamb_, have a marvellous +significance; the wrath of the Most Merciful, the wrath of one whose +very symbol is that of a blithe and meek innocence. Then the earth is +guarded from harm, and the faithful are sealed; and in words of the +sublimest pathos, the end of pain and sorrow is proclaimed, and the +promise that the redeemed shall be fed and led forth by fountains of +living waters. And then, at the very moment of calm and peace, the +seventh seal is opened,--and nothing follows! the very angels of heaven +seem to stand with closed eyes, compressed lips, and beating heart, +waiting for what shall be. + +And then at last the visions come crowding before the gaze again--the +seven trumpets are sounded, the bitter, burning stars fall, the locusts +swarm out from the smoking pit, and death and woe begin their work; +till at last the book is delivered to the prophet, and his heart is +filled with the sweetness of the truth. + +I have no desire to trace the precise significance of these things. I +do not wish that these tapestries of wrought mysteries should be +suspended upon the walls of history. I do not think that they can be +so suspended; nor have I the least hope that these strange sights, so +full both of brightness and of horror, should ever be seen by mortal +eye. But that a human soul should have lost itself in these august +dreams, that the book of visions should have been thus strangely +guarded through the ages, and at last, clothed in the sweet cadences of +our English tongue, should be read in our ears, till the words are +soaked through and through with rich wonder and tender +associations--that is, I think, a very wonderful and divine thing. The +lives of all men that have an inner eye for beauty are full of such +mysteries, and surely there is no one, of those that strive to pierce +below the dark experiences of life, who is not aware, as he reckons +back the days of his life, of hours when the seals of the book have +been opened. It has been so, I know, in my own life. Sometimes, at +the rending of the seal, a gracious thing has gone forth, bearing +victory and prosperity. Sometimes a dark figure has ridden away, +changing the very face of the earth for a season. Sometimes a thunder +of dismay has followed, or a vision of sweet peace and comfort; and +sometimes one has assuredly known that a seal has been broken, to be +followed by a silence in heaven and earth. + +And thus these solemn and mournful visions retain a great hold over the +mind; it is, with myself, partly the childish associations of wonder +and delight. One recurred so eagerly to the book, because, instead of +mere thought and argument, earthly events, wars and dynasties, here was +a gallery of mysterious pictures, things seen out of the body, scenes +of bright colour and monstrous forms, enacted on the stage of heaven. +That is entrancing still; but beyond and above these strange forms and +pictured fancies, I now discern a deeper mystery of thought; not pure +and abstract thought, flashes of insight, comforting grace, kindled +desires, but rather that more complex thought that, through a +perception of strange forms, a waving robe of scarlet, a pavement +bright with jewels, a burning star, a bird of sombre plumage, a dark +grove, breathes a subtle insight, like a strain of unearthly music, +interpreting the hopes and fears of the heart by haunted glimpses and +obscure signs. I do not know in what shadowy region of the soul these +things draw near, but it is in a region which is distinct and apart, a +region where the dreaming mind projects upon the dark its dimly-woven +visions; a region where it is not wise to wander too eagerly and +carelessly, but into which one may look warily and intently at seasons, +standing upon the dizzy edge of time, and gazing out beyond the flaming +ramparts of the world. + + + + +XXXII + +The Statue + +I saw a strange and moving thing to-day. I went with a friend to visit +a great house in the neighbourhood. The owner was away, but my friend +enjoyed the right of leisurely access to the place, and we thought we +would take the opportunity of seeing it. + +We entered at the lodge, and walked through the old deer-park with its +huge knotted oaks, its wide expanse of grass. The deer were feeding +quietly in a long herd. The great house itself came in sight, with its +portico and pavilions staring at us, so it seemed, blankly and +seriously, with shuttered eyes. The whole place unutterably still and +deserted, like a house seen in a dream. + +There was one particular thing that we came to visit; we left the house +on the left, and turned through a little iron gate into a thick grove +of trees. We soon became aware that there was open ground before us, +and presently we came to a space in the heart of the wood, where there +was a silent pool all overgrown with water-lilies; the bushes grew +thickly round the edge. The pool was full of water-birds, coots, and +moor-hens, sailing aimlessly about, and uttering strange, melancholy +cries at intervals. On the edge of the water stood a small marble +temple, streaked and stained by the weather. As we approached it, my +friend told me something of the builder of the little shrine. He was a +former owner of the place, a singular man, who in his later days had +lived a very solitary life here. He was a man of wild and wayward +impulses, who had drunk deeply in youth of pleasure and excitement. He +had married a beautiful young wife, who had died childless in the first +year of their marriage, and he had abandoned himself after this event +to a despairing seclusion, devoted to art and music. He had filled the +great house with fine pictures, he had written a book of poems, and +some curious stilted volumes of autobiographical prose; but he had no +art of expression, and his books had seemed like a powerless attempt to +give utterance to wild and melancholy musings; they were written in a +pompous and elaborate style, which divested the thoughts of such charm +as they might have possessed. + +He had lived thus to a considerable age in a wilful sadness, unloving +and unloved. He had cared nothing for the people of the place, +entertained no visitors; rambling, a proud solitary figure, about the +demesne, or immured for days together in his library. Had the story +not been true, it would have appeared like some elaborate fiction. + +He built this little temple in memory of the wife whom he had lost, and +often visited it, spending hours on hot summer days wandering about the +little lake, or sitting silent in the portico. We went up to the +building. It was a mere alcove, open to the air. But what arrested my +attention was a marble figure of a young man, in a sitting position, +lightly clad in a tunic, the neck, arms, and knees bare; one knee was +flung over the other, and the chin was propped on an arm, the elbow of +which rested on the knee. The face was a wonderful and expressive +piece of work. The boy seemed to be staring out, not seeing what he +looked upon, but lost in a deep agony of thought. The face was +wonderfully pure and beautiful; and the anguish seemed not the anguish +of remorse, but the pain of looking upon things both sweet and +beautiful, and of yet being unable to take a share in them. The whole +figure denoted a listless melancholy. It was the work of a famous +French sculptor, who seemed to have worked under close and minute +direction; and my friend told me that no less than three statues had +been completed before the owner was satisfied. + +On the pedestal were sculptured the pathetic words, _Oímoi mal authis_. +There was a look of revolt of dumb anger upon the face that lay behind +its utter and hopeless sadness. I knew too well, by a swift instinct, +what the statue stood for. Here was one, made for life, activity, and +joy, who yet found himself baffled, thwarted, shut out from the +paradise that seemed to open all about him; it was the face of one who +had found satiety in pleasure, and sorrow in the very heart of joy. +There was no taint of grossness or of luxury in the face, but rather a +strength, an intellectual force, a firm lucidity of thought. I confess +that the sight moved me very strangely. I felt a thrill of the deepest +compassion, a desire to do something that might help or comfort, a +yearning wish to aid, to explain, to cheer. The silence, the +stillness, the hopelessness of the pathetic figure woke in me the +intensest desire to give I knew not what--an overwhelming impulse of +pity. It seemed a parable of all the joy that is so sternly checked, +all the hopes made vain, the promise disappointed, the very death of +the soul. It seemed infinitely pathetic that God should have made so +fair a thing, and then withheld joy. And it seemed as though I had +looked into the very soul of the unhappy man who had set up so strange +and pathetic an allegory of his sufferings. The boy seemed as though +he would have welcomed death--anything that brought an end; yet the +health and suppleness of the bright figure held out no hope of that. +It was the very type of unutterable sorrow, and that not in an outworn +body, and reflected in a face dim with sad experience, but in a +perfectly fresh and strong frame, built for action and life. I cannot +say what remote thoughts, what dark communings, visited me at the +sight. I seemed confronted all at once with the deepest sadness of the +world, as though an unerring arrow had pierced my very heart--an arrow +winged by beauty, and shot on a summer day of sunshine and song. + +Is there any faith that is strong enough and deep enough to overcome +such questionings? It seemed to bring me near to all those pale and +hopeless agonies of the world; all the snapping short of joy, the +confronting of life with death--those dreadful moments when the heart +asks itself, in a kind of furious horror, "How can it be that I am +filled so full of all the instinct of joy and life, and yet bidden to +suffer and to die?" + +The only hope is in an utter and silent resignation; in the belief +that, if there is a purpose in the gift of joy, there is a purpose in +the gift of suffering. And as thus, in that calm afternoon, in the +silent wood, by the shining pool, I lifted up my heart to God to be +consoled, I felt a great hope draw near, as when the vast tide flows +landward, and fills the dry, solitary sand-pools with the leaping +brine. "Only wait," said the deep and tender voice, "only endure, only +believe; and a sweetness, a beauty, a truth beyond your utmost dreams +shall be revealed." + + + + +XXXIII + +The Mystery of Suffering + +Here is a story which has much occupied my thoughts lately. A man in +middle life, with a widowed sister and her children depending on him, +living by professional exertions, is suddenly attacked by a painful, +horrible, and fatal complaint. He goes through a terrible operation, +and then struggles back to his work again, with the utmost courage and +gallantry. Again the complaint returns, and the operation is repeated. +After this he returns again to his work, but at last, after enduring +untold agonies, he is forced to retire into an invalid life, after a +few months of which he dies in terrible suffering, and leaves his +sister and the children nearly penniless. + +The man was a quiet, simple-minded person, fond of his work, fond of +his home, conventional and not remarkable except for the simply heroic +quality he displayed, smiling and joking up to the moment of the +administering of anaesthetics for his operations, and bearing his +sufferings with perfect patience and fortitude, never saying an +impatient word, grateful for the smallest services. + +His sister, a simple, active woman, with much tender affection and +considerable shrewdness, finding that the fear of incurring needless +expense distressed her brother, devoted herself to the ghastly and +terrible task of nursing him through his illnesses. The children +behaved with the same straightforward affection and goodness. None of +the circle ever complained, ever said a word which would lead one to +suppose that they had any feeling of resentment or cowardice. They +simply received the blows of fate humbly, resignedly, and cheerfully, +and made the best of the situation. + +Now, let us look this sad story in the face, and see if we can derive +any hope or comfort from it. In the first place, there was nothing in +the man's life which would lead one to suppose that he deserved or +needed this special chastening, this crucifixion of the body. He was +by instinct humble, laborious, unselfish, and good, all of which +qualities came out in his illness. Neither was there anything in the +life or character of the sister which seemed to need this stern and +severe trial. The household had lived a very quiet, active, useful +life, models of good citizens--religious, contented, drawing great +happiness from very simple resources. + +One's belief in the goodness, the justice, the patience of the Father +and Maker of men forbids one to believe that he can ever be wantonly +cruel, unjust, or unloving. Yet it is impossible to see the mercy or +justice of his actions in this case. And the misery is that, if it +could be proved that in one single case, however small, God's goodness +had, so to speak, broken down; if there were evidence of neglect or +carelessness or indifference, in the case of one single child of his, +one single sentient thing that he has created, it would be impossible +to believe in his omnipotence any more. Either one would feel that he +was unjust and cruel, or that there was some evil power at work in the +world which he could not overcome. + +For there is nothing remedial in this suffering. The man's useful, +gentle life is over, the sister is broken down, unhappy, a second time +made desolate; the children's education has suffered, their home is +made miserable. The only thing that one can see, that is in any degree +a compensation, is the extraordinary kindness displayed by friends, +relations, and employers in making things easy for the afflicted +household. And then, too, there is the heroic quality of soul +displayed by the sufferer himself and his sister--a heroism which is +ennobling to think of, and yet humiliating too, because it seems to be +so far out of one's own reach. + +This is a very dark abyss of the world into which we are looking. The +case is an extreme one perhaps, but similar things happen every day, in +this sad and wonderful and bewildering world. Of course, one may take +refuge in a gloomy acquiescence, saying that such things seem to be +part of the world as it is made, and we cannot explain them, while we +dumbly hope that we may be spared such woes. But that is a dark and +despairing attitude, and, for one, I cannot live at all, unless I feel +that God is indeed more upon our side than that. I cannot live at all, +I say. And yet I must live; I must endure the Will of God in whatever +form it is laid upon me--in joy or in pain, in contentment or sick +despair. Why am I at one with the Will of God when it gives me +strength, and hope, and delight? Why am I so averse to it when it +brings me languor, and sorrow, and despair? That I cannot tell; and +that is the enigma which has confronted men from generation to +generation. + +But I still believe that there is a Will of God; and, more than that, I +can still believe that a day comes for all of us, however far off it +may be, when we shall understand; when these tragedies, that now +blacken and darken the very air of Heaven for us, will sink into their +places in a scheme so august, so magnificent, so joyful, that we shall +laugh for wonder and delight; when we shall think not more sorrowfully +over these sufferings, these agonies, than we think now of the sad days +in our childhood when we sat with a passion of tears over a broken toy +or a dead bird, feeling that we could not be comforted. We smile as we +remember such things--we smile at our blindness, our limitations. We +smile to reflect at the great range and panorama of the world that has +opened upon us since, and of which, in our childish grief, we were so +ignorant. Under what conditions the glory will be revealed to us I +cannot guess. But I do not doubt that it will be revealed; for we +forget sorrow, but we do not forget joy. + + + + +XXXIV + +Music + +I have just come back from hearing a great violinist, who played, with +three other professors, in two quartettes, Mozart and Beethoven. I +know little of the technicalities of music, but I know that the Mozart +was full to me of air and sunlight, and a joy which was not the +light-hearted gaiety of earth, but the untainted and unwearying joy of +heaven; the Beethoven I do not think I understood, but there was a +grave minor movement, with pizzicato passages for the violoncello, +which seemed to consecrate and dignify the sorrow of the heart. + +But apart from the technical merits of the music--and the performance, +indeed, seemed to me to lie as near the thought and the conception as +the translation of music into sound can go--the sight of these four big +men, serious and grave, as though neither pursuing nor creating +pleasure, but as though interpreting and giving expression to some +weighty secret, had an inspiring and solemnising effect. The sight of +the great violinist himself was full of awe; his big head, the full +grey beard which lay over the top of the violin, his calm, set brows, +his weary eyes with their heavy lids, had a profound dignity and +seriousness; and to see his wonderful hands, not delicate or slender, +but full, strong, and muscular, moving neither lingeringly nor hastily, +but with a firm and easy deliberation upon the strings, was deeply +impressive. It all seemed so easy, so inevitable, so utterly without +display, so simple and great. It gave one a sense of mingled fire and +quietude, which is the end of art,--one may almost say the end of life; +it was no leaping and fitful flame, but a calm and steady glow; not a +consuming fire, but like the strength of a mighty furnace; and then the +peace of it! The great man did not stand before us as a performer; he +seemed utterly indifferent to praise or applause, and he had rather a +grave, pontifical air, as of a priest, divinely called to minister, +celebrating a divine mystery, calling down the strength of heaven to +earth. Neither was there the least sense of one conferring a favour; +he rather appeared to recognise that we were there in the same spirit +as himself, the worshippers in some high solemnity, and his own skill +not a thing to be shown or gloried in, but a mere ministering of a +sacred gift. He seemed, indeed, to be like one who distributed a +sacramental meat to an intent throng; not a giver of pleasure, but a +channel of secret grace. + +From such art as this one comes away not only with a thrill of mortal +rapture, but with a real and deep faith in art, having bowed the head +before a shrine, and having tasted the food of the spirit. When, at +the end of a sweet and profound movement, the player raised his great +head and looked round tenderly and gently on the crowd, one felt as +though, like Moses, he had struck the rock, and the streams had gushed +out, _ut bibat populus_. And there fell an even deeper awe, which +seemed to say, "God was in this place ... and I knew it not." The +world of movement, of talk, of work, of conflicting interests, into +which one must return, seemed all a fantastic noise, a shadowy +striving; the only real thing seemed the presence-chamber from which we +had gone out, the chamber in which music had uttered its voice at the +bidding of some sacred spell, the voice of an infinite Spirit, the +Spirit that had brooded upon the deep, evoking order out of chaos and +light out of darkness; with no eager and dusty manoeuvrings, no clink +and clatter of human toil, but gliding resistlessly and largely upon +the world, as the sun by silent degrees detaches himself from the dark +rim of the world, and climbs in stately progress into the unclouded +heaven. + + + + +XXXV + +The Faith of Christ + +I read a terrible letter in the newspaper this morning, a letter from a +clergyman of high position, finding fault with a manifesto put out by +certain other clergymen; the letter had a certain volubility about it, +and the writer seemed to me to pull out rather adroitly one or two +loose sticks in his opponents' bundle, and to lay them vehemently about +their backs. But, alas! the acrimony, the positiveness, the arrogance +of it! + +I do not know that I admired the manifesto very much myself; it was a +timid and half-hearted document, but it was at least sympathetic and +tender. The purport of it was to say that, just as historical +criticism has shown that some of the Old Testament must be regarded as +fabulous, so we must be prepared for a possible loss of certitude in +some of the details of the New Testament. It is conceivable, for +instance, that without sacrificing the least portion of the essential +teaching of Christ, men may come to feel justified in a certain +suspension of judgment with regard to some of the miraculous +occurrences there related; may even grow to believe that an element of +exaggeration is there, that element of exaggeration which is never +absent from the writings of any age in which scientific historical +methods had no existence. A suspension of judgment, say: because in +the absence of any converging historical testimony to the events of the +New Testament, it will never be possible either to affirm or to deny +historically that the facts took place exactly as related; though, +indeed, the probability of their having so occurred may seem to be +diminished. + +The controversialist, whose letter I read with bewilderment and pain, +involved his real belief in ingenious sentences, so that one would +think that he accepted the statements of the Old Testament, such as the +account of the Creation and the Fall, the speaking of Balaam's Ass, the +swallowing of Jonah by the whale, as historical facts. He went on to +say that the miraculous element of the New Testament is accredited by +the Revelation of God, as though some definite revelation of truth had +taken place at some time or other, which all rational men recognised. +But the only objective process which has ever taken place is, that at +certain Councils of the Church, certain books of Scripture were +selected as essential documents, and the previous selection of the Old +Testament books was confirmed. But would the controversialist say that +these Councils were infallible? It must surely be clear to all +rational people that the members of these Councils were merely doing +their best, under the conditions that then prevailed, to select the +books that seemed to them to contain the truth. It is impossible to +believe that if the majority at these Councils had supposed that such +an account as the account in Genesis of the Creation was mythological, +they would thus have attested its literal truth. It never occurred to +them to doubt it, because they did not understand the principle that, +while a normal event can be accepted, if it is fairly well confirmed, +an abnormal event requires a far greater amount of converging testimony +to confirm it. + +If only the clergy could realise that what ordinary laymen like myself +want is a greater elasticity instead of an irrational certainty! if +only instead of feebly trying to save the outworks, which are already +in the hands of the enemy, they would man the walls of the central +fortress! If only they would say plainly that a man could remain a +convinced Christian, and yet not be bound to hold to the literal +accuracy of the account of miraculous incidents recorded in the Bible, +it would be a great relief. + +I am myself in the position of thousands of other laymen. I am a +sincere Christian; and yet I regard the Old Testament and the New +Testament alike as the work of fallible men and of poetical minds. I +regard the Old Testament as a noble collection of ancient writings, +containing myths, chronicles, fables, poems, and dramas, the value of +which consists in the intense faith in a personal God and Father with +which it is penetrated. + +When I come to the New Testament, I feel myself, in the Gospels, +confronted by the most wonderful personality which has ever drawn +breath upon the earth. I am not in a position to affirm or to deny the +exact truth of the miraculous occurrences there related; but the more +conscious I am of the fallibility, the lack of subtlety, the absence of +trained historical method that the writers display, the more convinced +I am of the essential truth of the Person and teaching of Christ, +because he seems to me a figure so infinitely beyond the intellectual +power of those who described him to have invented or created. + +If the authors of the Gospels had been men of delicate literary skill, +of acute philosophical or poetical insight, like Plato or Shakespeare, +then I should be far less convinced of the integral truth of the +record. But the words and sayings of Christ, the ideas which he +disseminated, seem to me so infinitely above the highest achievements +of the human spirit, that I have no difficulty in confessing, humbly +and reverently, that I am in the presence of one who seems to me to be +above humanity, and not only of it. If all the miraculous events of +the Gospels could be proved never to have occurred, it would not +disturb my faith in Christ for an instant. But I am content, as it is, +to believe in the possibility of so abnormal a personality being +surrounded by abnormal events, though I am not in a position to +disentangle the actual truth from the possibilities of +misrepresentation and exaggeration. + +Dealing with the rest of the New Testament, I see in the Acts of the +Apostles a deeply interesting record of the first ripples of the faith +in the world. In the Pauline and other epistles I see the words of +fervent primitive Christians, men of real and untutored genius, in +which one has amazing instances of the effect produced, on contemporary +or nearly contemporary persons, of the same overwhelming personality, +the personality of Christ. In the Apocalypse I see a vision of deep +poetical force and insight. + +But in none of these compositions, though they reveal a glow and +fervour of conviction that places them high among the memorials of the +human spirit, do I recognise anything which is beyond human +possibilities. I observe, indeed, that St Paul's method of argument is +not always perfectly consistent, nor his conclusions absolutely cogent. +Such inspiration as they contain they draw from their nearness to and +their close apprehension of the dim and awe-inspiring presence of +Christ Himself. + +If, as I say, the Church would concentrate her forces in this inner +fortress, the personality of Christ, and quit the debatable ground of +historical enquiry, it would be to me and to many an unfeigned relief; +but meanwhile, neither scientific critics nor irrational pedants shall +invalidate my claim to be of the number of believing Christians. I +claim a Christian liberty of thought, while I acknowledge, with bowed +head, my belief in God the Father of men, in a Divine Christ, the +Redeemer and Saviour, and in the presence in the hearts of men of a +Divine spirit, leading humanity tenderly forward. I can neither affirm +nor deny the literal accuracy of Scripture records; I am not in a +position to deny the superstructure of definite dogma raised by the +tradition of the Church about the central truths of its teaching, but +neither can I deny the possibility of an admixture of human error in +the fabric. I claim my right to receive the Sacraments of my Church, +believing as I do that they invigorate the soul, bring the presence of +its Redeemer near, and constitute a bond of Christian unity. But I +have no reason to believe that any human pronouncement whatever, the +pronouncements of men of science as well as the pronouncements of +theologians, are not liable to error. There is indeed no fact in the +world except the fact of my own existence of which I am absolutely +certain. And thus I can accept no system of religion which is based +upon deductions, however subtle, from isolated texts, because I cannot +be sure of the infallibility of any form of human expression. Yet, on +the other hand, I seem to discern with as much certainty as I can +discern anything in this world, where all is so dark, the presence upon +earth at a certain date of a personality which commands my homage and +allegiance. And upon this I build my trust. + + + + +XXXVI + +The Mystery of Evil + +I was staying the other day in a large old country-house. One morning, +my host came to me and said: "I should like to show you a curious +thing. We have just discovered a cellar here that seems never to have +been visited or used since the house was built, and there is the +strangest fungoid growth in it I have ever seen." He took a big bunch +of keys, rang the bell, gave an order for lights to be brought, and we +went together to the place. There were ranges of brick-built, vaulted +chambers, through which we passed, pleasant, cool places, with no +plaster to conceal the native brick, with great wine-bins on either +hand. It all gave one an inkling of the change in material conditions +which must have taken place since they were built; the quantity of wine +consumed in eighteenth-century days must have been so enormous, and the +difficulty of conveyance so great, that every great householder must +have felt like the Rich Fool of the parable, with much goods laid up +for many years. In the corner of one of the great vaults was a low +arched door, and my friend explained that some panelling which had been +taken out of an older house, demolished to make room for the present +mansion, had been piled up here, and thus the entrance had been hidden. +He unlocked the door, and a strange scent came out. An abundance of +lights were lit, and we went into the vault. It was the strangest +scene I have ever beheld; the end of the vault seemed like a great bed, +hung with brown velvet curtains, through the gaps of which were visible +what seemed like white velvet pillows, strange humped conglomerations. +My friend explained to me that there had been a bin at the end of the +vault, out of the wood of which these singular fungi had sprouted. The +whole place was uncanny and horrible. The great velvet curtains swayed +in the current of air, and it seemed as though at any moment some +mysterious sleeper might be awakened, might peer forth from his dark +curtains, with a fretful enquiry as to why he was disturbed. + +The scene dwelt in my mind for many days, and aroused in me a strange +train of thought; these dim vegetable forms, with their rich +luxuriance, their sinister beauty, awoke a curious repugnance in the +mind. They seemed unholy and evil. And yet it is all part of the life +of nature; it is just as natural, just as beautiful to find life at +work in this gloomy and unvisited place, wreathing the bare walls with +these dark, soft fabrics. It was impossible not to feel that there was +a certain joy of life in these growths, sprouting with such security +and luxuriance in a place so precisely adapted to their well-being; and +yet there was the shadow of death and darkness about them, to us whose +home is the free air and the sun. It seemed to me to make a curious +parable of the baffling mystery of evil, the luxuriant growth of sin in +the dark soul. I have always felt that the reason why the mystery of +evil is so baffling is because we so resolutely think of evil as of +something inimical to the nature of God; and yet evil must derive its +vitality from him. The one thing that it is impossible to believe is +that, in a world ruled by an all-powerful God, anything should come +into existence which is in opposition to his Will. It is impossible to +arrive at any solution of the difficulty, unless we either adopt the +belief that God is not all-powerful, and that there is a real dualism +in nature, two powers in eternal opposition; or else realise that evil +is in some way a manifestation of God. If we adopt the first theory, +we may conceive of the stationary tendency in nature, its inertness, +the force that tends to bring motion to a standstill, as one power, the +power of Death; and we may conceive of all motion and force as the +other power, the quickening spirit, the power of life. But even here +we are met with a difficulty, for when we try to transfer this dualism +to the region of humanity, we see that in the phenomena of disease we +are confronted, not with inertness fighting against motion, but with +one kind of life, which is inimical to human life, fighting with +another kind of life which is favourable to health. I mean that when a +fever or a cancer lays hold of a human frame, it is nothing but the +lodging inside the body of a bacterial and an infusorial life which +fights against the healthy native life of the human organism. There +must be, I will not say a consciousness, but a sense of triumphant +life, in the cancer which feeds upon the limb, in spite of all efforts +to dislodge it; and it is impossible to me to believe that the vitality +of those parasitical organisms, which prey upon the human frame, is not +derived from the vital impulse of God. We, who live in the free air +and the sun, have a way of thinking and speaking as if the plants and +animals which develop under the same conditions were of a healthy type, +while the organisms which flourish in decay and darkness, such as the +fungi of which I saw so strange an example, the larva; which prey on +decaying matter, the soft and pallid worm-like forms that tunnel in +vegetable ooze, were of an unhealthy type. But yet these creatures are +as much the work of God as the flowers and trees, the brisk animals +which we love to see about us. We are obliged in self-defence to do +battle with the creatures which menace our health; we do not question +our right to deprive them of life for our own comfort; but surely with +this analogy before us, we are equally compelled to think of the forms +of moral evil, with all their dark vitality, as the work of God's hand. +It is a sad conclusion to be obliged to draw, but I can have no doubt +that no comprehensive system of philosophy can ever be framed, which +does not trace the vitality of what we call evil to the same hand as +the vitality of what we call good. I have no doubt myself of the +supremacy of a single power; but the explanation that evil came into +the world by the institution of free-will, and that suffering is the +result of sin, seems to me to be wholly inadequate, because the mystery +of strife and pain and death is "far older than any history which is +written in any book." The mistake that we make is to count up all the +qualities which seem to promote our health and happiness, and to invent +an anthropomorphic figure of God, whom we array upon the side which we +wish to prevail. The truth is far darker, far sterner, far more +mysterious. The darkness is his not less than the light; selfishness +and sin are the work of his hand, as much as unselfishness and +holiness. To call this attitude of mind pessimism, and to say that it +can only end in acquiescence or despair, is a sin against truth. A +creed that does not take this thought into account is nothing but a +delusion, with which we try to beguile the seriousness of the truth +which we dread; but such a stern belief does not forbid us to struggle +and to strive; it rather bids us believe that effort is a law of our +natures, that we are bound to be enlisted for the fight, and that the +only natures that fail are those that refuse to take a side at all. + +There is no indecision in nature, though there is some illusion. The +very star that rises, pale and serene, above the darkening thicket, is +in reality a globe wreathed in fiery vapour, the centre of a throng of +whirling planets. What we have to do is to see as deep as we can into +the truth of things, not to invent paradises of thought, sheltered +gardens, from which grief and suffering shall tear us, naked and +protesting; but to gaze into the heart of God, and then to follow as +faithfully as we can the imperative voice that speaks within the soul. + + + + +XXXVII + +Renewal + +There sometimes falls upon me a great hunger of heart, a sad desire to +build up and renew something--a broken building it may be, a fading +flower, a failing institution, a ruinous character. I feel a great and +vivid pity for a thing which sets out to be so bright and beautiful, +and lapses into shapeless and uncomely neglect. Sometimes, indeed, it +must be a desolate grief, a fruitless sorrow: as when a flower that has +stood on one's table, and cheered the air with its freshness and +fragrance, begins to droop, and to grow stained and sordid. Or I see +some dying creature, a wounded animal; or even some well-loved friend +under the shadow of death, with the hue of health fading, the dear +features sharpening for the last change; and then one can only bow, +with such resignation as one can muster, before the dreadful law of +death, pray that the passage may not be long or dark, and try to dream +of the bright secrets that may be waiting on the other side. + +But sometimes it is a more fruitful sadness, when one feels that decay +can be arrested, that new life can be infused; that a fresh start may +be taken, and a life may be beautifully renewed, and be even the +brighter, one dares to hope, for a lapse into the dreary ways of +bitterness. + +This sadness is most apt to beset those who have anything to do with +the work of education. One feels sometimes, with a sudden shiver, as +when the shadow of a cloud passes over a sunlit garden, that many +elements are at work in a small society; that an evil secret is +spreading over lives that were peaceful and contented, that suspicion +and disunion and misunderstanding are springing up, like poisonous +weeds, in the quiet corner that God has given one to dress and keep. +Then perhaps one tries to put one's hand on what is amiss; sometimes +one does too much, and in the wrong way; one has not enough faith, one +dares not leave enough to God. Or from timidity or diffidence, or from +the base desire not to be troubled, from the poor hope that perhaps +things will straighten themselves out, one does too little; and that is +the worst shadow of all, the shadow of cowardice or sloth. + +Sometimes, too, one has the grief of seeing a slow and subtle change +passing over the manner and face of one for whom one cares--not the +change of languor or physical weakness; that can be pityingly borne; +but one sees innocence withering, indifference to things wholesome and +fair creeping on, even sometimes a ripe and evil sort of beauty +maturing, such as comes of looking at evil unashamed, and seeing its +strong seductiveness. One feels instinctively that the door which had +been open before between such a soul and one's own spirit is being +slowly and firmly closed, or even, if one attempts to open it, pulled +to with a swift motion; and then one may hear sounds within, and even +see, in that moment, a rush of gliding forms, that makes one sure that +a visitant is there, who has brought with him a wicked company; and +then one has to wait in sadness, with now and then a timid knocking, +even happy, it may be, if the soul sometimes call fretfully within, to +say that it is occupied and cannot come forth. + +But sometimes, God be praised, it is the other way. A year ago a man +came at his own request to see me. I hardly knew him; but I could see +at once that he was in the grip of some hard conflict, which withered +his natural bloom. I do not know how all came to be revealed; but in a +little while he was speaking with simple frankness and naturalness of +all his troubles, and they were many. What was the most touching thing +of all was that he spoke as if he were quite alone in his experience, +isolated and shut off from his kind, in a peculiar horror of darkness +and doubt; as if the thoughts and difficulties at which he stumbled had +never strewn a human path before. I said but little to him; and, +indeed, there was but little to say. It was enough that he should +"cleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs upon the +heart." I tried to make him feel that he was not alone in the matter, +and that other feet had trodden the dark path before him. No advice is +possible in such cases; "therein the patient must minister to himself"; +the solution lies in the mind of the sufferer. He knows what he ought +to do; the difficulty is for him sufficiently to desire to do it; yet +even to speak frankly of cares and troubles is very often to melt and +disperse the morbid mist that gathers round them, which grows in +solitude. To state them makes them plain and simple; and, indeed, it +is more than that; for I have often noticed that the mere act of +formulating one's difficulties in the hearing of one who sympathises +and feels, often brings the solution with it. One finds, like +Christian in Doubting Castle, the key which has lain in one's bosom all +the time--the key of Promise; and when one has finished the recital, +one is lost in bewilderment that one ever was in any doubt at all. + +A year has passed since that date, and I have had the happiness of +seeing health and contentment stream back into the man's face. He has +not overcome, he has not won an easy triumph; but he is in the way now, +not wandering on trackless hills. + +So, in the mood of which I spoke at first--the mood in which one +desires to build up and renew--one must not yield oneself to luxurious +and pathetic reveries, or allow oneself to muse and wonder in the +half-lit region in which one may beat one's wings in vain--the region, +I mean, of sad stupefaction as to why the world is so full of broken +dreams, shattered hopes, and unfulfilled possibilities. One must +rather look round for some little definite failure that is within the +circle of one's vision. And even so, there sometimes comes what is the +most evil and subtle temptation of all, which creeps upon the mind in +lowly guise, and preaches inaction. What concern have you, says the +tempting voice, to meddle with the lives and characters of others--to +guide, to direct, to help--when there is so much that is bitterly amiss +with your own heart and life? How will you dare to preach what you do +not practice? The answer of the brave heart is that, if one is aware +of failure, if one has suffered, if one has gathered experience, one +must be ready to share it. If I falter and stumble under my own heavy +load, which I have borne so querulously, so clumsily, shall not I say a +word which can help a fellow-sufferer to bear his load more easily, +help him to avoid the mistakes, the falls into which my own perversity +has betrayed me? To make another's burden lighter is to lighten one's +own burden; and, sinful as it may be to err, it is still more sinful to +see another err, and be silent, to withhold the word that might save +him. Perhaps no one can help so much as one that has suffered himself, +who knows the turns of the sad road, and the trenches which beset the +way. + +For thus comes most truly the joy of repentance; it is joy to feel that +one's own lesson is learnt, and that the feeble feet are a little +stronger; but if one may also feel that another has taken heed, has +been saved the fall that must have come if he had not been warned, one +does not grudge one's own pain, that has brought a blessing with it, +that is outside of one's own blessing; one hardly even grudges the sin. + + + + +XXXVIII + +The Secret + +I have been away from my books lately, in a land of downs and valleys; +I have walked much alone, or with a silent companion--that greatest of +all luxuries. And, as is always the case when I get out of the reach +of books, I feel that I read a great deal too much, and do not meditate +enough. It sounds indolent advice to say that one ought to meditate; +but I cannot help feeling that reading is often a still more indolent +affair. When I am alone, or at leisure among my books, I take a volume +down; and the result is that another man does my thinking for me. It +is like putting oneself in a comfortable railway carriage; one runs +smoothly along the iron track, one stops at specified stations, one +sees a certain range of country, and an abundance of pretty things in +flashes--too many, indeed, for the mind to digest; and that is the +reason, I think, why a modern journey, even with all the luxuries that +surround it, is so tiring a thing. But to meditate is to take one's +own path among the hills; one turns off the track to examine anything +that attracts the attention; one makes the most of the few things that +one sees. + +Reading is often a mere saving of trouble, a soporific for a restless +brain. This last week, as I say, I have had very few books with me. +One of the few has been Milton's _Paradise Lost_, and I have read it +from end to end. I want to say a few words about the book first, and +then to diverge, to a larger question. I have read the poem with a +certain admiration; it is a large, strong, rugged, violent thing. I +have, however, read it without emotion, except that a few of the +similes in it, which lie like shells on a beach of sand, have pleased +me. Yet it is not true to say that I have read it without emotion, +because I have read it with anger and indignation. I have come to the +conclusion that the book has done a great deal of harm. It is +responsible, I think, for a great many of the harsh, business-like, +dismal views of religion that prevail among us. Milton treated God, +the Saviour, and the angels, from the point of view of a scholar who +had read the _Iliad_. I declare that I think that the passages where +God the Father speaks, discusses the situation of affairs, and arranges +matters with the Saviour, are some of the most profane and vicious +passages in English literature. I do not want to be profane myself, +because it is a disgusting fault; but the passage where the scheme of +Redemption is arranged, where God enquires whether any of the angels +will undergo death in order to satisfy his sense of injured justice, is +a passage of what I can only call stupid brutality, disguised, alas, in +the solemn and majestic robe of sonorous language. The angels timidly +decline, and the Saviour volunteers, which saves the shameful +situation. The character of God, as displayed by Milton, is that of a +commercial, complacent, irritable Puritan. There is no largeness or +graciousness about it, no wistful love. He keeps his purposes to +himself, and when his arrangements break down, as indeed they deserve +to do, some one has got to be punished. If the guilty ones cannot, so +much the worse; an innocent victim will do, but a victim there must be. +It is a wicked, an abominable passage, and I would no more allow an +intelligent child to read it than I would allow him to read an obscene +book. + +Then, again, the passage where the rebel angels cast cannon, make +gunpowder, and mow the good angels down in rows, is incredibly puerile +and ridiculous. The hateful materialism of the whole thing is patent. +I wish that the English Church could have an Index, and put _Paradise +Lost_ upon it, and allow no one to read it until he had reached years +of discretion, and then only with a certificate, and for purely +literary purposes. + +It is a terrible instance how strong a thing Art is; the grim old +author, master of every form of ugly vituperation, had drifted +miserably away from his beautiful youth, when he wrote the sweet poems +and sonnets that make the pedestal for his fame; and on that delicate +pedestal stands this hideous iron figure, with its angry gestures, its +sickening strength. + +I could pile up indignant instances of the further harm the book has +done. Who but Milton is responsible for the hard and shameful view of +the position of women? He represents her as a clinging, soft, +compliant creature, whose only ideal is to be to make things +comfortable for her husband, and to submit to his embraces. Milton +spoilt the lives of all the women he had to do with, by making them +into slaves, with the same consciousness of rectitude with which he +whipped his nephews, the sound of whose cries made his poor girl-wife +so miserable. But I do not want to go further into the question of +Milton himself. I want to follow out a wider thought which came to me +among the downs to-day. + +There seems to me to be in art, to take the metaphor of the temple at +Jerusalem, three gradations or regions, which may be typified by the +Court, the Holy Place, and the Holy of Holies. Into the Court many +have admittance, both writers and readers; it is just shut off from the +world, but admittance is easy and common. All who are moved and +stirred by ideas and images can enter here. Then there is the Holy +Place, dark and glorious, where the candlestick glimmers and the altar +gleams. And to this place the priests of art have access. Here are to +be found all delicate and strenuous craftsmen, all who understand that +there are secrets and mysteries in art. They can please and thrill the +mind and ear; they can offer up a fragrant incense; but the full +mystery is not revealed to them. Here are to be found many graceful +and soulless poets, many writers of moving tales, and discriminating +critics, who are satisfied, but cannot satisfy. Those who frequent +this place are generally of opinion that they know all that is to be +known; they talk much of form and colour, of values and order. They +can make the most of their materials; and indeed their skill outruns +their emotion. + +But there is the inmost shrine of all within, where the darkness +broods, lit at intervals by the shining of a divine light, that +glimmers on the ark and touches the taper wings of the adoring angels. +The contents indeed of the sacred chest are of the simplest; a withered +branch, a pot of food, two slabs of grey stone, obscurely engraved. +Nothing rich or rare. But those who have access to the inner shrine +are face to face with the mystery. Some have the skill to hint it, +none to describe it. And there are some, too, who have no skill to +express themselves, but who have visited the place, and bring back some +touch of radiance gushing from their brows. + +Milton, in his youth, had looked within the shrine, but he forgot, in +the clamorous and sordid world, what he had seen. Only those who have +visited the Holiest place know those others who have set foot there, +and they cannot err. I cannot define exactly what it is that makes the +difference. It cannot be seen in performance; for here I will humbly +and sincerely make the avowal that I have been within the veil myself, +though I know not when or how. I learnt there no perfection of skill, +no methods of expression. But ever since, I have looked out for the +signs that tell me whether another has set foot there or no. I +sometimes see the sign in a book, or a picture; sometimes it comes out +in talk; and sometimes I discern it in the glance of an eye, for all +the silence of the lips. It is not knowledge, it is not pride that the +access confers. Indeed it is often a sweet humility of soul. It is +nothing definite; but it is a certain attitude of mind, a certain +quality of thought. Some of those who have been within are very sinful +persons, very unhappy, very unsatisfactory, as the world would say. +But they are never perverse or wilful natures; they are never cold or +mean. Those in whom coldness and meanness are found are of necessity +excluded from the Presence. But though the power to step behind the +veil seldom brings serenity, or strength, or confidence, yet it is the +best thing that can happen to a man in the world. + +Some perhaps of those who read these words will think that it is all a +vain shadow, and that I am but wrapping up an empty thought in veils of +words. But though I cannot explain, though I cannot say what the +secret is, I can claim to be able to say almost without hesitation +whether a human spirit has passed within; and more than that. As I +write these words, I know that if any who have set foot in the secret +shrine reads them, they will understand, and recognise that I am +speaking a simple truth. + +Some, indeed, find their way thither through religion; but none whose +religion is like Milton's. Indeed, part of the wonder of the secret is +the infinite number of paths that lead there; they are all lonely; the +moment is unexpected; indeed, as was the case with myself, it is +possible to set foot within, and yet not to know it at the time. + +It is this secret which constitutes the innermost brotherhood of the +world. The innermost, I say, because neither creed, nor nationality, +nor occupation, nor age, nor sex affects the matter. It is difficult, +or shall I say unusual, for the old to enter; and most find the way +there in youth, before habit and convention have become tyrannous, and +have fenced the path of life with hedges and walls. + +Again it is the most secret brotherhood of the world; no one can dare +to make public proclamation of it, no one can gather the saints +together, for the essence of the brotherhood is its isolation. One may +indeed recognise a brother or a sister, and that is a blessed moment; +but one must not speak of it in words; and indeed there is no need of +words, where all that matters is known. It may be asked what are the +benefits which this secret brings. It does not bring laughter, or +prosperity, or success, or even cheerfulness; but it brings a high, +though fitful, joy--a joy that can be captured, practised, retained. +No one can, I think, of set purpose, capture the secret. No one can +find the way by desiring it. And yet the desire to do so is the seed +of hope. And if it be asked, why I write and print these veiled words +about so deep and intimate a mystery, I would reply that it is because +not all who have found the way, know that they have found it; and my +hope is that these words of mine may show some restless hearts that +they have found it. For one may find the shrine in youth, and for want +of knowing that one has found it, may forget it in middle age; and that +is what I sorrowfully think that not a few of my brothers do. And the +sign of such a loss is that such persons speak contemptuously and +disdainfully of their visions, and try to laugh and deride the young +and gracious out of such hopes; which is a sin that is hateful to God, +a kind of murder of souls. + +And now I have travelled a long way from where I began, but the path +was none of my own making. It was Milton, that fierce and childish +poet, that held open the door, and within I saw the ladder, at the +fiery head of which is God Himself. And like Jacob (who was indeed of +our company) I made a pillow for my head of the stones of the place, +that I might dream more abundantly. + +And so, as I walked to-day among the green places of the down, I made a +prayer in my heart to God, the matter of which I will now set down; and +it was that all of us who have visited that most Holy Place may be true +to the vision; and that God may reveal us to each other, as we go on +pilgrimage; and that as the world goes forward, he may lead more and +more souls to visit it, that bare and secret place, which yet holds +more beauty than the richest palace of the world. For palaces but hold +the outer beauty, in types and glimpses and similitudes. While in the +secret shrine we visit the central fountainhead, from which the water +of life, clear as crystal, breaks in innumerable channels, and flows +out from beneath the temple door, as Ezekiel saw it flow, lingering and +delaying, but surely coming to gladden the earth. I could indeed go +further, and speak many things out of a full heart about the matter. I +could quote the names of many poets and artists, great and small; and I +could say which of them belongs to the inner company, and which of them +is outside. But I will not do this, because it would but set +inquisitive people puzzling and wondering, and trying to guess the +secret; and that I have no desire to do; because these words are not +written to make those who do not understand to be curious; but they are +written to those who know, and, most of all, to those who know, but +have forgotten. No one may traffic in these things; and indeed there +is no opportunity to do so. I could learn in a moment, from a sentence +or a smile, if one had the secret; and I could spend a long summer day +trying to explain it to a learned and intelligent person, and yet give +no hint of what I meant. For the thing is not an intelligible process, +a matter of reasoning and logic; it is an intuition. And therefore it +is that those who cannot believe in anything that they do not +understand, will think these words of mine to be folly and vanity. The +only case where I have found a difficulty in deciding, is when I talk +to one who has lived much with those who had the secret, and has +caught, by a kind of natural imitation, some of the accent and cadence +of the truth. An old friend of mine, a pious woman, used in her last +days to have prayers and hymns read much in her room; there was a +parrot that sat there in his cage, very silent and attentive; and not +long after, when the parrot was ill, he used to mutter prayers and +hymns aloud, with a devotion that would have deceived the very elect. +And it is even so with the people of whom I have spoken. Not long ago +I had a long conversation with one, a clever woman, who had lived much +in the house of a man who had seen the truth; and I was for a little +deceived, and thought that she also knew the truth. But suddenly she +made a hard judgment of her own, and I knew in a moment that she had +never seen the shrine. + +And now I have said enough, and must make an end. I remember that long +ago, when I was a boy, I painted a picture on a panel, and set it in my +room. It was the figure of a kneeling youth on a hillock, looking +upwards; and beyond the hillock came a burst of rays from a hidden sun. +Underneath it, for no reason that I can well explain, I painted the +words _phôs etheasamen kai emphobos en_--_I beheld a light and was +afraid_. I was then very far indeed from the sight of the truth; but I +know now that I was prophesying of what should be; for the secret sign +of the mystery is a fear, not a timid and shrinking fear, but a holy +and transfiguring awe. I little guessed what would some day befall me; +but now that I have seen, I can only say with all my heart that it is +better to remember and be sad, than to forget and smile. + + + + +XXXIX + +The Message + +I was awakened this morning, at the old house where I am staying, by +low and sweet singing. The soft murmur of an organ was audible, on +which some clear trebles seemed to swim and float--one voice of great +richness and force seeming to utter the words, and to draw into itself +the other voices, appropriating their tone but lending them +personality. These were the words I heard-- + + "The High Priest once a year + Went in the Holy Place + With garments white and clear; + It was the day of Grace. + + Without the people stood + While unseen and alone + With incense and with blood + He did for them atone. + + "So we without abide + A few short passing years, + While Christ who for us died + Before our God appears. + + "Before His Father there + His Sacrifice He pleads, + And with unceasing prayer + For us He intercedes." + + +The sweet sounds ceased; the organ lingered for an instant in a low +chord of infinite sweetness, and then a voice was heard in prayer. +That there was a chapel in the house I knew, and that a brief morning +prayer was read there. But I could not help wondering at the +remarkable distinctness with which I heard the words--they seemed close +to my ear in the air beside me. I got up, and drawing my curtains +found that it was day; and then I saw that a tiny window in the corner +of my room, that gave on the gallery of the chapel, had been left open, +by accident or design, and that thus I had been an auditor of the +service. + +I found myself pondering over the words of the hymn, which was familiar +to me, though strangely enough is to be found in but few collections. +It is a perfect lyric, both in its grave language and its beautiful +balance; and it is too, so far as such a composition can be, or ought +to be, intensely dramatic. The thought is just touched, and stated +with exquisite brevity and restraint; there is not a word too much or +too little; the image is swiftly presented, the inner meaning flashed +upon the mind. It seemed to me, too, a beautiful and desirable thing +to begin the day thus, with a delicate hallowing of the hours; to put +one gentle thought into the heart, perfumed by the sweet music. But +then my reflections took a further drift; beautiful as the little +ceremony was, noble and refined as the thought of the tender hymn was, +I began to wonder whether we do well to confine our religious life to +so restricted a range of ideas. It seemed almost ungrateful to +entertain the thought, but I felt a certain bewilderment as to whether +this remote image, drawn from the ancient sacrificial ceremony, was not +even too definite a thought to feed the heart upon. For strip the idea +of its fair accessories, its delicate art, and what have we but the sad +belief, drawn from the dark ages of the world, that the wrathful +Creator of men, full of gloomy indignation at their perverseness and +wilfulness, needs the constant intercession of the Eternal Son, who is +too, in a sense, Himself, to appease the anger with which he regards +the sheep of his hand. I cannot really in the depths of my heart echo +that dark belief. I do not indeed know why God permits such blindness +and sinfulness among men, and why he allows suffering to cloud and +darken the world. But it would cause me to despair of God and man +alike, if I felt that he had flung our pitiful race into the world, +surrounded by temptation both within and without, and then abandoned +himself to anger at their miserable dalliance with evil. I rather +believe that we are rising and struggling to the light, and that his +heart is with us, not against us in the battle. It may of course be +said that all that kind of Calvinism has disappeared; that no rational +Christians believe it, but hold a larger and a wider faith. I think +that this is true of a few intelligent Christians, as far as the +dropping of Calvinism goes, though it seems to me that they find it +somewhat difficult to define their faith; but as to Calvinism having +died out in England, I do not think that there is any reason to suppose +that it has done so; I believe that a large majority of English +Christians would believe the above-quoted hymn to be absolutely +justified in its statements both by Scripture and reason, and that a +considerable minority would hardly consider it definite enough. + +But then came a larger and a wider thought. We talk and think so +carelessly of the divine revelation; we, who have had a religious +bringing up, who have been nurtured upon Israelite chronicles and +prophecies, are inclined, or at least predisposed, to think that the +knowledge of God is written larger and more directly in these records, +the words of anxious and troubled persons, than in the world which we +see about us. Yet surely in field and wood, in sea and sky, we have a +far nearer and more instant revelation of God. In these ancient +records we have the thoughts of men, intent upon their own schemes and +struggles, and looking for the message of God, with a fixed belief that +the history of one family of the human race was his special and +particular prepossession. Yet all the while his immediate Will was +round them, written in a thousand forms, in bird and beast, in flower +and tree. He permits and tolerates life. He deals out joy and sorrow, +life and death. Science has at least revealed a far more vast and +inscrutable force at work in the world, than the men of ancient days +ever dreamed of. + +Do we do well to confine our religious life to these ancient +conceptions? They have no doubt a certain shadow of truth in them; but +while I know for certain that the huge Will of God is indeed at work +around me, in every field and wood, in every stream and pool, do I +_really_ know, do I honestly believe that any such process as the hymn +indicates, is going on in some distant region of heaven? The hymn +practically presupposes that our little planet is the only one in which +the work of God is going forward. Science hints to me that probably +every star that hangs in the sky has its own ring of planets, and that +in every one of these some strange drama of life and death is +proceeding. It is a dizzy thought! But if it be true, is it not +better to face it? The mind shudders, appalled at the immensity of the +prospect. But do not such thoughts as these give us a truer picture of +ourselves, and of our own humble place in the vast complexity of +things, than the excessive dwelling upon the wistful dreams of ancient +law-givers and prophets? Or is it better to delude ourselves? +Deliberately to limit our view to the history of a single race, to a +few centuries of records? Perhaps that may be a more practical, a more +effective view; but when once the larger thought has flashed into the +mind, it is useless to try and drown it. + +Everything around me seems to cry aloud the warning, not to aim at a +conceit of knowledge about these deep secrets, but to wait, to leave +the windows of the soul open for any glimpse of truth from without. + +To beguile the time I took up a volume near me, the work of a much +decried poet, Walt Whitman. Apart from the exquisite power of +expression that he possesses, he always seems to me to enter, more than +most poets, into the largeness of the world, to keep his heart fixed on +the vast wonder and joy of life. I read that poem full of tender +pathos and suggestiveness, _A Word out of the Sea_, where the child, +with the wind in his hair, listens to the lament of the bird that has +lost his mate, and tries to guide her wandering wings back to the +deserted nest. While the bird sings, with ever fainter hope, its +little heart aching with the pain of loss, the child hears the sea, +with its "liquid rims and wet sands" breathing out the low and +delicious word _death_. + +The poet seems to think of death as the loving answer to the yearning +of all hearts, the sleep that closes the weary eyes. But I cannot rise +to this thought, tender and gentle as it is. + +If indeed there be another life beyond death, I can well believe that +death is in truth an easier and simpler thing than one fears; only a +cloud on the hill, a little darkness upon Nature. But God has put it +into my heart to dread it; and he hides from me the knowledge of +whether indeed there be another side to it. And while I do not even +know that, I can but love life, and be fain of the good days. All the +religion in the world depends upon the belief that, set free from the +bonds of the flesh, the spirit will rest and recollect. But is that +more than a hope? Is it more than the passionate instinct of the heart +that cannot bear the thought that it may cease to be? + +I seem to have travelled far away from the hymn that sounded so sweetly +in my ears; but I return to the thought; is not, I will ask, the poet's +reverie--the child with his wet hair floating in the sea-breeze, the +wailing of the deserted bird, the waves that murmur that death is +beautiful--is not this all more truly and deeply religious than the +hymn which speaks of things, that not only I cannot affirm to be true, +but which, if true, would plunge me into a deeper and darker +hopelessness even than that in which my ignorance condemns me to live? +Ought we not, in fact, to try and make our religion a much wider, +quieter thing? Are we not exchanging the melodies of the free birds +that sing in the forest glade, for the melancholy chirping of the caged +linnet? It seems to me often as though we had captured our religion +from a multitude of fair hovering presences, that would speak to us of +the things of God, caged it in a tiny prison, and closed our ears to +the larger and wider voices? + +I walked to-day in sheltered wooded valleys; and at one point, in a +very lonely and secluded lane, leant long upon a gate that led into a +little forest clearing, to watch the busy and intent life of the wood. +There were the trees extending their fresh leaves to the rain; the +birds slipped from tree to tree; a mouse frisked about the grassy road; +a hundred flowers raised their bright heads. None of these little +lives have, I suppose, any conception of the extent of life that lies +about them; each of them knows the secrets and instincts of its own +tiny brain, and guesses perhaps at the thoughts of the little lives +akin to it. Yet every tiniest, shortest, most insignificant life has +its place in the mind of God. It seemed to me then such an amazing, +such an arrogant thing to define, to describe, to limit the awful +mystery of the Creator and his purpose. Even to think of him, as he is +spoken of in the Old Testament, with fierce and vindictive schemes, +with flagrant partialities, seemed to me nothing but a dreadful +profanation. And yet these old writings do, in a degree, from old +association, colour my thoughts about him. + +And then all these anxious visions left me; and I felt for awhile like +a tiny spray of sea-weed floating on an infinite sea, with the +brightness of the morning overhead. I felt that I was indeed set where +I found myself to be, and that if now my little heart and brain are too +small to hold the truth, yet I thanked God for making even the +conception of the mystery, the width, the depth, possible to me; and I +prayed to him that he would give me as much of the truth as I could +bear. And I do not doubt that he gave me that; for I felt for an +instant that whatever befell me, I was indeed a part of Himself; not a +thing outside and separate; not even his son and his child: but Himself. + + + + +XL + +After Death + +I had so strange a dream or vision the other night, that I cannot +refrain from setting it down; because the strangeness and the wonder of +it seem to make it impossible for me to have conceived of it myself; it +was suggested by nothing, originated by nothing that I can trace; it +merely came to me out of the void. + +After confused and troubled dreams of terror and bewilderment, enacted +in blind passages and stifling glooms, with crowds of unknown figures +passing rapidly to and fro, I seemed to grow suddenly light-hearted and +joyful. I next appeared to myself to be sitting or reclining on the +grassy top of a cliff, in bright sunlight. The ground fell +precipitously in front of me, and I saw to left and right the sharp +crags and horns of the rock-face below me; behind me was a wide space +of grassy down, with a fresh wind racing over it. The sky was +cloudless. Far below I could see yellow sands, on which a blue sea +broke in crisp waves. To the left a river flowed through a little +hamlet, clustered round a church; I looked down on the roofs of the +small houses, and saw people passing to and fro, like ants. The river +spread itself out in shallow shining channels over the sand, to join +the sea. Further to the left rose shadowy headland after headland, and +to the right lay a broad well-watered plain, full of trees and +villages, bounded by a range of blue hills. On the sea moved ships, +the wind filling their sails, and the sun shining on them with a +peculiar brightness. The only sound in my ears was that of the whisper +of the wind in the grass and stone crags. + +But I soon became aware with a shock of pleasant surprise that my +perception of the whole scene was of a different quality to any +perception I had before experienced. I have spoken of seeing and +hearing: but I became aware that I was doing neither; the perceptions, +so to speak, both of seeing and hearing were not distinct, but the +same. I was aware, for instance, at the same moment, of the _whole_ +scene, both of what was behind me and what was in front of me. I have +described what I saw successively, because there is no other way of +describing it; but it was all present at once in my mind, and I had no +need to turn my attention to one point or another, but everything was +there before me, in a unity at which I cannot even hint in words. I +then became aware too, that, though I have spoken of myself as seated +or reclined, I had no body, but was merely, as it were, a sentient +point. In a moment I became aware that to transfer that sentience to +another point was merely an act of will. I was able to test this; in +an instant I was close above the village, which a moment before was far +below me, and I perceived the houses, the very faces of the people +close at hand; at another moment I was buried deep in the cliff, and +felt the rock with its fissures all about me; at another moment, +following my wish, I was beneath the sea, and saw the untrodden sands +about me, with the blue sunlit water over my head. I saw the fish dart +and poise above me, the ribbons of sea-weed floating up, just swayed by +the currents, shells crawling like great snails on the ooze, crabs +hurrying about among piles of boulders. But something drew me back to +my first station, I know not why; and there I poised, as a bird might +have poised, and lost myself in a blissful dream. Then it darted into +my mind that I was what I had been accustomed to call dead. So this +was what lay on the other side of the dark passage, this lightness, +this perfect freedom, this undreamed-of peace! I had not a single care +or anxiety. It seemed as if nothing could trouble my repose and +happiness. I could only think with a deep compassion of those who were +still pent in uneasy bodies, under strait and sad conditions, anxious, +sad, troubled, and blind, not knowing that the shadow of death which +encompassed them was but the cloud which veiled the gate of perfect and +unutterable happiness. + +I felt rising in my mind a sense of all that lay before me, of all the +mysteries that I would penetrate, all the unvisited places that I would +see. But at present I was too full of peace and quiet happiness to do +anything but stay in an infinite content where I was. All sense of +_ennui_ or restlessness had left me. I was utterly free, utterly +blest. I did, indeed, once send my thought to the home which I loved, +and saw a darkened house, and my dear ones moving about with grief +written legibly on their faces. I saw my mother sitting looking at +some letters which I perceived to be my own, and was aware that she +wept. But I could not even bring myself to grieve at that, because I +knew that the same peace and joy that filled me was also surely +awaiting them, and the darkest passage, the sharpest human suffering, +seemed so utterly little and trifling in the light of my new knowledge; +and I was soon back on my cliff-top again, content to wait, to rest, to +luxuriate in a happiness which seemed to have nothing selfish about it, +because the satisfaction was so perfectly pure and natural. + +While I thus waited I became aware, with the same sort of sudden +perception, of a presence beside me. It had no outward form; but I +knew that it was a spirit full of love and kindness: it seemed to me to +be old; it was not divine, for it brought no awe with it; and yet it +was not quite human; it was a spirit that seemed to me to have been +human, but to have risen into a higher sphere of perception. I simply +felt a sense of deep and pure companionship. And presently I became +aware that some communication was passing between my consciousness and +the consciousness of the newly-arrived spirit. It did not take place +in words, but in thought; though only by words can I now represent it. + +"Yes," said the other, "you do well to rest and to be happy: is it not +a wonderful experience? and yet you have been through it many times +already, and will pass through it many times again." + +I suppose that I did not wholly understand this, for I said: "I do not +grasp that thought, though I am certain it is true: have I then died +before?" + +"Yes," said the other, "many times. It is a long progress; you will +remember soon, when you have had time to reflect, and when the sweet +novelty of the change has become more customary. You have but returned +to us again for a little; one needs that, you know, at first; one needs +some refreshment and repose after each one of our lives, to be renewed, +to be strengthened for what comes after." + +All at once I understood. I knew that my last life had been one of +many lives lived at all sorts of times and dates, and under various +conditions; that at the end of each I had returned to this joyful +freedom. + +It was the first cloud that passed over my thought. "Must I return +again to life?" I said. + +"Oh yes," said the other; "you see that; you will soon return +again--but never mind that now; you are here to drink your fill of the +beautiful things which you will only remember by glimpses and visions +when you are back in the little life again." + +And then I had a sudden intuition. I seemed to be suddenly in a small +and ugly street of a dark town. I saw slatternly women run in and out +of the houses; I saw smoke-stained grimy children playing in the +gutter. Above the poor, ill-kept houses a factory poured its black +smoke into the air, and hummed behind its shuttered windows. I knew in +a sad flash of thought that I was to be born there, to be brought up as +a wailing child, under sad and sordid conditions, to struggle into a +life of hard and hopeless labour, in the midst of vice, and poverty, +and drunkenness, and hard usage. It filled me for a moment with a sort +of nauseous dread, remembering the free and liberal conditions of my +last life, the wealth and comfort I had enjoyed. + +"No," said the other; for in a moment I was back again, "that is an +unworthy thought--it is but for a moment; and you will return to this +peace again." + +But the sad thought came down upon me like a cloud. "Is there no +escape?" I said; and at that, in a moment, the other spirit seemed to +chide me, not angrily, but patiently and compassionately. "One +suffers," he said, "but one gains experience; one rises," adding more +gently: "We do not know why it must be, of course--but it is the Will; +and however much one may doubt and suffer in the dark world there, one +does not doubt of the wisdom or the love of it here." And I knew in a +moment that I did not doubt, but that I would go willingly wherever I +should be sent. + +And then my thought became concerned with the spirit that spoke with +me, and I said, "And what is your place and work? for I think you are +like me and yet unlike." And he said: "Yes, it is true; I have to +return thither no more; that is finished for me, and I grudge no single +step of the dark road: I cannot explain to you what my work or place +is; but I am old, and have seen many things; each of us has to return +and return, not indeed till we are made perfect, but till we have +finished that part of our course; but the blessedness of this peace +grows and grows, while it becomes easier to bear what happens in that +other place, for we grow strong and simple and sincere, and then the +world can hurt us but little. We learn that we must not judge men; but +we know that when we see them cruel and vicious and selfish, they are +then but children learning their first lessons; and on each of our +visits to this place we see that the evil matters less and less, and +the hope becomes brighter and brighter; till at last we see." And I +then seemed to turn to him in thought, for he said with a grave joy: +"Yes, I have seen." And presently I was left alone to my happiness. + +How long it lasted I cannot tell; but presently I seemed less free, +less light of heart; and soon I knew that I was bound; and after a +space I woke into the world again, and took up my burden of cares. + +But for all that I have a sense of hopefulness left which I think will +not quite desert me. From what dim cell of the brain my vision rose, I +know not, but though it came to me in so precise and clear a form, yet +I cannot help feeling that something deep and true has been revealed to +me, some glimpse of pure heaven and bright air, that lies outside our +little fretted lives. + + + + +XLI + +The Eternal Will + +I have spoken above, I know well, of things in which I have no skill to +speak; I know no philosophy or metaphysics; to look into a +philosophical book is to me like looking into a room piled up with +bricks, the pure materials of thought; they have no meaning for me, +until the beautiful mind of some literary architect has built them into +a house of life; but just as a shallow pool can reflect the dark and +infinite spaces of night, pierced with stars, so in my own shallow mind +these perennial difficulties, which lie behind all that we do and say, +can be for a moment mirrored. + +The only value that such thoughts can have in life is that they should +teach us to live in a frank and sincere mood, waiting patiently for the +Lord, as the old Psalmist said. My own philosophy is a very simple +one, and, if I could only be truer to it, it would bring me the +strength which I lack. It is this; that being what we are, such frail, +mysterious, inexplicable beings, we should wait humbly and hopefully +upon God, not attempting, nor even wishing, to make up our minds upon +these deep secrets, only determined that we will be true to the inner +light, and that we will not accept any solution which depends for its +success upon neglecting or overlooking any of the phenomena with which +we are confronted. We find ourselves placed in the world, in definite +relations with certain people, endowed with certain qualities, with +faults and fears, with hopes and joys, with likes and dislikes. Evil +haunts us like a shadow, and though it menaces our happiness, we fall +again and again under its dominion; in the depths of our spirit a voice +speaks, which assures us again and again that truth and purity and love +are the best and dearest things that we can desire; and that voice, +however imperfectly, I try to obey, because it seems the strongest and +clearest of all the voices that call to me. I try to regard all +experience, whether sweet or bitter, fair or foul, as sent me by the +great and awful power that put me where I am. The strongest and best +things in the world seem to me to be peace and tranquillity, and the +same hidden power seems to be leading me thither; and to lead me all +the faster whenever I try not to fret, not to grieve, not to despair. +"_Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you,_" says the +Divine Word; and the more that I follow intuition rather than reason, +the nearer I seem to come to the truth. I have lately wasted much +fruitless thought over an anxious decision, weighing motives, +forecasting possibilities. I knew at the time how useless it all was, +and that my course would be made clear at the right moment; and I will +tell the story of how it was made clear, as testimony to the perfect +guidance of the divine hand. I was taking a journey, and the weary +process was going on in my mind; every possible argument for and +against the step was being reviewed and tested; I could not read, I +could not even look abroad upon the world. The train drew up at a dull +suburban station, where our tickets were collected. The signal was +given, and we started. It was at this moment that the conviction came, +and I saw how I must act, with a certainty which I could not gainsay or +resist. My reason had anticipated the opposite decision, but I had no +longer any doubt or hesitation. The only question was how and when to +announce the result; but when I returned home the same evening there +was the letter waiting for me which gave the very opportunity I +desired; and I have since learnt without surprise that the letter was +being penned at the very moment when the conviction came to me. + +I have told this experience in detail, because it seems to me to be a +very perfect example of the suddenness with which conviction comes. +But neither do I grudge the anxious reveries which for many days had +preceded that conviction, because through them I learnt something of +the inner weakness of my nature. But the true secret of it all is that +we ought to live as far as we can in the day, the hour, the minute; to +waste no time in anxious forecasting and miserable regrets, but just do +what lies before us as faithfully as possible. Gradually, too, one +learns that the restricting of what is called religion to certain times +of prayer and definite solemnities is the most pitiful of all mistakes; +life lived with the intuition that I have indicated is all religion. +The most trivial incident has to be interpreted; every word and deed +and thought becomes full of a deep significance. One has no longer any +anxious sense of duty; one desires no longer either to impress or +influence; one aims only at guarding the quality of all one does or +says--or rather the very word "aims" is a wrong one; there is no longer +any aim or effort, except the effort to feel which way the gentle +guiding hand would have us to go; the only sorrow that is possible is +when we rather perversely follow our own will and pleasure. + +The reason why I desire this book to say its few words to my brothers +and sisters of this life, without any intrusion of personality, is that +I am so sure of the truth of what I say, that I would not have any one +distracted from the principles I have tried to put into words, by being +able to compare it with my own weak practice. I am so far from having +attained; I have, I know, so many weary leagues to traverse yet, that I +would not have my faithless and perverse wanderings known. But the +secret waits for all who can throw aside convention and insincerity, +who can make the sacrifice with a humble heart, and throw themselves +utterly and fearlessly into the hands of God. Societies, +organisations, ceremonies, forms, authority, dogma--they are all +outside; silently and secretly, in the solitude of one's heart, must +the lonely path be found; but the slender track once beneath our feet, +all the complicated relations of the world become clear and simple. We +have no need to change our path in life, to seek for any human guide, +to desire new conditions, because we have the one Guide close to us, +closer than friend or brother or lover, and we know that we are set +where he would have us to be. Such a belief destroys in a flash all +our embarrassment in dealing with others, all our anxieties in dealing +with ourselves. In dealing with ourselves we shall only desire to be +faithful, fearless and sincere; in dealing with others we shall try to +be patient, tender, appreciative, and hopeful. If we have to blame, we +shall blame without bitterness, without the outraged sense of personal +vanity that brings anger with it. If we can praise, we shall praise +with generous prodigality; we shall not think of ourselves as a centre +of influence, as radiating example and precept; but we shall know our +own failures and difficulties, and shall realise as strongly that +others are led likewise, and that each is the Father's peculiar care, +as we realise it about ourselves. There will be no thrusting of +ourselves to the front, nor an uneasy lingering upon the outskirts of +the crowd, because we shall know that our place and our course are +defined. We may crave for happiness, but we shall not resent sorrow. +The dreariest and saddest day becomes the inevitable, the true setting +for our soul; we must drink the draught, and not fear to taste its +bitterest savour; it is the Father's cup. That a Christian, in such a +mood, can concern himself with what is called the historical basis of +the Gospels, is a thought which can only be met by a smile; for there +stands the record of perhaps the only life ever lived upon earth that +conformed itself, at every moment, in the darkest experiences that life +could bring, entirely and utterly to the Divine Will. One who walks in +the light that I have spoken of is as inevitably a Christian as he is a +human being, and is as true to the spirit of Christ as he is +indifferent to the human accretions that have gathered round the august +message. + +The possession of such a secret involves no retirement from the world, +no breaking of ties, no ecclesiastical exercises, no endeavour to +penetrate obscure ideas. It is as simple as the sunlight and the air. +It involves no protest, no phrase, no renunciation. Its protest will +be an unconcerned example, its phrase will be a perfect sincerity of +speech, its renunciation will be what it does, not what it abstains +from doing. It will go or stay as the inner voice bids it. It will +not attempt the impossible nor the novel. Very clearly, from hour to +hour, the path will be made plain, the weakness fortified, the sin +purged away. It will judge no other life, it will seek no goal; it +will sometimes strive and cry, it will sometimes rest; it will move as +gently and simply in unison with the one supreme will, as the tide +moves beneath the moon, piled in the central deep with all its noises, +flooding the mud-stained waterway, where the ships ride together, or +creeping softly upon the pale sands of some sequestered bay. + + + + +XLII + +Until the Evening + +I stop sometimes on a landing in an old house, where I often stay, to +look at a dusky, faded water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do not +think its technical merit is great, but it somehow has the poetical +quality. It represents, or seems to represent, a piece of high open +ground, down-land or heath, with a few low bushes growing there, +sprawling and wind-brushed; a road crosses the fore-ground, and dips +over to the plain beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, dappled +by open spaces. There is a long faint distant line of hills on the +horizon. The time appears to be just after sunset, when the sky is +still full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost their +colour, but are just beginning to be tinged with dusk. In the road +stands the figure of a man, with his back turned, his hand shading his +eyes as he gazes out across the plain. He appears to be a wayfarer, +and to be weary but not dispirited. There is a look of serene and +sober content about him, how communicated I know not. He would seem to +have far to go, but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his home, +which indeed he seems to discern afar off. The picture bears the +simple legend, _Until the evening_. + +This design seems always to be charged for me with a beautiful and +grave meaning. Just so would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage, +wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. The freshness and +blithe eagerness of the morning are over, the solid hours of sturdy +progress are gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the gentle +descent among the shadows remains, with cool airs blowing from darkling +thickets, laden with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of rushy +dingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer will push the familiar gate +open, and see the lamplit windows of home, with the dark chimneys and +gables outlined against the green sky. Those that love him are +awaiting him, listening for the footfall to draw near. + +Is it not possible to attain this? And yet how often does it seem to +be the fate of a human soul to stumble, like one chased and hunted, +with dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous phrase, down the +darkening track. Yet one should rather approach God, bearing in +careful hands the priceless and precious gift of life, ready to restore +it if it be his will. God grant us so to live, in courage and trust, +that, when he calls us, we may pass willingly and with a quiet +confidence to the gate that opens into tracts unknown! + + + + +CONCLUSION + +_And now I will try if I can in a few words to sum up what the purpose +of this little volume has been, these pages torn from my book of life, +though I hope that some of my readers may, before now, have discerned +it for themselves. _The Thread of Gold_ has two chief qualities. It +is bright, and it is strong; it gleams with a still and precious light +in the darkness, glowing with the reflected radiance of the little lamp +that we carry to guide our feet, and adding to the ray some rich tinge +from its own goodly heart; and it is strong too; it cannot easily be +broken; it leads a man faithfully through the dim passages of the cave +in which he wanders, with the dark earth piled above his head._ + +_The two qualities that we should keep with us in our journey through a +world where it seems that so much must be dark, are a certain rich +fiery essence, a glowing ardour of spirit, a mind of lofty temper, +athirst for all that is noble and beautiful. That first; and to that +we must add a certain soberness and sedateness of mood, a smiling +tranquillity, a true directness of aim, that should lead us not to form +our ideas and opinions too swiftly and too firmly; for then we suffer +from an anxious vexation when experience contradicts hope, when things +turn out different from what we had desired and supposed. We should +deal with life in a generous and high-hearted mood, giving men credit +for lofty aims and noble imaginings, and not be cast down if we do not +see these purposes blazing and glowing on the surface of things; we +should believe that such great motives are there even if we cannot see +them; and then we should sustain our lively expectations with a deep +and faithful confidence, assured that we are being tenderly and wisely +led, and that the things which the Father shows us by the way, if they +bewilder, and disappoint, and even terrify us, have yet some great and +wonderful meaning, if we can but interpret them rightly. Nay, that the +very delaying of these secrets to draw near to our souls, holds within +it a strong and temperate virtue for our spirits._ + +_Neither of these great qualities, ardour and tranquillity, can stand +alone; if we aim merely at enthusiasm, the fire grows cold, the world +grows dreary, and we lapse into a cynical mood of bitterness, as the +mortal flame turns low._ + +_Nor must we aim at mere tranquillity; for so we may fall into a mere +placid acquiescence, a selfish inaction; our peace must be heartened by +eagerness, our zest calmed by serenity. If we follow the fire alone, +we become restless and dissatisfied; if we seek only for peace, we +become like the patient beasts of the field._ + +_I would wish, though I grow old and grey-haired, a hundred times a day +to ask why things are as they are, and to desire that they were +otherwise; and again a hundred times a day I would thank God that they +are as they are, and praise him for showing me his will rather than my +own. For the secret lies in this; that we must not follow our own +impulses, and thus grow pettish and self-willed: neither must we float +feebly upon the will of God, like a branch that spins in an eddy; +rather we must try to put our utmost energy in line with the will of +God, hasten with all our might where he calls us, and turn our back as +resolutely as we can when he bids us go no further; as an eager dog +will intently await his master's choice, as to which of two paths he +may desire to take; but the way once indicated, he springs forward, +elate and glad, rejoicing with all his might._ + +_He leads me. He leads me; but He has also given me this wild and +restless heart, these untamed desires: not that I may follow them and +obey them, but that I may patiently discern His will, and do it to the +uttermost._ + + +_Father, be patient with me, for I yield myself to Thee; Thou hast +given me a desirous heart, and I have a thousand times gone astray +after vain shadows, and found no abiding joy. I have been weary many +times, and sad often; and I have been light of heart and very glad; but +my sadness and my weariness, my lightness and my joy have only blessed +me, whenever I have shared them with Thee. I have shut myself up in a +perverse loneliness, I have closed the door of my heart, miserable that +I am, even upon Thee. And Thou hast waited smiling, till I knew that I +had no joy apart from Thee. Only uphold me, only enfold me in Thy +arms, and I shall be safe; for I know that nothing can divide us, +except my own wilful heart; we forget and are forgotten, but Thou alone +rememberest; and if I forget Thee, at least I know that Thou forgettest +not me._ + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Thread of Gold, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREAD OF GOLD *** + +***** This file should be named 30326-8.txt or 30326-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/3/2/30326/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Thread of Gold + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Release Date: October 25, 2009 [EBook #30326] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREAD OF GOLD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE THREAD OF GOLD +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE<BR> +<BR> +AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF QUIET" +</H5> + +<BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="poem" STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +<I>Quem locum nôsti mihi destinatum?</I><BR> +<I>Quo meos gressus regis?</I><BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +LONDON +<BR> +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W +<BR> +1912 +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<PRE STYLE="margin-left: 10%"> +FIRST EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1906 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1906 +SECOND EDITION, . . . . . . . . . December 1906 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1907 +THIRD EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . October 1907 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1907 +FOURTH EDITION (1/- net) . . . . . May 1910 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1910 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1911 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . May 1911 +Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . July 1912 +</PRE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="transnote"> +[Transcriber's note: The source book had no Table of Contents and its +chapters were numbered only, not titled. However, its pages had +running headers which changed with each chapter. Those headers have +been converted to chapter titles, and collected here as the Table of +Contents.] +</P> + +<BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#preface">Preface</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#intro1906">Introduction (1906)</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#intro">Introduction</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">The Red Spring</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">Leucocholy</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">The Flower</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">The Fens</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">The Well and the Chapel</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">The Cuckoo</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">Spring-time</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">The Hare</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">The Diplodocus</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">The Beetle</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">The Farm-yard</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">The Artist</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">Young Love</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">A Strange Gathering</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">The Cripple</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">Oxford</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap18">Authorship</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">Hamlet</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">A Sealed Spirit</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">Leisure</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">The Pleasures of Work</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap23">The Abbey</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap24">Wordsworth</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap25">Dorsetshire</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap26">Portland</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap27">Canterbury Tower</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap28">Prayer</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap29">The Death-bed of Jacob</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap30">By the Sea of Galilee</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap31">The Apocalypse</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap32">The Statue</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap33">The Mystery of Suffering</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap34">Music</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap35">The Faith of Christ</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXVI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap36">The Mystery of Evil</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXVII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap37">Renewal</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXVIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap38">The Secret</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXXIX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap39">The Message</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XL. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap40">After Death</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XLI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap41">The Eternal Will</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XLII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap42">Until the Time</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#conclusion">Conclusion</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="preface"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PREFACE +</H3> + +<P> +I sate to-day, in a pleasant hour, at a place called <I>The Seven +Springs</I>, high up in a green valley of the <I>Cotswold</I> hills. Close +beside the road, seven clear rills ripple out into a small pool, and +the air is musical with the sound of running water. Above me, in a +little thicket, a full-fed thrush sent out one long-drawn cadence after +another, in the joy of his heart, while the lengthening shadows of bush +and tree crept softly over the pale sward of the old pasture-lands, in +the westering light of the calm afternoon. +</P> + +<P> +These springs are the highest head-waters of the <I>Thames</I>, and that +fact is stated in a somewhat stilted Latin hexameter carved on a stone +of the wall beside the pool. The so-called <I>Thames-head</I> is in a +meadow down below <I>Cirencester</I>, where a deliberate engine pumps up, +from a hidden well, thousands of gallons a day of the purest water, +which begins the service of man at once by helping to swell the scanty +flow of the <I>Thames</I> and <I>Severn Canal</I>. But <I>The Seven Springs</I> are +the highest hill-fount of Father <I>Thames</I> for all that, streaming as +they do from the eastward ridge of the great oolite crest of the downs +that overhang <I>Cheltenham</I>. As soon as those rills are big enough to +form a stream, the gathering of waters is known as the <I>Churn</I>, which, +speeding down by <I>Rendcomb</I> with its ancient oaks, and <I>Cerney</I>, in a +green elbow of the valley, join the <I>Thames</I> at <I>Cricklade</I>. +</P> + +<P> +It was of the essence of poetry to feel that the water-drops which thus +babbled out at my feet in the spring sunshine would be moving, how many +days hence, beside the green playing-fields at <I>Eton</I>, scattered, +diminished, travel-worn, polluted; but still, under night and stars, +through the sunny river-reaches, through hamlet and city, by +water-meadow or wharf, the same and no other. And half in fancy, half +in earnest, I bound upon the heedless waters a little message of love +for the fields and trees so dear to me. +</P> + +<P> +What a strange parable it all made! the sparkling drops so soon lost to +sight and thought alike, each with its own definite place in the +limitless mind of God, all numbered, none forgotten; each +drop,—bright, new-born, and fresh as it appeared, racing out so +light-heartedly into the sun,—yet as old, and older, than the rocks +from which it sprang! How often had those water-drops been woven into +cloud-wreaths, through what centuries they had leapt and plunged among +sea-billows, or lain cold and dark in the ocean depths, since the day +when this mass of matter that we call the earth had been cut off and +sent whirling into space, a molten drop from the fierce vortex of its +central sun! And, what is the strangest thought of all, I can sit here +myself, a tiny atom spun from drift of storms, and concourse of frail +dust, and, however dimly and faintly, depict the course of things, +trace, through some subtle faculty, the movement of the mind of God +through the aeons; and yet, though I can send my mind into the past and +the future, though I can see the things that are not and the things +that are, I am denied the least inkling of what it all signifies, what +the slow movement of the ages is all aimed at, and even what the swift +interchange of light and darkness, pain and pleasure, sickness and +health, love and hate, is meant to mean to me—whether there <I>is</I> a +purpose and an end at all, or whether I am just allowed, for my short +space of days, to sit, a bewildered spectator, at some vast and +unintelligible drama. +</P> + +<P> +Yet to-day the soft sunshine, the babbling springs, the valley brimmed +with haze, the bird's sweet song, all seem framed to assure me that God +means us well, urgently, intensely well. "My Gospel," wrote one to me +the other day, whose feet move lightly on the threshold of life, "is +the Gospel of contentment. I do not see the necessity of asking myself +uneasy and metaphysical questions about the Why and the Wherefore and +the What." The necessity? Ah, no! But if one is forced, against +one's will and hope, to go astray in the wilderness out of the way, to +find oneself lonely and hungry, one must needs pluck the bitter berries +of the place for such sustenance as one can. I doubt, indeed, whether +one is able to compel oneself into and out of certain trains of +thought. If one dislikes and dreads introspection, one will doubtless +be happier for finding something definite to do instead. But even so, +the thoughts buzz in one's ears; and then, too, the very wonder about +such things has produced some of the most beautiful things in the +world, such as <I>Hamlet</I>, or Keats' <I>Ode to the Nightingale</I>, things we +could not well do without. Who is to decide which is the nobler, +wiser, righter course? To lose oneself in a deep wonder, with an +anxious hope that one may discern the light; or, on the other hand, to +mingle with the world, to work, to plan, to strive, to talk, to do the +conventional things? We choose (so we call it) the path that suits us +best, though we disguise our motives in many ways, because we hardly +dare to confess to ourselves how frail is our faculty of choice at all. +But, to speak frankly, what we all do is to follow the path where we +feel most at home, most natural; and the longer I live the more I feel +that we do the things we are impelled to do, the works prepared for us +to walk in, as the old collect says. How often, in real life, do we +see any one making a clean sweep of all his conditions and +surroundings, to follow the path of the soul? How often do we see a +man abjure wealth, or resist ambition, or disregard temperament, +<I>unexpectedly</I>? Not once, I think, to speak for myself, in the whole +of my experience. +</P> + +<P> +This, then, is the <I>motif</I> of the following book: that whether we are +conquerors or conquered, triumphant or despairing, prosperous or +pitiful, well or ailing, we are all these things through Him that loves +us. We are here, I believe, to learn rather than to teach, to endure +rather than to act, to be slain rather than to slay; we are tolerated +in our errors and our hardness, in our conceit and our security, by the +great, kindly, smiling Heart that bade us be. We can make things a +little easier for ourselves and each other; but the end is not there: +what we are meant to become is joyful, serene, patient, waiting +momently upon God; we are to become, if we can, content not to be +content, full of tenderness and loving-kindness for all the frail +beings that, like ourselves, suffer and rejoice. But though we are +bound to ameliorate, to improve, to lessen, so far as we can, the +brutal promptings of the animal self that cause the greatest part of +our unhappiness, we have yet to learn to hope that when things seem at +their worst, they are perhaps at their best, for then we are, indeed, +at work upon our hard lesson; and perhaps the day may come when, +looking back upon the strange tangle of our lives, we may see that the +time was most wasted when we were serene, easy, prosperous, and +unthinking, and most profitable when we were anxious, overshadowed, and +suffering. <I>The Thread of Gold</I> is the fibre of limitless hope that +runs through our darkest dreams; and just as the water-drop which I saw +break to-day from the darkness of the hill, and leap downwards in its +channel, will see and feel, in its seaward course, many sweet and +gentle things, as well as many hard and evil matters, so I, in a year +of my pilgrimage, have set down in this book, a frank picture of many +little experiences and thoughts, both good and evil. Sometimes the +water-drop glides in the sun among mossy ledges, or lingers by the edge +of the copse, where the hazels lean together; but sometimes it is +darkened and polluted, so that it would seem that the foul oozings that +infect it could never be purged away. But the turbid elements, the +scum, the mud, the slime—each of which, after all, have their place in +the vast economy of things—float and sink to their destined abode; and +the crystal drop, released and purified, runs joyfully onwards in its +appointed way. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A. C. B. +<BR><BR> +CIRENCESTER, 8<I>th April</I> 1907. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="intro1906"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +INTRODUCTION (1906) +</H3> + +<P> +I am glad to have the opportunity of saying a few words in my own name +about this book, because the original introduction seems to have misled +some of my readers; and as I have had many kind, encouraging, and +sacred messages about the book from very unexpected quarters, I should +like to add a few further words of explanation. +</P> + +<P> +One of the difficulties under which literary art seems to me to labour +is that it feels bound to run in certain channels, to adopt stereotyped +and conventional media of expression. What can be more conventional +than the average play, or the average novel? People in real life do +not behave or talk—at least, this is my experience—in the smallest +degree as they behave or talk in novels or plays; life as a rule has no +plot, and very few dramatic situations. In real life the adventures +are scanty, and for most of us existence moves on in a commonplace and +inconsequent way. Misunderstandings are not cleared up, complexities +are not unravelled. I think it is time that more unconventional forms +of expression should be discovered and used; and at least, we can try +experiments; the experiment that I have here tried, is to present a +sort of <I>liber studiorum</I>, a portfolio of sketches and impressions. +The only coherence they possess is that, at the time when they were +written, I was much preoccupied with the wonder as to whether an +optimistic view of life was justified. The world is a very mysterious +place, and at first sight it presents a sad scene of confusion. The +wrong people often seem to be punished; blessings, such as those heaped +upon the head of the patriarch Job, do not seem to be accumulated upon +the righteous. In fact, the old epigram that prosperity is the +blessing of the Old Testament, adversity the blessing of the New, seems +frequently justified. But, after all, the only soul-history that one +knows well enough to say whether or not the experience of life is +adapted to the qualities of the particular soul, is one's own history; +and, speaking for myself, I can but say, looking back upon my life, +that it does seem to have been regulated hitherto by a very tender and +intimate kind of guidance, though I did not always see how delicate the +adaptation of it was at the time. The idea of this book, that there is +a certain golden thread of hope and love interwoven with all our lives, +running consistently through the coarsest and darkest fabric, was what +I set out to illustrate rather than to prove. Everything that bore +upon this fact, while the book was being written, I tried to express as +simply and as lucidly as I could. The people who have thought the book +formless or lacking in structure, are perfectly right. It is not, and +it did not set out to be, a finished picture, with a due subordination +of groups and backgrounds. To me personally, though a finished picture +is a beautiful and an admirable thing, the loose, unconsidered sketches +and studies of an artist have a special charm. Of an artist, I say; +have I then a claim to be considered an artist? I cannot answer that +question, but I will go further and say that the sketches of the +humblest amateur have an interest for me, which their finished pictures +often lack. One sees a revelation of personality, one sees what sort +of things strike an individual mind as beautiful, one sees the method +with which it deals with artistic difficulties. The most interesting +things of the kind I have ever seen are the portfolios of sketches by +Leonardo da Vinci in the Royal library at Windsor; outlines of heads, +features, flowers, backgrounds, strange engines of war, wings of +birds—the <I>débris</I>, almost, of the studio—are there piled up in +confusion. And in a lesser degree the same is true of all such +collections, though perhaps this shows that one is more interested in +personality than in artistic performance. +</P> + +<P> +A good many people, too, have a gift for presenting a simple impression +of a beautiful thing, who have not the patience or the power of +combination necessary for working out a finished design; and surely it +is foolish to let the convention of art overrule a man's capacities? +To allow that, to acquiesce in silence, to say that because one cannot +express a thing in a certain way, one will not express it at all, seems +to me to be making an instinct into a moral sanction. One must express +whatever one desires to express, as clearly and as beautifully as +possible, and one must take one's chance as to whether it is a work of +art. To hold one's tongue, if anything appears to be worth saying, +because one does not know the exact code of the professionals, is as +foolish as if a man born in a certain class of society were to say that +he would never go to any social gathering except those of his precise +social equals, because he was afraid of making mistakes of etiquette. +Etiquette is not a matter of principle; it was not one of the things of +which Moses saw the pattern in the Mount! The only rule is not to be +pretentious or assuming, not to claim that one's efforts are +necessarily worthy of admiration and attention. +</P> + +<P> +There is a better reason too. Orthodoxy in art is merely compliance +with the instinctive methods of great artists, and no one ever +succeeded in art who did not make a method of his own. Originality is +like a fountain-head of fresh water; orthodoxy is too often only the +unimpeachable fluid of the water company. The best hope for the art +and literature of a nation is that men should try to represent and +express things that they have thought beautiful in an individual way. +They do not always succeed, it is true; sometimes they fail for lack of +force, sometimes for lack of a sympathetic audience. I have found, in +the case of this book, a good deal of sincere sympathy; and where it +fails, it fails through lack of force to express thoughts that I have +felt with a profound intensity. I have had critics who have frankly +disliked the book, and I do not in the least quarrel with them for +expressing their opinion; but one does not write solely for the +critics; and on the other hand, I can humbly and gratefully say that I +have received many messages, of pleasure in, and even gratitude for, +the book which leave me in no sort of doubt that it was worth writing; +though I wish with all my heart that it had been worthier of its +motive, and had been better able to communicate the delight of my +visions and dreams. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON. +<BR><BR> +MAGDALENE COLLEGE,<BR> +CAMBRIDGE, 24<I>th November</I> 1906.<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="intro"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +THE THREAD OF GOLD +</H2> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +INTRODUCTION +</H3> + +<P> +I have for a great part of my life desired, perhaps more than I have +desired anything else, to make a beautiful book; and I have tried, +perhaps too hard and too often, to do this, without ever quite +succeeding; by that I mean that my little books, when finished, were +not worthy to be compared with the hope that I had had of them. I +think now that I tried to do too many things in my books, to amuse, to +interest, to please persons who might read them; and I fear, too, that +in the back of my mind there lay a thought, like a snake in its +hole—the desire to show others how fine I could be. I tried honestly +not to let this thought rule me; whenever it put its head out, I drove +it back; but of course I ought to have waited till it came out, and +then killed it, if I had only known how to do that; but I suppose I had +a secret tenderness for the little creature as being indeed a part of +myself. +</P> + +<P> +But now I have hit upon a plan which I hope may succeed. I do not +intend to try to be interesting and amusing, or even fine. I mean to +put into my book only the things that appear to me deep and strange and +beautiful; and I can happily say that things seem to me to be more and +more beautiful every day. As when a man goes on a journey, and sees, +in far-off lands, things that please him, things curious and rare, and +buys them, not for himself or for his own delight, but for the delight +of one that sits at home, whom he loves and thinks of, and wishes every +day that he could see;—well, I will try to be like that. I will keep +the thought of those whom I love best in my mind—and God has been very +good in sending me many, both old and young, whom I love—and I will +try to put down in the best words that I can find the things that +delight me, not for my sake but for theirs. For one of the strangest +things of all about beauty is, that it is often more clearly perceived +when expressed by another, than when we see it for ourselves. The only +difficulty that I see ahead is that many of the things that I love best +and that give me the best joy, are things that cannot be told, cannot +be translated into words: deep and gracious mysteries, rays of light, +delicate sounds. +</P> + +<P> +But I will keep out of my book all the things, so far as I can, which +bring me mere trouble and heaviness; cares and anxieties and bodily +pains and dreariness and unkind thoughts and anger, and all +uncleanness. I cannot tell why our life should be so sadly bound up +with these matters; the only comfort is that even out of this dark and +heavy soil beautiful flowers sometimes spring. For instance, the +pressure of a care, an anxiety, a bodily pain, has sometimes brought +with it a perception which I have lacked when I have been bold and +joyful and robust. A fit of anger too, by clearing away little clouds +of mistrust and suspicion, has more than once given me a friendship +that endures and blesses me. +</P> + +<P> +But beauty, innocent beauty of thought, of sound, of sight, seems to me +to be perhaps the most precious thing in the world, and to hold within +it a hope which stretches away even beyond the grave. Out of silence +and nothingness we arise; we have our short space of sight and hearing; +and then into the silence we depart. But in that interval we are +surrounded by much joy. Sometimes the path is hard and lonely, and we +stumble in miry ways; but sometimes our way is through fields and +thickets, and the valley is full of sunset light. If we could be more +calm and quiet, less anxious about the impression we produce, more +quick to welcome what is glad and sweet, more simple, more contented, +what a gain would be there! I wonder more and more every day that I +live that we do not value better the thought of these calmer things, +because the least effort to reach them seems to pull down about us a +whole cluster of wholesome fruits, grapes of Eschol, apples of +Paradise. We are kept back, it seems to me, by a kind of silly fear of +ridicule, from speaking more sincerely and instantly of these delights. +</P> + +<P> +I read the <I>Life</I> of a great artist the other day who received a title +of honour from the State. I do not think he cared much for the title +itself, but he did care very much for the generous praise of his +friends that the little piece of honour called forth. I will not quote +his exact words, but he said in effect that he wondered why friends +should think it necessary to wait for such an occasion to indulge in +the noble pleasure of praising, and why they should not rather have a +day in the year when they could dare to write to the friends whom they +admired and loved, and praise them for being what they were. Of course +if such a custom were to become general, it would be clumsily spoilt by +foolish persons, as all things are spoilt which become conventional. +But the fact remains that the sweet pleasure of praising, of +encouraging, of admiring and telling our admiration, is one that we +English people are sparing of, to our own loss and hurt. It is just as +false to refrain from saying a generous thing for fear of being thought +insincere and what is horribly called gushing, as it is to say a hard +thing for the sake of being thought straightforward. If a hard thing +must be said, let us say it with pain and tenderness, but faithfully. +And if a pleasant thing can be said, let us say it with joy, and with +no less faithfulness. +</P> + +<P> +Now I must return to my earlier purpose, and say that I mean that this +little book shall go about with me, and that I will write in it only +strange and beautiful things. I have many businesses in the world, and +take delight in many of them; but we cannot always be busy. So when I +have seen or heard something that gives me joy, whether it be a new +place, or, what is better still, an old familiar place transfigured by +some happy accident of sun or moon into a mystery; or if I have been +told of a generous and beautiful deed, or heard even a sad story that +has some seed of hope within it; or if I have met a gracious and kindly +person; or if I have read a noble book, or seen a rare picture or a +curious flower; or if I have heard a delightful music; or if I have +been visited by one of those joyful and tender thoughts that set my +feet the right way, I will try to put it down, God prospering me. For +thus I think that I shall be truly interpreting his loving care for the +little souls of men. And I call my book <I>The Thread of Gold</I>, because +this beauty of which I have spoken seems to me a thing which runs like +a fine and precious clue through the dark and sunless labyrinths of the +world. +</P> + +<P> +And, lastly, I pray God with all my heart, that he may, in this matter, +let me help and not hinder his will. I often cannot divine what his +will is, but I have seen and heard enough to be sure that it is high +and holy, even when it seems to me hard to discern, and harder still to +follow. Nothing shall here be set down that does not seem to me to be +perfectly pure and honest; nothing that is not wise and true. It may +be a vain hope that I nourish, but I think that God has put it into my +heart to write this book, and I hope that he will allow me to +persevere. And yet indeed I know that I am not fit for so holy a task, +but perhaps he will give me fitness, and cleanse my tongue with a coal +from his altar fire. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Red Spring +</H4> + +<P> +Very deep in this enchanted land of green hills in which I live, lies a +still and quiet valley. No road runs along it; but a stream with many +curves and loops, deep-set in hazels and alders, moves brimming down. +There is no house to be seen; nothing but pastures and little woods +which clothe the hill-sides on either hand. In one of these fields, +not far from the stream, lies a secluded spot that I visit duly from +time to time. It is hard enough to find the place; and I have +sometimes directed strangers to it, who have returned without +discovering it. Some twenty yards away from the stream, with a ring of +low alders growing round it, there is a pool; not like any other pool I +know. The basin in which it lies is roughly circular, some ten feet +across. I suppose it is four or five feet deep. From the centre of +the pool rises an even gush of very pure water, with a certain hue of +green, like a faintly-tinted gem. The water in its flow makes a +perpetual dimpling on the surface; I have never known it to fail even +in the longest droughts; and in sharp frosty days there hangs a little +smoke above it, for the water is of a noticeable warmth. +</P> + +<P> +This spring is strongly impregnated with iron, so strongly that it has +a sharp and medical taste; from what secret bed of metal it comes I do +not know, but it must be a bed of great extent, for, though the spring +runs thus, day by day and year by year, feeding its waters with the +bitter mineral over which it passes, it never loses its tinge; and the +oldest tradition of the place is that it was even so centuries ago. +</P> + +<P> +All the rest of the pool is full of strange billowy cloudlike growths, +like cotton-wool or clotted honey, all reddened with the iron of the +spring; for it rusts on thus coming to the air. But the orifice you +can always see, and that is of a dark blueness; out of which the pure +green water rises among the vaporous and filmy folds, runs away briskly +out of the pool in a little channel among alders, all stained with the +same orange tints, and falls into the greater stream at a loop, tinging +its waters for a mile. +</P> + +<P> +It is said to have strange health-giving qualities; and the water is +drunk beneath the moon by old country folk for wasting and weakening +complaints. Its strength and potency have no enmity to animal life, +for the water-voles burrow in the banks and plunge with a splash in the +stream; but it seems that no vegetable thing can grow within it, for +the pool and channel are always free of weeds. +</P> + +<P> +I like to stand upon the bank and watch the green water rise and dimple +to the top of the pool, and to hear it bickering away in its rusty +channel. But the beauty of the place is not a simple beauty; there is +something strange and almost fierce about the red-stained water-course; +something uncanny and terrifying about the filmy orange clouds that +stir and sway in the pool; and there sleeps, too, round the edges of +the basin a bright and viscous scum, with a certain ugly radiance, shot +with colours that are almost too sharp and fervid for nature. It seems +as though some diligent alchemy was at work, pouring out from moment to +moment this strangely tempered potion. In summer it is more bearable +to look upon, when the grass is bright and soft, when the tapestry of +leaves and climbing plants is woven over the skirts of the thicket, +when the trees are in joyful leaf. But in the winter, when all tints +are low and spare, when the pastures are yellowed with age, and the +hillside wrinkled with cold, when the alder-rods stand up stiff and +black, and the leafless tangled boughs are smooth like wire; then the +pool has a certain horror, as it pours out its rich juice, all overhung +with thin steam. +</P> + +<P> +But I doubt not that I read into it some thoughts of my own; for it was +on such a day of winter, when the sky was full of inky clouds, and the +wood murmured like a falling sea in the buffeting wind, that I made a +grave and sad decision beside the red pool, that has since tinged my +life, as the orange waters tinge the pale stream into which they fall. +The shadow of that severe resolve still broods about the place for me. +How often since in thought have I threaded the meadows, and looked with +the inward eye upon the green water rising, rising, and the crowded +orange fleeces of the pool! But stern though the resolve was, it was +not an unhappy one; and it has brought into my life a firm and tonic +quality, which seems to me to hold within it something of the +astringent savour of the medicated waters, and perhaps something of +their health-giving powers as well. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House +</H4> + +<P> +I was making a vague pilgrimage to-day in a distant and unfamiliar part +of the country, a region that few people ever visit, and saw two things +that moved me strangely. I left the high-road to explore a hamlet that +lay down in a broad valley to the left; and again diverged from the +beaten track to survey an old grange that lay at a little distance +among the fields. Turning a corner by some cottages, I saw a small +ancient chapel, of brown weathered stone, covered with orange lichen, +the roof of rough stone tiles. In the narrow graveyard round it, the +grass grew long and rank; the gateway was choked by briars. I could +see that the windows of the tiny building were broken. I have never +before in England seen a derelict church, and I clambered over the wall +to examine it more closely. It stood very beautifully; from the low +wall of the graveyard, on the further side, you could look over a wide +extent of rich water-meadows, fed by full streams; there was much +ranunculus in flower on the edges of the water-courses, and a few +cattle moved leisurely about with a peaceful air. Far over the +meadows, out of a small grove of trees, a manor-house held up its +enquiring chimneys. The door of the chapel was open, and I have seldom +seen a more pitiful sight than it revealed. The roof within was of a +plain and beautiful design, with carved bosses, and beams of some dark +wood. The chapel was fitted with oak Jacobean woodwork, pews, a +reading-desk, and a little screen. At the west was a tiny balustraded +gallery. But the whole was a scene of wretched confusion. The +woodwork was mouldering, the red cloth of the pulpit hung raggedly +down, the leaves of the great prayer-book fluttered about the pavement, +in the draught from the door. The whole place was gnawed by rats and +shockingly befouled by birds; there was a litter of rotting nests upon +the altar itself. Yet in the walls were old memorial tablets, and the +passage of the nave was paved with lettered graves. It brought back to +me the beautiful lines— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"En ara, ramis ilicis obsita,<BR> +Quae sacra Chryses nomina fert deae,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Neglecta; jamdudum sepultus</SPAN><BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Aedituus jacet et sacerdos."</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Outside the sun fell peacefully on the mellow walls, and the starlings +twittered in the roof; but inside the deserted shrine there was a sense +of broken trust, of old memories despised, of the altar of God shamed +and dishonoured. It was a pious design to build the little chapel +there for the secluded hamlet; and loving thought and care had gone to +making the place seemly and beautiful. The very stone of the wall, and +the beam of the roof cried out against the hard and untender usage that +had laid the sanctuary low. Here children had been baptized, tender +marriage vows plighted, and the dead laid to rest; and this was the +end. I turned away with a sense of deep sadness; the very sunshine +seemed blurred with a shadow of dreariness and shame. +</P> + +<P> +Then I made my way, by a stony road, towards the manor-house; and +presently could see its gables at the end of a pleasant avenue of +limes; but no track led thither. The gate was wired up, and the drive +overgrown with grass. Soon, however, I found a farm-road which led up +to the house from the village. On the left of the manor lay prosperous +barns and byres, full of sleek pigs and busy crested fowls. The teams +came clanking home across the water-meadows. The house itself became +more and more beautiful as I approached. It was surrounded by a moat, +and here, close at hand, stood another ancient chapel, in seemly +repair. All round the house grew dense thickets of sprawling laurels, +which rose in luxuriance from the edge of the water. Then I crossed a +little bridge with a broken parapet; and in front of me stood the house +itself. I have seldom seen a more perfectly proportioned or +exquisitely coloured building. There were three gables in the front, +the central one holding a beautiful oriel window, with a fine oak door +below. The whole was built of a pale red brick, covered with a grey +lichen that cast a shimmering light over the front. Tall chimneys of +solid grace rose from a stone-shingled roof. The coigns, parapets and +mullions were all of a delicately-tinted orange stone. To the right +lay a big walled garden, full of flowers growing with careless +richness, the whole bounded by the moat, and looking out across the +broad green water-meadows, beyond which the low hills rose softly in +gentle curves and dingles. +</P> + +<P> +A whole company of amiable dogs, spaniels and terriers, came out with +an effusive welcome; a big black yard-dog, after a loud protesting +bark, joined in the civilities. And there I sat down in the warm sun, +to drink in the beauty of the scene, while the moor-hens cried +plaintively in the moat, and the dogs disposed themselves at my feet. +The man who designed this old place must have had a wonderful sense of +the beauty of proportion, the charm of austere simplicity. Generation +after generation must have loved the gentle dignified house, with its +narrow casements, its high rooms. Though the name of the house, though +the tale of its dwellers was unknown to me, I felt the appeal of the +old associations that must have centred about it. The whole air, that +quiet afternoon, seemed full of the calling of forgotten voices, and +dead faces looked out from the closed lattices. So near to my heart +came the spirit of the ancient house, that, as I mused, I felt as +though even I myself had made a part of its past, and as though I were +returning from battling with the far-off world to the home of +childhood. The house seemed to regard me with a mournful and tender +gaze, as though it knew that I loved it, and would fain utter its +secrets in a friendly ear. Is it strange that a thing of man's +construction should have so wistful yet so direct a message for the +spirit? Well, I hardly know what it was that it spoke of; but I felt +the care and love that had gone to the making of it, and the dignity +that it had won from rain and sun and the kindly hand of Nature; it +spoke of hope and brightness, of youth and joy; and told me, too, that +all things were passing away, that even the house itself, though it +could outlive a few restless generations, was indeed <I>debita morti</I>, +and bowed itself to its fall. +</P> + +<P> +And then I too, like a bird of passage that has alighted for a moment +in some sheltered garden-ground, must needs go on my way. But the old +house had spoken with me, had left its mark upon my spirit. And I know +that in weary hours, far hence, I shall remember how it stood, peering +out of its tangled groves, gazing at the sunrise and the sunset over +the green flats, waiting for what may be, and dreaming of the days that +are no more. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Leucocholy +</H4> + +<P> +I have had to taste, during the last few days, I know not why, of the +cup of what Gray called Leucocholy; it is not Melancholy, only the pale +shadow of it. That dark giant is, doubtless, stalking somewhere in the +background, and the shadow cast by his misshapen head passes over my +little garden ground. +</P> + +<P> +I do not readily submit to this mood, and I would wish it away. I +would rather feel joyful and free from blame; but Gray called it a good +easy state, and it certainly has its compensations. It does not, like +Melancholy, lay a dark hand on duties and pleasures alike; it is +possible to work, to read, to talk, to laugh when it is by. But it +sends flowing through the mind a gentle current of sad and weary images +and thoughts, which still have a beauty of their own; it tinges one's +life with a sober greyness of hue; it heightens perception, though it +prevents enjoyment. In such a mood one can sit silent a long time, +with one's eyes cast upon the grass; one sees the delicate forms of the +tender things that spring softly out of the dark ground; one hears with +a poignant delight the clear notes of birds; something of the spring +languors move within the soul. There is a sense, too, of reaching out +to light and joy, a stirring of the vague desires of the heart, a +tender hope, an upward-climbing faith; the heart sighs for a peace that +it cannot attain. +</P> + +<P> +To-day I walked slowly and pensively by little woods and pastures, +taking delight in all the quiet life I saw, the bush pricked with +points of green, the boughs thickened with small reddening buds, the +slow stream moving through the pasture; all the tints faint, airy, and +delicate; the life of the world seemed to hang suspended, waiting for +the forward leap. In a little village I stood awhile to watch the +gables of an ancient house, the wing of a ruined grange, peer solemnly +over the mellow brick wall that guarded a close of orchard trees. A +little way behind, the blunt pinnacles of the old church-tower stood +up, blue and dim, over the branching elms; beyond all ran the long, +pure line of the rising wold. Everything seemed so still, so serene, +as a long, pale ray of the falling sun, which laboured among flying +clouds, touched the westward gables with gold—and mine the only +troubled, unquiet spirit. Hard by there was an old man tottering about +in a little garden, fumbling with some plants, like Laertes on the +upland farm. His worn face, his ragged beard, his pitifully-patched +and creased garments made him a very type of an ineffectual sadness. +Perhaps his thoughts ran as sadly as my own, but I do not think it was +so, because the minds of many country-people, and of almost all the +old, of whatever degree, seem to me free from what is the curse of +delicately-trained and highly-strung temperaments—namely, the +temptation to be always reverting to the past, or forecasting the +future. Simple people and aged people put that aside, and live quite +serenely in the moment; and that is what I believe we ought all to +attempt, for most moments are bearable, if one only does not import +into them the weight of the future and the regret of the past. To +seize the moment with all its conditions, to press the quality out of +it, that is the best victory. But, alas! we are so made that though we +may know that a course is the wise, the happy, the true course, we +cannot always pursue it. I remember a story of a public man who bore +his responsibilities very hardly, worried and agonised over them, +saying to Mr Gladstone, who was at that time in the very thick of a +fierce political crisis: "But don't you find you lie awake at night, +thinking how you ought to act, and how you ought to have acted?" Mr +Gladstone turned his great, flashing eyes upon his interlocutor, and +said, with a look of wonder: "No, I don't; where would be the use of +that?" And again I remember that old Canon Beadon—who lived, I think, +to his 104th year—said to a friend that the secret of long life in his +own case was that he had never thought of anything unpleasant after ten +o'clock at night. Of course, if you have a series of compartments in +your brain, and at ten o'clock can turn the key quietly upon the room +that holds the skeletons and nightmares, you are a very fortunate man. +</P> + +<P> +But still, we can all of us do something. If one has the courage and +good sense, when in a melancholy mood, to engage in some piece of +practical work, it is wonderful how one can distract the great beast +that, left to himself, crops and munches the tender herbage of the +spirit. For myself I have generally a certain number of dull tasks to +perform, not in themselves interesting, and out of which little +pleasure can be extracted, except the pleasure which always results +from finishing a piece of necessary work. When I am wise, I seize upon +a day in which I am overhung with a shadow of sadness to clear off work +of this kind. It is in itself a distraction, and then one has the +pleasure both of having fought the mood and also of having left the +field clear for the mind, when it has recovered its tone, to settle +down firmly and joyfully to more congenial labours. +</P> + +<P> +To-day, little by little, the cloudy mood drew off and left me smiling. +The love of the peaceful and patient earth came to comfort me. How +pure and free were the long lines of ploughland, the broad back of the +gently-swelling down! How clear and delicate were the February tints, +the aged grass, the leafless trees! What a sense of coolness and +repose! I stopped a long time upon a rustic-timbered bridge to look at +a little stream that ran beneath the road, winding down through a rough +pasture-field, with many thorn-thickets. The water, lapsing slowly +through withered flags, had the pure, gem-like quality of the winter +stream; in summer it will become dim and turbid with infusorial life, +but now it is like a pale jewel. How strange, I thought, to think of +this liquid gaseous juice, which we call water, trickling in the cracks +of the earth! And just as the fish that live in it think of it as +their world, and have little cognisance of what happens in the acid, +unsubstantial air above, except the occasional terror of the dim, +looming forms which come past, making the soft banks quiver and stir, +so it may be with us; there may be a great mysterious world outside of +us, of which we sometimes see the dark manifestations, and yet of the +conditions of which we are wholly unaware. +</P> + +<P> +And now it grew dark; the horizon began to redden and smoulder; the +stream gleamed like a wan thread among the distant fields. It was time +to hurry home, to dip in the busy tide of life again. Where was my sad +mood gone? The clear air seemed to have blown through my mind, hands +had been waved to me from leafless woods, quiet voices of field and +stream had whispered me their secrets; "We would tell, if we could," +they seemed to say. And I, listening, had learnt patience, too—for +awhile. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Flower +</H4> + +<P> +I have made friends with a new flower. If it had a simple and +wholesome English name, I would like to know it, though I do not care +to know what ugly and clumsy title the botany books may give it; but it +lives in my mind, a perfect and complete memory of brightness and +beauty, and, as I have said, a friend. +</P> + +<P> +It was in a steep sea-cove that I saw it. Round a small circular basin +of blue sea ran up gigantic cliffs, grey limestone bluffs; here and +there, where they were precipitous, slanted the monstrous wavy lines of +distorted strata, thrust up, God alone knows how many ages ago, by some +sharp and horrible shiver of the boiling earth. Little waves broke on +the pebbly beach at our feet, and all the air was full of pleasant +sharp briny savours. A few boats were drawn up on the shingle; +lobster-pots, nets, strings of cork, spars, oars, lay in pleasant +confusion, by the sandy road that led up to the tiny hamlet above. We +had travelled far that day and were comfortably weary; we found a +sloping ledge of turf upon which we sat, and presently became aware +that on the little space of grass between us and the cliff must once +have stood a cottage and a cottage garden. There was a broken wall +behind us, and the little platform still held some garden flowers +sprawling wildly, a stunted fruitbush or two, a knotted apple-tree. +</P> + +<P> +My own flower, or the bushes on which it grew, had once, I think, +formed part of the cottage hedge; but it had found a wider place to its +liking, for it ran riot everywhere; it scaled the cliff, where, too, +the golden wall-flowers of the garden had gained a footing; it fringed +the sand-patches beyond us, it rooted itself firmly in the shingle. +The plant had rough light-brown branches, which were now all starred +with the greenest tufts imaginable; but the flower itself! On many of +the bushes it was not yet fully out, and showed only in an abundance of +small lilac balls, carefully folded; but just below me a cluster had +found the sun and the air too sweet to resist, and had opened to the +light. The flower was of a delicate veined purple, a five-pointed +star, with a soft golden heart. All the open blossoms stared at me +with a tranquil gaze, knowing I would not hurt them. +</P> + +<P> +Below, two fishermen rowed a boat quietly out to sea, the sharp +creaking of the rowlocks coming lazily to our ears in the pauses of the +wind. The little waves fell with a soft thud, followed by the crisp +echo of the surf, feeling all round the shingly cove. The whole place, +in that fresh spring day, was unutterably peaceful and content. +</P> + +<P> +And I too forgot all my busy schemes and hopes and aims, the tiny part +I play in the world, with so much petty energy, such anxious +responsibility. My purple-starred flower approved of my acquiescence, +smiling trustfully upon me. "Here," it seemed to say, "I bloom and +brighten, spring after spring. No one regards me, no one cares for me; +no one praises my beauty; no one sorrows when these leaves grow pale, +when I fall from my stem, when my dry stalks whisper together in the +winter wind. But to you, because you have seen and loved me, I whisper +my secret." And then the flower told me something that I cannot write +even if I would, because it is in the language unspeakable, of which St +Paul wrote that such words are not lawful for a man to utter; but they +are heard in the third heaven of God. +</P> + +<P> +Then I felt that if I could but remember what the flower said I should +never grieve or strive or be sorrowful any more; but, as the wise +Psalmist said, be content to tarry the Lord's leisure. Yet, even when +I thought that I had the words by heart, they ceased like a sweet music +that comes to an end, and which the mind cannot recover. +</P> + +<P> +I saw many other things that day, things beautiful and wonderful, no +doubt; but they had no voice for me, like the purple flower; or if they +had, the sea wind drowned them in the utterance, for their voices were +of the earth; but the flower's voice came, as I have said, from the +innermost heaven. +</P> + +<P> +I like well to go on pilgrimage; and in spite of weariness and rainy +weather, and the stupid chatter of the men and women who congregate +like fowls in inn-parlours, I pile a little treasure of sights and +sounds in my guarded heart, memories of old buildings, spring woods, +secluded valleys. All these are things seen, impressions registered +and gratefully recorded. But my flower is somehow different from all +these; and I shall never again hear the name of the place mentioned, or +even see a map of that grey coast, without a quiet thrill of gladness +at the thought that there, spring by spring, blooms my little friend, +whose heart I read, who told me its secret; who will wait for me to +return, and indeed will be faithfully and eternally mine, whether I +return or no. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Fens +</H4> + +<P> +I have lately become convinced—and I do not say it either +sophistically, to plead a bad cause with dexterity, or resignedly, to +make the best out of a poor business; but with a true and hearty +conviction—that the most beautiful country in England is the flat +fenland. I do not here mean moderately flat country, low sweeps of +land, like the heaving of a dying groundswell; that has a miniature +beauty, a stippled delicacy of its own, but it is not a fine quality of +charm. The country that I would praise is the rigidly and +mathematically flat country of Eastern England, lying but a few feet +above the sea, plains which were once the bottoms of huge and ancient +swamps. +</P> + +<P> +In the first place, such country gives a wonderful sense of expanse and +space; from an eminence of a few feet you can see what in other parts +of England you have to climb a considerable hill to discern. I love to +feast my eyes on the interminable rich level plain, with its black and +crumbling soil; the long simple lines of dykes and water-courses carry +the eye peacefully out to a great distance; then, too, by having all +the landscape compressed into so narrow a space, into a belt of what +is, to the eye, only a few inches in depth, you get an incomparable +richness of colour. The solitary distant clumps of trees surrounding a +lonely farm gain a deep intensity of tint from the vast green level all +about them; and the line of the low far-off wolds, that close the view +many miles away, is of a peculiar delicacy and softness; the eye, too, +is provided with a foreground of which the elements are of the +simplest; a reedy pool enclosed by willows, the clustered buildings of +a farmstead; a grey church-tower peering out over churchyard elms; and +thus, instead of being checked by near objects, and hemmed in by the +limited landscape, the eye travels out across the plain with a sense of +freedom and grateful repose. Then, too, there is the huge perspective +of the sky; nowhere else is it possible to see, so widely, the slow +march of clouds from horizon to horizon; it all gives a sense of +largeness and tranquillity such as you receive upon the sea, with the +additional advantage of having the solid earth beneath you, green and +fertile, instead of the steely waste of waters. +</P> + +<P> +A day or two ago I found myself beside the lower waters of the Cam, in +flat pastures, full of ancient thorn-trees just bursting into bloom. I +gained the towing-path, which led me out gradually into the heart of +the fen; the river ran, or rather moved, a sapphire streak, between its +high green flood-banks; the wide spaces between the embanked path and +the stream were full of juicy herbage, great tracts of white +cow-parsley, with here and there a reed-bed. I stood long to listen to +the sharp song of the reed-warbler, slipping from spray to spray of a +willow-patch. Far to the north the great tower of Ely rose blue and +dim above the low lines of trees; in the centre of the pastures lay the +long brown line of the sedge-beds of Wicken Mere, almost the only +untouched tract of fenland; slow herds of cattle grazed, more and more +minute, in the unhedged pasture-land, and the solitary figure of a +labourer moving homeward on the top of the green dyke, seemed in the +long afternoon to draw no nearer. Here and there were the floodgates +of a lode, with the clear water slowly spilling itself over the rim of +the sluice, full of floating weed. There was something infinitely +reposeful in the solitude, the width of the landscape; there was no +sense of crowded life, no busy figures, intent on their small aims, to +cross one's path, no conflict, no strife, no bitterness, no insistent +voice; yet there was no sense of desolation, but rather the spectacle +of glad and simple lives of plants and birds in the free air, their +wildness tamed by the far-off and controlling hand of man, the calm +earth patiently serving his ends. I seemed to have passed out of +modern life into a quieter and older world, before men congregated into +cities, but lived the quiet and sequestered life of the country side; +and little by little there stole into my heart something of a dreamful +tranquillity, the calm of the slow brimming stream, the leisurely +herds, the growing grass. All seemed to be moving together, neither +lingering nor making haste, to some far-off end within the quiet mind +of God. Everything seemed to be waiting, musing, living the untroubled +life of nature, with no thought of death or care or sorrow. I passed a +trench of still water that ran as far as the eye could follow it across +the flat; it was full from end to end of the beautiful water violet, +the pale lilac flowers, with their faint ethereal scent, clustered on +the head of a cool emerald spike, with the rich foliage of the plant, +like fine green hair, filling the water. The rising of these beautiful +forms, by some secret consent, in their appointed place and time, out +of the fresh clear water, brought me a wistful sense of peace and +order, a desire for I hardly know what—a poised stateliness of life, a +tender beauty—if I could but win it for myself! +</P> + +<P> +On and on, hour by hour, that still bright afternoon, I made my slow +way over the fen; insensibly and softly the far-off villages fell +behind; and yet I seemed to draw no nearer to the hills of the horizon. +Now and then I passed a lonely grange; once or twice I came near to a +tall shuttered engine-house of pale brick, and heard the slow beat of +the pumps within, like the pulse of a hidden heart, which drew the +marsh-water from a hundred runlets, and poured it slowly seawards. +Field after field slid past me, some golden from end to end with +buttercups, some waving with young wheat, till at last I reached a +solitary inn beside a ferry, with the quaint title: "<I>No hurry! five +miles from anywhere.</I>" And here I met with a grave and kindly welcome, +such as warms the heart of one who goes on pilgrimage: as though I was +certainly expected, and as if the lord of the place had given charge +concerning me. It would indeed hardly have surprised me if I had been +had into a room, and shown strange symbols of good and evil; or if I +had been given a roll and a bottle, and a note of the way. But no such +presents were made to me, and it was not until after I had left the +little house, and had been ferried in an old blackened boat across the +stream, that I found that I had the gifts in my bosom all the while. +</P> + +<P> +The roll was the fair sight that I had seen, in this world where it is +so sweet to live. My cordial was the peace within my spirit. And as +for the way, it seemed plain enough that day, easy to discern and +follow; and the heavenly city itself as near and visible as the blue +towers that rose so solemnly upon the green horizon. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Well and the Chapel +</H4> + +<P> +It is not often that one is fortunate enough to see two perfectly +beautiful things in one day. But such was my fortune in the late +summer, on a day that was in itself perfect enough to show what +September can do, if he only has a mind to plan hours of delight for +man. The distance was very blue and marvellously clear. The trees had +the bronzed look of the summer's end, with deep azure shadows. The +cattle moved slowly about the fields, and there was harvesting going +on, so that the villages we passed seemed almost deserted. I will not +say whence we started or where we went, and I shall mention no names at +all, except one, which is of the nature of a symbol or incantation; for +I do not desire that others should go where I went, unless I could be +sure that they went with the same peace in their hearts that I bore +with me that day. +</P> + +<P> +One of the places we visited on purpose; the other we saw by accident. +On the small map we carried was marked, at the corner of a little wood +that seemed to have no way to it, a well with the name of a saint, of +whom I never heard, though I doubt not she is written in the book of +God. +</P> + +<P> +We reached the nearest point to the well upon the road, and we struck +into the fields; that was a sweet place where we found ourselves! In +ancient days it had been a marsh, I think. For great ditches ran +everywhere, choked with loose-strife and water-dock, and the ground +quaked as we walked, a pleasant springy black mould, the dust of +endless centuries of the rich water plants. +</P> + +<P> +To the left, the ground ran up sharply in a minute bluff, with the soft +outline of underlying chalk, covered with small thorn-thickets; and it +was all encircled with small, close woods, where we heard the pheasants +scamper. We found an old, slow, bovine man, with a cheerful face, who +readily threw aside some fumbling work he was doing, and guided us; and +we should never have found the spot without him. He led us to a +stream, crossed by a single plank with a handrail, on which some +children had put a trap, baited with nuts for the poor squirrels, that +love to run chattering across the rail from wood to wood. Then we +entered a little covert; it was very pleasant in there, all dark and +green and still; and here all at once we came to the place; in the +covert were half a dozen little steep pits, each a few yards across, +dug out of the chalk. From each of the pits, which lay side by side, a +channel ran down to the stream, and in each channel flowed a small +bickering rivulet of infinite clearness. The pits themselves were a +few feet deep; at the bottom of each was a shallow pool, choked with +leaves; and here lay the rare beauty of the place. The water rose in +each pit out of secret ways, but in no place that we could see. The +first pit was still when we looked upon it; then suddenly the water +rose in a tiny eddy, in one corner, among the leaves, sending a little +ripple glancing across the pool. It was as though something, branch or +insect, had fallen from above, the water leapt so suddenly. Then it +rose again in another place, then in another; then five or six little +freshets rose all at once, the rings crossing and recrossing. And it +was the same in all the pits, which we visited one by one; we descended +and drank, and found the water as cold as ice, and not less pure; while +the old man babbled on about the waste of so much fine water, and of +its virtues for weak eyes: "Ain't it cold, now? Ain't it, then? My +God, ain't it?"—he was a man with a rich store of simple +asseverations,—"And ain't it good for weak eyes neither! You must +just come to the place the first thing in the morning, and wash your +eyes in the water, and ain't it strengthening then!" So he chirped on, +saying everything over and over, like a bird among the thickets. +</P> + +<P> +We paid him for his trouble, with a coin that made him so gratefully +bewildered that he said to us: "Now, gentlemen, if there's anything +else that you want, give it a name; and if you meet any one as you go +away, say 'Perrett told me' (Perrett's my name), and then you'll see!" +What the precise virtue of this invocation was, we did not have an +opportunity of testing, but that it was a talisman to unlock hidden +doors, I make no doubt. +</P> + +<P> +We went back silently over the fields, with the wonder of the thing +still in our minds. To think of the pure wells bubbling and flashing, +by day and by night, in the hot summer weather, when the smell of the +wood lies warm in the sun; on cold winter nights under moon and stars, +for ever casting up the bright elastic jewel, that men call water, and +feeding the flowing stream that wanders to the sea. I was very full of +gratitude to the pure maiden saint that lent her name to the well and I +am sure she never had a more devout pair of worshippers. +</P> + +<P> +So we sped on in silence, thinking—at least I thought—how the water +leaped and winked in the sacred wells, and how clear showed the chalk, +and the leaves that lay at the bottom: till at last we drew to our +other goal. "Here is the gate," said my companion at last. +</P> + +<P> +On one side of the road stood a big substantial farm; on the other, by +a gate, was a little lodge. Here a key was given us by an old hearty +man, with plenty of advice of a simple and sententious kind, until I +felt as though I were enacting a part in some little <I>Pilgrim's +Progress</I>, and as if <I>Mr Interpreter</I> himself, with a very grave smile, +would come out and have me into a room by myself, to see some odd +pleasant show that he had provided. But it was perhaps more in the +manner of <I>Evangelist</I>, for our guide pointed with his finger across a +very wide field, and showed us a wicket to enter in at. +</P> + +<P> +Here was a great flat grassy pasture, the water again very near the +surface, as the long-leaved water-plants, that sprawled in all the +ditches, showed. But when we reached the wicket we seemed to be as far +removed from humanity as dwellers in a lonely isle. A few cattle +grazed drowsily, and the crisp tearing of the grass by their big lips +came softly across the pasture. Inside the wicket stood a single +ancient house, uninhabited, and festooned with ivy into a thing more +bush than house; though a small Tudor window peeped from the leaves, +like the little suspicious eye of some shaggy beast. +</P> + +<P> +A stone's throw away lay a large square moat, full of water, all +fringed with ancient gnarled trees; the island which it enclosed was +overgrown with tiny thickets of dishevelled box-trees, and huge +sprawling laurels; we walked softly round it, and there was our goal: a +small church of a whitish stone, in the middle of a little close of old +sycamores in stiff summer leaf. +</P> + +<P> +It stood so remote, so quietly holy, so ancient, that I could think of +nothing but the "old febel chapel" of the <I>Morte d'Arthur</I>. It had, I +know not why, the mysterious air of romance all about it. It seemed to +sit, musing upon what had been and what should be, smilingly guarding +some tender secret for the pure-hearted, full of the peace the world +cannot give. +</P> + +<P> +Within it was cool and dark, and had an ancient holy smell; it was +furnished sparely with seat and screen, and held monuments of old +knights and ladies, sleeping peacefully side by side, heads pillowed on +hands, looking out with quiet eyes, as though content to wait. +</P> + +<P> +Upon the island in the moat, we learned, had stood once a flourishing +manor, but through what sad vicissitudes it had fallen into dust I care +not. Enough that peaceful lives had been lived there; children had +been born, had played on the moat-edge, had passed away to bear +children of their own, had returned with love in their hearts for the +old house. From the house to the church children had been borne for +baptism; merry wedding processions had gone to and fro, happy Christmas +groups had hurried backwards and forwards; and the slow funeral pomp +had passed thither, under the beating of the slow bell, bearing one +that should not return. +</P> + +<P> +Something of the love and life and sorrow of the good days passed into +my mind, and I gave a tender thought to men and women whom I had never +known, who had tasted of life, and of joyful things that have an end; +and who now know the secret of the dark house to which we all are bound. +</P> + +<P> +When we at last rose unwillingly to go, the sun was setting, and flamed +red and brave through the gnarled trunks of the little wood; the mist +crept over the pasture, and far away the lights of the lonely farm +began to wink through the gathering dark. +</P> + +<P> +But I had seen! Something of the joy of the two sweet places had +settled in my mind; and now, in fretful, weary, wakeful hours, it is +good to think of the clear wells that sparkle so patiently in the dark +wood; and, better still, to wander in mind about the moat and the +little silent church; and to wonder what it all means; what the love is +that creeps over the soul at the sight of these places, so full of a +remote and delicate beauty; and whether the hunger of the heart for +peace and permanence, which visits us so often in our short and +difficult pilgrimage, has a counterpart in the land that is very far +off. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Cuckoo +</H4> + +<P> +I have been much haunted, indeed infested, if the word may be pardoned, +by cuckoos lately. When I was a child, acute though my observation of +birds and beasts and natural things was, I do not recollect that I ever +saw a cuckoo, though I often tried to stalk one by the ear, following +the sweet siren melody, as it dropped into the expectant silence from a +hedgerow tree; and I remember to have heard the notes of two, that +seemed to answer each other, draw closer each time they called. +</P> + +<P> +But of late I have become familiar with the silvery grey body and the +gliding flight; and this year I have been almost dogged by them. One +flew beside me, as I rode the other day, for nearly a quarter of a mile +along a hedgerow, taking short gliding flights, and settling till I +came up; I could see his shimmering wings and his long barred tail. I +dismounted at last, and he let me watch him for a long time, noting his +small active head, his decent sober coat. Then, when he thought I had +seen enough, he gave one rich bell-like call, with the full force of +his soft throat, and floated off. +</P> + +<P> +He seemed loath to leave me. But what word or gift, I thought, did he +bring with him, false and pretty bird? Do I too desire that others +should hatch my eggs, content with flute-like notes of pleasure? +</P> + +<P> +And yet how strange and marvellous a thing this instinct is; that one +bird, by an absolute and unvarying instinct, should forego the dear +business of nesting and feeding, and should take shrewd advantage of +the labours of other birds! It cannot be a deliberately reasoned or +calculated thing; at least we say that it cannot; and yet not Darwin +and all his followers have brought us any nearer to the method by which +such an instinct is developed and trained, till it has become an +absolute law of the tribe; making it as natural a thing for the cuckoo +to search for a built nest, and to cast away its foundling egg there, +as it is for other birds to welcome and feed the intruder. It seems so +satanically clever a thing to do; such a strange fantastic whim of the +Creator to take thought in originating it! It is this whimsicality, +the <I>bizarre</I> humour in Nature, that puzzles me more than anything in +the world, because it seems like the sport of a child with odd +inconsequent fancies, and with omnipotence behind it all the time. It +seems strange enough to think of the laws that govern the breeding, +nesting, and nurture of birds at all, especially when one considers all +the accidents that so often make the toil futile, like the stealing of +eggs by other birds, and the predatory incursions of foes. One would +expect a law, framed by omnipotence, to be invariable, not hampered by +all kinds of difficulties that omnipotence, one might have thought, +could have provided against. And then comes this further strange +variation in the law, in the case of this single family of birds, and +the mystery thickens and deepens. And stranger than all is the +existence of the questioning and unsatisfied human spirit, that +observes these things and classifies them, and that yet gets no nearer +to the solution of the huge, fantastic, patient plan! To make a law, +as the Creator seems to have done; and then to make a hundred other +laws that seem to make the first law inoperative; to play this gigantic +game century after century; and then to put into the hearts of our +inquisitive race the desire to discover what it is all about; and to +leave the desire unsatisfied. What a labyrinthine mystery! Depth +beyond depth, and circle beyond circle! +</P> + +<P> +It is a dark and bewildering region that thus opens to the view. But +one conclusion is to beware of seeming certainties, to keep the windows +of the mind open to the light; not to be over-anxious about the little +part we have to play in the great pageant, but to advance, step by +step, in utter trustfulness. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps that is your message to me, graceful bird, with the rich joyful +note! With what a thrill, too, do you bring back to me the brightness +of old forgotten springs, the childish rapture at the sweet tunable +cry! Then, in those far-off days, it was but the herald of the glowing +summer days, the time of play and flowers and scents. But now the soft +note, it seems, opens a door into the formless and uneasy world of +speculation, of questions that have no answer, convincing me of +ignorance and doubt, bidding me beat in vain against the bars that hem +me in. Why should I crave thus for certainty, for strength? Answer +me, happy bird! Nay, you guard your secret. Softer and more distant +sound the sweet notes, warning me to rest and believe, telling me to +wait and hope. +</P> + +<P> +But one further thought! One is expected, by people of conventional +and orthodox minds, to base one's conceptions of God on the writings of +frail and fallible men, and to accept their slender and eager testimony +to the occurrence of abnormal events as the best revelation of God that +the world contains. And all the while we disregard his own patient +writing upon the wall. Every day and every hour we are confronted with +strange marvels, which we dismiss from our minds because, God forgive +us, we call them natural; and yet they take us back, by a ladder of +immeasurable antiquity, to ages before man had emerged from a savage +state. Centuries before our rude forefathers had learned even to +scratch a few hillocks into earthworks, while they lived a brutish +life, herding in dens and caves, the cuckoo, with her traditions +faultlessly defined, was paying her annual visits, fluting about the +forest glades, and searching for nests into which to intrude her +speckled egg. The patient witness of God! She is as direct a +revelation of the Creator's mind, could we but interpret the mystery of +her instincts, as Augustine himself with his scheme of salvation +logically defined. Each of these missions, whether of bird or man, a +wonder and a marvel! But do we not tend to accept the eager and +childish hopes of humanity, arrayed with blithe certainty, as a nearer +evidence of the mind of God than the bird that at his bidding pursues +her annual quest, unaffected by our hasty conclusions, unmoved by our +glorified visions? I have sometimes thought that Christ probably spoke +more than is recorded about the observation of Nature; the hearts of +those that heard him were so set on temporal ends and human +applications, that they had not perhaps leisure or capacity to +recollect aught but those few scattered words, that seem to speak of a +deep love for and insight into the things of earth. They remembered +better that Christ blasted a fig-tree for doing what the Father bade +the poor plant do, than his tender dwelling upon grasses and lilies, +sparrow and sheep. The withering of the tree made an allegory: while +the love of flowers and streams was to those simple hearts perhaps an +unaccountable, almost an eccentric thing. But had Christ drawn human +breath in our bleaker Northern air, he would have perhaps, if those +that surrounded him had had leisure and grace to listen, drawn as grave +and comforting a soul-music from our homely cuckoo, with her punctual +obedience, her unquestioning faith, as he did from the birds and +flowers of the hot hillsides, the pastoral valleys of Palestine. I am +sure he would have loved the cuckoo, and forgiven her her heartless +customs. Those that sing so delicately would not have leisure and +courage to make their music so soft and sweet, if they had not a hard +heart to turn to the sorrows of the world. +</P> + +<P> +Yet still I am no nearer the secret. God sends me, here the frozen +peak, there the blue sea; here the tiger, there the cuckoo; here +Virgil, there Jeremiah; here St Francis of Assisi, there Napoleon. And +all the while, as he pushes his fair or hurtful toys upon the stage, +not a whisper, not a smile, not a glance escapes him; he thrusts them +on, he lays them by; but the interpretation he leaves with us, and +there is never a word out of the silence to show us whether we have +guessed aright. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Spring-time +</H4> + +<P> +Yesterday was a day of brisk airs. The wind was at work brushing great +inky clouds out of the sky. They came sailing up, those great rounded +masses of dark vapour, like huge galleons driving to the West, spilling +their freight as they came. The air would be suddenly full of tall +twisted rain-streaks, and then would come a bright burst of the sun. +</P> + +<P> +But a secret change came in the night; some silent power filled the air +with warmth and balm. And to-day, when I walked out of the town with +an old and familiar friend, the spring had come. A maple had broken +into bloom and leaf; a chestnut was unfolding his gummy buds; the +cottage gardens were full of squills and hepatica; and the mezereons +were all thick with damask buds. In green and sheltered underwoods +there were bursts of daffodils; hedges were pricked with green points; +and a delicate green tapestry was beginning to weave itself over the +roadside ditches. +</P> + +<P> +The air seemed full of a deep content. Birds fluted softly, and the +high elms which stirred in the wandering breezes were all thick with +their red buds. There was so much to look at and to point out that we +talked but fitfully; and there was, too, a gentle languor abroad which +made us content to be silent. +</P> + +<P> +In one village which we passed, a music-loving squire had made a +concert for his friends and neighbours, and doubtless, too, for our +vagrant delight; we stood uninvited to listen to a tuneful stir of +violins, which with a violoncello booming beneath, broke out very +pleasantly from the windows of a village school-room. +</P> + +<P> +When body and mind are fresh and vigorous, these outside impressions +often lose, I think, their sharp savours. One is preoccupied with +one's own happy schemes and merry visions; the bird sings shrill within +its cage, and claps its golden wings. But on such soft and languorous +days as these days of early spring, when the body is unstrung, and the +bonds and ties that fasten the soul to its prison are loosened and +unbound, the spirit, striving to be glad, draws in through the passages +of sense these swift impressions of beauty, as a thirsty child drains a +cup of spring-water on a sun-scorched day, lingering over the limpid +freshness of the gliding element. The airy voices of the strings being +stilled, with a sort of pity for those penned in the crowded room, +interchanging the worn coinage of civility, we stood a while looking in +at a gate, through which we could see the cool front of a Georgian +manor-house, built of dusky bricks, with coigns and dressings of grey +stone. The dark windows with their thick white casements, the +round-topped dormers, the steps up to the door, and a prim circle of +grass which seemed to lie like a carpet on the pale gravel, gave the +feeling of a picture; the whole being framed in the sombre yews of +shrubberies which bordered the drive. It was hard to feel that the +quiet house was the scene of a real and active life; it seemed so full +of a slumberous peace, and to be tenanted only by soft shadows of the +past. And so we went slowly on by the huge white-boarded mill, its +cracks streaming with congealed dust of wheat, where the water +thundered through the sluices and the gear rattled within. +</P> + +<P> +We crossed the bridge, and walked on by a field-track that skirted the +edge of the wold. How thin and clean were the tints of the dry +ploughlands and the long sweep of pasture! Presently we were at the +foot of a green drift-road, an old Roman highway that ran straight up +into the downs. On such a day as this, one follows a spirit in one's +feet, as Shelley said; and we struck up into the wold, on the green +road, with its thorn-thickets, until the chalk began to show white +among the ruts; and we were soon at the top. A little to the left of +us appeared, in the middle of the pasture, a tiny round-topped tumulus +that I had often seen from a lower road, but never visited. It was +fresher and cooler up here. On arriving at the place we found that it +was not a tumulus at all, but a little outcrop of the pure chalk. It +had steep, scarped sides with traces of caves scooped in them. The +grassy top commanded a wide view of wold and plain. +</P> + +<P> +Our talk wandered over many things, but here, I do not know why, we +were speaking of the taking up of old friendships, and the comfort and +delight of those serene and undisturbed relations which one sometimes +establishes with a congenial person, which no lapse of time or lack of +communication seems to interrupt—the best kind of friendship. There +is here no blaming of conditions that may keep the two lives apart; no +feverish attempt to keep up the relation, no resentment if mutual +intercourse dies away. And then, perhaps, in the shifting of +conditions, one's life is again brought near to the life of one's +friend, and the old easy intercourse is quietly resumed. My companion +said that such a relation seemed to him to lie as near to the solution +of the question of the preservation of identity after death as any +other phenomenon of life. "Supposing," he said, "that such a +friendship as that of which we have spoken is resumed after a break of +twenty years. One is in no respect the same person; one looks +different, one's views of life have altered, and physiologists tell us +that one's body has changed perhaps three times over, in the time, so +that there is not a particle of our frame that is the same; and yet the +emotion, the feeling of the friendship remains, and remains unaltered. +If the stuff of our thoughts were to alter as the materials of our body +alter, the continuity of such an emotion would be impossible. Of +course it is difficult to see how, divested of the body, our +perceptions can continue; but almost the only thing we are really +conscious of is our own identity, our sharp separation from the mass of +phenomena that are not ourselves. And, if an emotion can survive the +transmutation of the entire frame, may it not also survive the +dissolution of that frame?" +</P> + +<P> +"Could it be thus?" I said. "A ray of light falls through a chink in a +shutter; through the ray, as we watch it, floats an infinite array of +tiny motes, and it is through the striking of the light upon them that +we are aware of the light; but they are never the same. Yet the ray +has a seeming identity, though even the very ripples of light that +cause it are themselves ever changing, ever renewed. Could not the +soul be such a ray, illuminating the atoms that pass through it, and +itself a perpetual motion, a constant renewal?" +</P> + +<P> +But the day warned us to descend. The shadows grew longer, and a great +pale light of sunset began to gather in the West. We came slowly down +through the pastures, till we joined the familiar road again. And at +last we parted, in that wistful silence that falls upon the mood when +two spirits have achieved a certain nearness of thought, have drawn as +close as the strange fence of identity allows. But as I went home, I +stood for a moment at the edge of a pleasant grove, an outlying +pleasaunce of a great house on the verge of the town. The trees grew +straight and tall within it, and all the underwood was full of spring +flowers and green ground-plants, expanding to light and warmth; the sky +was all full of light, dying away to a calm and liquid green, the +colour of peace. Here I encountered another friend, a retiring man of +letters, who lives apart from the world in dreams of his own. He is a +bright-eyed, eager creature, tall and shadowy, who has but a slight +hold upon the world. We talked for a few moments of trivial things, +till a chance question of mine drew from him a sad statement of his own +health. He had been lately, he said, to a physician, and had been +warned that he was in a somewhat precarious condition. I tried to +comfort him, but he shook his head; and though he tried to speak +lightly and cheerfully, I could see that there was a shadow of doom +upon him. +</P> + +<P> +As I turned to go, he held up his hand, "Listen to the birds!" he said. +We were silent, and could hear the clear flute-like notes of thrushes +hidden in the tall trees, and the soft cooing of a dove. "That gives +one," he said, "some sense of the happiness which one cannot capture +for oneself!" He smiled mournfully, and in a moment I saw his light +figure receding among the trees. What a world it is for sorrow! My +friend was going, bearing the burden of a lonely grief, which I could +not lighten for him; and yet the whole scene was full of so sweet a +content, the birds full of hope and delight, the flowers and leaves +glad to feel themselves alive. What was one to make of it all? Where +to turn for light? What conceivable benefit could result from thus +perpetually desiring to know and perpetually being baffled? +</P> + +<P> +Yet, after all, to-day has been one of those rare days, like the gold +sifted from the <I>débris</I> of the mine, which has had for me, by some +subtle alchemy of the spirit, the permanent quality which is often +denied to more stirring incidents and livelier experiences. I had seen +the mysteries of life and death, of joy and sorrow, sharply and sadly +contrasted. I had been one with Nature, with all her ardent ecstasies, +her vital impulses; and then I had seen too the other side of the +picture, a soul confronted with the mystery of death, alone in the +shapeless gloom; the very cries and stirrings and joyful dreams of +Nature bringing no help, but only deepening the shadow. +</P> + +<P> +And there came too the thought of how little such easy speculations as +we had indulged in on the grassy mound, thoughts which seemed so +radiant with beauty and mystery, how little they could sustain or +comfort the sad spirit which had entered into the cloud. +</P> + +<P> +So that bright first day of spring shaped itself for me into a day when +not only the innocent and beautiful flowers of the world rose into life +and sunshine; but a day when sadder thoughts raised their head too, red +flowers of suffering, and pale blooms of sadness; and yet these too can +be woven into the spirit's coronal, I doubt not, if one can but find +heart to do it, and patience for the sorrowful task. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Hare +</H4> + +<P> +I have just read a story that has moved me strangely, with a helpless +bewilderment and a sad anger of mind. When the doors of a factory, in +the heart of a northern town, were opened one morning, a workman, going +to move a barrel that stood in a corner, saw something crouching behind +it that he believed to be a dog or cat. He pushed it with his foot, +and a large hare sprang out. I suppose that the poor creature had been +probably startled by some dog the evening before, in a field close to +the town, had fled in the twilight along the streets, frightened and +bewildered, and had slipped into the first place of refuge it had +found; had perhaps explored its prison in vain, when the doors were +shut, with many dreary perambulations, and had then sunk into an uneasy +sleep, with frequent timid awakenings, in the terrifying unfamiliar +place. +</P> + +<P> +The man who had disturbed it shouted aloud to the other workmen who +were entering; the doors were shut, and the hare was chased by an eager +and excited throng from corner to corner; it fled behind some planks; +the planks were taken up; it made, in its agony of fear, a great leap +over the men who were bending down to catch it; it rushed into a corner +behind some tanks, from which it was dislodged with a stick. For half +an hour the chase continued, until at last it was headed into a +work-room, where it relinquished hope; it crouched panting, with its +long ears laid back, its pretty brown eyes wide open, as though +wondering desperately what it had done to deserve such usage; until it +was despatched with a shower of blows, and the limp, bleeding body +handed over to its original discoverer. +</P> + +<P> +Not a soul there had a single thought of pity for the creature; they +went back to work pleased, excited, amused. It was a good story to +tell for a week, and the man who had struck the last blows became a +little hero for his deftness. The old savage instinct for prey had +swept fiercely up from the bottom of these rough hearts—hearts +capable, too, of tenderness and grief, of compassion for suffering, +gentle with women and children. It seems to be impossible to blame +them, and such blame would have been looked upon as silly and misplaced +sentiment. Probably not even an offer of money, far in excess of the +market value of the dead body, if the hare could be caught unharmed, +would have prevailed at the moment over the instinct for blood. +</P> + +<P> +There are many hares in the world, no doubt, and <I>nous sommes tous +condamnés</I>. But that the power which could call into being so +harmless, pretty, and delicately organised a creature does not care or +is unable to protect it better, is a strange mystery. It cannot be +supposed that the hare's innocent life deserved such chastisement; and +it is difficult to believe that suffering, helplessly endured at one +point of the creation, can be remedial at another. Yet one cannot bear +to think that the extremity of terror and pain, thus borne by a +sensitive creature, either comes of neglect, or of cruel purpose, or is +merely wasted. And yet the chase and the slaughter of the unhappy +thing cannot be anything but debasing to those who took part in it. +And at the same time, to be angry and sorry over so wretched an episode +seems like trying to be wiser than the mind that made us. What single +gleam of brightness is it possible to extract from the pitiful little +story? Only this: that there must lie some tender secret, not only +behind what seems a deed of unnecessary cruelty, but in the implanting +in us of the instinct to grieve with a miserable indignation over a +thing we cannot cure, and even in the withholding from us any hope that +might hint at the solution of the mystery. +</P> + +<P> +But the thought of the seemly fur stained and bedabbled, the bright +hazel eyes troubled with the fear of death, the silky ears, in which +rang the horrid din of pursuit, rises before me as I write, and casts +me back into the sad mood, that makes one feel that the closer that one +gazes into the sorrowful texture of the world, the more glad we may +well be to depart. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +X +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Diplodocus +</H4> + +<P> +I have had my imagination deeply thrilled lately by reading about the +discovery in America of the bones of a fossil animal called the +<I>Diplodocus</I>. I hardly know what the word is derived from, but it +might possibly mean an animal which <I>takes twice as much</I>, of +nourishment, perhaps, or room; either twice as much as is good for it, +or twice as much as any other animal. In either case it seems a +felicitous description. The creature was a reptile, a gigantic toad or +lizard that lived, it is calculated, about three million years ago. It +was in Canada that this particular creature lived. The earth was then +a far hotter place than now; a terrible steaming swamp, full of rank +and luxuriant vegetation, gigantic palms, ferns as big as trees. The +diplodocus was upwards of a hundred feet long, a vast inert creature, +with a tough black hide. In spite of its enormous bulk its brain was +only the size of a pigeon's egg, so that its mental processes must have +been of the simplest. It had a big mouth full of rudimentary teeth, of +no use to masticate its food, but just sufficing to crop the luxuriant +juicy vegetable stalks on which it lived, and of which it ate in the +course of the day as much as a small hayrick would contain. The +poisonous swamps in which it crept can seldom have seen the light of +day; perpetual and appalling torrents of rain must have raged there, +steaming and dripping through the dim and monstrous forests, with their +fallen day, varied by long periods of fiery tropical sunshine. In this +hot gloom the diplodocus trailed itself about, eating, eating; living a +century or so; loving, as far as a brain the size of a pigeon's egg can +love, and no doubt with a maternal tenderness for its loathly +offspring. It had but few foes, though, in the course of endless +generations, there sprang up a carnivorous race of creatures which seem +to have found the diplodocus tender eating. The particular diplodocus +of which I speak probably died of old age in the act of drinking, and +was engulfed in a pool of the great curdling, reedy river that ran +lazily through the forest. The imagination sickens before the thought +of the speedy putrefaction of such a beast under such conditions; but +this process over, the creature's bones lay deep in the pool. +</P> + +<P> +Another feature of the earth at that date must have been the vast +volcanic agencies at work; whole continents were at intervals submerged +or uplifted. In this case the whole of the forest country, where the +diplodocus lay, was submerged beneath the sea, and sank to a depth of +several leagues; for, in the course of countless ages, sea-ooze, to a +depth of at least three miles, was deposited over the forest, +preserving the trunks and even the very sprays of the tropical +vegetation. Who would suppose that the secret history of this great +beast would ever be revealed, as it lay century after century beneath +the sea-floor? But another convulsion took place, and a huge ridge of +country, forming the rocky backbone of North and South America, was +thrust up again by a volcanic convulsion, so that the diplodocus now +lay a mile above the sea, with a vast pile of downs over his head which +became a huge range of snow mountains. Then the rain and the sun began +their work; and the whole of the immense bed of uplifted ocean-silt, +now become chalk, was carried eastward by mighty rivers, forming the +whole continent of North America, between these mountains and the +eastern sea. At last the tropic forest was revealed again, a wide +tract of petrified tree-trunks and fossil wood. And then out of an +excavation, made where one of the last patches of the chalk still lay +in a rift of the hills, where the old river-pool had been into which +the great beast had sunk, was dug the neck-bone of the creature. +Curiosity was aroused by the sight of this fragment of an unknown +animal, and bit by bit the great bones came to light; some portions +were missing, but further search revealed the remains of three other +specimens of the great lizard, and a complete skeleton was put together. +</P> + +<P> +The mind positively reels before the story that is here revealed; we, +who are feebly accustomed to regard the course of recorded history as +the crucial and critical period of the life of the world, must be +sobered by the reflection that the whole of the known history of the +human race is not the thousandth, not the ten-thousandth part of the +history of the planet. What does this vast and incredible panorama +mean to us? What is it all about? This ghastly force at work, dealing +with life and death on so incredible a scale, and yet guarding its +secret so close? The diplodocus, I imagine, seldom indulged in +reveries as to how it came to be there; it awoke to life; its business +was to crawl about in the hot gloom, to eat, and drink, and sleep, to +propagate its kind; and not the least amazing part of the history is +that at length should have arisen a race of creatures, human beings, +that should be able to reconstruct, however faintly, by investigation, +imagination, and deduction, a picture of the dead life of the world. +It is this capacity for arriving at what has been, for tracing out the +huge mystery of the work of God, that appears to me the most wonderful +thing of all. And yet we seem no nearer to the solution of the secret; +we come into the world with this incredible gift of placing ourselves, +so to speak, on the side of the Creator, of surveying his work; and yet +we cannot guess what is in his heart; the stern and majestic eyes of +Nature behold us stonily, permitting us to make question, to explore, +to investigate, but withholding the secret. And in the light of those +inscrutable eyes, how weak and arrogant appear our dogmatic systems of +religion, that would profess to define and read the very purposes of +God; our dearest conceptions of morality, our pathetic principles, pale +and fade before these gigantic indications of mysterious, indifferent +energy. +</P> + +<P> +Yet even here, I think, the golden thread gleams out in the darkness; +for slight and frail as our so-called knowledge, our beliefs, appear, +before that awful, accumulated testimony of the past, yet the latest +development is none the less the instant guiding of God; it is all as +much a gift from him as the blind impulses of the great lizard in the +dark forest; and again there emerges the mighty thought, the only +thought that can give us the peace we seek, that we are all in his +hand, that nothing is forgotten, nothing is small or great in his +sight; and that each of our frail, trembling spirits has its place in +the prodigious scheme, as much as the vast and fiery globe of the sun +on the one hand, and, on the other, the smallest atom of dust that +welters deep beneath the sea. All that is, exists; indestructible, +august, divine, capable of endless rearrangement, infinite +modifications, but undeniably there. +</P> + +<P> +This truth, however dimly apprehended, however fitfully followed, ought +to give us a certain confidence, a certain patience. In careless moods +we may neglect it; in days of grief and pain we may feel that it cannot +help us; but it is the truth; and the more we can make it our own, the +deeper that we can set it in our trivial spirits, the better are we +prepared to learn the lesson which the deepest instinct of our nature +bids us believe, that the Father is trying to teach us, or is at least +willing that we should learn if we can. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Beetle +</H4> + +<P> +How strange it is that sometimes the smallest and commonest incident, +that has befallen one a hundred times before, will suddenly open the +door into that shapeless land of fruitless speculation; the land on to +which, I think, the Star Wormwood fell, burning it up and making it +bitter; the land in which we most of us sometimes have to wander, and +always alone. +</P> + +<P> +It was such a trifling thing after all. I was bicycling very +pleasantly down a country road to-day, when one of those small pungent +beetles, a tiny thing, in black plate-armour, for all the world like a +minute torpedo, sailed straight into my eye. The eyelid, quicker even +than my own thought, shut itself down, but too late. The little fellow +was engulphed in what Walt Whitman would call the liquid rims. These +small, hard creatures are tenacious of life, and they have, moreover, +the power of exuding a noxious secretion—an acrid oil, with a strong +scent, and even taste, of saffron. It was all over in a moment. I +rubbed my eye, and I suppose crushed him to death; but I could not get +him out, and I had no companion to extract him; the result was that my +eye was painful and inflamed for an hour or two, till the tiny, black, +flattened corpse worked its way out for itself. +</P> + +<P> +Now, that is not a very marvellous incident; but it set me wondering. +In the first place, what a horrible experience for the creature; in a +moment, as he sailed joyfully along, saying, "Aha," perhaps, like the +war-horse among the trumpets, on the scented summer breeze, with the +sun warm on his mail, to find himself stuck fast in a hot and oozy +crevice, and presently to be crushed to death. His little taste of the +pleasant world so soon over, and for me an agreeable hour spoilt, so +far as I could see, to no particular purpose. +</P> + +<P> +Now, one is inclined to believe that such an incident is what we call +fortuitous; but the only hope we have in the world is to believe that +things do not happen by chance. One believes, or tries to believe, +that the Father of all has room in his mind for the smallest of his +creatures; that not a sparrow, as Christ said, falls to the ground +without his tender care. Theologians tell us that death entered into +the world by sin; but it is not consistent to believe that, whereas +both men and animals suffer and die, the sufferings and death of men +are caused by their sins, or by the sins of their ancestors, while +animals suffer and die without sin being the cause. Surely the cause +must be the same for all the creation? and still less is it possible to +believe that the suffering and death of creatures is caused by the sin +of man, because they suffered and died for thousands of centuries +before man came upon the scene. +</P> + +<P> +If God is omnipotent and all-loving, we are bound to believe that +suffering and death are sent by him deliberately, and not cruelly. One +single instance, however minute, that established the reverse, would +vitiate the whole theory; and if so, then we are the sport of a power +that is sometimes kind and sometimes malignant. An insupportable +thought! +</P> + +<P> +Is it possible to conceive that the law of sin works in the lower +creation, and that they, too, are punished, or even wisely corrected, +for sinning against such light as they have? Had the little beetle +that sailed across my path acted in such a way that he had deserved his +fate? Or was his death meant to make him a better, a larger-minded +beetle? I cannot bring myself to believe that. Perhaps a +philosophical theologian would say that creation was all one, and that +suffering at one point was remedial at some other point. I am not in a +position to deny the possibility of that, but I am equally unable to +affirm that it is so. There is no evidence which would lead me to +think it. It only seems to me necessary to affirm it, in order to +confirm the axiom that God is omnipotent and all-loving. Much in +nature and in human life would seem to be at variance with that. +</P> + +<P> +It may be said that one is making too much of a minute incident; but +such incidents are of hourly occurrence all the world over; and the +only possible method for arriving at truth is the scientific method of +cumulative evidence. The beetle was small, indeed, and infinitely +unimportant in the scheme of things. But he was all in all to himself. +The world only existed so far as he was concerned, through his tiny +consciousness. +</P> + +<P> +The old-fashioned religious philosophers held that man was the crown +and centre of creation, and that God was mainly preoccupied with man's +destiny. They maintained that all creatures were given us for our use +and enjoyment. The enjoyment that I derived from the beetle, in this +case, was not conspicuous. But I suppose that such cheerful optimists +would say that the beetle was sent to give me a little lesson in +patience, to teach me not to think so much about myself. But, as a +matter of fact, the little pain I suffered made me think more of myself +than I had previously been doing; it turned me for the time from a +bland and hedonistic philosopher into a petulant pessimist, because it +seemed that no one was the better for the incident; certainly, if life +is worth having at all, the beetle was no better off, and in my own +case I could trace no moral improvement. I had been harmlessly enough +employed in getting air and exercise in the middle of hard work. It +was no vicious enjoyment that was temporarily suspended. +</P> + +<P> +Again, there are people who would say that to indulge in such reveries +is morbid; that one must take the rough with the smooth, and not +trouble about beetles or inflamed eyes. But if one is haunted by the +hopeless desire to search out the causes of things, such arguments do +not assist one. Such people would say, "Oh, you must take a larger or +wider view of it all, and not strain at gnats!" But the essence of +God's omnipotence is, that while he can take the infinitely wide view +of all created things, he can also take, I would fain believe, the +infinitely just and minute point of view, and see the case from the +standpoint of the smallest of his creatures! +</P> + +<P> +What, then, is my solution? That is the melancholy part of it; I am +not prepared to offer one. I am met on every side by hopeless +difficulties. I am tempted to think that God is not at all what we +imagine him to be; that our conceptions of benevolence and justice and +love are not necessarily true of him at all. That he is not in the +least like our conceptions of him; that he has no particular tenderness +about suffering, no particular care for animal life. Nature would seem +to prove that at every turn; and yet, if it be true, it leaves me +struggling in a sad abyss of thought; it substitutes for our grave, +beautiful, and hopeful conceptions of God a kind of black mystery +which, I confess, lies very heavy on the heart, and seems to make +effort vain. +</P> + +<P> +And thus I fall back again upon faith and hope. I know that I wish all +things well, that I desire with all my heart that everything that +breathes and moves should be happy and joyful; and I cannot believe in +my heart that it is different with God. And thus I rest in the trust +that there is somewhere, far-off, a beauty and a joy in suffering; and +that, perhaps, death itself is a fair and a desirable thing. +</P> + +<P> +As I rode to-day in the summer sun, far off, through the haze, I could +see the huge Cathedral towers and portals looming up over the trees. +Even so might be the gate of death! As we fare upon our pilgrimage, +that shadowy doorway waits, silent and sombre, to receive us. That +gate, the gate of death, seems to me, as in strength and health I sweep +along the pleasant road of life, a terrible, an appalling place. But +shall I feel so, when indeed I tread the threshold, and see the dark +arches, the mysterious windows to left and right? It may prove a cool +and secure haven of beauty and refreshment, rich in memory, echoing +with melodious song. The poor beetle knows about it now, whatever it +is; he is wise with the eternal wisdom of all that have entered in, +leaving behind them the frail and delicate tabernacle, in which the +spirit dwelt, and which is so soon to moulder into dust. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Farm-yard +</H4> + +<P> +There is a big farm-yard close to the house where I am staying just +now; it is a constant pleasure, as I pass that way, to stop and watch +the manners and customs of the beasts and birds that inhabit it; I am +ashamed to think how much time I spend in hanging over a gate, to watch +the little dramas of the byre. I am not sure that pigs are an +altogether satisfactory subject of contemplation. They always seem to +me like a fallen race that has seen better days. They are able, +intellectual, inquisitive creatures. When they are driven from place +to place, they are not gentle or meek, like cows and sheep, who follow +the line of least resistance. The pig is suspicious and cautious; he +is sure that there is some uncomfortable plot on foot, not wholly for +his good, which he must try to thwart if he can. Then, too, he never +seems quite at home in his deplorably filthy surroundings; he looks at +you, up to the knees in ooze, out of his little eyes, as if he would +live in a more cleanly way, if he were permitted. Pigs always remind +me of the mariners of Homer, who were transformed by Circe; there is a +dreadful humanity about them, as if they were trying to endure their +base conditions philosophically, waiting for their release. +</P> + +<P> +But cows bring a deep tranquillity into the spirit; their glossy skins, +their fragrant breath, their contented ease, their mild gaze, their +Epicurean rumination tend to restore the balance of the mind, and make +one feel that vegetarianism must be a desirable thing. There is the +dignity of innocence about the cow, and I often wish that she did not +bear so poor a name, a word so unsuitable for poetry; it is lamentable +that one has to take refuge in the archaism of <I>kine</I>, when the thing +itself is so gentle and pleasant. +</P> + +<P> +But the true joy of the farm-yard is, undoubtedly, in the domestic +fowls. It is long since I was frightened of turkeys; but I confess +that there is still something awe-inspiring about an old turkey-cock, +with a proud and angry eye, holding his breath till his wattles are +blue and swollen, with his fan extended, like a galleon in full sail, +his wings held stiffly down, strutting a few rapid steps, and then +slowly revolving, like a king in royal robes. There is something +tremendous about his supremacy, his almost intolerable pride and glory. +</P> + +<P> +And then we come to cocks and hens. The farm-yard cock is an +incredibly grotesque creature. His furious eye, his blood-red crest, +make him look as if he were seeking whom he might devour. But he is +the most craven of creatures. In spite of his air of just anger, he +has no dignity whatever. To hear him raise his voice, you would think +that he was challenging the whole world to combat. He screams +defiance, and when he has done, he looks round with an air of +satisfaction. "There! that is what you have to expect if you interfere +with me!" he seems to say. But an alarm is given; the poultry seek +refuge in a hurried flight. Where is the champion? You would expect +to see him guarding the rear, menacing his pursuer; but no, he has +headed the flight, he is far away, leading the van with a desperate +intentness. +</P> + +<P> +This morning I was watching the behaviour of a party of fowls, who were +sitting together on a dusty ledge above the road, sheltering from the +wind. I do not know whether they meant to be as humorous as they were, +but I can hardly think they were not amused at each other. They stood +and lay very close together, with fierce glances, and quick, jerky +motions of the head. Now and then one, tired of inaction, raised a +deliberate claw, bowed its head, scratched with incredible rapidity, +shook its tumbled feathers, and looked round with angry +self-consciousness, as though to say: "I will ask any one to think me +absurd at his peril." Now and then one of them kicked diligently at +the soil, and then, turning round, scrutinised the place intently, and +picked delicately at some minute object. One examined the neck of her +neighbour with a fixed stare, and then pecked the spot sharply. One +settled down on the dust, and gave a few vigorous strokes with her legs +to make herself more comfortable. Occasionally they all crooned and +wailed together, and at the passing of a cart all stood up defiantly, +as if intending to hold their fort at all hazards. Presently a woman +came out of a house-door opposite, at which the whole party ran +furiously and breathlessly across the road, as if their lives depended +upon arriving in time. There was not a gesture or a motion that was +not admirably conceived, intensely dramatic. +</P> + +<P> +Again, what is more delightfully absurd than to see a hen find a large +morsel which she cannot deal with at one gulp? She has no sense of +diplomacy or cunning; her friends, attracted by her motions, close in +about her; she picks up the treasured provender, she runs, bewildered +with anxiety, till she has distanced her pursuers; she puts the object +down and takes a couple of desperate pecks; but her kin are at her +heels; another flight follows, another wild attempt; for half an hour +the same tactics are pursued. At last she is at bay; she makes one +prodigious effort, and gets the treasure down with a convulsive +swallow; you see her neck bulge with the moving object; while she looks +at her baffled companions with an air of meek triumph. +</P> + +<P> +Ducks, too, afford many simple joys to the contemplative mind. A slow +procession of white ducks, walking delicately, with heads lifted high +and timid eyes, in a long line, has the air of an ecclesiastical +procession. The singers go before, the minstrels follow after. There +is something liturgical, too, in the way in which, as if by a +preconcerted signal, they all cry out together, standing in a group, +with a burst of hoarse cheering, cut off suddenly by an intolerable +silence. The arrival of ducks upon the scene, when the fowls are fed, +is an impressive sight. They stamp wildly over the pasture, falling, +stumbling, rising again, arrive on the scene with a desperate +intentness, and eat as though they had not seen food for months. +</P> + +<P> +The pleasure of these farm-yard sights is two-fold. It is partly the +sense of grave, unconscious importance about the whole business, +serious lives lived with such whole-hearted zeal. There is no sense of +divided endeavour; the discovery of food is the one thing in the world, +and the sense of repletion is also the sense of virtue. But there is +something pathetic, too, about the taming to our own ends of these +forest beasts, these woodland birds; they are so unconscious of the sad +reasons for which we desire their company, so unsuspicious, so serene! +Instead of learning by the sorrowful experience of generations what our +dark purposes are, they become more and more fraternal, more and more +dependent. And yet how little we really know what their thoughts are. +They are so unintelligent in some regions, so subtly wise in others. +We cannot share our thoughts with them; we cannot explain anything to +them. We can sympathise with them in their troubles, but cannot convey +our sympathy to them. There is a little bantam hen here, a great pet, +who comes up to the front door with the other bantams to be fed. She +has been suffering for some time from an obscure illness. She arrives +with the others, full of excitement, and begins to pick at the grain +thrown them; but the effort soon exhausts her; she goes sadly apart, +and sits with dim eye and ruffled plumage, in silent suffering, +wondering, perhaps, why she is not as brisk and joyful as ever, what is +the sad thing that has befallen her. And one can do nothing, express +nothing of the pathetic sorrow that fills one's mind. But, none the +less, one tries to believe, to feel, that this suffering is not +fortuitous, is not wasted—how could one endure the thought otherwise, +if one did not hope that "the earnest expectation of the creature +waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Artist +</H4> + +<P> +I have been reading with much emotion the life of a great artist. It +is a tender, devoted record; and there is an atmosphere of delicate +beauty about the style. It is as though his wife, who wrote the book, +had gained through the years of companionship, a pale, pure reflection +of her husband's simple and impassioned style, just as the moon's +clear, cold light is drawn from the hot fountains of the sun. And yet, +there is an individuality about the style, and the reflection is rather +of the same nature as the patient likeness of expression which is to be +seen in the faces of an aged pair, who have travelled in love and unity +down the vale of years together. +</P> + +<P> +In this artist's own writing, which has a pure and almost childlike +<I>naďveté</I> of phrasing, there is a glow, not of rhetoric or language, +but of emotion, an almost lover-like attitude towards his friends, +which is yet saved from sentimentality by an obvious sincerity of +feeling. In this he seems to me to be different from the majority of +artistic natures and temperaments. It is impossible not to feel, as a +rule, when one is brought into contact with an artistic temperament, +that the basis of it is a kind of hardness, a fanaticism of spirit. +There is, of course, in the artistic temperament, an abundance of +sensitiveness which is often mistaken for feeling. But it is not +generally an unselfish devotion, which desires to give, to lavish, to +make sacrifices for the sake of the beloved. It is, after all, +impossible to serve two masters; and in the highly developed artist, +the central passion is the devotion to art, and sins against art are +the cardinal and unpardonable sins. The artist has an eager thirst for +beautiful impressions, and his deepest concern is how to translate +these impressions into the medium in which he works. Many an artist +has desired and craved for love. But even love in the artist is not +the end; love only ministers to the sacred fire of art, and is treated +by him as a costly and precious fuel, which he is bound to use to feed +the central flame. If one examines the records of great artistic +careers, this will, I think, be found to be a true principle; and it +is, after all, inevitable that it should be so, in the case of a nature +which has the absorbing desire for self-expression. Perhaps, it is not +always consciously recognised by the artist, but the fact is there; he +tends to regard the deepest and highest experiences of life as +ministering to the fulness of his nature. I remember hearing a great +master of musical art discussing the music of a young man of +extraordinary promise; he said: "Yes, it is very beautiful, very pure; +he is perfect in technique and expression, as far as it goes; but it is +incomplete and undeveloped. What he wants is to fall in love." +</P> + +<P> +A man who is not bound by the noble thraldom of art, who is full of +vitality and emotion, but yet without the imperative desire for +self-expression, regards life in a different mood. He may be fully as +eager to absorb beautiful impressions, he may love the face of the +earth, the glories of hill and plain, the sweet dreams of art, the +lingering cadences of music; but he takes them as a child takes food, +with a direct and eager appetite, without any impulse to dip them in +his own personality, or to find an expression for them. The point for +him is not how they strike him and affect him, but that they are there. +Such a man will perhaps find his deepest experience in the mysteries of +human relationship; and he will so desire the happiness of those he +loves, that he will lose himself in efforts to remove obstacles, to +lighten burdens, to give rather than to receive joy. And this, I +think, is probably the reason why so few women, even those possessed of +the most sensitive perception and apprehension, achieve the highest +triumphs of art; because they cannot so subordinate life to art, +because they have a passionate desire for the happiness of others, and +find their deepest satisfaction in helping to further it. Who does not +know instances of women of high possibilities, who have quietly +sacrificed the pursuit of their own accomplishments to the tendance of +some brilliant self-absorbed artist? With such love is often mingled a +tender compassionateness, as of a mother for a high-spirited and eager +child, who throws herself with perfect sympathy into his aims and +tastes, while all the time there sits a gentle knowledge in the +background of her heart, of the essential unimportance of the things +that the child desires so eagerly, and which she yet desires so +whole-heartedly for him. Women who have made such a sacrifice do it +with no feeling that they are resigning the best for the second best, +but because they have a knowledge of mysteries that are even higher +than the mysteries of art; and they have their reward, not in the +contemplation of the sacrifice that they have made, but in having +desired and attained something that is more beautiful still than any +dream that the artist cherishes and follows. +</P> + +<P> +Yet the fact remains that it is useless to preach to the artist the +mystery that there is a higher region than the region of art. A man +must aim at the best 'that he can conceive; and it is not possible to +give men higher motives, by removing the lower motives that they can +comprehend. Such an attempt is like building without foundations; and +those who have relations with artists should do all they can to +encourage them to aim at what they feel to be the highest. +</P> + +<P> +But, on the other hand, it is a duty for the artist to keep his heart +open, if he can, to the higher influences. He must remember, that +though the eye can see certain colours, and hear certain vibrations of +sound, yet there is an infinite scale of colour, and an infinite +gradation of sound, both above and below what the eye and the ear can +apprehend, and that mortal apprehension can only appropriate to itself +but a tiny fragment of the huge gamut. He ought to believe that if he +is faithful to the best that he can apprehend, a door may be opened to +him which may lead him into regions which are at present closed to him. +To accept the artistic conscience, the artistic aim, as the highest +ideal of which the spirit is capable, is to be a Pharisee in art, to be +self-sufficient, arrogant, limited. It is a kind of spiritual pride, a +wilful deafness to more remote voices; and it is thus of all sins, the +one which the artist, who lives the life of perception, whose mind +must, above all things, be open and transparent, should be loth to +commit. He should rather keep his inner eye—for the artist is like +the great creatures that, in the prophet's vision, stood nearest to the +presence, who were full of eyes, without and within—open to the +unwonted apparition which may, suddenly, like a meteor of the night, +sail across the silent heaven. It may be that, in some moment of +fuller perception, he may even have to divorce the sweeter and more +subtle mistress in exchange for one who comes in a homelier guise, and +take the beggar girl for his queen. But the abnegation will be no +sacrifice; rather a richer and livelier hope. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Young Love +</H4> + +<P> +We had a charming idyll here to-day. A young husband and wife came to +stay with us in all the first flush of married happiness. One realised +all day long that other people merely made a pleasant background for +their love, and that for each there was but one real figure on the +scene. This was borne witness to by a whole armoury of gentle looks, +swift glances, silent gestures. They were both full to the brim of a +delicate laughter, of over-brimming wonder, of tranquil desire. And we +all took part in their gracious happiness. In the evening they sang +and played to us, the wife being an accomplished pianist, the husband a +fine singer. But though the glory of their art fell in rainbow showers +on the audience, it was for each other that they sang and played. We +sat in the dim light of a little panelled room, the lamps making a +circle of light about the happy pair; seldom have I felt the revelation +of personality more. The wife played to us a handful of beautiful +things; but I noticed that she could not interpret the sadder and +darker strains, into which the shadow and malady of a suffering spirit +had passed; but into little tripping minuets full of laughter and +light, and into melodies that spoke of a pure passion of sweetness and +human delight, her soul passed, till the room felt as though flooded +with the warmth of the sun. And he, too, sang with all his might some +joyful and brave utterances, with the lusty pride of manhood; and in a +gentler love-song too, that seemed to linger in a dream of delight by +crystal streams, the sweet passion of the heart rose clear and true. +But when he too essayed a song of sorrow and reluctant sadness, there +was no spirit in it; it seemed to him, I suppose, so unlike life, and +the joy of life,—so fantastic and unreal an outpouring of the heart. +</P> + +<P> +We sat long in the panelled room, till it seemed all alive with soft +dreams and radiant shapes, that floated in a golden air. All that was +dark and difficult seemed cast out and exercised. But it was all so +sincere and contented a peace that the darker and more sombre shadows +had no jealous awakening; for the two were living to each other, not in +a selfish seclusion, but as though they gave of their joy in handfuls +to the whole world. The raptures of lovers sometimes take them back so +far into a kind of unashamed childishness that the spectacle rouses the +contempt and even the indignation of world-worn and cynical people. +But here it never deviated from dignity and seemliness; it only seemed +new and true, and the best gift of God. These two spirits seemed, with +hands intertwined, to have ascended gladly into the mountain, and to +have seen a transfiguration of life: which left them not in a blissful +eminence of isolation, but rather, as it were, beckoning others +upwards, and saying that the road was indeed easy and plain. And so +the sweet hour passed, and left a fragrance behind it; whatever might +befall, they had tasted of the holy wine of joy; they had blessed the +cup, and bidden us too to set our lips to it. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A Strange Gathering +</H4> + +<P> +I was walking one summer day in the pleasant hilly country near my +home. There is a road which I often traverse, partly because it is a +very lonely one, partly because it leads out on a high brow or shoulder +of the uplands, and commands a wide view of the plain. Moreover, the +road is so deeply sunken between steep banks, overgrown with hazels, +that one is hardly aware how much one climbs, and the wide clear view +at the top always breaks upon the eye with a certain shock of agreeable +surprise. A little before the top of the hill a road turns off, +leading into a long disused quarry, surrounded by miniature cliffs, +full of grassy mounds and broken ground, overgrown with thickets and +floored with rough turf. It is a very enchanting place in spring, and +indeed at all times of the year; many flowers grow there, and the birds +sing securely among the bushes. I have always imagined that the Red +Deeps, in <I>The Mill on the Floss</I>, was just such a place, and the +scenes described as taking place there have always enacted themselves +for me in the quarry. I have always had a fancy too that if there are +any fairies hereabouts, which I very much doubt, for I fear that the +new villas which begin to be sprinkled about the countryside have +scared them all away, they would be found here. I visited the place +one moonlight night, and I am sure that the whole dingle was full of a +bright alert life which mocked my clumsy eyes and ears. If I could +have stolen upon the place unawares, I felt that I might have seen +strange businesses go forward, and tiny revels held. +</P> + +<P> +That afternoon, as I drew near, I was displeased to see that my little +retreat was being profaned by company. Some brakes were drawn up in +the road, and I heard loud voices raised in untuneful mirth. As I came +nearer I was much bewildered to divine who the visitors were. They +seemed on the point of departing; two of the brakes were full, and into +another some men were clambering. As I came close to them I was still +more puzzled. The majority of the party were dressed all alike, in +rough brown clothes, with soft black felt hats; but in each of the +brakes that were tenanted sat a man as well, with a braided cap, in a +sort of uniform. Most of the other men were old or elderly; some had +white beards or whiskers, almost all were grizzled. They were talking, +too, in an odd, inconsequent, chirping kind of way, not listening to +each other; and moreover they were strangely adorned. Some had their +hats stuck full of flowers, others were wreathed with leaves. A few +had chains of daisies round their necks. They seemed as merry and as +obedient as children. Inside the gate, in the centre of the quarry, +was a still stranger scene. Here was a ring of elderly and aged men, +their hats wreathed with garlands, hand-in-hand, executing a slow and +solemn dance in a circle. One, who seemed the moving spirit, a small +wiry man with a fresh-coloured face and a long chin-beard, was leaping +high in the air, singing some rustic song, and dragging his less active +companions round and round. The others all entered into the spirit of +the dance. One very old and feeble man, with a smile on his face, was +executing little clumsy hops, deeply intent on the performance. A few +others stood round admiring the sport; a little apart was a tall grave +man, talking loudly to himself, with flowers stuck all over him, who +was spinning round and round in an ecstasy of delight. Becoming giddy, +he took a few rapid steps to the left, but fell to the ground, where he +lay laughing softly, and moving his hands in the air. Presently one of +the officials said a word to the leader of the dance; the ring broke +up, and the performers scattered, gathering up little bundles of leaves +and flowers that lay all about in some confusion, and then trooping out +to the brakes. The quarry was deserted. Several of the group waved +their hands to me, uttering unintelligible words, and holding out +flowers. +</P> + +<P> +I was so much surprised at the odd scene that I asked one of the +officials what it all meant. He said politely that it was a picnic +party from the Pauper Lunatic Asylum at H——. The mystery was +explained. I said: "They seem to be enjoying themselves." "Yes, +indeed, sir," he said, "they are like children; they look forward to +this all the year; there is no greater punishment than to deprive a man +of his outing." He entered the last brake as he said these words, and +the carriages moved off, a shrill and aged cheer rising from thin and +piping voices on the air. +</P> + +<P> +The whole thing did not strike me as grotesque, but as infinitely +pathetic and even beautiful. Here were these old pitiful creatures, so +deeply afflicted, condemned most of them to a lifelong seclusion, who +were recalling and living over again their childish sports and +delights. What dim memories of old spring days, before their sad +disabilities had settled upon them, were working in those aged and +feeble brains! What pleased me best was the obvious and light-hearted +happiness of the whole party, a compensation for days of starved +monotony. No party of school-children on a holiday could have been +more thoughtlessly, more intently gay. Here was a desolate company, +one would have thought, of life's failures, facing one of the saddest +and least hopeful prospects that the world can afford; yet on this day +at least they were full to the brim of irresponsible and complete +happiness and delight, tasting an enjoyment, it seemed, more vivid than +often falls to my own lot. In the presence of such happiness it seemed +so useless, so unnecessary to ask why so heavy a burden was bound on +their backs, because here at all events was a scene of the purest and +most innocent rapture. I went on my way full of wonder and even of +hope. I could not fathom the deep mystery of the failure, the +suffering, the weakness that runs across the world like an ugly crack +across the face of a fair building. But then how tenderly and wisely +does the great Artificer lend consolation and healing, repairing and +filling so far as he may, the sad fracture; he seems to know better +than we can divine the things that belong to our peace; so that as I +looked across the purple rolling plain, with all its wooded ridges, its +rich pastures, the smoke going up from a hundred hamlets, a confidence, +a quiet trust seemed to rise in my mind, filling me with a strange +yearning to know what were the thoughts of the vast Mind that makes us +and sustains us, mingled with a faith in some large and far-off issue +that shall receive and enfold our little fretful spirits, as the sea +receives the troubled leaping streams, to move in slow unison with the +wide and secret tides. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Cripple +</H4> + +<P> +I went to-day to see an old friend whom I had not met for ten years. +Some time ago he had a bad fall which for a time crippled him, but from +which it was hoped he would recover; but he must have received some +obscure and deep-seated injury, because after improving for a time, he +began to go backwards, and has now to a great extent lost the use of +his limbs. He was formerly a very active man, both intellectually and +physically. He had a prosperous business in the country town on the +outskirts of which he lives. He was one of those tall spare men, +black-haired and black-eyed, capable of bearing great fatigue, full to +the brim of vitality. He was a great reader, fond of music and art; +married to a no less cultivated and active wife, but childless. There +never was a man who had a keener enjoyment of existence in all its +aspects. It used to be a marvel to me to see at how many points a man +could touch life, and the almost child-like zest which he threw into +everything which he did. +</P> + +<P> +On arriving at the house, a pleasant old-fashioned place with a big +shady garden, I was shown into a large book-lined study, and there +presently crept and tottered into the room, leaning on two sticks, a +figure which I can only say in no respect recalled to me the +recollection of my friend. He was bent and wasted, his hair was white; +and there was that sunken look about the temples, that tracery of lines +about the eyes that tells of constant suffering. But the voice was +unaltered, full, resonant, and distinct as ever. He sat down and was +silent for a moment. I think that the motion even from one room into +another caused him great pain. Then he began to talk; first he told me +of the accident, and his journeys in search of health. "But the +comfort is," he added, "that the doctors have now decided that they can +do no more for me, and I need leave home no more." He told me that he +still went to his business every day—and I found that it was +prospering greatly—and that though he could not drive, he could get +out in a wheeled chair; he said nothing of his sufferings, and +presently began to talk of books and politics. Gradually I realised +that I was in the company of a thoroughly cheerful man. It was not the +cheerfulness that comes of effort, of a determined attempt to be +interested in old pursuits, but the abundant and overflowing +cheerfulness of a man who has still a firm grasp on life. He argued, +he discussed with the same eager liveliness; and his laugh had the +careless and good-humoured ring of a man whose mind was entirely +content. +</P> + +<P> +His wife soon entered; and we sat for a long time talking. I was +keenly moved by the relations between them; she displayed none of that +minute attention to his needs, none of that watchful anxiety which I +have often thought, tenderly lavished as it is upon invalids, must +bring home to them a painful sense of their dependence and +helplessness; and he too showed no trace of that fretful exigence which +is too often the characteristic of those who cannot assist themselves, +and which almost invariably arises in the case of eager and active +temperaments thus afflicted, those whose minds range quickly from +subject to subject, and who feel their disabilities at every turn. At +one moment he wanted his glasses to read something from a book that lay +beside him. He asked his wife with a gentle courtesy to find them. +They were discovered in his own breast-pocket, into which he could not +even put his feeble hand, and he apologised for his stupidity with an +affectionate humility which made me feel inclined to tears, especially +when I saw the pleasure which the performance of this trifling service +obviously caused her. It was just the same, I afterwards noticed, with +a young attendant who waited on him at luncheon, an occasion which +revealed to me the full extent of his helplessness. +</P> + +<P> +I gathered from his wife in the course of the afternoon that though his +life was not threatened, yet that there was no doubt that his +helplessness was increasing. He could still hold a book and turn the +pages; but it was improbable that he could do so for long, and he was +amusing himself by inventing a mechanical device for doing this. But +she too talked of the prospect with a quiet tranquillity. She said +that he was making arrangements to direct his business from his house, +as it was becoming difficult for him to enter the office. +</P> + +<P> +He himself showed the same unabated cheerfulness during the whole of my +visit, and spoke of the enjoyment it had brought him. There was not +the slightest touch of self-pity about his talk. +</P> + +<P> +I should have admired and wondered at the fortitude of this gallant +pair, if I had seen signs of repression and self-conquest about them; +if they had relapsed even momentarily into repining, if they had shown +signs of a faithful determination to make the best of a bad business. +But I could discern no trace of such a mood about either of them. +Whether this kindly and sweet patience has been acquired, after hard +and miserable wrestlings with despair and wretchedness, I cannot say, +but I am inclined to think that it is not so. It seems to me rather to +be the display of perfect manliness and womanliness in the presence of +an irreparable calamity, a wonderful and amazing compensation, sent +quietly from the deepest fortress of Love to these simple and generous +natures, who live in each other's lives. I tried to picture to myself +what my own thoughts would be if condemned to this sad condition; I +could only foresee a fretful irritability, a wild anguish, alternating +with a torpid stupefaction. "I seem to love the old books better than +ever," my friend had said, smiling softly, in the course of the +afternoon; "I used to read them hurriedly and greedily in the old days, +but now I have time to think over them—to reflect—I never knew what a +pleasure reflection was." I could not help feeling as he said the +words that with me such a stroke as he had suffered would have dashed +the life, the colour, out of books, and left them faded and withered +husks. Half the charm of books, I have always thought, is the +inter-play of the commentary of life and experience. I ventured to ask +him if this was not the case. "No," he said, "I don't think it is—I +seem more interested in people, in events, in thoughts than ever; and +one gets them from a purer spring—I don't know if I can explain," he +added, "but I think that one sees it all from a different perspective, +in a truer light, when one's own desires and possibilities are so much +more limited." When I said good-bye to him, he smiled at me and hoped +that I should repeat my visit. "Don't think of me as unhappy," he +added, and his wife, who was standing by him, said, "Indeed you need +not;" and the two smiled at each other in a way which made me feel that +they were speaking the simple truth, and that they had found an +interpretation of life, a serene region to abide in, which I, with all +my activities, hopes, fears, businesses, had somehow missed. The pity +of it! and yet the beauty of it! as I went away I felt that I had +indeed trodden on holy ground, and seen the transfiguration of humanity +and pain into something august, tranquil, and divine. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Oxford +</H4> + +<P> +There are certain things in the world that are so praiseworthy that it +seems a needless, indeed an almost laughable thing to praise them; such +things are love and friendship, food and sleep, spring and summer; such +things, too, are the wisest books, the greatest pictures, the noblest +cities. But for all that I mean to try and make a little hymn in prose +in honour of Oxford, a city I have seen but seldom, and which yet +appears to me one of the most beautiful things in the world. +</P> + +<P> +I do not wish to single out particular buildings, but to praise the +whole effect of the place, such as it seemed to me on a day of bright +sun and cool air, when I wandered hour after hour among the streets, +bewildered and almost intoxicated with beauty, feeling as a poor man +might who has pinched all his life, and made the most of single coins, +and who is brought into the presence of a heap of piled-up gold, and +told that it is all his own. +</P> + +<P> +I have seen it said in foolish books that it is a misfortune to Oxford +that so many of the buildings have been built out of so perishable a +vein of stone. It is indeed a misfortune in one respect, that it +tempts men of dull and precise minds to restore and replace buildings +of incomparable grace, because their outline is so exquisitely blurred +by time and decay. I remember myself, as a child, visiting Oxford, and +thinking that some of the buildings were almost shamefully ruinous of +aspect; now that I am wiser I know that we have in these battered and +fretted palace-fronts a kind of beauty that fills the mind with an +almost despairing sense of loveliness, till the heart aches with +gratitude, and thrills with the desire to proclaim the glory of the +sight aloud. +</P> + +<P> +These black-fronted blistered facades, so threatening, so sombre, yet +screening so bright and clear a current of life; with the tender green +of budding spring trees, chestnuts full of silvery spires, +glossy-leaved creepers clinging, with tiny hands, to cornice and +parapet, give surely the sharpest and most delicate sense that it is +possible to conceive of the contrast on which the essence of so much +beauty depends. To pass through one of these dark and smoke-stained +courts, with every line mellowed and harmonised, as if it had grown up +so out of the earth; to find oneself in a sunny pleasaunce, carpeted +with velvet turf, and set thick with flowers, makes the spirit sigh +with delight. Nowhere in the world can one see such a thing as those +great gate-piers, with a cognisance a-top, with a grille of iron-work +between them, all sweetly entwined with some slim vagrant creeper, that +give a glimpse and a hint—no more—of a fairy-land of shelter and +fountains within. I have seen such palaces stand in quiet and stately +parks, as old, as majestic, as finely proportioned as the buildings of +Oxford; but the very blackness of the city air, and the drifting smoke +of the town, gives that added touch of grimness and mystery that the +country airs cannot communicate. And even fairer sights are contained +within; those panelled, dark-roofed halls, with their array of +portraits gravely and intently regarding the stranger; the chapels, +with their splendid classical screens and stalls, rich and dim with +ancient glass. The towers, domes, and steeples; and all set not in a +mere paradise of lawns and glades, but in the very heart of a city, +itself full of quaint and ancient houses, but busy with all the +activity of a brisk and prosperous town; thereby again giving the +strong and satisfying sense of contrast, the sense of eager and +every-day cares and pleasures, side by side with these secluded havens +of peace, the courts and cloister, where men may yet live a life of +gentle thought and quiet contemplation, untroubled, nay, even +stimulated, by the presence of a bustling life so near at hand, which +yet may not intrude upon the older dream. +</P> + +<P> +I do not know whether my taste is entirely trustworthy, but I confess +that I find the Italianate and classical buildings of Oxford finer than +the Gothic buildings. The Gothic buildings are quainter, perhaps, more +picturesque, but there is an air of solemn pomp and sober dignity about +the classical buildings that harmonises better with the sense of wealth +and grave security that is so characteristic of the place. The Gothic +buildings seem a survival, and have thus a more romantic interest, a +more poetical kind of association. But the classical porticos and +facades seem to possess a nobler dignity, and to provide a more +appropriate setting for modern Oxford; because the spirit of Oxford is +more the spirit of the Renaissance than the spirit of the Schoolmen; +and personally I prefer that ecclesiasticism should be more of a +flavour than a temper; I mean that though I rejoice to think that sober +ecclesiastical influences contribute a serious grace to the life of +Oxford, yet I am glad to feel that the spirit of the place is liberal +rather than ecclesiastical. Such traces as one sees in the chapels of +the Oxford Movement, in the shape of paltry stained glass, starved +reredoses, modern Gothic woodwork, would be purely deplorable from the +artistic point of view, if they did not possess a historical interest. +They speak of interrupted development, an attempt to put back the +shadow on the dial, to return to a narrower and more rigid tone, to put +old wine into new bottles, which betrays a want of confidence in the +expansive power of God. I hate with a deep-seated hatred all such +attempts to bind and confine the rising tide of thought. I want to see +religion vital and not formal, elastic and not cramped by precedent and +tradition. And thus I love to see worship enshrined in noble classical +buildings, which seem to me to speak of a desire to infuse the +intellectual spirit of Greece, the dignified imperialism of Rome into +the more timid and secluded ecclesiastical life, making it fuller, +larger, more free, more deliberate. +</P> + +<P> +But even apart from the buildings, which are after all but the body of +the place, the soul of Oxford, its inner spirit, is what lends it its +satisfying charm. On the one hand, it gives the sense of the dignity +of the intellect; one reflects that here can be lived lives of stately +simplicity, of high enthusiasm, apart from personal wealth, and yet +surrounded by enough of seemly dignity to give life the charm of grave +order and quiet solemnity. Here are opportunities for peaceful and +congenial work, to the sound of mellodious bells; uninterrupted hours, +as much society of a simple kind as a man can desire, and the whole +with a background of exquisite buildings and rich gardens. And then, +too, there is the tide of youthful life that floods every corner of the +place. It is an endless pleasure to see the troops of slim and alert +young figures, full of enjoyment and life, with all the best gifts of +life, health, work, amusement, society, friendship, lying ready to +their hand. The sense of this beating and thrilling pulse of life +circulating through these sombre and splendid buildings is what gives +the place its inner glow; this life full of hope, of sensation, of +emotion, not yet shadowed or disillusioned or weary, seems to be as the +fire on the altar, throwing up its sharp darting tongues of flame, its +clouds of fragrant smoke, giving warmth and significance and a fiery +heart to a sombre shrine. +</P> + +<P> +And so it is that Oxford is in a sort a magnetic pole for England; a +pole not, perhaps, of intellectual energy, or strenuous liberalism, or +clamorous aims, or political ideas; few, perhaps, of the sturdy forces +that make England potently great, centre there. The greatness of +England is, I suppose, made up by her breezy, loud-voiced sailors, her +lively, plucky soldiers, her ardent, undefeated merchants, her tranquil +administrators; by the stubborn adventurous spirit that makes itself at +home everywhere, and finds it natural to assume responsibilities. But +to Oxford set the currents of what may be called intellectual emotion, +the ideals that may not make for immediate national greatness, but +which, if delicately and faithfully nurtured, hold out at least a hope +of affecting the intellectual and spiritual life of the world. There +is something about Oxford which is not in the least typical of England, +but typical of the larger brotherhood that is independent of +nationalities; that is akin to the spirit which in any land and in +every age has produced imperishable monuments of the ardent human soul. +The tribe of Oxford is the tribe from whose heart sprang the Psalms of +David; Homer and Sophocles, Plato and Virgil, Dante and Goethe are all +of the same divine company. It may be said that John Bull, the sturdy +angel of England, turns his back slightingly upon such influences; that +he regards Oxford as an incidental ornament of his person, like a seal +that jingles at his fob. But all generous and delicate spirits do her +a secret homage, as a place where the seeds of beauty and emotion, of +wisdom and understanding, are sown, as in a secret garden. Hearts such +as these, even whirling past that celestial city, among her poor +suburbs, feel an inexpressible thrill at the sight of her towers and +domes, her walls and groves. <I>Quam dilecta sunt tabernacula</I>, they +will say; and they will breathe a reverent prayer that there may be no +leading into captivity and no complaining in her streets. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Authorship +</H4> + +<P> +I found myself at dinner the other day next to an old friend, whom I +see but seldom; a quiet, laborious, able man, with the charm of perfect +modesty and candour, who, moreover, writes a very beautiful and lucid +style. I said to him that I conceived it to be my mission, whenever I +met him, to enquire what he was writing, and to beg him to write more. +He said smilingly that he was very much occupied in his work, which is +teaching, and found little time to write; "besides," he said, "I think +that one writes too much." He went on to say that though he loved +writing well enough when he was in the mood for it, yet that the labour +of shaping sentences, and lifting them to their places, was very severe. +</P> + +<P> +I felt myself a little rebuked by this, for I will here confess that +writing is the one pleasure and preoccupation of my own life, though I +do not publish a half of what I write. It set me wondering whether I +did indeed write too much; and so I said to him: "You mean, I suppose, +that one gets into the habit of serving up the same ideas over and over +again, with a different sauce, perhaps; but still the same ideas?" +"Yes," he said, "that is what I mean. When I have written anything +that I care about, I feel that I must wait a long time before the +cistern fills again." +</P> + +<P> +We went on to talk of other things; but I have since been reflecting +whether there is truth in what my friend said. If his view is true of +writing, then it is surely the only art that is so hampered. We should +never think that an artist worked too much; we might feel that he did +not perhaps finish his big pictures sufficiently; but if he did not +spare labour in finishing his pictures, we should never find fault with +him for doing, say, as Turner did, and making endless studies and +sketches, day after day, of all that struck him as being beautiful. We +should feel indeed that some of these unconsidered and rapid sketches +had a charm and a grace that the more elaborate pictures might miss; +and in any case we should feel that the more that he worked, the firmer +and easier would become his sweep of hand, the more deft his power of +indicating a large effect by an economy of resource. The musician, +too: no one would think of finding fault with him for working every day +at his art; and it is the same with all craftsmen; the more they +worked, the surer would their touch be. +</P> + +<P> +Now I am inclined to believe that what makes writing good is not so +much the pains taken with a particular piece of work, the retouching, +the corrections, the dear delays. Still more fruitful than this labour +is the labour spent on work that is never used, that never sees the +light. Writing is to me the simplest and best pleasure in the world; +the mere shaping of an idea in words is the occupation of all others I +most love; indeed, to speak frankly, I plan and arrange all my days +that I may secure a space for writing, not from a sense of duty, but +merely from a sense of delight. The whole world teems with subjects +and thoughts, sights of beauty and images of joy and sorrow, that I +desire to put into words; and to forbid myself to write would be to +exercise the strongest self-denial of which I am capable. Of course I +do not mean that I can always please myself. I have piles of +manuscripts laid aside which fail either in conception or expression, +or in both. But there are a dozen books I would like to write if I had +the time. +</P> + +<P> +To be honest, I do not believe in fretting too much over a piece of +writing. Writing, laboriously constructed, painfully ornamented, is +often, I think, both laborious and painful to read; there is a sense of +strain about it. It is like those uneasy figures that one sees in the +carved gargoyles of old churches, crushed and writhing for ever under a +sense of weight painfully sustained, or holding a gaping mouth open, +for the water-pipe to discharge its contents therethrough. However +ingenious these carvings are, they always give a sense of tension and +oppression to the mind; and it is the same with laboured writers; my +theory of writing rather is that the conception should be as clear as +possible, and then that the words should flow like a transparent +stream, following as simply as possible the shape and outline of the +thought within, like a waterbreak over a boulder in a stream's bed. +This, I think, is best attained by infinite practice. If a piece of +work seems to be heavy and muddy, let it be thrown aside ungrudgingly; +but the attempt, even though it be a failure, makes the next attempt +easier. +</P> + +<P> +I do not think that one can write for very long at a time to much +purpose; I take the two or three hours when the mind is clearest and +freshest, and write as rapidly as I can; this secures, it seems to me, +a clearness and a unity which cannot be attained by fretful labour, by +poking and pinching at one's work. One avoids by rapidity and ardour +the dangerous defect of repetition; a big task must be divided into +small sharp episodes to be thus swiftly treated. The thought of such a +writer as Flaubert lying on his couch or pacing his room, the racked +and tortured medium of his art, spending hours in selecting the one +perfect word for his purpose, is a noble and inspiring picture; but +such a process does not, I fear, always end in producing the effect at +which it aims; it improves the texture at a minute point; it sacrifices +width and freedom. +</P> + +<P> +Together with clearness of conception and resource of vocabulary must +come a certain eagerness of mood. When all three qualities are +present, the result is good work, however rapidly it may be produced. +If one of the three is lacking, the work sticks, hangs, and grates; and +thus what I feel that the word-artist ought to do is to aim at working +on these lines, but to be very strict and severe about the ultimate +selection of his work. If, for instance, in a big task, a section has +been dully and impotently written, let him put the manuscript aside, +and think no more of it for a while; let him not spend labour in +attempting to mend bad work; then, on some later occasion, let him +again get his conception clear, and write the whole section again; if +he loves writing for itself he will not care how often this process is +repeated. +</P> + +<P> +I am speaking here very frankly; and I will own that for myself, when +the day has rolled past and when the sacred hour comes, I sit down to +write with an appetite, a keen rapture, such as a hungry man may feel +when he sits down to a savoury meal. There is a real physical emotion +that accompanies the process; and it is a deep and lively distress that +I feel when I am living under conditions that do not allow me to +exercise my craft, at being compelled to waste the appropriate hours in +other occupations. +</P> + +<P> +It may be fairly urged that with this intense impulse to write, I ought +to have contrived to make myself into a better writer; and it might be +thought that there is something either grotesque or pathetic in so much +emotional enjoyment issuing in so slender a performance. But the +essence of the happiness is that the joy resides in the doing of the +work and not in the giving it to the world; and though I do not pretend +not to be fully alive to the delight of having my work praised and +appreciated, that is altogether a secondary pleasure which in no way +competes with the luxury of expression. +</P> + +<P> +I am not ungrateful for this delight; it may, I know, be withdrawn from +me; but meanwhile the world seems to be full to the brim of expressive +and significant things. There is a beautiful old story of a saint who +saw in a vision a shining figure approaching him, holding in his hand a +dark and cloudy globe. He held it out, and the saint looking +attentively upon it, saw that it appeared to represent the earth in +miniature; there were the continents and seas, with clouds sweeping +over them; and, for all that it was so minute, he could see cities and +plains, and little figures moving to and fro. The angel laid his +finger on a part of the globe, and detached from it a small cluster of +islands, drawing them out of the sea; and the saint saw that they were +peopled by a folk, whom he knew, in some way that he could not wholly +understand, to be dreary and uncomforted. He heard a voice saying, +"<I>He taketh up the isles as a very small thing</I>"; and it darted into +his mind that his work lay with the people of those sad islands; that +he was to go thither, and speak to them a message of hope. +</P> + +<P> +It is a beautiful story; and it has always seemed to me that the work +of the artist is like that. He is to detach from the great peopled +globe what little portion seems to appeal to him most; and he must then +say what he can to encourage and sustain men, whatever thoughts of joy +and hope come most home to him in his long and eager pilgrimage. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Hamlet +</H4> + +<P> +We were talking yesterday about the stage, a subject in which I am +ashamed to confess I take but a feeble interest, though I fully +recognise the appeal of the drama to certain minds, and its +possibilities. One of the party, who had all his life been a great +frequenter of theatres, turned to me and said: "After all, there is one +play which seems to be always popular, and to affect all audiences, the +poor, the middle-class, the cultivated, alike—<I>Hamlet</I>." "Yes," I +said, "and I wonder why that is?" "Well," he said, "it is this, I +think: that beneath all its subtleties, all its intellectual force, it +has an emotional appeal to every one who has lived in the world; every +one sees himself more or less in Hamlet; every one has been in a +situation in which he felt that circumstances were too strong for him; +and then, too," he added, "there is always a deep and romantic interest +about the case of a man who has every possible external advantage, +youth, health, wealth, rank, love, ardour, and zest, who is yet utterly +miserable, and moves to a dark end under a shadow of doom." +</P> + +<P> +I thought, and think this a profound and delicate criticism. There is, +of course, a great deal more in <I>Hamlet</I>; there is its high poetry, its +mournful dwelling upon deep mysteries, its supernatural terrors, its +worldly wisdom, its penetrating insight; but these are all accessories +to the central thought; the conception is absolutely firm throughout. +The hunted soul of Hamlet, after a pleasant and easy drifting upon the +stream of happy events, finds a sombre curtain suddenly twitched aside, +and is confronted with a tragedy so dark, a choice so desperate, that +the reeling brain staggers, and can hardly keep its hold upon the +events and habits of life. Day by day the shadow flits beside him; +morning after morning he uncloses his sad eyes upon a world, which he +had found so sweet, and which he now sees to be so terrible; the +insistent horror breeds a whole troop of spectres, so that all the +quiet experiences of life, friendship, love, nature, art, become big +with uneasy speculations and surmises; from the rampart-platform by the +sea until the peal of ordnance is shot off, as the poor bodies are +carried out, every moment brings with it some shocking or brooding +experience. Hamlet is not strong enough to close his eyes to these +things; if for a moment he attempts this, some tragic thought plucks at +his shoulder, and bids the awakened sleeper look out into the +struggling light. Neither is he strong enough to face the situation +with resolution and courage. He turns and doubles before the pursuing +Fury; he hopes against hope that a door of escape may be opened. He +poisons the air with gloom and suspicion; he feeds with wilful sadness +upon the most melancholy images of death and despair. And though the +great creator of this mournful labyrinth, this atrocious dilemma, can +involve the sad spirit with an art that thrills all the most delicate +fibres of the human spirit, he cannot stammer out even the most +faltering solution, the smallest word of comfort or hope. He leaves +the problem, where he took it up, in the mighty hands of God. +</P> + +<P> +And thus the play stands as the supreme memorial of the tortured +spirit. The sad soul of the prince seems like an orange-banded bee, +buzzing against the glass of some closed chamber-window, wondering +heavily what is the clear yet palpable medium that keeps it, in spite +of all its efforts, from re-entering the sunny paradise of tree and +flower, that lies so close at hand, and that is yet unattainable; until +one wonders why the supreme Lord of the place cannot put forth a +finger, and release the ineffectual spirit from its fruitless pain. As +the play gathers and thickens to its crisis, one experiences—and this +is surely a test of the highest art—the poignant desire to explain, to +reason, to comfort, to relieve; even if one cannot help, one longs at +least to utter the yearning of the heart, the intense sympathy that one +feels for the multitude of sorrows that oppress this laden spirit; to +assuage if only for a moment, by an answering glance of love, the fire +that burns in those stricken eyes. And one must bear away from the +story not only the intellectual satisfaction, the emotional excitement, +but a deep desire to help, as far as a man can, the woes of spirits +who, all the world over, are in the grip of these dreary agonies. +</P> + +<P> +And that, after all, is the secret of the art that deals with the +presentment of sorrow; with the art that deals with pure beauty the end +is plain enough; we may stay our hearts upon it, plunge with gratitude +into the pure stream, and recognise it for a sweet and wholesome gift +of God; but the art that makes sorrow beautiful, what are we to do with +that? We may learn to bear, we may learn to hope that there is, in the +mind of God, if we could but read it, a region where both beauty and +sadness are one; and meanwhile it may teach us to let our heart go out, +in love and pity, to all who are bound upon their pilgrimage in +heaviness, and passing uncomforted through the dark valley. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A Sealed Spirit +</H4> + +<P> +A few weeks ago I was staying with a friend of mine, a clergyman in the +country. He told me one evening a very sad story about one of his +parishioners. This was a man who had been a clerk in a London Bank, +whose eyesight had failed, and who had at last become totally blind. +He was, at the time when this calamity fell upon him, about forty years +of age. The Directors of the Bank gave him a small pension, and he had +a very small income of his own; he was married, with one son, who was +shortly after taken into the Bank as a clerk. The man and his wife +came into the parish, and took a tiny cottage, where they lived very +simply and frugally. But within a year or two his hearing had also +failed, and he had since become totally deaf. It is almost appalling +to reflect upon the condition of helplessness to which this double +calamity can reduce a man. To be cut off from the sights and sounds of +the world, with these two avenues of perception closed, so as to be +able to take cognisance of external things only through scent and +touch! It would seem to be well-nigh unendurable! He had learnt to +read raised type with his fingers, and had been presented by some +friends with two or three books of this kind. His speech was, as is +always the case, affected, but still intelligible. Only the simplest +facts could be communicated to him, by means of a set of cards, with +words in raised type, out of which a few sentences could be arranged. +But he and his wife had invented a code of touch, by means of which she +was able to a certain extent, though of course very inadequately, to +communicate with him. I asked how he employed himself, and I was told +that he wrote a good deal,—curious, rhapsodical compositions, dwelling +much on his own thoughts and fancies. "He sits," said the Vicar, "for +hours together on a bench in his garden, and walks about, guided by his +wife. His sense of both smell and touch have become extraordinarily +acute; and, afflicted as he is, I am sure he is not at all an unhappy +man." He produced some of the writings of which he had spoken. They +were written in a big, clear hand. I read them with intense interest. +Some of them were recollections of his childish days, set in a somewhat +antique and biblical phraseology. Some of them were curious reveries, +dwelling much upon the perception of natural things through scent. He +complained, I remember, that life was so much less interesting in +winter because scents were so much less sweet and less complex than in +summer. But the whole of the writings showed a serene exaltation of +mind. There was not a touch of repining or resignation about them. He +spoke much of the aesthetic pleasure that he received from an increased +power of disentangling the component elements of a scent, such as came +from his garden on a warm summer day. Some of the writings that were +shown me were religious in character, in which the man spoke of a +constant sense of the nearness of God's presence, and of a strange joy +that filled his heart. +</P> + +<P> +On the following day the Vicar suggested that we should go to see him; +we turned out of a lane, and found a little cottage with a thatched +roof, standing in a small orchard, bright with flowers. On a bench we +saw the man sitting, entirely unconscious of our presence. He was a +tall, strongly-built fellow with a beard, bronzed and healthy in +appearance. His eyes were wide open, and, but for a curious fixity of +gaze, I should not have suspected that he was blind. His hands were +folded on his knee, and he was smiling; once or twice I saw his lips +move as if he was talking to himself. "We won't go up to him," said +the Vicar, "as it might startle him; we will find his wife." So we +went up to the cottage door, and knocked. It was opened to us by a +small elderly woman, with a grave, simple look, and a very pleasant +smile. The little place was wonderfully clean and neat. The Vicar +introduced me, saying that I had been much interested in her husband's +writings, and had come to call on him. She smiled briskly, and said +that he would be much pleased. We walked down the path; when we were +within a few feet of him, he became aware of our presence, and turned +his head with a quiet, expectant air. His wife went up to him, took +his hand, and seemed to beat on it softly with her fingers; he smiled, +and presently raised his hat, as if to greet us, and then took up a +little writing-pad which lay beside him, and began to write. A little +conversation followed, his wife reading out what he had written, and +then interpreting our remarks to him. What struck me most was the +absence of egotism in what he wrote. He asked the Vicar one or two +questions, and desired to know who I was. I went and sate down beside +him; he wrote in his book that it was a pleasure to him to meet a +stranger. Might he take the liberty of seeing him in his own way? "He +means," said the wife, smiling, "might he put his hand on your +face—some people do not like it," she added apologetically, "and he +will quite understand if you do not." I said that I was delighted; and +the blind man thereupon laid his hand upon my sleeve, and with an +incredible deftness and lightness of touch, so that I hardly felt it, +passed his finger-tips over my coat and waistcoat, lingered for a +moment over my watch-chain, then over my tie and collar, and then very +gently over my face and hair; it did not last half a minute, and there +was something curiously magnetic in the touch of the slim firm fingers. +"Now I see him," he wrote; "please thank him." "It will please him," +said the Vicar, "if we ask him to describe you." In a moment, after a +few touches of his wife's hand, he smiled, and wrote down a really +remarkably accurate picture of my appearance. We then asked him a few +questions about himself. "Very well and very happy," he wrote, "full +of the love of God;" and then added, "You will perhaps think that I get +tired of doing nothing, but the time is too short for all I want to +do." "It is quite true," said his wife, smiling as she read it. "He +is as pleased as a child with everything, and every one is so good to +him." Presently she asked him to read aloud to us; and in a voice of +great distinctness, he read a few verses of the Book of Job from a big +volume. The voice was high and resonant, but varied strangely in +pitch. He asked at the end whether we had heard every word, and being +told that we had, smiled very sweetly and frankly, like a boy who has +performed a task well. The Vicar suggested that he should come for a +turn with us, at which he visibly brightened, and said he would like to +walk through the village. He took our arms, walking between us; and +with a delicate courtesy, knowing that we could not communicate with +him, talked himself, very quietly and simply, almost all the way, +partly of what he was convinced we were passing,—guessing, I imagine, +mainly by a sense of smell, and interpreting it all with astonishing +accuracy, though I confess I was often unable even to detect the scents +which guided him. We walked thus for half an hour, listening to his +quiet talk. Two or three people came up to us. Each time the Vicar +checked him, and he held out his hand to be shaken; in each case he +recognised the person by the mere touch of the hand. "Mrs Purvis, +isn't it? Well, you see me in very good company this morning, don't +you? It is so kind of the Vicar and his friend to take me out, and it +is pleasant to meet friends in the village." He seemed to know all +about the affairs of the place, and made enquiries after various people. +</P> + +<P> +It was a very strange experience to walk thus with a fellow-creature +suffering from these sad limitations, and yet to be conscious of being +in the presence of so perfectly contented and cheerful a spirit. +Before we parted, he wrote on his pad that he was working hard. "I am +trying to write a little book; of course I know that I can never see +it, but I should like to tell people that it is possible to live a life +like mine, and to be full of happiness; that God sends me abundance of +joy, so that I can say with truth that I am happier now than ever I was +in the old days. Such peace and joy, with so many to love me; so +little that I can do for others, except to speak of the marvellous +goodness of God, and of the beautiful thoughts he gives me." "Yes, he +has written some chapters," said the faithful wife; "but he does not +want any one to see them till they are done." +</P> + +<P> +I shall never forget the sight of the two as we went away: he stood, +smiling and waving his hand, under an apple-tree in full bloom, with +the sun shining on the flowers. It gave me the sense of a pure and +simple content such as I have rarely experienced. The beauty and +strength of the picture have dwelt with me ever since, showing me that +a soul can be thus shut up in what would seem to be so dark a prison, +with the windows, through which most of us look upon the world, closed +and shuttered; and yet not only not losing the joy of life, but seeming +to taste it in fullest measure. If one could but accept thus one's own +limitations, viewing them not as sources of pleasure closed, but as +opening the door more wide to what remains; the very simplicity and +rarity of the perceptions that are left, gaining in depth and quality +from their isolation. But beyond all this lies that well-spring of +inner joy, which seems to be withheld from so many of us. Is it indeed +withheld? Is it conferred upon this poor soul simply as a tender +compensation? Can we not by quiet passivity, rather than by resolute +effort, learn the secret of it? I believe myself that the source is +there in many hearts, but that we visit it too rarely, and forget it in +the multitude of little cares and businesses, which seem so important, +so absorbing. It is like a hidden treasure, which we go so far abroad +to seek, and for which we endure much weariness of wandering; while all +the while it is buried in our own garden-ground; we have paced to and +fro above it many times, never dreaming that the bright thing lay +beneath our feet, and within reach of our forgetful hand. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Leisure +</H4> + +<P> +It was a bright day in early spring; large, fleecy clouds floated in a +blue sky; the wind was cool, but the sun lay hot in sheltered places. +</P> + +<P> +I was spending a few days with an old friend, at a little house he +calls his Hermitage, in a Western valley; we had walked out, had passed +the bridge, and had stood awhile to see the clear stream flowing, a +vein of reflected sapphire, among the green water-meadows; we had +climbed up among the beech-woods, through copses full of primroses, to +a large heathery hill, where a clump of old pines stood inside an +ancient earth-work. The forest lay at our feet, and the doves cooed +lazily among the tree-tops; beyond lay the plain, with a long range of +smooth downs behind, where the river broadened to the sea-pool, which +narrowed again to the little harbour; and, across the clustered +house-roofs and the lonely church tower of the port, we could see a +glint of the sea. +</P> + +<P> +We sat awhile in silence; then "Come," I said, "I am going to be +impertinent! I am in a mood to ask questions, and to have full +answers." +</P> + +<P> +"And I," said my host placidly, "am always in the mood to answer +questions." +</P> + +<P> +I would call my friend a poet, because he is sealed of the tribe, if +ever man was; yet he has never written verses to my knowledge. He is a +big, burly, quiet man, gentle and meditative of aspect; shy before +company, voluble in private. Half-humorous, half melancholy. He has +been a man of affairs, prosperous, too, and shrewd. But nothing in his +life was ever so poetical as the way in which, to the surprise and even +consternation of all his friends, he announced one day, when he was +turned of forty, that he had had enough of work, and that he would do +no more. Well, he had no one to say him nay; he has but few relations, +none in any way dependent on him; he has a modest competence; and, +being fond of all leisurely things—books, music, the open air, the +country, flowers, and the like—he has no need to fear that his time +will be unoccupied. +</P> + +<P> +He looked lazily at me, biting a straw. "Come," said I again, "here is +the time for a catechism. I have reason to think you are over forty?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said he, "the more's the pity!" +</P> + +<P> +"And you have given up regular work," I said, "for over a year; and how +do you like that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Like it?" he said. "Well, so much that I can never work again; and +what is stranger still is that I never knew what it was to be really +busy till I gave up work. Before, I was often bored; now, the day is +never long enough for all I have to do." +</P> + +<P> +"But that is a dreadful confession," I said; "and how do you justify +yourself for this miserable indifference to all that is held to be of +importance?" +</P> + +<P> +"Listen!" he said, smiling and holding up his hand. There floated up +out of the wood the soft crooning of a dove, like the over-brimming of +a tide of content. "There's the answer," he added. "How does that +dove justify his existence? and yet he has not much on his mind." +</P> + +<P> +"I have no answer ready," I said, "though there is one, I am sure, if +you will only give me time; but let that come later: more questions +first, and then I will deliver judgment. Now, attend to this +seriously," I said. "How do you justify it that you are alone in the +world, not mated, not a good husband and father? The dove has not got +that on his conscience." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" said my friend, "I have often asked myself that. But for many +years I had not the time to fall in love; if I had been an idle man it +would have been different, and now that I am free—well, I regard it +as, on the whole, a wise dispensation. I have no domestic virtues; I +am a pretty commonplace person, and I think there is no reason why I +should perpetuate my own feeble qualities, bind my dull qualities up +closer with the life of the world. Besides, I have a theory that the +world is made now very much as it was in the Middle Ages. There was +but one choice then—a soldier or a monk. Now, I have no combative +blood in me; I hate a row; I am a monk to the marrow of my bones, and +the monks are the failures from the point of view of race. No monk +should breed monks; there are enough of his kind in the hive already." +</P> + +<P> +"You a monk?" said I, laughing. "Why, you are nothing of the kind; you +are just the sort of man for an adoring wife and a handful of big +children. I must have a better answer." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," said he, rather seriously, "I will give you a better +answer. There are some people whose affections are made to run, strong +and straight, in a narrow channel. The world holds but one woman for a +man of that type, and it is his business to find her; but there are +others, and I am one, who dribble away their love in a hundred +channels—in art, in nature, among friends. To speak frankly, I have +had a hundred such passions. I made friends as a boy, quickly and +romantically, with all kinds of people—some old, some young. Then I +have loved books, and music, and, above all, the earth and the things +of the earth. To the wholesome, normal man these things are but an +agreeable background, and the real business of life lies with wife and +child and work. But to me the real things have been the beautiful +things—sunrise and sunset, streams and woods, old houses, talk, +poetry, pictures, ideas. And I always liked my work, too." +</P> + +<P> +"And you did it well?" I said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, well enough," he replied. "I have a clear head, and I am +conscientious; and then there was some fun to be got out of it at +times. But it was never a part of myself for all that. And the reason +why I gave it up was not because I was tired of it, but because I was +getting to depend too much upon it. I should very soon have been +unable to do without it." +</P> + +<P> +"But what is your programme?" I said, rather urgently. "Don't you want +to be of some use in the world? To make other people better and +happier, for instance." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear boy," said my companion, with a smile, "do you know that you +are talking in a very conventional way? Of course, I desire that +people should be better and happier, myself among the number; but how +am I to set about it? Most people's idea of being better and happier +is to make other people subscribe to make them richer. They want more +things to eat and drink and wear; they want success and respectability, +to be sidesmen and town councillors, and even Members of Parliament. +Nothing is more hopelessly unimaginative than ordinary people's aims +and ideas, and the aims and ideas, too, that are propounded from +pulpits. I don't want people to be richer and more prosperous; I want +them to be poorer and simpler. Which is the better man, the shepherd +there on the down, out all day in the air, seeing a thousand pretty +things, or the grocer behind his counter, living in an odour of lard +and cheese, bowing and fussing, and drinking spirits in the evening? +Of course, a wholesome-minded man may be wholesome-minded everywhere +and anywhere; but prosperity, which is the Englishman's idea of +righteousness, is a very dangerous thing, and has very little of what +is divine about it. If I had stuck to my work, as all my friends +advised me, what would have been the result? I should have had more +money than I want, and nothing in the world to live for but my work. +Of course, I know that I run the risk of being thought indolent and +unpractical. If I were a prophet, I should find it easy enough to +scold everybody, and find fault with the poor, peaceful world. But as +I am not, I can only follow my own line of life, and try to see and +love as many as I can of the beautiful things that God flings down all +round us. I am not a philanthropist, I suppose; but most of the +philanthropists I have known have seemed to me tiresome, self-seeking +people, with a taste for trying to take everything out of God's hands. +I am an individualist, I imagine. I think that most of us have to find +our way, and to find it alone. I do try to help a few quiet people at +the right moment; but I believe that every one has his own circle—some +larger, some smaller—and that one does little good outside it. If +every one would be content with that, the world would be mended in a +trice." +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad that you, at least, admit that there is something to be +mended," I said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," said he, "the general conditions seem to me to want mending; +but that, I humbly think, is God's matter, and not mine. The world is +slowly broadening and improving, I believe. In these days, when we +shoot our enemies and then nurse them, we are coming, I believe, to see +even the gigantic absurdity of war; but all that side of it is too big +for me. I am no philosopher! What I believe we ought to do is to be +patient, kind, and courageous in a corner. Now, I will give you an +instance. I had a friend who was a good, hard-working clergyman; a +brave, genial, courageous creature; he had a town parish not far from +here; he liked his work, and he did it well. He was the friend of all +the boys and girls in the parish; he worked a hundred useful, humble +institutions. He was nothing of a preacher, and a poor speaker; but +something generous, honest, happy seemed to radiate from the man. Of +course, they could not let him alone. They offered him a Bishopric. +All his friends said he was bound to take it; the poor fellow wrote to +me, and said that he dared not refuse a sphere of wider influence, and +all that. I wrote and told him my mind—namely, that he was doing a +splendid piece of quiet, sober work, and that he had better stick to +it. But, of course, he didn't. Well, what is the result? He is +worried to death. He has a big house and a big household; he is a +welcome guest in country-houses and vicarages; he opens churches, he +confirms; he makes endless poor speeches, and preaches weak sermons. +His time is all frittered away in directing the elaborate machinery of +a diocese; and all his personal work is gone. I don't say he doesn't +impress people. But his strength lay in his personal work, his work as +a neighbour and a friend. He is not a clever man; he never says a +suggestive thing—he is not a sower of thoughts, but a simple pastor. +Well, I regard it as a huge and lamentable mistake that he should ever +have changed his course; and the motive that made him do it was a bad +one, only disguised as an angel of light. Instead of being the stoker +of the train, he is now a distinguished passenger in a first-class +carriage." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," I said, "I admit that there is a good deal in what you say. +But if such a summons comes to a man, is it not more simple-minded to +follow it dutifully? Is it not, after all, part of the guiding of God?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" said my host, "that is a hard question, I admit. But a man must +look deep into his heart, and face a situation of the kind bravely and +simply. He must be quite sure that it is a summons from God, and not a +temptation from the world. I admit that it may be the former. But in +the case of which I have just spoken, my friend ought to have seen that +it was the latter. He was made for the work he was doing; he was +obviously not made for the other. And to sum it up, I think that God +puts us into the world to live, not necessarily to get influence over +other people. If a man is worth anything, the influence comes; and I +don't call it living to attend public luncheons, and to write +unnecessary letters, because public luncheons are things which need not +exist, and are only amusements invented by fussy and idle people. I am +not at all against people amusing themselves. But they ought to do it +quietly and inexpensively, and not elaborately and noisily. The only +thing that is certain is that men must work and eat and sleep and die. +Well, I want them to enjoy their work, their food, their rest; and then +I should like them to enjoy their leisure hours peacefully and quietly. +I have done as much in my twenty years of business as a man in a +well-regulated state ought to do in the whole of his life; and the rest +I shall give, God willing, to leisure—not eating my cake in a corner, +but in quiet good fellowship, with an eye and an ear for this wonderful +and beautiful world." And my companion smiled upon me a large, gentle, +engaging smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," I said, "you have answered well, and you have given me plenty to +think about. And at all events you have a point of view, and that is a +great thing." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said he, "a great thing, as long as one is not sure one is +right, but ready to learn, and not desirous to teach. That is the +mistake. We are children at school—we ought not to forget that; but +many of us want to sit in the master's chair, and rap the desk, and +cane the other children." +</P> + +<P> +And so our talk wandered to other things; then we were silent for a +little, while the birds came home to their roosts, and the trees +shivered in the breeze of sunset; till at last the golden glow gathered +in the west, and the sun went down in state behind the crimson line of +sea. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Pleasures of Work +</H4> + +<P> +I desire to do a very sacred thing to-day: to enunciate a couple of +platitudes and attest them. It is always a solemn moment in life when +one can sincerely subscribe to a platitude. Platitudes are the things +which people of plain minds shout from the steps of the staircase of +life as they ascend; and to discover the truth of a platitude by +experience means that you have climbed a step higher. +</P> + +<P> +The first enunciation is, that in this world we most of us do what we +like. And the corollary to that is, that we most of us like what we do. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, we must begin by taking for granted that we most of us are +obliged to do something. But that granted, it seems to me that it is +very rare to find people who do not take a certain pleasure in their +work, and even secretly congratulate themselves on doing it with a +certain style and efficiency. To find a person who has not some +species of pride of this nature is very rare. Other people may not +share our opinion of our own work. But even in the case of those whose +work is most open to criticism, it is almost invariable to find that +they resent criticism, and are very ready to appropriate praise. I had +a curiously complete instance of this the other day. In a parish which +I often visit, the organ in the church is what is called presided over +by the most infamous executant I have ever heard—an elderly man, who +seldom plays a single chord correctly, and whose attempts to use the +pedals are of the nature of tentative and unsuccessful experiments. +His performance has lately caused a considerable amount of indignation +in the parish, for a new organ has been placed in the church, of far +louder tone than the old instrument, and my friend the organist is +hopelessly adrift upon it. The residents in the place have almost made +up their minds to send a round-robin to the Vicar to ask that the +<I>pulsator organorum</I>, the beater of the organ, as old Cathedral +statutes term him, may be deposed. The last time I attended service, +one of those strangely appropriate verses came up in the course of the +Psalms, which make troubled spirits feel that the Psalter does indeed +utter a message to faithful individual hearts. "<I>I have desired that +they, even my enemies,</I>" ran the verse, "<I>should not triumph over me; +for when my foot slipped, they rejoiced greatly against me.</I>" In the +course of the verse the unhappy performer executed a perfect fandango +on the pedals. I looked guiltily at the senior churchwarden, and saw +his mouth twitch. +</P> + +<P> +In the same afternoon I fell in with the organist, in the course of a +stroll, and discoursed to him in a tone of gentle condolence about the +difficulties of a new instrument. He looked blankly at me, and then +said that he supposed that some people might find a change of +instrument bewildering, but that for himself he felt equally at home on +any instrument. He went on to relate a series of compliments that +well-known musicians had paid him, which I felt must either have been +imperfectly recollected, or else must have been of a consolatory or +even ironical nature. In five minutes, I discovered that my friend was +the victim of an abundant vanity, and that he believed that his +vocation in life was organ-playing. +</P> + +<P> +Again, I remember that, when I was a schoolmaster, one of my colleagues +was a perfect byword for the disorder and noise that prevailed in his +form. I happened once to hold a conversation with him on disciplinary +difficulties, thinking that he might have the relief of confiding his +troubles to a sympathising friend. What was my amazement when I +discovered that his view of the situation was, that every one was +confronted with the same difficulties as himself, and that he obviously +believed that he was rather more successful than most of us in dealing +with them tactfully and strictly. +</P> + +<P> +I believe my principle to be of almost universal application; and that +if one could see into the heart of the people who are accounted, and +rightly accounted, to be gross and conspicuous failures, we should find +that they were not free from a certain pleasant vanity about their own +qualifications and efficiency. The few people whom I have met who are +apt to despond over their work are generally people who do it +remarkably well, and whose ideal of efficiency is so high that they +criticise severely in themselves any deviation from their standard. +Moreover, if one goes a little deeper—if, for instance, one cordially +re-echoes their own criticisms upon their work—such criticisms are apt +to be deeply resented. +</P> + +<P> +I will go further, and say that only once in the course of my life have +I found a man who did his work really well, without any particular +pride and pleasure in it. To do that implies an extraordinary degree +of will-power and self-command. +</P> + +<P> +I do not mean to say that, if any professional person found himself +suddenly placed in the possession of an independent income, greater +than he had ever derived from his professional work, his pleasure in +his work would be sufficient to retain him in the exercise of it. We +have most of us an unhappy belief in our power of living a pleasurable +and virtuous life of leisure; and the desire to live what is called the +life of a gentleman, which character has lately been defined as a +person who has no professional occupation, is very strong in the hearts +of most of us. +</P> + +<P> +But, for all that, we most of us enjoy our work; the mere fact that one +gains facility, and improves from day to day, is a source of sincere +pleasure, however far short of perfection our attempts may fall; and, +generally speaking, our choice of a profession is mainly dictated by a +certain feeling of aptitude for and interest in what we propose to +undertake. +</P> + +<P> +It is, then, a happy and merciful delusion by which we are bound. We +grow, I think, to love our work, and we grow, too, to believe in our +method of doing it. We cannot, a great preacher once said, all delude +ourselves into believing that we are richer, handsomer, braver, more +distinguished than others; but there are few of us who do not cherish a +secret belief that, if only the truth were known, we should prove to be +more interesting than others. +</P> + +<P> +To leave our work for a moment, and to turn to ordinary social +intercourse. I am convinced that the only thing that can account for +the large number of bad talkers in the world is the wide-spread belief +that prevails among individuals as to their power of contributing +interest and amusement to a circle. One ought to keep this in mind, +and bear faithfully and patiently the stream of tiresome talk that +pours, as from a hose, from the lips of diffuse and lengthy +conversationalists. I once made a terrible mistake. I complimented, +from the mere desire of saying something agreeable, and finding my +choice of praiseworthy qualities limited, an elderly, garrulous +acquaintance on his geniality, on an evening when I had writhed +uneasily under a steady downpour of talk. I have bitterly rued my +insincerity. Not only have I received innumerable invitations from the +man whom the Americans would call my complimentee, but when I am in his +company I see him making heroic attempts to make his conversation +practically continuous. How often since that day have I sympathised +with St James in his eloquent description of the deadly and poisonous +power of the tongue! A bore is not, as is often believed, a merely +selfish and uninteresting person. He is often a man who labours +conscientiously and faithfully at an accomplishment, the exercise of +which has become pleasurable to him. And thus a bore is the hardest of +all people to convert, because he is, as a rule, conscious of virtue +and beneficence. +</P> + +<P> +On the whole, it is better not to disturb the amiable delusions of our +fellow-men, unless we are certain that we can improve them. To break +the spring of happiness in a virtuous bore is a serious responsibility. +It is better, perhaps, both in matters of work and in matters of social +life, to encourage our friends to believe in themselves. We must not, +of course, encourage them in vicious and hurtful enjoyment, and there +are, of course, bores whose tediousness is not only not harmless, but a +positively noxious and injurious quality. There are bores who have but +to lay a finger upon a subject of universal or special interest, to +make one feel that under no circumstances will one ever be able to +allow one's thoughts to dwell on the subject again; and such a person +should be, as far as possible, isolated from human intercourse, like a +sufferer from a contagious malady. But this extremity of noxiousness +is rare. And it may be said that, as a rule, one does more to increase +happiness by a due amount of recognition and praise, even when one is +recognising rather the spirit of a performance than the actual result; +and such a course of action has the additional advantage of making one +into a person who is eagerly welcomed and sought after in all kinds of +society. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Abbey +</H4> + +<P> +The fresh wind blew cheerily as we raced, my friend and I, across a +long stretch of rich fen-land. The sunlight, falling somewhat dimly +through a golden haze, lay very pleasantly on the large pasture-fields. +There are few things more beautiful, I think, than these great level +plains; they give one a delightful sense of space and repose. The +distant lines of trees, the far-off church towers, the long dykes, the +hamlets half-hidden in orchards, the "sky-space and field-silence," +give one a feeling of quiet rustic life lived on a large and simple +scale, which seems the natural life of the world. +</P> + +<P> +Our goal was the remains of an old religious house, now a farm. We +were soon at the place; it stood on a very gentle rising ground, once +an island above the fen. Two great columns of the Abbey Church served +as gate-posts. The house itself lay a little back from the road, a +comfortable cluster of big barns and outhouses, with great walnut trees +all about, in the middle of an ancient tract of pasture, full of +dimpled excavations, in which the turf grew greener and more compact. +The farm-house itself, a large irregular Georgian building covered with +rough orange plaster, showed a pleasant tiled roof among the barns, +over a garden set with venerable sprawling box-trees. We found a +friendly old labourer, full of simple talk, who showed us the orchard, +with its mouldering wall of stone, pierced with niches, the line of dry +stew-ponds, the refectory, now a great barn, piled high with heaps of +grain and straw. We walked through byres tenanted by comfortable pigs +routing in the dirt. We hung over a paling to watch the creased and +discontented face of an old hog, grunting in shrill anticipation of a +meal. Our guide took us to the house, where we found a transept of the +church, now used as a brew-house, with the line of the staircase still +visible, rising up to a door in the wall that led once to the +dormitory, down the steps of which, night after night, the shivering +and sleepy monks must have stumbled into their chilly church for +prayers. The hall of the house was magnificent with great Norman +arches, once the aisle of the nave. +</P> + +<P> +The whole scene had the busy, comfortable air of a place full of +patriarchal life, the dignity of a thing existing for use and not for +show, of quiet prosperity, of garnered provender and well-fed stock. +Though it made no deliberate attempt at beauty, it was full of a seemly +and homely charm. The face of the old fellow that led us about, +chirping fragments of local tradition, with a mild pride in the fact +that strangers cared to come and see the place, wore the contented, +weather-beaten look that comes of a life of easy labour spent in the +open air. His patched gaiters, the sacking tied round him with a cord +to serve as an apron, had the same simple appropriateness. We walked +leisurely about, gathering a hundred pretty impressions,—as the old +filbert-trees that fringed the orchard, the wall-flowers, which our +guide called the blood-warriors, on the ruined coping, a flight of +pigeons turning with a sharp clatter in the air. At last he left us to +go about his little business; and we, sitting on a broken +mounting-block in the sunshine, gazed lazily and contentedly at the +scene. +</P> + +<P> +We attempted to picture something of the life of the Benedictines who +built the house. It must have been a life of much quiet happiness. We +tried to see in imagination the quaint clustered fabrics, the ancient +church, the cloister, the barns, the out-buildings. The brethren must +have suffered much from cold in winter. The day divided by services, +the nights broken by prayers; probably the time was dull enough, but +passed quickly, like all lives full of monotonous engagements. They +were not particularly ascetic, these Benedictines, and insisted much on +manual labour in the open air. Probably at first the monks did their +farm-work as well; but as they grew richer, they employed labourers, +and themselves fell back on simpler and easier garden-work. Perhaps +some few were truly devotional spirits, with a fire of prayer and +aspiration burning in their hearts; but the majority would be quiet +men, full of little gossip about possible promotions, about lands and +crops, about wayfarers and ecclesiastics who passed that way and were +entertained. Very few, except certain officials like the Cellarer, who +would have to ride to market, ever left the precincts of the place, but +laid their bones in the little graveyard east of the church. We make a +mistake in regarding the life and the buildings as having been so +picturesque, as they now appear after the long lapse of time. The +church was more venerable than the rest; but the refectory, at the time +of the dissolution, cannot have been long built; still, the old tiled +place, with its rough stone walls, must have always had a quaint and +irregular air. +</P> + +<P> +Probably it was as a rule a contented and amiable society. The regular +hours, the wholesome fatigue which the rule entailed, must have tended +to keep the inmates in health and good-humour. But probably there was +much tittle-tattle; and a disagreeable, jealous, or scheming inmate +must have been able to stir up a good deal of strife in a society +living at such close quarters. One thinks loosely that it must have +resembled the life of a college at the University, but that is an +entire misapprehension; for the idea of a college is liberty with just +enough discipline to hold it together, while the idea of a monastery +was discipline with just enough liberty to make life tolerable. +</P> + +<P> +Well, it is all over now! the idea of the monastic life, which was to +make a bulwark for quiet-minded people against the rougher world, is no +longer needed. The work of the monks is done. Yet I gave an +affectionate thought across the ages to the old inmates of the place, +whose bones have mouldered into the dust of the yard where we sat. It +seemed half-pleasant, half-pathetic to think of them as they went about +their work, sturdy, cheerful figures, looking out over the wide fen +with all its clear pools and reed-beds, growing old in the familiar +scene, passing from the dormitory to the infirmary, and from the +infirmary to the graveyard, in a sure and certain hope. They too +enjoyed the first breaking of spring, the return of balmy winds, the +pushing up of the delicate flowers in orchard and close, with something +of the same pleasure that I experience to-day. The same wonder that I +feel, the same gentle thrill speaking of an unattainable peace, an +unruffled serenity that lies so near me in the spring sunshine, +flashed, no doubt, into those elder spirits. Perhaps, indeed, their +heart went out to the unborn that should come after them, as my heart +goes out to the dead to-day. +</P> + +<P> +And even the slow change that has dismantled that busy place, and +established it as the quiet farmstead that I see, holds a hope within +it. There must indeed have been a sad time when the buildings were +slipping into decay, and the church stood ruined and roofless. But how +soon the scars are healed! How calmly nature smiles at the eager +schemes of men, breaks them short, and then sets herself to harmonise +and adorn the ruin, till she makes it fairer than before, writing her +patient lesson of beauty on broken choir and tottering wall, flinging +her tide of fresh life over the rents, and tenderly drawing back the +broken fragments into her bosom. If we could but learn from her not to +fret or grieve, to gather up what remains, to wait patiently and wisely +for our change! +</P> + +<P> +So I reasoned softly to myself in a train of gentle thought, till the +plough-horses came clattering in, and the labourers plodded gratefully +home; and the sun went down over the flats in a great glory of orange +light. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap24"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Wordsworth +</H4> + +<P> +I believe that I was once taken to Rydal Mount as a small boy, led +there meekly, no doubt, in a sort of dream; but I retain not the +remotest recollection of the place, except of a small flight of stone +steps, which struck me as possessing some attractive quality or other. +And I have since read, I suppose, a good many descriptions of the +place; but on visiting it, as I recently did, I discovered that I had +not the least idea of what it was like. And I would here shortly speak +of the extraordinary kindness which I received from the present +tenants, who are indeed of the hallowed dynasty; it may suffice to say +that I could only admire the delicate courtesy which enabled people, +who must have done the same thing a hundred times before, to show me +the house with as much zest and interest, as if I was the first pilgrim +that had ever visited the place. +</P> + +<P> +In the first place, the great simplicity of the whole struck me. It is +like a little grange or farm. The rooms are small and low, and of a +pleasant domesticity; it is a place apt for a patriarchal life, where +simple people might live at close quarters with each other. The house +is hardly visible from the gate. You turn out of a steep lane, +embowered by trees, into a little gravel sweep, approaching the house +from the side. But its position is selected with admirable art; the +ground falls steeply in front of it, and you look out over a wide +valley, at the end of which Windermere lies, a tract of sapphire blue, +among wooded hills and dark ranges. Behind, the ground rises still +more steeply, to the rocky, grassy heights of Nab Scar; and the road +leads on to a high green valley among the hills, a place of unutterable +peace. +</P> + +<P> +In this warm, sheltered nook, hidden in woods, with its southerly +aspect, the vegetation grows with an almost tropical luxuriance, so +that the general impression of the place is by no means typically +English. Laurels and rhododendrons grow in dense shrubberies; the +trees are full of leaf; flowers blossom profusely. There is a little +orchard beneath the house, and everywhere there is the fragrant and +pungent smell of sun-warmed garden-walks and box-hedges. There are +little terraces everywhere, banked up with stone walls built into the +steep ground, where stonecrops grow richly. One of these leads to a +little thatched arbour, where the poet often sat; below it, the ground +falls very rapidly, among rocks and copse and fern, so that you look +out on to the tree-tops below, and catch a glimpse of the steely waters +of the hidden lake of Rydal. +</P> + +<P> +Wordsworth lived there for more than thirty years; and half a century +has passed since he died. He was a skilful landscape gardener; and I +suppose that in his lifetime, when the walks were being constructed and +the place laid out, it must have had a certain air of newness, of +interference with the old wild peace of the hillside, which it has +since parted with. Now it is all as full of a quiet and settled order, +as if it had been thus for ever. One little detail deserves a special +mention; just below the house, there is an odd, circular, low, grassy +mound, said to be the old meeting-place for the village council, in +primitive and patriarchal days,—the Mount, from which the place has +its name. +</P> + +<P> +I thought much of the stately, simple, self-absorbed poet, whom somehow +one never thinks of as having been young; the lines of Milton haunted +me, as I moved about the rooms, the garden-terraces:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"<I>In this mount he appeared; under this tree<BR> +Stood visible; among these pines his voice<BR> +I heard; here with him at this fountain talked.</I>"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +The place is all permeated with the thought of him, his deep and +tranquil worship of natural beauty, his love of the kindly earth. +</P> + +<P> +I do not think that Wordsworth is one whose memory evokes a deep +personal attachment. I doubt if any figures of bygone days do that, +unless there is a certain wistful pathos about them; unless something +of compassion, some wish to proffer sympathy or consolation, mingles +with one's reverence. I have often, for instance, stayed at a house +where Shelley spent a few half-rapturous, half-miserable months. +There, meditating about him, striving to reconstruct the picture of his +life, one felt that he suffered much and needlessly; one would have +wished to shelter, to protect him if it had been possible, or at least +to have proffered sympathy to that inconsolable spirit. One's heart +goes out to those who suffered long years ago, whose love of the earth, +of life, of beauty, was perpetually overshadowed by the pain that comes +from realising transitoriness and decay. +</P> + +<P> +But Wordsworth is touched by no such pathos. He was extraordinarily +prosperous and equable; he was undeniably self-sufficient. Even the +sorrows and bereavements that he had to bear were borne gently and +philosophically. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and did it. +Those sturdy, useful legs of his bore him many a pleasant mile. He +always had exactly as much money as he needed, in order to live his +life as he desired. He chose precisely the abode he preferred; his +fame grew slowly and solidly. He became a great personage; he was +treated with immense deference and respect. He neither claimed nor +desired sympathy; he was as strong and self-reliant as the old yeomen +of the hills, of whom he indeed was one; his vocation was poetry, just +as their vocation was agriculture; and this vocation he pursued in as +business-like and intent a spirit as they pursued their farming. +</P> + +<P> +Wordsworth, indeed, was armed at all points by a strong and simple +pride, too strong to be vanity, too simple to be egotism. He is one of +the few supremely fortunate men in the history of literature, because +he had none of the sensitiveness or indecision that are so often the +curse of the artistic temperament. He never had the least misgivings +about the usefulness of his life; he wrote because he enjoyed it; he +ate and drank, he strolled and talked, with the same enjoyment. He had +a perfect balance of physical health. His dreams never left him cold; +his exaltations never plunged him into depression. He felt the +mysteries of the world with a solemn awe, but he had no uneasy +questionings, no remorse, no bewilderment, no fruitless melancholy. +</P> + +<P> +He bore himself with the same homely dignity in all companies alike; he +was never particularly interested in any one; he never had any fear of +being thought ridiculous or pompous. His favourite reading was his own +poetry; he wished every one to be interested in his work, because he +was conscious of its supreme importance. He probably made the mistake +of thinking that it was his sense of poetry and beauty that made him +simple and tranquil. As a matter of fact, it was the simplicity and +tranquillity of his temperament that gave him the power of enjoyment in +so large a measure. There is no growth or expansion about his life; he +did not learn his serene and impassioned attitude through failures and +mistakes: it was his all along. +</P> + +<P> +And yet what a fine, pure, noble, gentle life it was! The very thought +of him, faring quietly about among his hills and lakes, murmuring his +calm verse, in a sober and temperate joy, looking everywhere for the +same grave qualities among quiet homekeeping folk, brings with it a +high inspiration. But we tend to think of Wordsworth as a father and a +priest, rather than as a brother and a friend. He is a leader and a +guide, not a comrade. We must learn that, though he can perhaps turn +our heart the right way, towards the right things, we cannot +necessarily acquire that pure peace, that solemn serenity, by obeying +his precepts, unless we too have something of the same strong calmness +of soul. In some moods, far from sustaining and encouraging us, the +thought of his equable, impassioned life may only fill us with +unutterable envy. But still to have sat in his homely rooms, to have +paced his little terraces, does bring a certain imagined peace into the +mind, a noble shame for all that is sordid or mean, a hatred for the +conventional aims, the pitiful ambitions of the world. +</P> + +<P> +Alas, that the only sound from the little hill-platform, the embowered +walks, should be the dull rolling of wheels—motors, coaches, +omnibuses—in the road below! That is the shadow of his greatness. It +is a pitiable thought that one of the fruits of his genius is that it +has made his holy retreat fashionable. The villas rise in rows along +the edges of the clear lakes, under the craggy fell-sides, where the +feathery ashes root among the mimic precipices. A stream of +chattering, vacuous, indifferent tourists pours listlessly along the +road from <I>table-d'hôte</I> to <I>table-d'hôte</I>. The turbid outflow of the +vulgar world seems a profanation of these august haunts. One hopes +despairingly that something of the spirit of lonely beauty speaks to +these trivial heads and hearts. But is there consolation in this? +What would the poet himself have felt if he could have foreseen it all? +</P> + +<P> +I descended the hill-road and crossed the valley highway; it was full +of dust; the vehicles rolled along, crowded with men smoking cigars and +reading newspapers, tired women, children whose idea of pleasure had +been to fill their hands with ferns and flowers torn from cranny and +covert. I climbed the little hill opposite the great Scar; its green +towering head, with its feet buried in wood, the hardy trees straggling +up the front wherever they could get a hold among the grey crags, rose +in sweet grandeur opposite to me. I threaded tracks of shimmering +fern, out of which the buzzing flies rose round me; I went by silent, +solitary places where the springs soak out of the moorland, while I +pondered over the bewildering ways of the world. The life, the ideals +of the great poet, set in the splendid framework of the great hills, +seemed so majestic and admirable a thing. But the visible results—the +humming of silly strangers round his sacred solitudes, the +contaminating influence of commercial exploitation—made one +fruitlessly and hopelessly melancholy. +</P> + +<P> +But even so the hills were silent; the sun went down in a great glory +of golden haze among the shadowy ridges. The valleys lay out at my +feet, the rolling woodland, the dark fells. There fell a mood of +strange yearning upon me, a yearning for the peaceful secret that, as +the orange sunset slowly waned, the great hills seemed to guard and +hold. What was it that was going on there, what solemn pageant, what +sweet mystery, that I could only desire to behold and apprehend? I +know not! I only know that if I could discern it, if I could tell it, +the world would stand to listen; its littleness, its meanness, would +fade in that august light; the peace of God would go swiftly and +secretly abroad. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap25"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Dorsetshire +</H4> + +<P> +I am travelling just now, and am this week at <I>Dorchester</I>, in the +company of my oldest and best friend. We like the same things; and I +can be silent if I will, while I can also say anything, however +whimsical, that comes into my mind; there are few things better than +that in the world, and I count the precious hours very gratefully; +<I>appono lucro</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Dorsetshire gives me the feeling of being a very old country. The big +downs seem like the bases of great rocky hills which have through long +ages been smoothed and worn away, softened and mellowed, the rocks, +grain by grain, carried downwards into the flat alluvial meadowlands +beneath. In these rich pastures, all intersected with clear streams, +runnels and water-courses, full at this season of rich water-plants, +the cattle graze peacefully. The downs have been ploughed and sown up +to the sky-line. Then there are fine tracts of heather and pines in +places. And then, too, there is a sense of old humanity, of ancient +wars about the land. There are great camps and earthworks everywhere, +with ramparts and ditches, both British and Roman. The wolds from +which the sea is visible are thickly covered with barrows, each holding +the mouldering bones of some forgotten chieftain, laid to rest, how +many centuries ago, with the rude mourning of a savage clan. I stood +on one of the highest of these the other day, on a great gorse-clad +headland, and sent my spirit out in quest of the old warrior that lay +below—"Audisne haec, Amphiaräe, sub terram condite?" But there was no +answer from the air; though in my sleep one night I saw a wild, +red-bearded man, in a coat of skins, with rude gaiters, and a hat of +foxes' fur on his head; he carried a long staff in his hand, pointed +with iron, and looked mutely and sorrowfully upon me. Who knows if it +was he? +</P> + +<P> +And then of later date are many ruinous strongholds, with Cyclopean +walls, like the huge shattered bulk of <I>Corfe</I>, upon its green hill, +between the shoulders of great downs. There are broken abbeys, +pinnacled church-towers in village after village. And then, too, in +hamlet after hamlet, rise quaint stone manors, high-gabled, +many-mullioned, in the midst of barns and byres. One of the sweetest +places I have seen is <I>Cerne Abbas</I>. The road to it winds gently up +among steep downs, a full stream gliding through flat pastures at the +bottom. The hamlet has a forgotten, wistful air; there are many houses +in ruins. Close to the street rises the church-tower, of rich and +beautiful design, with gurgoyles and pinnacles, cut out of a soft +orange stone and delicately weathered. At the end of the village +stands a big farm-house, built out of the abbey ruins, with a fine +oriel in one of the granaries. In a little wilderness of trees, the +ground covered with primroses, stands the exquisite old gatehouse with +mullioned windows. I have had for years a poor little engraving of the +place, and it seemed to greet me like an old friend. Then, in the +pasture above, you can see the old terraces and mounds of the monastic +garden, where the busy Benedictines worked day by day; further still, +on the side of the down itself, is cut a very strange and ancient +monument. It is the rude and barbarous figure of a naked man, sixty +yards long, as though moving northwards, and brandishing a huge knotted +club. It is carved deep into the turf, and is overgrown with rough +grass. No one can even guess at the antiquity of the figure, but it is +probably not less than three thousand years old. Some say that it +records the death of a monstrous giant of the valley. The good monks +Christianised it, and named it <I>Augustine</I>. But it seems to be +certainly one of the frightful figures of which Caesar speaks, on which +captives were bound with twisted osiers, and burnt to death for a +Druidical sacrifice. The thing is grotesque, vile, horrible; the very +stones of the place seemed soaked with terror, cruelty and death. Even +recently foul and barbarous traditions were practised there, it is +said, by villagers, who were Christian only in name. Yet it lay +peacefully enough to-day, the shadows of the clouds racing over it, the +wind rustling in the grass, with nothing to break the silence but the +twitter of birds, the bleat of sheep on the down, and the crying of +cocks in the straw-thatched village below. +</P> + +<P> +What a strange fabric of history, memory, and tradition is here +unrolled, of old unhappy far-off things! How bewildering to think of +the horrible agonies of fear, the helpless, stupefied creatures lying +bound there, the smoke sweeping over them and the flames crackling +nearer, while their victorious foes laughed and exulted round them, and +the priests performed the last hideous rites. And all the while God +watched the slow march of days from the silent heaven, and worked out +his mysterious purposes! And yet, surveying the quiet valley to-day, +it seems as though there were no memory of suffering or sorrow in it at +all. +</P> + +<P> +We climbed the down; and there at our feet the world lay like a map, +with its fields, woods, hamlets and church-towers, the great rich plain +rolling to the horizon, till it was lost in haze. How infinitely +minute and unimportant seemed one's own life, one's own thoughts, the +schemes of one tiny moving atom on the broad back of the hills. And +yet my own small restless identity is almost the only thing in the +world of which I am assured! +</P> + +<P> +There came to me at that moment a thrill of the spirit which comes but +rarely; a deep hope, the sense of a secret lying very near, if one +could only grasp it; an assurance that we are safe and secure in the +hand of God, and a certainty that there is a vast reality behind, +veiled from us only by the shadows of fears, ambitions, and desires. +And the thought, too, came that all the tiny human beings that move +about their tasks in the plain beneath—nay, the animals, the trees, +the flowers, every blade of grass, every pebble—each has its place in +the great and awful mystery. Then came the sense of the vast +fellowship of created things, the tender Fatherhood of the God who made +us all. I can hardly put the thought into words; but it was one of +those sudden intuitions that seem to lie deeper even than the mind and +the soul, a message from the heart of the world, bidding one wait and +wonder, rest and be still. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap26"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXVI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Portland +</H4> + +<P> +I will put another little sketch side by side with the last, for the +sake of contrast; I think it is hardly possible within the compass of a +few days to have seen two scenes of such minute and essential +difference. At <I>Cerne</I> I had the tranquil loneliness of the +countryside, the silent valley, the long faintly-tinted lines of +pasture, space and stillness; the hamlets nestled among trees in the +dingles of the down. To-day I went south along a dusty road; at first +there were quiet ancient sights enough, such as the huge grass-grown +encampment of <I>Maiden Castle</I>, now a space of pasture, but still +guarded by vast ramparts and ditches, dug in the chalk, and for a +thousand years or more deserted. The downs, where they faced the sea, +were dotted with grassy barrows, air-swept and silent. We topped the +hill, and in a moment there was a change; through the haze we saw the +roofs of <I>Weymouth</I> laid out like a map before us, with the smoke +drifting west from innumerable chimneys; in the harbour, guarded by the +slender breakwaters, floated great ironclads, black and sinister bulks; +and beyond them frowned the dark front of <I>Portland</I>. Very soon the +houses began to close in upon the road,—brick-built, pretentious, +bow-windowed villas; then we were in the streets, showing a wholesome +antiquity in the broad-windowed mansions of mellow brick, which sprang +into life when the honest king George III. made the quiet port +fashionable by spending his simple summers there. There was the king's +lodging itself, Gloucester House, now embedded in a hotel, with the big +pilastered windows of its saloons giving it a faded courtly air. Soon +we were by the quays, with black red-funnelled steamers unloading, and +all the quaint and pretty bustle of a port. We went out to a +promontory guarded by an old stone fort, and watched a red merchant +steamer roll merrily in, blowing a loud sea-horn. Then over a +low-shouldered ridge, and we were by the great inner roads, full of +shipping; we sat for a while by the melancholy walls of an ancient +Tudor castle, now crumbling into the sea; and then across the narrow +causeway that leads on to <I>Portland</I>. On our right rose the <I>Chesil +Bank</I>, that mysterious mole of orange shingle, which the sea, for some +strange purpose of its own, has piled up, century after century, for +eighteen miles along the western coast. And then the grim front of +<I>Portland Island</I> itself loomed out above us. The road ran up steeply +among the bluffs, through line upon line of grey-slated houses; to the +left, at the top of the cliff, were the sunken lines of the huge fort, +with the long slopes of its earthworks, the glacis overgrown with +grass, and the guns peeping from their embrasures; to the left, dipping +to the south, the steep grey crags, curve after curve. The streets +were alive with an abundance of merry young sailors and soldiers, +brisk, handsome boys, with the quiet air of discipline that converts a +country lout into a self-respecting citizen. An old bronzed sergeant +led a child with one hand, and with the other tried to obey her shrill +directions about whirling a skipping-rope, so that she might skip +beside him; he looked at us with a half-proud, half-shamefaced smile, +calling down a rebuke for his inattention from the girl. +</P> + +<P> +We wound slowly up the steep roads smothered in dust; landwards the +view was all drowned in a pale haze, but the steep grey cliffs by +<I>Lulworth</I> gleamed with a tinge of gold across the sea. +</P> + +<P> +At the top, one of the dreariest landscapes I have ever seen met the +sight. The island lies, so to speak, like a stranded whale, the great +head and shoulders northwards to the land. The moment you surmount the +top, the huge, flat side of the monster is extended before you, +shelving to the sea. Hardly a tree grows there; there is nothing but a +long perspective of fields, divided here and there by stone walls, with +scattered grey houses at intervals. There is not a feature of any kind +on which the eye can rest. In the foreground the earth is all +tunnelled and tumbled; quarries stretch in every direction, with huge, +gaunt, straddling, gallows-like structures emerging, a wheel spinning +at the top, and ropes travelling into the abyss; heaps of grey +<I>débris</I>, interspersed with stunted grass, huge excavations, ugly +ravines with a spout of grim stone at the seaward opening, like the +burrowings of some huge mole. The placid green slopes of the fort give +an impression of secret strength, even grandeur. Otherwise it is but a +ragged, splashed aquarelle of grey and green. Over the <I>débris</I> appear +at a distance the blunt ominous chimneys of the convict prison, which +seems to put the finishing touch on the forbidding character of the +scene. +</P> + +<P> +To-day the landward view was all veiled in haze, which seemed to shut +off the sad island from the world. On a clear day, no doubt, the view +must be full of grandeur, the inland downs, edged everywhere with the +tall scarped cliffs, headland after headland, with the long soft line +of the <I>Chesil Bank</I> below them. But on a day of sea mist, it must be, +I felt, one of the saddest and most mournful regions in the world, with +no sound but the wail of gulls, and the chafing of the surge below. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap27"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXVII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Canterbury Tower +</H4> + +<P> +To-day I had a singular pleasure heightened by an intermingled +strangeness and even terror—qualities which bring out the quality of +pleasure in the same way that a bourdon in a pedal-point passage brings +out the quality of what a German would, I think, call the <I>over-work</I>. +I was at <I>Canterbury</I>, where the great central tower is wreathed with +scaffolding, and has a dim, blurred outline from a distance, as though +it were being rapidly shaken to and fro. I found a friendly and +communicable man who offered to take me over it; we climbed a dizzy +little winding stair, with bright glimpses at intervals, through +loop-holes, of sunlight and wheeling birds; then we crept along the top +of a vaulted space with great pockets of darkness to right and left. +Soon we were in the gallery of the lantern, from which we could see the +little people crawling on the floor beneath, like slow insects. And +then we mounted a short ladder which took us out of one of the great +belfry windows, on to the lowest of the planked galleries. What a +frail and precarious structure it seemed: the planks bent beneath our +feet. And here came the first exquisite delight—that of being close +to the precipitous face of the tower, of seeing the carved work which +had never been seen close at hand since its erection except by the +jackdaws and pigeons. I was moved and touched by observing how fine +and delicate all the sculpture was. There were rows and rows of little +heraldic devices, which from below could appear only as tiny fretted +points; yet every petal of rose or <I>fleur-de-lys</I> was as scrupulously +and cleanly cut as if it had been meant to be seen close at hand; a +waste of power, I suppose; but what a pretty and delicate waste! and +done, I felt, in faithful days, when the carving was done as much to +delight, if possible, the eye of God, as to please the eye of man. +Higher and higher we went, till at last we reached the parapet. And +then by a dizzy perpendicular ladder to which I committed myself in +faith, we reached a little platform on the very top of one of the +pinnacles. The vane had just been fixed, and the stone was splashed +with the oozing solder. And now came the delight of the huge view all +round: the wooden heights, the rolling hills; old church towers rose +from flowering orchards; a mansion peeped through immemorial trees; and +far to the north-east we could see the white cliff of <I>Pegwell Bay</I>; +endeared to me through the beautiful picture by Dyce, where the pale +crags rise from the reefs green with untorn weeds. There on the +horizon I could see shadowy sails on the steely sea-line. +</P> + +<P> +Near at hand there were the streets, and then the Close, with its +comfortable canonical houses, in green trim gardens, spread out like a +map at my feet. We looked down on to the tops of tall elm-trees, and +saw the rooks walking and sitting on the grey-splashed platforms of +twigs, that swayed horribly in the breeze. It was pleasant to see, as +I did, the tiny figure of my reverend host walking, a dot of black, in +his garden beneath, reading in a book. The long grey-leaded roof ran +broad and straight, a hundred feet below. One felt for a moment as a +God might feel, looking on a corner of his created world, and seeing +that it was good. One seemed to have surmounted the earth, and to +watch the little creeping orbits of men with a benevolent compassion, +perceiving how strait they were. The large air hissed briskly in the +pinnacles, and roared through the belfry windows beneath. I cannot +describe the eager exhilaration which filled me; but I guessed that the +impulse which bids men fling themselves from such heights is not a +morbid prepossession, not a physical dizziness, but an intemperate and +overwhelming joy. It seems at such a moment so easy to float and swim +through the viewless air, as if one would be borne up on the wings of +angels. +</P> + +<P> +But, alas! the hour warned us to return. On our way down we disturbed +a peevish jackdaw from her nest; she had dragged up to that intolerable +height a pile of boughs that would have made a dozen nests; she had +interwoven for the cup to hold her eggs a number of strips of purloined +canvas. There lay the three speckled eggs, the hope of the race, while +the chiding mother stood on a pinnacle hard by, waiting for the +intruder to begone. +</P> + +<P> +A strange sense of humiliation and smallness came upon me as we emerged +at last into the nave; the people that had seemed so small and +insignificant, were, alas! as big and as important as myself; I felt as +an exile from the porches of heaven, a fallen spirit. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap28"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXVIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Prayer +</H4> + +<P> +I am often baffled when I try to think what prayer is; if our thoughts +do indeed lie open before the eyes of the Father, like a little clear +globe of water which a man may hold in his hand—and I am sure they +do—it certainly seems hardly worth while to put those desires into +words. Many good Christians seem to me to conceive of prayers partly +as a kind of tribute they are bound to pay, and partly as requests that +are almost certain to be refused. With such people religion, then, +means the effort which they make to trust a Father who hears prayers, +and very seldom answers them. But this does not seem to be a very +reasonable attitude. +</P> + +<P> +I confess that liturgical prayer does not very much appeal to me. It +does not seem to me to correspond to any particular need in my mind. +It seems to me to sacrifice almost all the things that I mean by +prayer—the sustained intention of soul, the laying of one's own +problems before the Father, the expression of one's hopes for others, +the desire that the sorrows of the world should be lightened. Of +course, a liturgy touches these thoughts at many points; but the +exercise of one's own liberty of aspiration and wonder, the pursuing of +a train of thought, the quiet dwelling upon mysteries, are all lost if +one has to stumble and run in a prescribed track. To follow a service +with uplifted attention requires more mental agility than I possess; +point after point is raised, and yet, if one pauses to meditate, to +wonder, to aspire, one is lost, and misses the thread of the service. +I suppose that there is or ought to be something in the united act of +intercession. But I dislike all public meetings, and think them a +waste of time. I should make an exception in favour of the Sacrament, +but the rapid disappearance of the majority of a congregation before +the solemn act seems to me to destroy the sense of unity with singular +rapidity. As to the old theory that God requires of his followers that +they should unite at intervals in presenting him with a certain amount +of complimentary effusion, I cannot even approach the idea. The +holiest, simplest, most benevolent being of whom I can conceive would +be inexpressibly pained and distressed by such an intention on the part +of the objects of his care; and to conceive of God as greedy of +recognition seems to me to be one of the conceptions which insult the +dignity of the soul. +</P> + +<P> +I have heard lately one or two mediaeval stories which illustrate what +I mean. There is a story of a pious monk, who, worn out by long +vigils, fell asleep, as he was saying his prayers before a crucifix. +He was awakened by a buffet on the head, and heard a stern voice +saying, "Is this an oratory or a dormitory?" I cannot conceive of any +story more grotesquely human than the above, or more out of keeping +with one's best thoughts about God. Again, there is a story which is +told, I think, of one of the first monasteries of the Benedictine +order. One of the monks was a lay brother, who had many little menial +tasks to fulfil; he was a well-meaning man, but extremely forgetful, +and he was often forced to retire from some service in which he was +taking part, because he had forgotten to put the vegetables on to boil, +or omitted other duties which would lead to the discomfort of the +brethren. Another monk, who was fond of more secular occupations, such +as wood-carving and garden-work, and not at all attached to habits of +prayer, seeing this, thought that he would do the same; and he too used +to slip away from a service, in order to return to the business that he +loved better. The Prior of the monastery, an anxious, humble man, was +at a loss how to act; so he called in a very holy hermit, who lived in +a cell hard by, that he might have the benefit of his advice. The +hermit came and attended an Office. Presently the lay brother rose +from his knees and slipped out. The hermit looked up, followed him +with his eyes, and appeared to be greatly moved. But he took no +action, and only addressed himself more assiduously to his prayers. +Shortly after, the other brother rose and went out. The hermit looked +up, and seeing him go, rose too, and followed him to the door, where he +fetched him a great blow upon the head that nearly brought him to the +ground. Thereupon the stricken man went humbly back to his place and +addressed himself to his prayers; and the hermit did the same. +</P> + +<P> +The Office was soon over, and the hermit went to the Prior's room to +talk the matter over. The hermit said: "I bore in my mind what you +told me, dear Father, and when I saw one of the brethren rise from his +prayers, I asked God to show me what I should do; but I saw a wonderful +thing; there was a shining figure with our brother, his hand upon the +other's sleeve; and this fair comrade, I have no doubt, was an angel of +God, that led the brother forth, that he might be about his Father's +business. So I prayed the more earnestly. But when our other brother +rose, I looked up; and I saw that he had been plucked by the sleeve by +a little naked, comely boy, very swarthy of hue, that I saw had no +business among our holy prayers; he wore a mocking smile on his face, +as though he prevailed in evil. So I rose and followed; and just as +they came to the door, I aimed a shrewd blow, for it was told me what +to do, at the boy, and struck him on the head, so that he fell to the +ground, and presently went to his own place; and then our brother came +back to his prayers." +</P> + +<P> +The Prior mused a little over this wonder, and then he said, smiling: +"It seemed to me that it was our brother that was smitten." "Very +like," said the hermit, "for the two were close together, and I think +the boy was whispering in the brother's ear; but give God the glory; +for the dear brother will not offend again." +</P> + +<P> +There is an abundance of truth in this wholesome ancient tale; but I +will not draw the morals out here. All I will say is that the old +theory of prayer, simple and childlike as it is, seems to have a +curious vitality even nowadays. It presupposes that the act of prayer +is in itself pleasing to God; and that is what I am not satisfied of. +</P> + +<P> +That theory seems to prevail even more strongly in the Roman Church of +to-day than in our own. The Roman priest is not a man occupied +primarily with pastoral duties; his business is the business of prayer. +To neglect his daily offices is a mortal sin, and when he has said +them, his priestly duty is at an end. This does not seem to me to bear +any relation to the theory of prayer as enunciated in the Gospel. +There the practice of constant and secret prayer, of a direct and +informal kind, is enjoined upon all followers of Christ; but Our Lord +seems to be very hard upon the lengthy and public prayers of the +Pharisees, and indeed against all formality in the matter at all. The +only united service that he enjoined upon his followers was the +Sacrament of the common meal; and I confess that the saying of formal +liturgies in an ornate building seems to me to be a practice which has +drifted very far away from the simplicity of individual religion which +Christ appears to have aimed at. +</P> + +<P> +My own feeling about prayer is that it should not be relegated to +certain seasons, or attended by certain postures, or even couched in +definite language; it should rather be a constant uplifting of the +heart, a stretching out of the hands to God. I do not think we should +ask for definite things that we desire; I am sure that our definite +desires, our fears, our plans, our schemes, the hope that visits one a +hundred times a day, our cravings for wealth or success or influence, +are as easily read by God, as a man can discern the tiny atoms and +filaments that swim in his crystal globe. But I think we may ask to be +led, to be guided, to be helped; we may put our anxious little +decisions before God; we may ask for strength to fulfil hard duties; we +may put our desires for others' happiness, our hopes for our country, +our compassion for sorrowing or afflicted persons, our horror of +cruelty and tyranny before him; and here I believe lies the force of +prayer; that by practising this sense of aspiration in his presence, we +gain a strength to do our own part. If we abstain from prayer, if we +limit our prayers to our own small desires, we grow, I know, petty and +self-absorbed and feeble. We can leave the fulfilment of our concrete +aims to God; but we ought to be always stretching out our hands and +opening our hearts to the high and gracious mysteries that lie all +about us. +</P> + +<P> +A friend of mine told me that a little Russian peasant, whom he had +visited often in a military hospital, told him, at their last +interview, that he would tell him a prayer that was always effective, +and had never failed of being answered. "But you must not use it," he +said, "unless you are in a great difficulty, and there seems no way +out." The prayer which he then repeated was this: "Lord, remember King +David, and all his grace." +</P> + +<P> +I have never tested the efficacy of this prayer, but I have a thousand +times tested the efficacy of sudden prayer in moments of difficulty, +when confronted with a little temptation, when overwhelmed with +irritation, before an anxious interview, before writing a difficult +passage. How often has the temptation floated away, the irritation +mastered itself, the right word been said, the right sentence written! +To do all we are capable of, and then to commit the matter to the hand +of the Father, that is the best that we can do. +</P> + +<P> +Of course, I am well aware that there are many who find this kind of +help in liturgical prayer; and I am thankful that it is so. But for +myself, I can only say that as long as I pursued the customary path, +and confined myself to fixed moments of prayer, I gained very little +benefit. I do not forego the practice of liturgical attendance even +now; for a solemn service, with all the majesty of an old and beautiful +building full of countless associations, with all the resources of +musical sound and ceremonial movement, does uplift and rejoice the +soul. And even with simpler services, there is often something vaguely +sustaining and tranquillising in the act. But the deeper secret lies +in the fact that prayer is an attitude of soul, and not a ceremony; +that it is an individual mystery, and not a piece of venerable pomp. I +would have every one adopt his own method in the matter. I would not +for an instant discourage those who find that liturgical usage uplifts +them; but neither would I have those to be discouraged who find that it +has no meaning for them. The secret lies in the fact that our aim +should be a relation with the Father, a frank and reverent confidence, +a humble waiting upon God. That the Father loves all his children with +an equal love I doubt not. But he is nearest to those who turn to him +at every moment, and speak to him with a quiet trustfulness. He alone +knows why he has set us in the middle of such a bewildering world, +where joy and sorrow, darkness and light, are so strangely +intermingled; and all that we can do is to follow wisely and patiently +such clues as he gives us, into the cloudy darkness in which he seems +to dwell. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap29"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXIX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Death-bed of Jacob +</H4> + +<P> +I heard read the other morning, in a quiet house-chapel, a chapter +which has always seemed to me one of the most perfectly beautiful +things in the Bible. And as it was read, I felt, what is always a test +of the highest kind of beauty, that I had never known before how +perfect it was. It was the 48th chapter of Genesis, the blessing of +Ephraim and Manasses. Jacob, feeble and spent, is lying in the quiet, +tranquil passiveness of old age, with bygone things passing like dreams +before the inner eye of the spirit—in that mood, I think, when one +hardly knows where the imagined begins or the real ends. He is told +that his son Joseph is coming, and he strengthens himself for an +effort. Joseph enters, and, in a strain of high solemnity, Jacob +speaks of the promise made long before on the stone-strewn hills of +Bethel, and its fulfilment; but even so he seems to wander in his +thought, the recollection of his Rachel comes over him, and he cannot +forbear to speak of her: "<I>And as for me, when I came from Padan, +Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan, in the way, and when yet there +was but a little way to come unto Ephrath; and I buried her there in +the way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem.</I>" +</P> + +<P> +Could there be anything more human, more tender than that? The memory +of the sad day of loss and mourning, and then the gentle, aged +precision about names and places, the details that add nothing, and yet +are so natural, so sweet an echo of the old tale, the symbols of the +story, that stand for so much and mean so little,—"<I>the same is +Bethlehem</I>." Who has not heard an old man thus tracing out the +particulars of some remote recollected incident, dwelling for the +hundredth time on the unimportant detail, the side-issue, so needlessly +anxious to avoid confusion, so bent on useless accuracy. +</P> + +<P> +Then, as he wanders thus, he becomes aware of the two boys, standing in +wonder and awe beside him; and even so he cannot at once piece together +the facts, but asks, with a sudden curiosity, "<I>Who are these?</I>" Then +it is explained very gently by the dear son whom he had lost, and who +stands for a parable of tranquil wisdom and loyal love. The old man +kisses and embraces the boys, and with a full heart says, "<I>I had not +thought to see thy face; and lo, God hath showed me also thy seed.</I>" +And at this Joseph can bear it no more, puts the boys forward, who seem +to be clinging shyly to him, and bows himself down with his face to the +earth, in a passion of grief and awe. +</P> + +<P> +And then the old man will not bless them as intended, but gives the +richer blessing to the younger; with those words which haunt the memory +and sink into the heart: "<I>The angel which redeemed me from all evil, +bless the lads.</I>" And Joseph is moved by what he thinks to be a +mistake, and would correct it, so as to give the larger blessing to his +firstborn. But Jacob refuses. "<I>I know it, my son, I know it ... he +also shall be great, but truly his younger brother shall be greater +than he.</I>" +</P> + +<P> +And so he adds a further blessing; and even then, at that deep moment, +the old man cannot refrain from one flash of pride in his old prowess, +and speaks, in his closing words, of the inheritance he won from the +Amorite with his sword and bow; and this is all the more human because +there is no trace in the records of his ever having done anything of +the kind. He seems to have been always a man of peace. And so the +sweet story remains human to the very end. I care very little what the +critics may have to say on the matter. They may call it legendary if +they will, they may say that it is the work of an Ephraimite scribe, +bent on consecrating the Ephraimite supremacy by the aid of tradition. +But the incident appears to me to be of a reality, a force, a +tenderness, that is above historical criticism. Whatever else may be +true, there is a breathing reality in the picture of the old weak +patriarch making his last conscious effort; Joseph, that wise and +prudent servant, whose activities have never clouded his clear natural +affections; the boys, the mute and awed actors in the scene, not made +to utter any precocious phrases, and yet centring the tenderness of +hope and joy upon themselves. If it is art, it is the perfection of +art, which touches the very heart-strings into a passion of sweetness +and wonder. +</P> + +<P> +Compare this ancient story with other achievements of the human mind +and soul: with Homer, with Virgil, with Shakespeare. I think they pale +beside it, because with no sense of effort or construction, with all +the homely air of a simple record, the perfectly natural, the perfectly +pathetic, the perfectly beautiful, is here achieved. There is no +painting of effects, no dwelling on accessories, no consciousness of +beauty; and yet the heart is fed, the imagination touched, the spirit +satisfied. For here one has set foot in the very shrine of truth and +beauty, and the wise hand that wrote it has just opened the door of the +heart, and stands back, claiming no reward, desiring no praise. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap30"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +By the Sea of Galilee +</H4> + +<P> +I have often thought that the last chapter of St John's Gospel is one +of the most bewildering and enchanting pieces of literature I know. I +suppose Robert Browning must have thought so, because he makes the +reading of it, in that odd rich poem, <I>Bishop Blougram's Apology</I>, the +sign, together with testing a plough, of a man's conversion, from the +unreal life of talk and words, to the realities of life; though I have +never divined why he used this particular chapter as a symbol; and +indeed I hope no one will ever make it clear to me, though I daresay +the connection is plain enough. +</P> + +<P> +It is bewildering, because it is a postscript, added, with a singular +artlessness, after the Gospel has come to a full close. Perhaps St +John did not even write it, though the pretty childlike conclusion +about the world itself not being able to contain the books that might +be written about Christ has always seemed to me to be in his spirit, +the words of a very simple-minded and aged man. It is enchanting, +because it contains two of the most beautiful episodes in the whole of +the Gospel History, the charge to St Peter to feed the lambs and sheep +of the fold, where one of the most delicate nuances of language is lost +in the English translation, and the appearance of Jesus beside the sea +of Galilee. I must not here discuss the story of the charge to St +Peter, though I once heard it read, with exquisite pathos, when an +archbishop of Canterbury was being enthroned with all the pomp and +circumstance of ecclesiastical ceremony, in such a way that it brought +out, by a flash of revelation, the true spirit of the scene we were +attending; we were simple Christians, it seemed, assembled only to set +a shepherd over a fold, that he might lead a flock in green pastures +and by waters of comfort. +</P> + +<P> +But a man must not tell two tales at once, or he loses the savour of +both. Let us take the other story. +</P> + +<P> +The dreadful incidents of the Passion are over; the shame, the horror, +the humiliation, the disappointment. The hearts of the Apostles must +have been sore indeed at the thought that they had deserted their +friend and Master. Then followed the mysterious incidents of the +Resurrection, about which I will only say that it is plain from the +documents, if they are accepted as a record at all, from the +astonishing change which seems to have passed over the Apostles, +converting their timid faithfulness into a tranquil boldness, that +they, at all events, believed that some incredibly momentous thing had +happened, and that their Master was among them again, returning through +the gates of Death. +</P> + +<P> +They go back, like men wearied of inaction, tired of agitated thought, +to their homely trade. All night the boat sways in the quiet tide, but +they catch nothing. Then, as the morning begins to come in about the +promontories and shores of the lake, they see the figure of one moving +on the bank, who hails them with a familiar heartiness, as a man might +do who had to provide for unexpected guests, and had nothing to give +them to eat. I fancy, I know not whether rightly, that they see in him +a purchaser, and answer sullenly that they have nothing to sell. Then +follows a direction, which they obey, to cast the net on the right side +of the boat. Perhaps they thought the stranger—for it is clear that +as yet they had no suspicion of his identity—had seen some sign of a +moving shoal which had escaped them. They secure a great haul of fish. +Then John has an inkling of the truth; and I know no words which thrill +me more strangely than the simple expression that bursts from his lips: +<I>It is the Lord!</I> With characteristic impetuosity Peter leaps into the +water, and wades or swims ashore. +</P> + +<P> +And then comes another of the surprising touches of the story. As a +mother might tenderly provide a meal for her husband and sons who have +been out all night, they find that their visitant has made and lit a +little fire, and is broiling fish, how obtained one knows not; then the +haul is dragged ashore, the big shoal leaping in the net; and then +follows the simple invitation and the distribution of the food. It +seems as though that memorable meal, by the shore of the lake, with the +fresh brightness of the morning breaking all about them, must have been +partaken of in silence; one can almost hear the soft crackling of the +fire, and the waves breaking on the shingle. They dared not ask him +who he was: they knew; and yet, considering that they had only parted +from him a few days before, the narrative implies that some mysterious +change must have passed over him. Perhaps they were wondering, as we +may wonder, how he was spending those days. He was seen only in sudden +and unexpected glimpses; where was he living, what was he doing through +those long nights and days in which they saw him not? I can only say +that for me a deep mystery broods over the record. The glimpses of +him, and even more his absences, seem to me to transcend the powers of +human invention. That these men lived, that they believed they saw the +Lord, seems to me the only possible explanation, though I admit to the +full the baffling mystery of it all. +</P> + +<P> +And then the scene closes with absolute suddenness; there is no attempt +to describe, to amplify, to analyse. There follows the charge to +Peter, the strange prophecy of his death, and the still stranger +repression of curiosity as to what should be the fate of St John. +</P> + +<P> +But the whole incident, coming to us as it does out of the hidden +ancient world, defying investigation, provoking the deepest wonder, +remains as faint and sweet as the incense of the morning, as the cool +breeze that played about the weary brows of the sleepless fishermen, +and stirred the long ripple of the clear lake. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap31"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Apocalypse +</H4> + +<P> +I think that there are few verses of the Bible that give one a more +sudden and startling thrill than the verse at the beginning of the +viiith chapter of the Revelation. <I>And when he had opened the seventh +seal there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour</I>. The +very simplicity of the words, the homely note of specified time, is in +itself deeply impressive. But further, it gives the dim sense of some +awful and unseen preparation going forward, a period allowed in which +those that stood by, august and majestic as they were, should collect +their courage, should make themselves ready with bated breath for some +dire pageant. Up to that moment the vision had followed hard on the +opening of each seal. Upon the opening of the first, had resounded a +peal of thunder, and the voice of the first beast had called the +awestruck eyes and the failing heart to look upon the sight: <I>Come and +see</I>! Then the white horse with the crowned conqueror had ridden +joyfully forth. At the opening of the second seal, had sprung forth +the red horse, and the rider with the great sword. When the third was +opened, the black horse had gone forth, the rider bearing the balances; +and then had followed the strange and naďve charge by the unknown +voice, which gives one so strong a sense that the vision was being +faithfully recorded rather than originated, the voice that quoted a +price for the grain of wheat and barley, and directed the protection of +the vineyard and olive-yard. This homely reference to the simple food +of earth keeps the mind intent upon the actual realities and needs of +life in the midst of these bewildering sights. Then at the fourth +opening, the pale horse, bestridden by Death, went mournfully abroad. +At the fifth seal, the crowded souls beneath the altar cry out for +restlessness; they are clothed in white robes, and bidden to be patient +for a while. Then, at the sixth seal, falls the earthquake, the +confusion of nature, the dismay of men, before the terror of the anger +of God; and the very words <I>the wrath of the Lamb</I>, have a marvellous +significance; the wrath of the Most Merciful, the wrath of one whose +very symbol is that of a blithe and meek innocence. Then the earth is +guarded from harm, and the faithful are sealed; and in words of the +sublimest pathos, the end of pain and sorrow is proclaimed, and the +promise that the redeemed shall be fed and led forth by fountains of +living waters. And then, at the very moment of calm and peace, the +seventh seal is opened,—and nothing follows! the very angels of heaven +seem to stand with closed eyes, compressed lips, and beating heart, +waiting for what shall be. +</P> + +<P> +And then at last the visions come crowding before the gaze again—the +seven trumpets are sounded, the bitter, burning stars fall, the locusts +swarm out from the smoking pit, and death and woe begin their work; +till at last the book is delivered to the prophet, and his heart is +filled with the sweetness of the truth. +</P> + +<P> +I have no desire to trace the precise significance of these things. I +do not wish that these tapestries of wrought mysteries should be +suspended upon the walls of history. I do not think that they can be +so suspended; nor have I the least hope that these strange sights, so +full both of brightness and of horror, should ever be seen by mortal +eye. But that a human soul should have lost itself in these august +dreams, that the book of visions should have been thus strangely +guarded through the ages, and at last, clothed in the sweet cadences of +our English tongue, should be read in our ears, till the words are +soaked through and through with rich wonder and tender +associations—that is, I think, a very wonderful and divine thing. The +lives of all men that have an inner eye for beauty are full of such +mysteries, and surely there is no one, of those that strive to pierce +below the dark experiences of life, who is not aware, as he reckons +back the days of his life, of hours when the seals of the book have +been opened. It has been so, I know, in my own life. Sometimes, at +the rending of the seal, a gracious thing has gone forth, bearing +victory and prosperity. Sometimes a dark figure has ridden away, +changing the very face of the earth for a season. Sometimes a thunder +of dismay has followed, or a vision of sweet peace and comfort; and +sometimes one has assuredly known that a seal has been broken, to be +followed by a silence in heaven and earth. +</P> + +<P> +And thus these solemn and mournful visions retain a great hold over the +mind; it is, with myself, partly the childish associations of wonder +and delight. One recurred so eagerly to the book, because, instead of +mere thought and argument, earthly events, wars and dynasties, here was +a gallery of mysterious pictures, things seen out of the body, scenes +of bright colour and monstrous forms, enacted on the stage of heaven. +That is entrancing still; but beyond and above these strange forms and +pictured fancies, I now discern a deeper mystery of thought; not pure +and abstract thought, flashes of insight, comforting grace, kindled +desires, but rather that more complex thought that, through a +perception of strange forms, a waving robe of scarlet, a pavement +bright with jewels, a burning star, a bird of sombre plumage, a dark +grove, breathes a subtle insight, like a strain of unearthly music, +interpreting the hopes and fears of the heart by haunted glimpses and +obscure signs. I do not know in what shadowy region of the soul these +things draw near, but it is in a region which is distinct and apart, a +region where the dreaming mind projects upon the dark its dimly-woven +visions; a region where it is not wise to wander too eagerly and +carelessly, but into which one may look warily and intently at seasons, +standing upon the dizzy edge of time, and gazing out beyond the flaming +ramparts of the world. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap32"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Statue +</H4> + +<P> +I saw a strange and moving thing to-day. I went with a friend to visit +a great house in the neighbourhood. The owner was away, but my friend +enjoyed the right of leisurely access to the place, and we thought we +would take the opportunity of seeing it. +</P> + +<P> +We entered at the lodge, and walked through the old deer-park with its +huge knotted oaks, its wide expanse of grass. The deer were feeding +quietly in a long herd. The great house itself came in sight, with its +portico and pavilions staring at us, so it seemed, blankly and +seriously, with shuttered eyes. The whole place unutterably still and +deserted, like a house seen in a dream. +</P> + +<P> +There was one particular thing that we came to visit; we left the house +on the left, and turned through a little iron gate into a thick grove +of trees. We soon became aware that there was open ground before us, +and presently we came to a space in the heart of the wood, where there +was a silent pool all overgrown with water-lilies; the bushes grew +thickly round the edge. The pool was full of water-birds, coots, and +moor-hens, sailing aimlessly about, and uttering strange, melancholy +cries at intervals. On the edge of the water stood a small marble +temple, streaked and stained by the weather. As we approached it, my +friend told me something of the builder of the little shrine. He was a +former owner of the place, a singular man, who in his later days had +lived a very solitary life here. He was a man of wild and wayward +impulses, who had drunk deeply in youth of pleasure and excitement. He +had married a beautiful young wife, who had died childless in the first +year of their marriage, and he had abandoned himself after this event +to a despairing seclusion, devoted to art and music. He had filled the +great house with fine pictures, he had written a book of poems, and +some curious stilted volumes of autobiographical prose; but he had no +art of expression, and his books had seemed like a powerless attempt to +give utterance to wild and melancholy musings; they were written in a +pompous and elaborate style, which divested the thoughts of such charm +as they might have possessed. +</P> + +<P> +He had lived thus to a considerable age in a wilful sadness, unloving +and unloved. He had cared nothing for the people of the place, +entertained no visitors; rambling, a proud solitary figure, about the +demesne, or immured for days together in his library. Had the story +not been true, it would have appeared like some elaborate fiction. +</P> + +<P> +He built this little temple in memory of the wife whom he had lost, and +often visited it, spending hours on hot summer days wandering about the +little lake, or sitting silent in the portico. We went up to the +building. It was a mere alcove, open to the air. But what arrested my +attention was a marble figure of a young man, in a sitting position, +lightly clad in a tunic, the neck, arms, and knees bare; one knee was +flung over the other, and the chin was propped on an arm, the elbow of +which rested on the knee. The face was a wonderful and expressive +piece of work. The boy seemed to be staring out, not seeing what he +looked upon, but lost in a deep agony of thought. The face was +wonderfully pure and beautiful; and the anguish seemed not the anguish +of remorse, but the pain of looking upon things both sweet and +beautiful, and of yet being unable to take a share in them. The whole +figure denoted a listless melancholy. It was the work of a famous +French sculptor, who seemed to have worked under close and minute +direction; and my friend told me that no less than three statues had +been completed before the owner was satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +On the pedestal were sculptured the pathetic words, <I>Oímoi mal authis</I>. +There was a look of revolt of dumb anger upon the face that lay behind +its utter and hopeless sadness. I knew too well, by a swift instinct, +what the statue stood for. Here was one, made for life, activity, and +joy, who yet found himself baffled, thwarted, shut out from the +paradise that seemed to open all about him; it was the face of one who +had found satiety in pleasure, and sorrow in the very heart of joy. +There was no taint of grossness or of luxury in the face, but rather a +strength, an intellectual force, a firm lucidity of thought. I confess +that the sight moved me very strangely. I felt a thrill of the deepest +compassion, a desire to do something that might help or comfort, a +yearning wish to aid, to explain, to cheer. The silence, the +stillness, the hopelessness of the pathetic figure woke in me the +intensest desire to give I knew not what—an overwhelming impulse of +pity. It seemed a parable of all the joy that is so sternly checked, +all the hopes made vain, the promise disappointed, the very death of +the soul. It seemed infinitely pathetic that God should have made so +fair a thing, and then withheld joy. And it seemed as though I had +looked into the very soul of the unhappy man who had set up so strange +and pathetic an allegory of his sufferings. The boy seemed as though +he would have welcomed death—anything that brought an end; yet the +health and suppleness of the bright figure held out no hope of that. +It was the very type of unutterable sorrow, and that not in an outworn +body, and reflected in a face dim with sad experience, but in a +perfectly fresh and strong frame, built for action and life. I cannot +say what remote thoughts, what dark communings, visited me at the +sight. I seemed confronted all at once with the deepest sadness of the +world, as though an unerring arrow had pierced my very heart—an arrow +winged by beauty, and shot on a summer day of sunshine and song. +</P> + +<P> +Is there any faith that is strong enough and deep enough to overcome +such questionings? It seemed to bring me near to all those pale and +hopeless agonies of the world; all the snapping short of joy, the +confronting of life with death—those dreadful moments when the heart +asks itself, in a kind of furious horror, "How can it be that I am +filled so full of all the instinct of joy and life, and yet bidden to +suffer and to die?" +</P> + +<P> +The only hope is in an utter and silent resignation; in the belief +that, if there is a purpose in the gift of joy, there is a purpose in +the gift of suffering. And as thus, in that calm afternoon, in the +silent wood, by the shining pool, I lifted up my heart to God to be +consoled, I felt a great hope draw near, as when the vast tide flows +landward, and fills the dry, solitary sand-pools with the leaping +brine. "Only wait," said the deep and tender voice, "only endure, only +believe; and a sweetness, a beauty, a truth beyond your utmost dreams +shall be revealed." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap33"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Mystery of Suffering +</H4> + +<P> +Here is a story which has much occupied my thoughts lately. A man in +middle life, with a widowed sister and her children depending on him, +living by professional exertions, is suddenly attacked by a painful, +horrible, and fatal complaint. He goes through a terrible operation, +and then struggles back to his work again, with the utmost courage and +gallantry. Again the complaint returns, and the operation is repeated. +After this he returns again to his work, but at last, after enduring +untold agonies, he is forced to retire into an invalid life, after a +few months of which he dies in terrible suffering, and leaves his +sister and the children nearly penniless. +</P> + +<P> +The man was a quiet, simple-minded person, fond of his work, fond of +his home, conventional and not remarkable except for the simply heroic +quality he displayed, smiling and joking up to the moment of the +administering of anaesthetics for his operations, and bearing his +sufferings with perfect patience and fortitude, never saying an +impatient word, grateful for the smallest services. +</P> + +<P> +His sister, a simple, active woman, with much tender affection and +considerable shrewdness, finding that the fear of incurring needless +expense distressed her brother, devoted herself to the ghastly and +terrible task of nursing him through his illnesses. The children +behaved with the same straightforward affection and goodness. None of +the circle ever complained, ever said a word which would lead one to +suppose that they had any feeling of resentment or cowardice. They +simply received the blows of fate humbly, resignedly, and cheerfully, +and made the best of the situation. +</P> + +<P> +Now, let us look this sad story in the face, and see if we can derive +any hope or comfort from it. In the first place, there was nothing in +the man's life which would lead one to suppose that he deserved or +needed this special chastening, this crucifixion of the body. He was +by instinct humble, laborious, unselfish, and good, all of which +qualities came out in his illness. Neither was there anything in the +life or character of the sister which seemed to need this stern and +severe trial. The household had lived a very quiet, active, useful +life, models of good citizens—religious, contented, drawing great +happiness from very simple resources. +</P> + +<P> +One's belief in the goodness, the justice, the patience of the Father +and Maker of men forbids one to believe that he can ever be wantonly +cruel, unjust, or unloving. Yet it is impossible to see the mercy or +justice of his actions in this case. And the misery is that, if it +could be proved that in one single case, however small, God's goodness +had, so to speak, broken down; if there were evidence of neglect or +carelessness or indifference, in the case of one single child of his, +one single sentient thing that he has created, it would be impossible +to believe in his omnipotence any more. Either one would feel that he +was unjust and cruel, or that there was some evil power at work in the +world which he could not overcome. +</P> + +<P> +For there is nothing remedial in this suffering. The man's useful, +gentle life is over, the sister is broken down, unhappy, a second time +made desolate; the children's education has suffered, their home is +made miserable. The only thing that one can see, that is in any degree +a compensation, is the extraordinary kindness displayed by friends, +relations, and employers in making things easy for the afflicted +household. And then, too, there is the heroic quality of soul +displayed by the sufferer himself and his sister—a heroism which is +ennobling to think of, and yet humiliating too, because it seems to be +so far out of one's own reach. +</P> + +<P> +This is a very dark abyss of the world into which we are looking. The +case is an extreme one perhaps, but similar things happen every day, in +this sad and wonderful and bewildering world. Of course, one may take +refuge in a gloomy acquiescence, saying that such things seem to be +part of the world as it is made, and we cannot explain them, while we +dumbly hope that we may be spared such woes. But that is a dark and +despairing attitude, and, for one, I cannot live at all, unless I feel +that God is indeed more upon our side than that. I cannot live at all, +I say. And yet I must live; I must endure the Will of God in whatever +form it is laid upon me—in joy or in pain, in contentment or sick +despair. Why am I at one with the Will of God when it gives me +strength, and hope, and delight? Why am I so averse to it when it +brings me languor, and sorrow, and despair? That I cannot tell; and +that is the enigma which has confronted men from generation to +generation. +</P> + +<P> +But I still believe that there is a Will of God; and, more than that, I +can still believe that a day comes for all of us, however far off it +may be, when we shall understand; when these tragedies, that now +blacken and darken the very air of Heaven for us, will sink into their +places in a scheme so august, so magnificent, so joyful, that we shall +laugh for wonder and delight; when we shall think not more sorrowfully +over these sufferings, these agonies, than we think now of the sad days +in our childhood when we sat with a passion of tears over a broken toy +or a dead bird, feeling that we could not be comforted. We smile as we +remember such things—we smile at our blindness, our limitations. We +smile to reflect at the great range and panorama of the world that has +opened upon us since, and of which, in our childish grief, we were so +ignorant. Under what conditions the glory will be revealed to us I +cannot guess. But I do not doubt that it will be revealed; for we +forget sorrow, but we do not forget joy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap34"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXIV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Music +</H4> + +<P> +I have just come back from hearing a great violinist, who played, with +three other professors, in two quartettes, Mozart and Beethoven. I +know little of the technicalities of music, but I know that the Mozart +was full to me of air and sunlight, and a joy which was not the +light-hearted gaiety of earth, but the untainted and unwearying joy of +heaven; the Beethoven I do not think I understood, but there was a +grave minor movement, with pizzicato passages for the violoncello, +which seemed to consecrate and dignify the sorrow of the heart. +</P> + +<P> +But apart from the technical merits of the music—and the performance, +indeed, seemed to me to lie as near the thought and the conception as +the translation of music into sound can go—the sight of these four big +men, serious and grave, as though neither pursuing nor creating +pleasure, but as though interpreting and giving expression to some +weighty secret, had an inspiring and solemnising effect. The sight of +the great violinist himself was full of awe; his big head, the full +grey beard which lay over the top of the violin, his calm, set brows, +his weary eyes with their heavy lids, had a profound dignity and +seriousness; and to see his wonderful hands, not delicate or slender, +but full, strong, and muscular, moving neither lingeringly nor hastily, +but with a firm and easy deliberation upon the strings, was deeply +impressive. It all seemed so easy, so inevitable, so utterly without +display, so simple and great. It gave one a sense of mingled fire and +quietude, which is the end of art,—one may almost say the end of life; +it was no leaping and fitful flame, but a calm and steady glow; not a +consuming fire, but like the strength of a mighty furnace; and then the +peace of it! The great man did not stand before us as a performer; he +seemed utterly indifferent to praise or applause, and he had rather a +grave, pontifical air, as of a priest, divinely called to minister, +celebrating a divine mystery, calling down the strength of heaven to +earth. Neither was there the least sense of one conferring a favour; +he rather appeared to recognise that we were there in the same spirit +as himself, the worshippers in some high solemnity, and his own skill +not a thing to be shown or gloried in, but a mere ministering of a +sacred gift. He seemed, indeed, to be like one who distributed a +sacramental meat to an intent throng; not a giver of pleasure, but a +channel of secret grace. +</P> + +<P> +From such art as this one comes away not only with a thrill of mortal +rapture, but with a real and deep faith in art, having bowed the head +before a shrine, and having tasted the food of the spirit. When, at +the end of a sweet and profound movement, the player raised his great +head and looked round tenderly and gently on the crowd, one felt as +though, like Moses, he had struck the rock, and the streams had gushed +out, <I>ut bibat populus</I>. And there fell an even deeper awe, which +seemed to say, "God was in this place ... and I knew it not." The +world of movement, of talk, of work, of conflicting interests, into +which one must return, seemed all a fantastic noise, a shadowy +striving; the only real thing seemed the presence-chamber from which we +had gone out, the chamber in which music had uttered its voice at the +bidding of some sacred spell, the voice of an infinite Spirit, the +Spirit that had brooded upon the deep, evoking order out of chaos and +light out of darkness; with no eager and dusty manoeuvrings, no clink +and clatter of human toil, but gliding resistlessly and largely upon +the world, as the sun by silent degrees detaches himself from the dark +rim of the world, and climbs in stately progress into the unclouded +heaven. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap35"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXV +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Faith of Christ +</H4> + +<P> +I read a terrible letter in the newspaper this morning, a letter from a +clergyman of high position, finding fault with a manifesto put out by +certain other clergymen; the letter had a certain volubility about it, +and the writer seemed to me to pull out rather adroitly one or two +loose sticks in his opponents' bundle, and to lay them vehemently about +their backs. But, alas! the acrimony, the positiveness, the arrogance +of it! +</P> + +<P> +I do not know that I admired the manifesto very much myself; it was a +timid and half-hearted document, but it was at least sympathetic and +tender. The purport of it was to say that, just as historical +criticism has shown that some of the Old Testament must be regarded as +fabulous, so we must be prepared for a possible loss of certitude in +some of the details of the New Testament. It is conceivable, for +instance, that without sacrificing the least portion of the essential +teaching of Christ, men may come to feel justified in a certain +suspension of judgment with regard to some of the miraculous +occurrences there related; may even grow to believe that an element of +exaggeration is there, that element of exaggeration which is never +absent from the writings of any age in which scientific historical +methods had no existence. A suspension of judgment, say: because in +the absence of any converging historical testimony to the events of the +New Testament, it will never be possible either to affirm or to deny +historically that the facts took place exactly as related; though, +indeed, the probability of their having so occurred may seem to be +diminished. +</P> + +<P> +The controversialist, whose letter I read with bewilderment and pain, +involved his real belief in ingenious sentences, so that one would +think that he accepted the statements of the Old Testament, such as the +account of the Creation and the Fall, the speaking of Balaam's Ass, the +swallowing of Jonah by the whale, as historical facts. He went on to +say that the miraculous element of the New Testament is accredited by +the Revelation of God, as though some definite revelation of truth had +taken place at some time or other, which all rational men recognised. +But the only objective process which has ever taken place is, that at +certain Councils of the Church, certain books of Scripture were +selected as essential documents, and the previous selection of the Old +Testament books was confirmed. But would the controversialist say that +these Councils were infallible? It must surely be clear to all +rational people that the members of these Councils were merely doing +their best, under the conditions that then prevailed, to select the +books that seemed to them to contain the truth. It is impossible to +believe that if the majority at these Councils had supposed that such +an account as the account in Genesis of the Creation was mythological, +they would thus have attested its literal truth. It never occurred to +them to doubt it, because they did not understand the principle that, +while a normal event can be accepted, if it is fairly well confirmed, +an abnormal event requires a far greater amount of converging testimony +to confirm it. +</P> + +<P> +If only the clergy could realise that what ordinary laymen like myself +want is a greater elasticity instead of an irrational certainty! if +only instead of feebly trying to save the outworks, which are already +in the hands of the enemy, they would man the walls of the central +fortress! If only they would say plainly that a man could remain a +convinced Christian, and yet not be bound to hold to the literal +accuracy of the account of miraculous incidents recorded in the Bible, +it would be a great relief. +</P> + +<P> +I am myself in the position of thousands of other laymen. I am a +sincere Christian; and yet I regard the Old Testament and the New +Testament alike as the work of fallible men and of poetical minds. I +regard the Old Testament as a noble collection of ancient writings, +containing myths, chronicles, fables, poems, and dramas, the value of +which consists in the intense faith in a personal God and Father with +which it is penetrated. +</P> + +<P> +When I come to the New Testament, I feel myself, in the Gospels, +confronted by the most wonderful personality which has ever drawn +breath upon the earth. I am not in a position to affirm or to deny the +exact truth of the miraculous occurrences there related; but the more +conscious I am of the fallibility, the lack of subtlety, the absence of +trained historical method that the writers display, the more convinced +I am of the essential truth of the Person and teaching of Christ, +because he seems to me a figure so infinitely beyond the intellectual +power of those who described him to have invented or created. +</P> + +<P> +If the authors of the Gospels had been men of delicate literary skill, +of acute philosophical or poetical insight, like Plato or Shakespeare, +then I should be far less convinced of the integral truth of the +record. But the words and sayings of Christ, the ideas which he +disseminated, seem to me so infinitely above the highest achievements +of the human spirit, that I have no difficulty in confessing, humbly +and reverently, that I am in the presence of one who seems to me to be +above humanity, and not only of it. If all the miraculous events of +the Gospels could be proved never to have occurred, it would not +disturb my faith in Christ for an instant. But I am content, as it is, +to believe in the possibility of so abnormal a personality being +surrounded by abnormal events, though I am not in a position to +disentangle the actual truth from the possibilities of +misrepresentation and exaggeration. +</P> + +<P> +Dealing with the rest of the New Testament, I see in the Acts of the +Apostles a deeply interesting record of the first ripples of the faith +in the world. In the Pauline and other epistles I see the words of +fervent primitive Christians, men of real and untutored genius, in +which one has amazing instances of the effect produced, on contemporary +or nearly contemporary persons, of the same overwhelming personality, +the personality of Christ. In the Apocalypse I see a vision of deep +poetical force and insight. +</P> + +<P> +But in none of these compositions, though they reveal a glow and +fervour of conviction that places them high among the memorials of the +human spirit, do I recognise anything which is beyond human +possibilities. I observe, indeed, that St Paul's method of argument is +not always perfectly consistent, nor his conclusions absolutely cogent. +Such inspiration as they contain they draw from their nearness to and +their close apprehension of the dim and awe-inspiring presence of +Christ Himself. +</P> + +<P> +If, as I say, the Church would concentrate her forces in this inner +fortress, the personality of Christ, and quit the debatable ground of +historical enquiry, it would be to me and to many an unfeigned relief; +but meanwhile, neither scientific critics nor irrational pedants shall +invalidate my claim to be of the number of believing Christians. I +claim a Christian liberty of thought, while I acknowledge, with bowed +head, my belief in God the Father of men, in a Divine Christ, the +Redeemer and Saviour, and in the presence in the hearts of men of a +Divine spirit, leading humanity tenderly forward. I can neither affirm +nor deny the literal accuracy of Scripture records; I am not in a +position to deny the superstructure of definite dogma raised by the +tradition of the Church about the central truths of its teaching, but +neither can I deny the possibility of an admixture of human error in +the fabric. I claim my right to receive the Sacraments of my Church, +believing as I do that they invigorate the soul, bring the presence of +its Redeemer near, and constitute a bond of Christian unity. But I +have no reason to believe that any human pronouncement whatever, the +pronouncements of men of science as well as the pronouncements of +theologians, are not liable to error. There is indeed no fact in the +world except the fact of my own existence of which I am absolutely +certain. And thus I can accept no system of religion which is based +upon deductions, however subtle, from isolated texts, because I cannot +be sure of the infallibility of any form of human expression. Yet, on +the other hand, I seem to discern with as much certainty as I can +discern anything in this world, where all is so dark, the presence upon +earth at a certain date of a personality which commands my homage and +allegiance. And upon this I build my trust. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap36"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXVI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Mystery of Evil +</H4> + +<P> +I was staying the other day in a large old country-house. One morning, +my host came to me and said: "I should like to show you a curious +thing. We have just discovered a cellar here that seems never to have +been visited or used since the house was built, and there is the +strangest fungoid growth in it I have ever seen." He took a big bunch +of keys, rang the bell, gave an order for lights to be brought, and we +went together to the place. There were ranges of brick-built, vaulted +chambers, through which we passed, pleasant, cool places, with no +plaster to conceal the native brick, with great wine-bins on either +hand. It all gave one an inkling of the change in material conditions +which must have taken place since they were built; the quantity of wine +consumed in eighteenth-century days must have been so enormous, and the +difficulty of conveyance so great, that every great householder must +have felt like the Rich Fool of the parable, with much goods laid up +for many years. In the corner of one of the great vaults was a low +arched door, and my friend explained that some panelling which had been +taken out of an older house, demolished to make room for the present +mansion, had been piled up here, and thus the entrance had been hidden. +He unlocked the door, and a strange scent came out. An abundance of +lights were lit, and we went into the vault. It was the strangest +scene I have ever beheld; the end of the vault seemed like a great bed, +hung with brown velvet curtains, through the gaps of which were visible +what seemed like white velvet pillows, strange humped conglomerations. +My friend explained to me that there had been a bin at the end of the +vault, out of the wood of which these singular fungi had sprouted. The +whole place was uncanny and horrible. The great velvet curtains swayed +in the current of air, and it seemed as though at any moment some +mysterious sleeper might be awakened, might peer forth from his dark +curtains, with a fretful enquiry as to why he was disturbed. +</P> + +<P> +The scene dwelt in my mind for many days, and aroused in me a strange +train of thought; these dim vegetable forms, with their rich +luxuriance, their sinister beauty, awoke a curious repugnance in the +mind. They seemed unholy and evil. And yet it is all part of the life +of nature; it is just as natural, just as beautiful to find life at +work in this gloomy and unvisited place, wreathing the bare walls with +these dark, soft fabrics. It was impossible not to feel that there was +a certain joy of life in these growths, sprouting with such security +and luxuriance in a place so precisely adapted to their well-being; and +yet there was the shadow of death and darkness about them, to us whose +home is the free air and the sun. It seemed to me to make a curious +parable of the baffling mystery of evil, the luxuriant growth of sin in +the dark soul. I have always felt that the reason why the mystery of +evil is so baffling is because we so resolutely think of evil as of +something inimical to the nature of God; and yet evil must derive its +vitality from him. The one thing that it is impossible to believe is +that, in a world ruled by an all-powerful God, anything should come +into existence which is in opposition to his Will. It is impossible to +arrive at any solution of the difficulty, unless we either adopt the +belief that God is not all-powerful, and that there is a real dualism +in nature, two powers in eternal opposition; or else realise that evil +is in some way a manifestation of God. If we adopt the first theory, +we may conceive of the stationary tendency in nature, its inertness, +the force that tends to bring motion to a standstill, as one power, the +power of Death; and we may conceive of all motion and force as the +other power, the quickening spirit, the power of life. But even here +we are met with a difficulty, for when we try to transfer this dualism +to the region of humanity, we see that in the phenomena of disease we +are confronted, not with inertness fighting against motion, but with +one kind of life, which is inimical to human life, fighting with +another kind of life which is favourable to health. I mean that when a +fever or a cancer lays hold of a human frame, it is nothing but the +lodging inside the body of a bacterial and an infusorial life which +fights against the healthy native life of the human organism. There +must be, I will not say a consciousness, but a sense of triumphant +life, in the cancer which feeds upon the limb, in spite of all efforts +to dislodge it; and it is impossible to me to believe that the vitality +of those parasitical organisms, which prey upon the human frame, is not +derived from the vital impulse of God. We, who live in the free air +and the sun, have a way of thinking and speaking as if the plants and +animals which develop under the same conditions were of a healthy type, +while the organisms which flourish in decay and darkness, such as the +fungi of which I saw so strange an example, the larva; which prey on +decaying matter, the soft and pallid worm-like forms that tunnel in +vegetable ooze, were of an unhealthy type. But yet these creatures are +as much the work of God as the flowers and trees, the brisk animals +which we love to see about us. We are obliged in self-defence to do +battle with the creatures which menace our health; we do not question +our right to deprive them of life for our own comfort; but surely with +this analogy before us, we are equally compelled to think of the forms +of moral evil, with all their dark vitality, as the work of God's hand. +It is a sad conclusion to be obliged to draw, but I can have no doubt +that no comprehensive system of philosophy can ever be framed, which +does not trace the vitality of what we call evil to the same hand as +the vitality of what we call good. I have no doubt myself of the +supremacy of a single power; but the explanation that evil came into +the world by the institution of free-will, and that suffering is the +result of sin, seems to me to be wholly inadequate, because the mystery +of strife and pain and death is "far older than any history which is +written in any book." The mistake that we make is to count up all the +qualities which seem to promote our health and happiness, and to invent +an anthropomorphic figure of God, whom we array upon the side which we +wish to prevail. The truth is far darker, far sterner, far more +mysterious. The darkness is his not less than the light; selfishness +and sin are the work of his hand, as much as unselfishness and +holiness. To call this attitude of mind pessimism, and to say that it +can only end in acquiescence or despair, is a sin against truth. A +creed that does not take this thought into account is nothing but a +delusion, with which we try to beguile the seriousness of the truth +which we dread; but such a stern belief does not forbid us to struggle +and to strive; it rather bids us believe that effort is a law of our +natures, that we are bound to be enlisted for the fight, and that the +only natures that fail are those that refuse to take a side at all. +</P> + +<P> +There is no indecision in nature, though there is some illusion. The +very star that rises, pale and serene, above the darkening thicket, is +in reality a globe wreathed in fiery vapour, the centre of a throng of +whirling planets. What we have to do is to see as deep as we can into +the truth of things, not to invent paradises of thought, sheltered +gardens, from which grief and suffering shall tear us, naked and +protesting; but to gaze into the heart of God, and then to follow as +faithfully as we can the imperative voice that speaks within the soul. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap37"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXVII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Renewal +</H4> + +<P> +There sometimes falls upon me a great hunger of heart, a sad desire to +build up and renew something—a broken building it may be, a fading +flower, a failing institution, a ruinous character. I feel a great and +vivid pity for a thing which sets out to be so bright and beautiful, +and lapses into shapeless and uncomely neglect. Sometimes, indeed, it +must be a desolate grief, a fruitless sorrow: as when a flower that has +stood on one's table, and cheered the air with its freshness and +fragrance, begins to droop, and to grow stained and sordid. Or I see +some dying creature, a wounded animal; or even some well-loved friend +under the shadow of death, with the hue of health fading, the dear +features sharpening for the last change; and then one can only bow, +with such resignation as one can muster, before the dreadful law of +death, pray that the passage may not be long or dark, and try to dream +of the bright secrets that may be waiting on the other side. +</P> + +<P> +But sometimes it is a more fruitful sadness, when one feels that decay +can be arrested, that new life can be infused; that a fresh start may +be taken, and a life may be beautifully renewed, and be even the +brighter, one dares to hope, for a lapse into the dreary ways of +bitterness. +</P> + +<P> +This sadness is most apt to beset those who have anything to do with +the work of education. One feels sometimes, with a sudden shiver, as +when the shadow of a cloud passes over a sunlit garden, that many +elements are at work in a small society; that an evil secret is +spreading over lives that were peaceful and contented, that suspicion +and disunion and misunderstanding are springing up, like poisonous +weeds, in the quiet corner that God has given one to dress and keep. +Then perhaps one tries to put one's hand on what is amiss; sometimes +one does too much, and in the wrong way; one has not enough faith, one +dares not leave enough to God. Or from timidity or diffidence, or from +the base desire not to be troubled, from the poor hope that perhaps +things will straighten themselves out, one does too little; and that is +the worst shadow of all, the shadow of cowardice or sloth. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes, too, one has the grief of seeing a slow and subtle change +passing over the manner and face of one for whom one cares—not the +change of languor or physical weakness; that can be pityingly borne; +but one sees innocence withering, indifference to things wholesome and +fair creeping on, even sometimes a ripe and evil sort of beauty +maturing, such as comes of looking at evil unashamed, and seeing its +strong seductiveness. One feels instinctively that the door which had +been open before between such a soul and one's own spirit is being +slowly and firmly closed, or even, if one attempts to open it, pulled +to with a swift motion; and then one may hear sounds within, and even +see, in that moment, a rush of gliding forms, that makes one sure that +a visitant is there, who has brought with him a wicked company; and +then one has to wait in sadness, with now and then a timid knocking, +even happy, it may be, if the soul sometimes call fretfully within, to +say that it is occupied and cannot come forth. +</P> + +<P> +But sometimes, God be praised, it is the other way. A year ago a man +came at his own request to see me. I hardly knew him; but I could see +at once that he was in the grip of some hard conflict, which withered +his natural bloom. I do not know how all came to be revealed; but in a +little while he was speaking with simple frankness and naturalness of +all his troubles, and they were many. What was the most touching thing +of all was that he spoke as if he were quite alone in his experience, +isolated and shut off from his kind, in a peculiar horror of darkness +and doubt; as if the thoughts and difficulties at which he stumbled had +never strewn a human path before. I said but little to him; and, +indeed, there was but little to say. It was enough that he should +"cleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs upon the +heart." I tried to make him feel that he was not alone in the matter, +and that other feet had trodden the dark path before him. No advice is +possible in such cases; "therein the patient must minister to himself"; +the solution lies in the mind of the sufferer. He knows what he ought +to do; the difficulty is for him sufficiently to desire to do it; yet +even to speak frankly of cares and troubles is very often to melt and +disperse the morbid mist that gathers round them, which grows in +solitude. To state them makes them plain and simple; and, indeed, it +is more than that; for I have often noticed that the mere act of +formulating one's difficulties in the hearing of one who sympathises +and feels, often brings the solution with it. One finds, like +Christian in Doubting Castle, the key which has lain in one's bosom all +the time—the key of Promise; and when one has finished the recital, +one is lost in bewilderment that one ever was in any doubt at all. +</P> + +<P> +A year has passed since that date, and I have had the happiness of +seeing health and contentment stream back into the man's face. He has +not overcome, he has not won an easy triumph; but he is in the way now, +not wandering on trackless hills. +</P> + +<P> +So, in the mood of which I spoke at first—the mood in which one +desires to build up and renew—one must not yield oneself to luxurious +and pathetic reveries, or allow oneself to muse and wonder in the +half-lit region in which one may beat one's wings in vain—the region, +I mean, of sad stupefaction as to why the world is so full of broken +dreams, shattered hopes, and unfulfilled possibilities. One must +rather look round for some little definite failure that is within the +circle of one's vision. And even so, there sometimes comes what is the +most evil and subtle temptation of all, which creeps upon the mind in +lowly guise, and preaches inaction. What concern have you, says the +tempting voice, to meddle with the lives and characters of others—to +guide, to direct, to help—when there is so much that is bitterly amiss +with your own heart and life? How will you dare to preach what you do +not practice? The answer of the brave heart is that, if one is aware +of failure, if one has suffered, if one has gathered experience, one +must be ready to share it. If I falter and stumble under my own heavy +load, which I have borne so querulously, so clumsily, shall not I say a +word which can help a fellow-sufferer to bear his load more easily, +help him to avoid the mistakes, the falls into which my own perversity +has betrayed me? To make another's burden lighter is to lighten one's +own burden; and, sinful as it may be to err, it is still more sinful to +see another err, and be silent, to withhold the word that might save +him. Perhaps no one can help so much as one that has suffered himself, +who knows the turns of the sad road, and the trenches which beset the +way. +</P> + +<P> +For thus comes most truly the joy of repentance; it is joy to feel that +one's own lesson is learnt, and that the feeble feet are a little +stronger; but if one may also feel that another has taken heed, has +been saved the fall that must have come if he had not been warned, one +does not grudge one's own pain, that has brought a blessing with it, +that is outside of one's own blessing; one hardly even grudges the sin. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap38"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXVIII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Secret +</H4> + +<P> +I have been away from my books lately, in a land of downs and valleys; +I have walked much alone, or with a silent companion—that greatest of +all luxuries. And, as is always the case when I get out of the reach +of books, I feel that I read a great deal too much, and do not meditate +enough. It sounds indolent advice to say that one ought to meditate; +but I cannot help feeling that reading is often a still more indolent +affair. When I am alone, or at leisure among my books, I take a volume +down; and the result is that another man does my thinking for me. It +is like putting oneself in a comfortable railway carriage; one runs +smoothly along the iron track, one stops at specified stations, one +sees a certain range of country, and an abundance of pretty things in +flashes—too many, indeed, for the mind to digest; and that is the +reason, I think, why a modern journey, even with all the luxuries that +surround it, is so tiring a thing. But to meditate is to take one's +own path among the hills; one turns off the track to examine anything +that attracts the attention; one makes the most of the few things that +one sees. +</P> + +<P> +Reading is often a mere saving of trouble, a soporific for a restless +brain. This last week, as I say, I have had very few books with me. +One of the few has been Milton's <I>Paradise Lost</I>, and I have read it +from end to end. I want to say a few words about the book first, and +then to diverge, to a larger question. I have read the poem with a +certain admiration; it is a large, strong, rugged, violent thing. I +have, however, read it without emotion, except that a few of the +similes in it, which lie like shells on a beach of sand, have pleased +me. Yet it is not true to say that I have read it without emotion, +because I have read it with anger and indignation. I have come to the +conclusion that the book has done a great deal of harm. It is +responsible, I think, for a great many of the harsh, business-like, +dismal views of religion that prevail among us. Milton treated God, +the Saviour, and the angels, from the point of view of a scholar who +had read the <I>Iliad</I>. I declare that I think that the passages where +God the Father speaks, discusses the situation of affairs, and arranges +matters with the Saviour, are some of the most profane and vicious +passages in English literature. I do not want to be profane myself, +because it is a disgusting fault; but the passage where the scheme of +Redemption is arranged, where God enquires whether any of the angels +will undergo death in order to satisfy his sense of injured justice, is +a passage of what I can only call stupid brutality, disguised, alas, in +the solemn and majestic robe of sonorous language. The angels timidly +decline, and the Saviour volunteers, which saves the shameful +situation. The character of God, as displayed by Milton, is that of a +commercial, complacent, irritable Puritan. There is no largeness or +graciousness about it, no wistful love. He keeps his purposes to +himself, and when his arrangements break down, as indeed they deserve +to do, some one has got to be punished. If the guilty ones cannot, so +much the worse; an innocent victim will do, but a victim there must be. +It is a wicked, an abominable passage, and I would no more allow an +intelligent child to read it than I would allow him to read an obscene +book. +</P> + +<P> +Then, again, the passage where the rebel angels cast cannon, make +gunpowder, and mow the good angels down in rows, is incredibly puerile +and ridiculous. The hateful materialism of the whole thing is patent. +I wish that the English Church could have an Index, and put <I>Paradise +Lost</I> upon it, and allow no one to read it until he had reached years +of discretion, and then only with a certificate, and for purely +literary purposes. +</P> + +<P> +It is a terrible instance how strong a thing Art is; the grim old +author, master of every form of ugly vituperation, had drifted +miserably away from his beautiful youth, when he wrote the sweet poems +and sonnets that make the pedestal for his fame; and on that delicate +pedestal stands this hideous iron figure, with its angry gestures, its +sickening strength. +</P> + +<P> +I could pile up indignant instances of the further harm the book has +done. Who but Milton is responsible for the hard and shameful view of +the position of women? He represents her as a clinging, soft, +compliant creature, whose only ideal is to be to make things +comfortable for her husband, and to submit to his embraces. Milton +spoilt the lives of all the women he had to do with, by making them +into slaves, with the same consciousness of rectitude with which he +whipped his nephews, the sound of whose cries made his poor girl-wife +so miserable. But I do not want to go further into the question of +Milton himself. I want to follow out a wider thought which came to me +among the downs to-day. +</P> + +<P> +There seems to me to be in art, to take the metaphor of the temple at +Jerusalem, three gradations or regions, which may be typified by the +Court, the Holy Place, and the Holy of Holies. Into the Court many +have admittance, both writers and readers; it is just shut off from the +world, but admittance is easy and common. All who are moved and +stirred by ideas and images can enter here. Then there is the Holy +Place, dark and glorious, where the candlestick glimmers and the altar +gleams. And to this place the priests of art have access. Here are to +be found all delicate and strenuous craftsmen, all who understand that +there are secrets and mysteries in art. They can please and thrill the +mind and ear; they can offer up a fragrant incense; but the full +mystery is not revealed to them. Here are to be found many graceful +and soulless poets, many writers of moving tales, and discriminating +critics, who are satisfied, but cannot satisfy. Those who frequent +this place are generally of opinion that they know all that is to be +known; they talk much of form and colour, of values and order. They +can make the most of their materials; and indeed their skill outruns +their emotion. +</P> + +<P> +But there is the inmost shrine of all within, where the darkness +broods, lit at intervals by the shining of a divine light, that +glimmers on the ark and touches the taper wings of the adoring angels. +The contents indeed of the sacred chest are of the simplest; a withered +branch, a pot of food, two slabs of grey stone, obscurely engraved. +Nothing rich or rare. But those who have access to the inner shrine +are face to face with the mystery. Some have the skill to hint it, +none to describe it. And there are some, too, who have no skill to +express themselves, but who have visited the place, and bring back some +touch of radiance gushing from their brows. +</P> + +<P> +Milton, in his youth, had looked within the shrine, but he forgot, in +the clamorous and sordid world, what he had seen. Only those who have +visited the Holiest place know those others who have set foot there, +and they cannot err. I cannot define exactly what it is that makes the +difference. It cannot be seen in performance; for here I will humbly +and sincerely make the avowal that I have been within the veil myself, +though I know not when or how. I learnt there no perfection of skill, +no methods of expression. But ever since, I have looked out for the +signs that tell me whether another has set foot there or no. I +sometimes see the sign in a book, or a picture; sometimes it comes out +in talk; and sometimes I discern it in the glance of an eye, for all +the silence of the lips. It is not knowledge, it is not pride that the +access confers. Indeed it is often a sweet humility of soul. It is +nothing definite; but it is a certain attitude of mind, a certain +quality of thought. Some of those who have been within are very sinful +persons, very unhappy, very unsatisfactory, as the world would say. +But they are never perverse or wilful natures; they are never cold or +mean. Those in whom coldness and meanness are found are of necessity +excluded from the Presence. But though the power to step behind the +veil seldom brings serenity, or strength, or confidence, yet it is the +best thing that can happen to a man in the world. +</P> + +<P> +Some perhaps of those who read these words will think that it is all a +vain shadow, and that I am but wrapping up an empty thought in veils of +words. But though I cannot explain, though I cannot say what the +secret is, I can claim to be able to say almost without hesitation +whether a human spirit has passed within; and more than that. As I +write these words, I know that if any who have set foot in the secret +shrine reads them, they will understand, and recognise that I am +speaking a simple truth. +</P> + +<P> +Some, indeed, find their way thither through religion; but none whose +religion is like Milton's. Indeed, part of the wonder of the secret is +the infinite number of paths that lead there; they are all lonely; the +moment is unexpected; indeed, as was the case with myself, it is +possible to set foot within, and yet not to know it at the time. +</P> + +<P> +It is this secret which constitutes the innermost brotherhood of the +world. The innermost, I say, because neither creed, nor nationality, +nor occupation, nor age, nor sex affects the matter. It is difficult, +or shall I say unusual, for the old to enter; and most find the way +there in youth, before habit and convention have become tyrannous, and +have fenced the path of life with hedges and walls. +</P> + +<P> +Again it is the most secret brotherhood of the world; no one can dare +to make public proclamation of it, no one can gather the saints +together, for the essence of the brotherhood is its isolation. One may +indeed recognise a brother or a sister, and that is a blessed moment; +but one must not speak of it in words; and indeed there is no need of +words, where all that matters is known. It may be asked what are the +benefits which this secret brings. It does not bring laughter, or +prosperity, or success, or even cheerfulness; but it brings a high, +though fitful, joy—a joy that can be captured, practised, retained. +No one can, I think, of set purpose, capture the secret. No one can +find the way by desiring it. And yet the desire to do so is the seed +of hope. And if it be asked, why I write and print these veiled words +about so deep and intimate a mystery, I would reply that it is because +not all who have found the way, know that they have found it; and my +hope is that these words of mine may show some restless hearts that +they have found it. For one may find the shrine in youth, and for want +of knowing that one has found it, may forget it in middle age; and that +is what I sorrowfully think that not a few of my brothers do. And the +sign of such a loss is that such persons speak contemptuously and +disdainfully of their visions, and try to laugh and deride the young +and gracious out of such hopes; which is a sin that is hateful to God, +a kind of murder of souls. +</P> + +<P> +And now I have travelled a long way from where I began, but the path +was none of my own making. It was Milton, that fierce and childish +poet, that held open the door, and within I saw the ladder, at the +fiery head of which is God Himself. And like Jacob (who was indeed of +our company) I made a pillow for my head of the stones of the place, +that I might dream more abundantly. +</P> + +<P> +And so, as I walked to-day among the green places of the down, I made a +prayer in my heart to God, the matter of which I will now set down; and +it was that all of us who have visited that most Holy Place may be true +to the vision; and that God may reveal us to each other, as we go on +pilgrimage; and that as the world goes forward, he may lead more and +more souls to visit it, that bare and secret place, which yet holds +more beauty than the richest palace of the world. For palaces but hold +the outer beauty, in types and glimpses and similitudes. While in the +secret shrine we visit the central fountainhead, from which the water +of life, clear as crystal, breaks in innumerable channels, and flows +out from beneath the temple door, as Ezekiel saw it flow, lingering and +delaying, but surely coming to gladden the earth. I could indeed go +further, and speak many things out of a full heart about the matter. I +could quote the names of many poets and artists, great and small; and I +could say which of them belongs to the inner company, and which of them +is outside. But I will not do this, because it would but set +inquisitive people puzzling and wondering, and trying to guess the +secret; and that I have no desire to do; because these words are not +written to make those who do not understand to be curious; but they are +written to those who know, and, most of all, to those who know, but +have forgotten. No one may traffic in these things; and indeed there +is no opportunity to do so. I could learn in a moment, from a sentence +or a smile, if one had the secret; and I could spend a long summer day +trying to explain it to a learned and intelligent person, and yet give +no hint of what I meant. For the thing is not an intelligible process, +a matter of reasoning and logic; it is an intuition. And therefore it +is that those who cannot believe in anything that they do not +understand, will think these words of mine to be folly and vanity. The +only case where I have found a difficulty in deciding, is when I talk +to one who has lived much with those who had the secret, and has +caught, by a kind of natural imitation, some of the accent and cadence +of the truth. An old friend of mine, a pious woman, used in her last +days to have prayers and hymns read much in her room; there was a +parrot that sat there in his cage, very silent and attentive; and not +long after, when the parrot was ill, he used to mutter prayers and +hymns aloud, with a devotion that would have deceived the very elect. +And it is even so with the people of whom I have spoken. Not long ago +I had a long conversation with one, a clever woman, who had lived much +in the house of a man who had seen the truth; and I was for a little +deceived, and thought that she also knew the truth. But suddenly she +made a hard judgment of her own, and I knew in a moment that she had +never seen the shrine. +</P> + +<P> +And now I have said enough, and must make an end. I remember that long +ago, when I was a boy, I painted a picture on a panel, and set it in my +room. It was the figure of a kneeling youth on a hillock, looking +upwards; and beyond the hillock came a burst of rays from a hidden sun. +Underneath it, for no reason that I can well explain, I painted the +words <I>phôs etheasamen kai emphobos en</I>—<I>I beheld a light and was +afraid</I>. I was then very far indeed from the sight of the truth; but I +know now that I was prophesying of what should be; for the secret sign +of the mystery is a fear, not a timid and shrinking fear, but a holy +and transfiguring awe. I little guessed what would some day befall me; +but now that I have seen, I can only say with all my heart that it is +better to remember and be sad, than to forget and smile. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap39"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXXIX +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Message +</H4> + +<P> +I was awakened this morning, at the old house where I am staying, by +low and sweet singing. The soft murmur of an organ was audible, on +which some clear trebles seemed to swim and float—one voice of great +richness and force seeming to utter the words, and to draw into itself +the other voices, appropriating their tone but lending them +personality. These were the words I heard— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"The High Priest once a year<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Went in the Holy Place</SPAN><BR> +With garments white and clear;<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">It was the day of Grace.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +Without the people stood<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">While unseen and alone</SPAN><BR> +With incense and with blood<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">He did for them atone.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"So we without abide<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">A few short passing years,</SPAN><BR> +While Christ who for us died<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">Before our God appears.</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Before His Father there<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">His Sacrifice He pleads,</SPAN><BR> +And with unceasing prayer<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">For us He intercedes."</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The sweet sounds ceased; the organ lingered for an instant in a low +chord of infinite sweetness, and then a voice was heard in prayer. +That there was a chapel in the house I knew, and that a brief morning +prayer was read there. But I could not help wondering at the +remarkable distinctness with which I heard the words—they seemed close +to my ear in the air beside me. I got up, and drawing my curtains +found that it was day; and then I saw that a tiny window in the corner +of my room, that gave on the gallery of the chapel, had been left open, +by accident or design, and that thus I had been an auditor of the +service. +</P> + +<P> +I found myself pondering over the words of the hymn, which was familiar +to me, though strangely enough is to be found in but few collections. +It is a perfect lyric, both in its grave language and its beautiful +balance; and it is too, so far as such a composition can be, or ought +to be, intensely dramatic. The thought is just touched, and stated +with exquisite brevity and restraint; there is not a word too much or +too little; the image is swiftly presented, the inner meaning flashed +upon the mind. It seemed to me, too, a beautiful and desirable thing +to begin the day thus, with a delicate hallowing of the hours; to put +one gentle thought into the heart, perfumed by the sweet music. But +then my reflections took a further drift; beautiful as the little +ceremony was, noble and refined as the thought of the tender hymn was, +I began to wonder whether we do well to confine our religious life to +so restricted a range of ideas. It seemed almost ungrateful to +entertain the thought, but I felt a certain bewilderment as to whether +this remote image, drawn from the ancient sacrificial ceremony, was not +even too definite a thought to feed the heart upon. For strip the idea +of its fair accessories, its delicate art, and what have we but the sad +belief, drawn from the dark ages of the world, that the wrathful +Creator of men, full of gloomy indignation at their perverseness and +wilfulness, needs the constant intercession of the Eternal Son, who is +too, in a sense, Himself, to appease the anger with which he regards +the sheep of his hand. I cannot really in the depths of my heart echo +that dark belief. I do not indeed know why God permits such blindness +and sinfulness among men, and why he allows suffering to cloud and +darken the world. But it would cause me to despair of God and man +alike, if I felt that he had flung our pitiful race into the world, +surrounded by temptation both within and without, and then abandoned +himself to anger at their miserable dalliance with evil. I rather +believe that we are rising and struggling to the light, and that his +heart is with us, not against us in the battle. It may of course be +said that all that kind of Calvinism has disappeared; that no rational +Christians believe it, but hold a larger and a wider faith. I think +that this is true of a few intelligent Christians, as far as the +dropping of Calvinism goes, though it seems to me that they find it +somewhat difficult to define their faith; but as to Calvinism having +died out in England, I do not think that there is any reason to suppose +that it has done so; I believe that a large majority of English +Christians would believe the above-quoted hymn to be absolutely +justified in its statements both by Scripture and reason, and that a +considerable minority would hardly consider it definite enough. +</P> + +<P> +But then came a larger and a wider thought. We talk and think so +carelessly of the divine revelation; we, who have had a religious +bringing up, who have been nurtured upon Israelite chronicles and +prophecies, are inclined, or at least predisposed, to think that the +knowledge of God is written larger and more directly in these records, +the words of anxious and troubled persons, than in the world which we +see about us. Yet surely in field and wood, in sea and sky, we have a +far nearer and more instant revelation of God. In these ancient +records we have the thoughts of men, intent upon their own schemes and +struggles, and looking for the message of God, with a fixed belief that +the history of one family of the human race was his special and +particular prepossession. Yet all the while his immediate Will was +round them, written in a thousand forms, in bird and beast, in flower +and tree. He permits and tolerates life. He deals out joy and sorrow, +life and death. Science has at least revealed a far more vast and +inscrutable force at work in the world, than the men of ancient days +ever dreamed of. +</P> + +<P> +Do we do well to confine our religious life to these ancient +conceptions? They have no doubt a certain shadow of truth in them; but +while I know for certain that the huge Will of God is indeed at work +around me, in every field and wood, in every stream and pool, do I +<I>really</I> know, do I honestly believe that any such process as the hymn +indicates, is going on in some distant region of heaven? The hymn +practically presupposes that our little planet is the only one in which +the work of God is going forward. Science hints to me that probably +every star that hangs in the sky has its own ring of planets, and that +in every one of these some strange drama of life and death is +proceeding. It is a dizzy thought! But if it be true, is it not +better to face it? The mind shudders, appalled at the immensity of the +prospect. But do not such thoughts as these give us a truer picture of +ourselves, and of our own humble place in the vast complexity of +things, than the excessive dwelling upon the wistful dreams of ancient +law-givers and prophets? Or is it better to delude ourselves? +Deliberately to limit our view to the history of a single race, to a +few centuries of records? Perhaps that may be a more practical, a more +effective view; but when once the larger thought has flashed into the +mind, it is useless to try and drown it. +</P> + +<P> +Everything around me seems to cry aloud the warning, not to aim at a +conceit of knowledge about these deep secrets, but to wait, to leave +the windows of the soul open for any glimpse of truth from without. +</P> + +<P> +To beguile the time I took up a volume near me, the work of a much +decried poet, Walt Whitman. Apart from the exquisite power of +expression that he possesses, he always seems to me to enter, more than +most poets, into the largeness of the world, to keep his heart fixed on +the vast wonder and joy of life. I read that poem full of tender +pathos and suggestiveness, <I>A Word out of the Sea</I>, where the child, +with the wind in his hair, listens to the lament of the bird that has +lost his mate, and tries to guide her wandering wings back to the +deserted nest. While the bird sings, with ever fainter hope, its +little heart aching with the pain of loss, the child hears the sea, +with its "liquid rims and wet sands" breathing out the low and +delicious word <I>death</I>. +</P> + +<P> +The poet seems to think of death as the loving answer to the yearning +of all hearts, the sleep that closes the weary eyes. But I cannot rise +to this thought, tender and gentle as it is. +</P> + +<P> +If indeed there be another life beyond death, I can well believe that +death is in truth an easier and simpler thing than one fears; only a +cloud on the hill, a little darkness upon Nature. But God has put it +into my heart to dread it; and he hides from me the knowledge of +whether indeed there be another side to it. And while I do not even +know that, I can but love life, and be fain of the good days. All the +religion in the world depends upon the belief that, set free from the +bonds of the flesh, the spirit will rest and recollect. But is that +more than a hope? Is it more than the passionate instinct of the heart +that cannot bear the thought that it may cease to be? +</P> + +<P> +I seem to have travelled far away from the hymn that sounded so sweetly +in my ears; but I return to the thought; is not, I will ask, the poet's +reverie—the child with his wet hair floating in the sea-breeze, the +wailing of the deserted bird, the waves that murmur that death is +beautiful—is not this all more truly and deeply religious than the +hymn which speaks of things, that not only I cannot affirm to be true, +but which, if true, would plunge me into a deeper and darker +hopelessness even than that in which my ignorance condemns me to live? +Ought we not, in fact, to try and make our religion a much wider, +quieter thing? Are we not exchanging the melodies of the free birds +that sing in the forest glade, for the melancholy chirping of the caged +linnet? It seems to me often as though we had captured our religion +from a multitude of fair hovering presences, that would speak to us of +the things of God, caged it in a tiny prison, and closed our ears to +the larger and wider voices? +</P> + +<P> +I walked to-day in sheltered wooded valleys; and at one point, in a +very lonely and secluded lane, leant long upon a gate that led into a +little forest clearing, to watch the busy and intent life of the wood. +There were the trees extending their fresh leaves to the rain; the +birds slipped from tree to tree; a mouse frisked about the grassy road; +a hundred flowers raised their bright heads. None of these little +lives have, I suppose, any conception of the extent of life that lies +about them; each of them knows the secrets and instincts of its own +tiny brain, and guesses perhaps at the thoughts of the little lives +akin to it. Yet every tiniest, shortest, most insignificant life has +its place in the mind of God. It seemed to me then such an amazing, +such an arrogant thing to define, to describe, to limit the awful +mystery of the Creator and his purpose. Even to think of him, as he is +spoken of in the Old Testament, with fierce and vindictive schemes, +with flagrant partialities, seemed to me nothing but a dreadful +profanation. And yet these old writings do, in a degree, from old +association, colour my thoughts about him. +</P> + +<P> +And then all these anxious visions left me; and I felt for awhile like +a tiny spray of sea-weed floating on an infinite sea, with the +brightness of the morning overhead. I felt that I was indeed set where +I found myself to be, and that if now my little heart and brain are too +small to hold the truth, yet I thanked God for making even the +conception of the mystery, the width, the depth, possible to me; and I +prayed to him that he would give me as much of the truth as I could +bear. And I do not doubt that he gave me that; for I felt for an +instant that whatever befell me, I was indeed a part of Himself; not a +thing outside and separate; not even his son and his child: but Himself. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap40"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XL +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +After Death +</H4> + +<P> +I had so strange a dream or vision the other night, that I cannot +refrain from setting it down; because the strangeness and the wonder of +it seem to make it impossible for me to have conceived of it myself; it +was suggested by nothing, originated by nothing that I can trace; it +merely came to me out of the void. +</P> + +<P> +After confused and troubled dreams of terror and bewilderment, enacted +in blind passages and stifling glooms, with crowds of unknown figures +passing rapidly to and fro, I seemed to grow suddenly light-hearted and +joyful. I next appeared to myself to be sitting or reclining on the +grassy top of a cliff, in bright sunlight. The ground fell +precipitously in front of me, and I saw to left and right the sharp +crags and horns of the rock-face below me; behind me was a wide space +of grassy down, with a fresh wind racing over it. The sky was +cloudless. Far below I could see yellow sands, on which a blue sea +broke in crisp waves. To the left a river flowed through a little +hamlet, clustered round a church; I looked down on the roofs of the +small houses, and saw people passing to and fro, like ants. The river +spread itself out in shallow shining channels over the sand, to join +the sea. Further to the left rose shadowy headland after headland, and +to the right lay a broad well-watered plain, full of trees and +villages, bounded by a range of blue hills. On the sea moved ships, +the wind filling their sails, and the sun shining on them with a +peculiar brightness. The only sound in my ears was that of the whisper +of the wind in the grass and stone crags. +</P> + +<P> +But I soon became aware with a shock of pleasant surprise that my +perception of the whole scene was of a different quality to any +perception I had before experienced. I have spoken of seeing and +hearing: but I became aware that I was doing neither; the perceptions, +so to speak, both of seeing and hearing were not distinct, but the +same. I was aware, for instance, at the same moment, of the <I>whole</I> +scene, both of what was behind me and what was in front of me. I have +described what I saw successively, because there is no other way of +describing it; but it was all present at once in my mind, and I had no +need to turn my attention to one point or another, but everything was +there before me, in a unity at which I cannot even hint in words. I +then became aware too, that, though I have spoken of myself as seated +or reclined, I had no body, but was merely, as it were, a sentient +point. In a moment I became aware that to transfer that sentience to +another point was merely an act of will. I was able to test this; in +an instant I was close above the village, which a moment before was far +below me, and I perceived the houses, the very faces of the people +close at hand; at another moment I was buried deep in the cliff, and +felt the rock with its fissures all about me; at another moment, +following my wish, I was beneath the sea, and saw the untrodden sands +about me, with the blue sunlit water over my head. I saw the fish dart +and poise above me, the ribbons of sea-weed floating up, just swayed by +the currents, shells crawling like great snails on the ooze, crabs +hurrying about among piles of boulders. But something drew me back to +my first station, I know not why; and there I poised, as a bird might +have poised, and lost myself in a blissful dream. Then it darted into +my mind that I was what I had been accustomed to call dead. So this +was what lay on the other side of the dark passage, this lightness, +this perfect freedom, this undreamed-of peace! I had not a single care +or anxiety. It seemed as if nothing could trouble my repose and +happiness. I could only think with a deep compassion of those who were +still pent in uneasy bodies, under strait and sad conditions, anxious, +sad, troubled, and blind, not knowing that the shadow of death which +encompassed them was but the cloud which veiled the gate of perfect and +unutterable happiness. +</P> + +<P> +I felt rising in my mind a sense of all that lay before me, of all the +mysteries that I would penetrate, all the unvisited places that I would +see. But at present I was too full of peace and quiet happiness to do +anything but stay in an infinite content where I was. All sense of +<I>ennui</I> or restlessness had left me. I was utterly free, utterly +blest. I did, indeed, once send my thought to the home which I loved, +and saw a darkened house, and my dear ones moving about with grief +written legibly on their faces. I saw my mother sitting looking at +some letters which I perceived to be my own, and was aware that she +wept. But I could not even bring myself to grieve at that, because I +knew that the same peace and joy that filled me was also surely +awaiting them, and the darkest passage, the sharpest human suffering, +seemed so utterly little and trifling in the light of my new knowledge; +and I was soon back on my cliff-top again, content to wait, to rest, to +luxuriate in a happiness which seemed to have nothing selfish about it, +because the satisfaction was so perfectly pure and natural. +</P> + +<P> +While I thus waited I became aware, with the same sort of sudden +perception, of a presence beside me. It had no outward form; but I +knew that it was a spirit full of love and kindness: it seemed to me to +be old; it was not divine, for it brought no awe with it; and yet it +was not quite human; it was a spirit that seemed to me to have been +human, but to have risen into a higher sphere of perception. I simply +felt a sense of deep and pure companionship. And presently I became +aware that some communication was passing between my consciousness and +the consciousness of the newly-arrived spirit. It did not take place +in words, but in thought; though only by words can I now represent it. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said the other, "you do well to rest and to be happy: is it not +a wonderful experience? and yet you have been through it many times +already, and will pass through it many times again." +</P> + +<P> +I suppose that I did not wholly understand this, for I said: "I do not +grasp that thought, though I am certain it is true: have I then died +before?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said the other, "many times. It is a long progress; you will +remember soon, when you have had time to reflect, and when the sweet +novelty of the change has become more customary. You have but returned +to us again for a little; one needs that, you know, at first; one needs +some refreshment and repose after each one of our lives, to be renewed, +to be strengthened for what comes after." +</P> + +<P> +All at once I understood. I knew that my last life had been one of +many lives lived at all sorts of times and dates, and under various +conditions; that at the end of each I had returned to this joyful +freedom. +</P> + +<P> +It was the first cloud that passed over my thought. "Must I return +again to life?" I said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh yes," said the other; "you see that; you will soon return +again—but never mind that now; you are here to drink your fill of the +beautiful things which you will only remember by glimpses and visions +when you are back in the little life again." +</P> + +<P> +And then I had a sudden intuition. I seemed to be suddenly in a small +and ugly street of a dark town. I saw slatternly women run in and out +of the houses; I saw smoke-stained grimy children playing in the +gutter. Above the poor, ill-kept houses a factory poured its black +smoke into the air, and hummed behind its shuttered windows. I knew in +a sad flash of thought that I was to be born there, to be brought up as +a wailing child, under sad and sordid conditions, to struggle into a +life of hard and hopeless labour, in the midst of vice, and poverty, +and drunkenness, and hard usage. It filled me for a moment with a sort +of nauseous dread, remembering the free and liberal conditions of my +last life, the wealth and comfort I had enjoyed. +</P> + +<P> +"No," said the other; for in a moment I was back again, "that is an +unworthy thought—it is but for a moment; and you will return to this +peace again." +</P> + +<P> +But the sad thought came down upon me like a cloud. "Is there no +escape?" I said; and at that, in a moment, the other spirit seemed to +chide me, not angrily, but patiently and compassionately. "One +suffers," he said, "but one gains experience; one rises," adding more +gently: "We do not know why it must be, of course—but it is the Will; +and however much one may doubt and suffer in the dark world there, one +does not doubt of the wisdom or the love of it here." And I knew in a +moment that I did not doubt, but that I would go willingly wherever I +should be sent. +</P> + +<P> +And then my thought became concerned with the spirit that spoke with +me, and I said, "And what is your place and work? for I think you are +like me and yet unlike." And he said: "Yes, it is true; I have to +return thither no more; that is finished for me, and I grudge no single +step of the dark road: I cannot explain to you what my work or place +is; but I am old, and have seen many things; each of us has to return +and return, not indeed till we are made perfect, but till we have +finished that part of our course; but the blessedness of this peace +grows and grows, while it becomes easier to bear what happens in that +other place, for we grow strong and simple and sincere, and then the +world can hurt us but little. We learn that we must not judge men; but +we know that when we see them cruel and vicious and selfish, they are +then but children learning their first lessons; and on each of our +visits to this place we see that the evil matters less and less, and +the hope becomes brighter and brighter; till at last we see." And I +then seemed to turn to him in thought, for he said with a grave joy: +"Yes, I have seen." And presently I was left alone to my happiness. +</P> + +<P> +How long it lasted I cannot tell; but presently I seemed less free, +less light of heart; and soon I knew that I was bound; and after a +space I woke into the world again, and took up my burden of cares. +</P> + +<P> +But for all that I have a sense of hopefulness left which I think will +not quite desert me. From what dim cell of the brain my vision rose, I +know not, but though it came to me in so precise and clear a form, yet +I cannot help feeling that something deep and true has been revealed to +me, some glimpse of pure heaven and bright air, that lies outside our +little fretted lives. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap41"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XLI +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +The Eternal Will +</H4> + +<P> +I have spoken above, I know well, of things in which I have no skill to +speak; I know no philosophy or metaphysics; to look into a +philosophical book is to me like looking into a room piled up with +bricks, the pure materials of thought; they have no meaning for me, +until the beautiful mind of some literary architect has built them into +a house of life; but just as a shallow pool can reflect the dark and +infinite spaces of night, pierced with stars, so in my own shallow mind +these perennial difficulties, which lie behind all that we do and say, +can be for a moment mirrored. +</P> + +<P> +The only value that such thoughts can have in life is that they should +teach us to live in a frank and sincere mood, waiting patiently for the +Lord, as the old Psalmist said. My own philosophy is a very simple +one, and, if I could only be truer to it, it would bring me the +strength which I lack. It is this; that being what we are, such frail, +mysterious, inexplicable beings, we should wait humbly and hopefully +upon God, not attempting, nor even wishing, to make up our minds upon +these deep secrets, only determined that we will be true to the inner +light, and that we will not accept any solution which depends for its +success upon neglecting or overlooking any of the phenomena with which +we are confronted. We find ourselves placed in the world, in definite +relations with certain people, endowed with certain qualities, with +faults and fears, with hopes and joys, with likes and dislikes. Evil +haunts us like a shadow, and though it menaces our happiness, we fall +again and again under its dominion; in the depths of our spirit a voice +speaks, which assures us again and again that truth and purity and love +are the best and dearest things that we can desire; and that voice, +however imperfectly, I try to obey, because it seems the strongest and +clearest of all the voices that call to me. I try to regard all +experience, whether sweet or bitter, fair or foul, as sent me by the +great and awful power that put me where I am. The strongest and best +things in the world seem to me to be peace and tranquillity, and the +same hidden power seems to be leading me thither; and to lead me all +the faster whenever I try not to fret, not to grieve, not to despair. +"<I>Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you,</I>" says the +Divine Word; and the more that I follow intuition rather than reason, +the nearer I seem to come to the truth. I have lately wasted much +fruitless thought over an anxious decision, weighing motives, +forecasting possibilities. I knew at the time how useless it all was, +and that my course would be made clear at the right moment; and I will +tell the story of how it was made clear, as testimony to the perfect +guidance of the divine hand. I was taking a journey, and the weary +process was going on in my mind; every possible argument for and +against the step was being reviewed and tested; I could not read, I +could not even look abroad upon the world. The train drew up at a dull +suburban station, where our tickets were collected. The signal was +given, and we started. It was at this moment that the conviction came, +and I saw how I must act, with a certainty which I could not gainsay or +resist. My reason had anticipated the opposite decision, but I had no +longer any doubt or hesitation. The only question was how and when to +announce the result; but when I returned home the same evening there +was the letter waiting for me which gave the very opportunity I +desired; and I have since learnt without surprise that the letter was +being penned at the very moment when the conviction came to me. +</P> + +<P> +I have told this experience in detail, because it seems to me to be a +very perfect example of the suddenness with which conviction comes. +But neither do I grudge the anxious reveries which for many days had +preceded that conviction, because through them I learnt something of +the inner weakness of my nature. But the true secret of it all is that +we ought to live as far as we can in the day, the hour, the minute; to +waste no time in anxious forecasting and miserable regrets, but just do +what lies before us as faithfully as possible. Gradually, too, one +learns that the restricting of what is called religion to certain times +of prayer and definite solemnities is the most pitiful of all mistakes; +life lived with the intuition that I have indicated is all religion. +The most trivial incident has to be interpreted; every word and deed +and thought becomes full of a deep significance. One has no longer any +anxious sense of duty; one desires no longer either to impress or +influence; one aims only at guarding the quality of all one does or +says—or rather the very word "aims" is a wrong one; there is no longer +any aim or effort, except the effort to feel which way the gentle +guiding hand would have us to go; the only sorrow that is possible is +when we rather perversely follow our own will and pleasure. +</P> + +<P> +The reason why I desire this book to say its few words to my brothers +and sisters of this life, without any intrusion of personality, is that +I am so sure of the truth of what I say, that I would not have any one +distracted from the principles I have tried to put into words, by being +able to compare it with my own weak practice. I am so far from having +attained; I have, I know, so many weary leagues to traverse yet, that I +would not have my faithless and perverse wanderings known. But the +secret waits for all who can throw aside convention and insincerity, +who can make the sacrifice with a humble heart, and throw themselves +utterly and fearlessly into the hands of God. Societies, +organisations, ceremonies, forms, authority, dogma—they are all +outside; silently and secretly, in the solitude of one's heart, must +the lonely path be found; but the slender track once beneath our feet, +all the complicated relations of the world become clear and simple. We +have no need to change our path in life, to seek for any human guide, +to desire new conditions, because we have the one Guide close to us, +closer than friend or brother or lover, and we know that we are set +where he would have us to be. Such a belief destroys in a flash all +our embarrassment in dealing with others, all our anxieties in dealing +with ourselves. In dealing with ourselves we shall only desire to be +faithful, fearless and sincere; in dealing with others we shall try to +be patient, tender, appreciative, and hopeful. If we have to blame, we +shall blame without bitterness, without the outraged sense of personal +vanity that brings anger with it. If we can praise, we shall praise +with generous prodigality; we shall not think of ourselves as a centre +of influence, as radiating example and precept; but we shall know our +own failures and difficulties, and shall realise as strongly that +others are led likewise, and that each is the Father's peculiar care, +as we realise it about ourselves. There will be no thrusting of +ourselves to the front, nor an uneasy lingering upon the outskirts of +the crowd, because we shall know that our place and our course are +defined. We may crave for happiness, but we shall not resent sorrow. +The dreariest and saddest day becomes the inevitable, the true setting +for our soul; we must drink the draught, and not fear to taste its +bitterest savour; it is the Father's cup. That a Christian, in such a +mood, can concern himself with what is called the historical basis of +the Gospels, is a thought which can only be met by a smile; for there +stands the record of perhaps the only life ever lived upon earth that +conformed itself, at every moment, in the darkest experiences that life +could bring, entirely and utterly to the Divine Will. One who walks in +the light that I have spoken of is as inevitably a Christian as he is a +human being, and is as true to the spirit of Christ as he is +indifferent to the human accretions that have gathered round the august +message. +</P> + +<P> +The possession of such a secret involves no retirement from the world, +no breaking of ties, no ecclesiastical exercises, no endeavour to +penetrate obscure ideas. It is as simple as the sunlight and the air. +It involves no protest, no phrase, no renunciation. Its protest will +be an unconcerned example, its phrase will be a perfect sincerity of +speech, its renunciation will be what it does, not what it abstains +from doing. It will go or stay as the inner voice bids it. It will +not attempt the impossible nor the novel. Very clearly, from hour to +hour, the path will be made plain, the weakness fortified, the sin +purged away. It will judge no other life, it will seek no goal; it +will sometimes strive and cry, it will sometimes rest; it will move as +gently and simply in unison with the one supreme will, as the tide +moves beneath the moon, piled in the central deep with all its noises, +flooding the mud-stained waterway, where the ships ride together, or +creeping softly upon the pale sands of some sequestered bay. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap42"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XLII +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +Until the Evening +</H4> + +<P> +I stop sometimes on a landing in an old house, where I often stay, to +look at a dusky, faded water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do not +think its technical merit is great, but it somehow has the poetical +quality. It represents, or seems to represent, a piece of high open +ground, down-land or heath, with a few low bushes growing there, +sprawling and wind-brushed; a road crosses the fore-ground, and dips +over to the plain beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, dappled +by open spaces. There is a long faint distant line of hills on the +horizon. The time appears to be just after sunset, when the sky is +still full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost their +colour, but are just beginning to be tinged with dusk. In the road +stands the figure of a man, with his back turned, his hand shading his +eyes as he gazes out across the plain. He appears to be a wayfarer, +and to be weary but not dispirited. There is a look of serene and +sober content about him, how communicated I know not. He would seem to +have far to go, but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his home, +which indeed he seems to discern afar off. The picture bears the +simple legend, <I>Until the evening</I>. +</P> + +<P> +This design seems always to be charged for me with a beautiful and +grave meaning. Just so would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage, +wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. The freshness and +blithe eagerness of the morning are over, the solid hours of sturdy +progress are gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the gentle +descent among the shadows remains, with cool airs blowing from darkling +thickets, laden with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of rushy +dingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer will push the familiar gate +open, and see the lamplit windows of home, with the dark chimneys and +gables outlined against the green sky. Those that love him are +awaiting him, listening for the footfall to draw near. +</P> + +<P> +Is it not possible to attain this? And yet how often does it seem to +be the fate of a human soul to stumble, like one chased and hunted, +with dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous phrase, down the +darkening track. Yet one should rather approach God, bearing in +careful hands the priceless and precious gift of life, ready to restore +it if it be his will. God grant us so to live, in courage and trust, +that, when he calls us, we may pass willingly and with a quiet +confidence to the gate that opens into tracts unknown! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="conclusion"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CONCLUSION +</H3> + +<P> +<I>And now I will try if I can in a few words to sum up what the purpose +of this little volume has been, these pages torn from my book of life, +though I hope that some of my readers may, before now, have discerned +it for themselves. </I>The Thread of Gold<I> has two chief qualities. It +is bright, and it is strong; it gleams with a still and precious light +in the darkness, glowing with the reflected radiance of the little lamp +that we carry to guide our feet, and adding to the ray some rich tinge +from its own goodly heart; and it is strong too; it cannot easily be +broken; it leads a man faithfully through the dim passages of the cave +in which he wanders, with the dark earth piled above his head.</I> +</P> + +<P> +<I>The two qualities that we should keep with us in our journey through a +world where it seems that so much must be dark, are a certain rich +fiery essence, a glowing ardour of spirit, a mind of lofty temper, +athirst for all that is noble and beautiful. That first; and to that +we must add a certain soberness and sedateness of mood, a smiling +tranquillity, a true directness of aim, that should lead us not to form +our ideas and opinions too swiftly and too firmly; for then we suffer +from an anxious vexation when experience contradicts hope, when things +turn out different from what we had desired and supposed. We should +deal with life in a generous and high-hearted mood, giving men credit +for lofty aims and noble imaginings, and not be cast down if we do not +see these purposes blazing and glowing on the surface of things; we +should believe that such great motives are there even if we cannot see +them; and then we should sustain our lively expectations with a deep +and faithful confidence, assured that we are being tenderly and wisely +led, and that the things which the Father shows us by the way, if they +bewilder, and disappoint, and even terrify us, have yet some great and +wonderful meaning, if we can but interpret them rightly. Nay, that the +very delaying of these secrets to draw near to our souls, holds within +it a strong and temperate virtue for our spirits.</I> +</P> + +<P> +<I>Neither of these great qualities, ardour and tranquillity, can stand +alone; if we aim merely at enthusiasm, the fire grows cold, the world +grows dreary, and we lapse into a cynical mood of bitterness, as the +mortal flame turns low.</I> +</P> + +<P> +<I>Nor must we aim at mere tranquillity; for so we may fall into a mere +placid acquiescence, a selfish inaction; our peace must be heartened by +eagerness, our zest calmed by serenity. If we follow the fire alone, +we become restless and dissatisfied; if we seek only for peace, we +become like the patient beasts of the field.</I> +</P> + +<P> +<I>I would wish, though I grow old and grey-haired, a hundred times a day +to ask why things are as they are, and to desire that they were +otherwise; and again a hundred times a day I would thank God that they +are as they are, and praise him for showing me his will rather than my +own. For the secret lies in this; that we must not follow our own +impulses, and thus grow pettish and self-willed: neither must we float +feebly upon the will of God, like a branch that spins in an eddy; +rather we must try to put our utmost energy in line with the will of +God, hasten with all our might where he calls us, and turn our back as +resolutely as we can when he bids us go no further; as an eager dog +will intently await his master's choice, as to which of two paths he +may desire to take; but the way once indicated, he springs forward, +elate and glad, rejoicing with all his might.</I> +</P> + +<P> +<I>He leads me. He leads me; but He has also given me this wild and +restless heart, these untamed desires: not that I may follow them and +obey them, but that I may patiently discern His will, and do it to the +uttermost.</I> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +<I>Father, be patient with me, for I yield myself to Thee; Thou hast +given me a desirous heart, and I have a thousand times gone astray +after vain shadows, and found no abiding joy. I have been weary many +times, and sad often; and I have been light of heart and very glad; but +my sadness and my weariness, my lightness and my joy have only blessed +me, whenever I have shared them with Thee. I have shut myself up in a +perverse loneliness, I have closed the door of my heart, miserable that +I am, even upon Thee. And Thou hast waited smiling, till I knew that I +had no joy apart from Thee. Only uphold me, only enfold me in Thy +arms, and I shall be safe; for I know that nothing can divide us, +except my own wilful heart; we forget and are forgotten, but Thou alone +rememberest; and if I forget Thee, at least I know that Thou forgettest +not me.</I> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Thread of Gold, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREAD OF GOLD *** + +***** This file should be named 30326-h.htm or 30326-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/3/2/30326/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Thread of Gold + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Release Date: October 25, 2009 [EBook #30326] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREAD OF GOLD *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +THE THREAD OF GOLD + + +BY ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON + + +FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE + +AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF QUIET" + + + + _Quem locum nosti mihi destinatum?_ + _Quo meos gressus regis?_ + + + +LONDON + +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W + +1912 + + + + + FIRST EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1906 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1906 + SECOND EDITION, . . . . . . . . . December 1906 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1907 + THIRD EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . October 1907 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1907 + FOURTH EDITION (1/- net) . . . . . May 1910 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1910 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1911 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . May 1911 + Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . July 1912 + + + + +[Transcriber's note: The source book had no Table of Contents and its +chapters were numbered only, not titled. However, its pages had +running headers which changed with each chapter. Those headers have +been converted to chapter titles, and collected here as the Table of +Contents.] + + +CONTENTS + + Preface + Introduction (1906) + Introduction + I. The Red Spring + II. The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House + III. Leucocholy + IV. The Flower + V. The Fens + VI. The Well and the Chapel + VII. The Cuckoo + VIII. Spring-time + IX. The Hare + X. The Diplodocus + XI. The Beetle + XII. The Farm-yard + XIII. The Artist + XIV. Young Love + XV. A Strange Gathering + XVI. The Cripple + XVII. Oxford + XVIII. Authorship + XIX. Hamlet + XX. A Sealed Spirit + XXI. Leisure + XXII. The Pleasures of Work + XXIII. The Abbey + XXIV. Wordsworth + XXV. Dorsetshire + XXVI. Portland + XXVII. Canterbury Tower + XXVIII. Prayer + XXIX. The Death-bed of Jacob + XXX. By the Sea of Galilee + XXXI. The Apocalypse + XXXII. The Statue + XXXIII. The Mystery of Suffering + XXXIV. Music + XXXV. The Faith of Christ + XXXVI. The Mystery of Evil + XXXVII. Renewal + XXXVIII. The Secret + XXXIX. The Message + XL. After Death + XLI. The Eternal Will + XLII. Until the Time + Conclusion + + + + +PREFACE + +I sate to-day, in a pleasant hour, at a place called _The Seven +Springs_, high up in a green valley of the _Cotswold_ hills. Close +beside the road, seven clear rills ripple out into a small pool, and +the air is musical with the sound of running water. Above me, in a +little thicket, a full-fed thrush sent out one long-drawn cadence after +another, in the joy of his heart, while the lengthening shadows of bush +and tree crept softly over the pale sward of the old pasture-lands, in +the westering light of the calm afternoon. + +These springs are the highest head-waters of the _Thames_, and that +fact is stated in a somewhat stilted Latin hexameter carved on a stone +of the wall beside the pool. The so-called _Thames-head_ is in a +meadow down below _Cirencester_, where a deliberate engine pumps up, +from a hidden well, thousands of gallons a day of the purest water, +which begins the service of man at once by helping to swell the scanty +flow of the _Thames_ and _Severn Canal_. But _The Seven Springs_ are +the highest hill-fount of Father _Thames_ for all that, streaming as +they do from the eastward ridge of the great oolite crest of the downs +that overhang _Cheltenham_. As soon as those rills are big enough to +form a stream, the gathering of waters is known as the _Churn_, which, +speeding down by _Rendcomb_ with its ancient oaks, and _Cerney_, in a +green elbow of the valley, join the _Thames_ at _Cricklade_. + +It was of the essence of poetry to feel that the water-drops which thus +babbled out at my feet in the spring sunshine would be moving, how many +days hence, beside the green playing-fields at _Eton_, scattered, +diminished, travel-worn, polluted; but still, under night and stars, +through the sunny river-reaches, through hamlet and city, by +water-meadow or wharf, the same and no other. And half in fancy, half +in earnest, I bound upon the heedless waters a little message of love +for the fields and trees so dear to me. + +What a strange parable it all made! the sparkling drops so soon lost to +sight and thought alike, each with its own definite place in the +limitless mind of God, all numbered, none forgotten; each +drop,--bright, new-born, and fresh as it appeared, racing out so +light-heartedly into the sun,--yet as old, and older, than the rocks +from which it sprang! How often had those water-drops been woven into +cloud-wreaths, through what centuries they had leapt and plunged among +sea-billows, or lain cold and dark in the ocean depths, since the day +when this mass of matter that we call the earth had been cut off and +sent whirling into space, a molten drop from the fierce vortex of its +central sun! And, what is the strangest thought of all, I can sit here +myself, a tiny atom spun from drift of storms, and concourse of frail +dust, and, however dimly and faintly, depict the course of things, +trace, through some subtle faculty, the movement of the mind of God +through the aeons; and yet, though I can send my mind into the past and +the future, though I can see the things that are not and the things +that are, I am denied the least inkling of what it all signifies, what +the slow movement of the ages is all aimed at, and even what the swift +interchange of light and darkness, pain and pleasure, sickness and +health, love and hate, is meant to mean to me--whether there _is_ a +purpose and an end at all, or whether I am just allowed, for my short +space of days, to sit, a bewildered spectator, at some vast and +unintelligible drama. + +Yet to-day the soft sunshine, the babbling springs, the valley brimmed +with haze, the bird's sweet song, all seem framed to assure me that God +means us well, urgently, intensely well. "My Gospel," wrote one to me +the other day, whose feet move lightly on the threshold of life, "is +the Gospel of contentment. I do not see the necessity of asking myself +uneasy and metaphysical questions about the Why and the Wherefore and +the What." The necessity? Ah, no! But if one is forced, against +one's will and hope, to go astray in the wilderness out of the way, to +find oneself lonely and hungry, one must needs pluck the bitter berries +of the place for such sustenance as one can. I doubt, indeed, whether +one is able to compel oneself into and out of certain trains of +thought. If one dislikes and dreads introspection, one will doubtless +be happier for finding something definite to do instead. But even so, +the thoughts buzz in one's ears; and then, too, the very wonder about +such things has produced some of the most beautiful things in the +world, such as _Hamlet_, or Keats' _Ode to the Nightingale_, things we +could not well do without. Who is to decide which is the nobler, +wiser, righter course? To lose oneself in a deep wonder, with an +anxious hope that one may discern the light; or, on the other hand, to +mingle with the world, to work, to plan, to strive, to talk, to do the +conventional things? We choose (so we call it) the path that suits us +best, though we disguise our motives in many ways, because we hardly +dare to confess to ourselves how frail is our faculty of choice at all. +But, to speak frankly, what we all do is to follow the path where we +feel most at home, most natural; and the longer I live the more I feel +that we do the things we are impelled to do, the works prepared for us +to walk in, as the old collect says. How often, in real life, do we +see any one making a clean sweep of all his conditions and +surroundings, to follow the path of the soul? How often do we see a +man abjure wealth, or resist ambition, or disregard temperament, +_unexpectedly_? Not once, I think, to speak for myself, in the whole +of my experience. + +This, then, is the _motif_ of the following book: that whether we are +conquerors or conquered, triumphant or despairing, prosperous or +pitiful, well or ailing, we are all these things through Him that loves +us. We are here, I believe, to learn rather than to teach, to endure +rather than to act, to be slain rather than to slay; we are tolerated +in our errors and our hardness, in our conceit and our security, by the +great, kindly, smiling Heart that bade us be. We can make things a +little easier for ourselves and each other; but the end is not there: +what we are meant to become is joyful, serene, patient, waiting +momently upon God; we are to become, if we can, content not to be +content, full of tenderness and loving-kindness for all the frail +beings that, like ourselves, suffer and rejoice. But though we are +bound to ameliorate, to improve, to lessen, so far as we can, the +brutal promptings of the animal self that cause the greatest part of +our unhappiness, we have yet to learn to hope that when things seem at +their worst, they are perhaps at their best, for then we are, indeed, +at work upon our hard lesson; and perhaps the day may come when, +looking back upon the strange tangle of our lives, we may see that the +time was most wasted when we were serene, easy, prosperous, and +unthinking, and most profitable when we were anxious, overshadowed, and +suffering. _The Thread of Gold_ is the fibre of limitless hope that +runs through our darkest dreams; and just as the water-drop which I saw +break to-day from the darkness of the hill, and leap downwards in its +channel, will see and feel, in its seaward course, many sweet and +gentle things, as well as many hard and evil matters, so I, in a year +of my pilgrimage, have set down in this book, a frank picture of many +little experiences and thoughts, both good and evil. Sometimes the +water-drop glides in the sun among mossy ledges, or lingers by the edge +of the copse, where the hazels lean together; but sometimes it is +darkened and polluted, so that it would seem that the foul oozings that +infect it could never be purged away. But the turbid elements, the +scum, the mud, the slime--each of which, after all, have their place in +the vast economy of things--float and sink to their destined abode; and +the crystal drop, released and purified, runs joyfully onwards in its +appointed way. + +A. C. B. + +CIRENCESTER, 8_th April_ 1907. + + + + +INTRODUCTION (1906) + +I am glad to have the opportunity of saying a few words in my own name +about this book, because the original introduction seems to have misled +some of my readers; and as I have had many kind, encouraging, and +sacred messages about the book from very unexpected quarters, I should +like to add a few further words of explanation. + +One of the difficulties under which literary art seems to me to labour +is that it feels bound to run in certain channels, to adopt stereotyped +and conventional media of expression. What can be more conventional +than the average play, or the average novel? People in real life do +not behave or talk--at least, this is my experience--in the smallest +degree as they behave or talk in novels or plays; life as a rule has no +plot, and very few dramatic situations. In real life the adventures +are scanty, and for most of us existence moves on in a commonplace and +inconsequent way. Misunderstandings are not cleared up, complexities +are not unravelled. I think it is time that more unconventional forms +of expression should be discovered and used; and at least, we can try +experiments; the experiment that I have here tried, is to present a +sort of _liber studiorum_, a portfolio of sketches and impressions. +The only coherence they possess is that, at the time when they were +written, I was much preoccupied with the wonder as to whether an +optimistic view of life was justified. The world is a very mysterious +place, and at first sight it presents a sad scene of confusion. The +wrong people often seem to be punished; blessings, such as those heaped +upon the head of the patriarch Job, do not seem to be accumulated upon +the righteous. In fact, the old epigram that prosperity is the +blessing of the Old Testament, adversity the blessing of the New, seems +frequently justified. But, after all, the only soul-history that one +knows well enough to say whether or not the experience of life is +adapted to the qualities of the particular soul, is one's own history; +and, speaking for myself, I can but say, looking back upon my life, +that it does seem to have been regulated hitherto by a very tender and +intimate kind of guidance, though I did not always see how delicate the +adaptation of it was at the time. The idea of this book, that there is +a certain golden thread of hope and love interwoven with all our lives, +running consistently through the coarsest and darkest fabric, was what +I set out to illustrate rather than to prove. Everything that bore +upon this fact, while the book was being written, I tried to express as +simply and as lucidly as I could. The people who have thought the book +formless or lacking in structure, are perfectly right. It is not, and +it did not set out to be, a finished picture, with a due subordination +of groups and backgrounds. To me personally, though a finished picture +is a beautiful and an admirable thing, the loose, unconsidered sketches +and studies of an artist have a special charm. Of an artist, I say; +have I then a claim to be considered an artist? I cannot answer that +question, but I will go further and say that the sketches of the +humblest amateur have an interest for me, which their finished pictures +often lack. One sees a revelation of personality, one sees what sort +of things strike an individual mind as beautiful, one sees the method +with which it deals with artistic difficulties. The most interesting +things of the kind I have ever seen are the portfolios of sketches by +Leonardo da Vinci in the Royal library at Windsor; outlines of heads, +features, flowers, backgrounds, strange engines of war, wings of +birds--the _debris_, almost, of the studio--are there piled up in +confusion. And in a lesser degree the same is true of all such +collections, though perhaps this shows that one is more interested in +personality than in artistic performance. + +A good many people, too, have a gift for presenting a simple impression +of a beautiful thing, who have not the patience or the power of +combination necessary for working out a finished design; and surely it +is foolish to let the convention of art overrule a man's capacities? +To allow that, to acquiesce in silence, to say that because one cannot +express a thing in a certain way, one will not express it at all, seems +to me to be making an instinct into a moral sanction. One must express +whatever one desires to express, as clearly and as beautifully as +possible, and one must take one's chance as to whether it is a work of +art. To hold one's tongue, if anything appears to be worth saying, +because one does not know the exact code of the professionals, is as +foolish as if a man born in a certain class of society were to say that +he would never go to any social gathering except those of his precise +social equals, because he was afraid of making mistakes of etiquette. +Etiquette is not a matter of principle; it was not one of the things of +which Moses saw the pattern in the Mount! The only rule is not to be +pretentious or assuming, not to claim that one's efforts are +necessarily worthy of admiration and attention. + +There is a better reason too. Orthodoxy in art is merely compliance +with the instinctive methods of great artists, and no one ever +succeeded in art who did not make a method of his own. Originality is +like a fountain-head of fresh water; orthodoxy is too often only the +unimpeachable fluid of the water company. The best hope for the art +and literature of a nation is that men should try to represent and +express things that they have thought beautiful in an individual way. +They do not always succeed, it is true; sometimes they fail for lack of +force, sometimes for lack of a sympathetic audience. I have found, in +the case of this book, a good deal of sincere sympathy; and where it +fails, it fails through lack of force to express thoughts that I have +felt with a profound intensity. I have had critics who have frankly +disliked the book, and I do not in the least quarrel with them for +expressing their opinion; but one does not write solely for the +critics; and on the other hand, I can humbly and gratefully say that I +have received many messages, of pleasure in, and even gratitude for, +the book which leave me in no sort of doubt that it was worth writing; +though I wish with all my heart that it had been worthier of its +motive, and had been better able to communicate the delight of my +visions and dreams. + +ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON. + + MAGDALENE COLLEGE, + CAMBRIDGE, 24_th November_ 1906. + + + + +THE THREAD OF GOLD + + +INTRODUCTION + +I have for a great part of my life desired, perhaps more than I have +desired anything else, to make a beautiful book; and I have tried, +perhaps too hard and too often, to do this, without ever quite +succeeding; by that I mean that my little books, when finished, were +not worthy to be compared with the hope that I had had of them. I +think now that I tried to do too many things in my books, to amuse, to +interest, to please persons who might read them; and I fear, too, that +in the back of my mind there lay a thought, like a snake in its +hole--the desire to show others how fine I could be. I tried honestly +not to let this thought rule me; whenever it put its head out, I drove +it back; but of course I ought to have waited till it came out, and +then killed it, if I had only known how to do that; but I suppose I had +a secret tenderness for the little creature as being indeed a part of +myself. + +But now I have hit upon a plan which I hope may succeed. I do not +intend to try to be interesting and amusing, or even fine. I mean to +put into my book only the things that appear to me deep and strange and +beautiful; and I can happily say that things seem to me to be more and +more beautiful every day. As when a man goes on a journey, and sees, +in far-off lands, things that please him, things curious and rare, and +buys them, not for himself or for his own delight, but for the delight +of one that sits at home, whom he loves and thinks of, and wishes every +day that he could see;--well, I will try to be like that. I will keep +the thought of those whom I love best in my mind--and God has been very +good in sending me many, both old and young, whom I love--and I will +try to put down in the best words that I can find the things that +delight me, not for my sake but for theirs. For one of the strangest +things of all about beauty is, that it is often more clearly perceived +when expressed by another, than when we see it for ourselves. The only +difficulty that I see ahead is that many of the things that I love best +and that give me the best joy, are things that cannot be told, cannot +be translated into words: deep and gracious mysteries, rays of light, +delicate sounds. + +But I will keep out of my book all the things, so far as I can, which +bring me mere trouble and heaviness; cares and anxieties and bodily +pains and dreariness and unkind thoughts and anger, and all +uncleanness. I cannot tell why our life should be so sadly bound up +with these matters; the only comfort is that even out of this dark and +heavy soil beautiful flowers sometimes spring. For instance, the +pressure of a care, an anxiety, a bodily pain, has sometimes brought +with it a perception which I have lacked when I have been bold and +joyful and robust. A fit of anger too, by clearing away little clouds +of mistrust and suspicion, has more than once given me a friendship +that endures and blesses me. + +But beauty, innocent beauty of thought, of sound, of sight, seems to me +to be perhaps the most precious thing in the world, and to hold within +it a hope which stretches away even beyond the grave. Out of silence +and nothingness we arise; we have our short space of sight and hearing; +and then into the silence we depart. But in that interval we are +surrounded by much joy. Sometimes the path is hard and lonely, and we +stumble in miry ways; but sometimes our way is through fields and +thickets, and the valley is full of sunset light. If we could be more +calm and quiet, less anxious about the impression we produce, more +quick to welcome what is glad and sweet, more simple, more contented, +what a gain would be there! I wonder more and more every day that I +live that we do not value better the thought of these calmer things, +because the least effort to reach them seems to pull down about us a +whole cluster of wholesome fruits, grapes of Eschol, apples of +Paradise. We are kept back, it seems to me, by a kind of silly fear of +ridicule, from speaking more sincerely and instantly of these delights. + +I read the _Life_ of a great artist the other day who received a title +of honour from the State. I do not think he cared much for the title +itself, but he did care very much for the generous praise of his +friends that the little piece of honour called forth. I will not quote +his exact words, but he said in effect that he wondered why friends +should think it necessary to wait for such an occasion to indulge in +the noble pleasure of praising, and why they should not rather have a +day in the year when they could dare to write to the friends whom they +admired and loved, and praise them for being what they were. Of course +if such a custom were to become general, it would be clumsily spoilt by +foolish persons, as all things are spoilt which become conventional. +But the fact remains that the sweet pleasure of praising, of +encouraging, of admiring and telling our admiration, is one that we +English people are sparing of, to our own loss and hurt. It is just as +false to refrain from saying a generous thing for fear of being thought +insincere and what is horribly called gushing, as it is to say a hard +thing for the sake of being thought straightforward. If a hard thing +must be said, let us say it with pain and tenderness, but faithfully. +And if a pleasant thing can be said, let us say it with joy, and with +no less faithfulness. + +Now I must return to my earlier purpose, and say that I mean that this +little book shall go about with me, and that I will write in it only +strange and beautiful things. I have many businesses in the world, and +take delight in many of them; but we cannot always be busy. So when I +have seen or heard something that gives me joy, whether it be a new +place, or, what is better still, an old familiar place transfigured by +some happy accident of sun or moon into a mystery; or if I have been +told of a generous and beautiful deed, or heard even a sad story that +has some seed of hope within it; or if I have met a gracious and kindly +person; or if I have read a noble book, or seen a rare picture or a +curious flower; or if I have heard a delightful music; or if I have +been visited by one of those joyful and tender thoughts that set my +feet the right way, I will try to put it down, God prospering me. For +thus I think that I shall be truly interpreting his loving care for the +little souls of men. And I call my book _The Thread of Gold_, because +this beauty of which I have spoken seems to me a thing which runs like +a fine and precious clue through the dark and sunless labyrinths of the +world. + +And, lastly, I pray God with all my heart, that he may, in this matter, +let me help and not hinder his will. I often cannot divine what his +will is, but I have seen and heard enough to be sure that it is high +and holy, even when it seems to me hard to discern, and harder still to +follow. Nothing shall here be set down that does not seem to me to be +perfectly pure and honest; nothing that is not wise and true. It may +be a vain hope that I nourish, but I think that God has put it into my +heart to write this book, and I hope that he will allow me to +persevere. And yet indeed I know that I am not fit for so holy a task, +but perhaps he will give me fitness, and cleanse my tongue with a coal +from his altar fire. + + + + +I + +The Red Spring + +Very deep in this enchanted land of green hills in which I live, lies a +still and quiet valley. No road runs along it; but a stream with many +curves and loops, deep-set in hazels and alders, moves brimming down. +There is no house to be seen; nothing but pastures and little woods +which clothe the hill-sides on either hand. In one of these fields, +not far from the stream, lies a secluded spot that I visit duly from +time to time. It is hard enough to find the place; and I have +sometimes directed strangers to it, who have returned without +discovering it. Some twenty yards away from the stream, with a ring of +low alders growing round it, there is a pool; not like any other pool I +know. The basin in which it lies is roughly circular, some ten feet +across. I suppose it is four or five feet deep. From the centre of +the pool rises an even gush of very pure water, with a certain hue of +green, like a faintly-tinted gem. The water in its flow makes a +perpetual dimpling on the surface; I have never known it to fail even +in the longest droughts; and in sharp frosty days there hangs a little +smoke above it, for the water is of a noticeable warmth. + +This spring is strongly impregnated with iron, so strongly that it has +a sharp and medical taste; from what secret bed of metal it comes I do +not know, but it must be a bed of great extent, for, though the spring +runs thus, day by day and year by year, feeding its waters with the +bitter mineral over which it passes, it never loses its tinge; and the +oldest tradition of the place is that it was even so centuries ago. + +All the rest of the pool is full of strange billowy cloudlike growths, +like cotton-wool or clotted honey, all reddened with the iron of the +spring; for it rusts on thus coming to the air. But the orifice you +can always see, and that is of a dark blueness; out of which the pure +green water rises among the vaporous and filmy folds, runs away briskly +out of the pool in a little channel among alders, all stained with the +same orange tints, and falls into the greater stream at a loop, tinging +its waters for a mile. + +It is said to have strange health-giving qualities; and the water is +drunk beneath the moon by old country folk for wasting and weakening +complaints. Its strength and potency have no enmity to animal life, +for the water-voles burrow in the banks and plunge with a splash in the +stream; but it seems that no vegetable thing can grow within it, for +the pool and channel are always free of weeds. + +I like to stand upon the bank and watch the green water rise and dimple +to the top of the pool, and to hear it bickering away in its rusty +channel. But the beauty of the place is not a simple beauty; there is +something strange and almost fierce about the red-stained water-course; +something uncanny and terrifying about the filmy orange clouds that +stir and sway in the pool; and there sleeps, too, round the edges of +the basin a bright and viscous scum, with a certain ugly radiance, shot +with colours that are almost too sharp and fervid for nature. It seems +as though some diligent alchemy was at work, pouring out from moment to +moment this strangely tempered potion. In summer it is more bearable +to look upon, when the grass is bright and soft, when the tapestry of +leaves and climbing plants is woven over the skirts of the thicket, +when the trees are in joyful leaf. But in the winter, when all tints +are low and spare, when the pastures are yellowed with age, and the +hillside wrinkled with cold, when the alder-rods stand up stiff and +black, and the leafless tangled boughs are smooth like wire; then the +pool has a certain horror, as it pours out its rich juice, all overhung +with thin steam. + +But I doubt not that I read into it some thoughts of my own; for it was +on such a day of winter, when the sky was full of inky clouds, and the +wood murmured like a falling sea in the buffeting wind, that I made a +grave and sad decision beside the red pool, that has since tinged my +life, as the orange waters tinge the pale stream into which they fall. +The shadow of that severe resolve still broods about the place for me. +How often since in thought have I threaded the meadows, and looked with +the inward eye upon the green water rising, rising, and the crowded +orange fleeces of the pool! But stern though the resolve was, it was +not an unhappy one; and it has brought into my life a firm and tonic +quality, which seems to me to hold within it something of the +astringent savour of the medicated waters, and perhaps something of +their health-giving powers as well. + + + + +II + +The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House + +I was making a vague pilgrimage to-day in a distant and unfamiliar part +of the country, a region that few people ever visit, and saw two things +that moved me strangely. I left the high-road to explore a hamlet that +lay down in a broad valley to the left; and again diverged from the +beaten track to survey an old grange that lay at a little distance +among the fields. Turning a corner by some cottages, I saw a small +ancient chapel, of brown weathered stone, covered with orange lichen, +the roof of rough stone tiles. In the narrow graveyard round it, the +grass grew long and rank; the gateway was choked by briars. I could +see that the windows of the tiny building were broken. I have never +before in England seen a derelict church, and I clambered over the wall +to examine it more closely. It stood very beautifully; from the low +wall of the graveyard, on the further side, you could look over a wide +extent of rich water-meadows, fed by full streams; there was much +ranunculus in flower on the edges of the water-courses, and a few +cattle moved leisurely about with a peaceful air. Far over the +meadows, out of a small grove of trees, a manor-house held up its +enquiring chimneys. The door of the chapel was open, and I have seldom +seen a more pitiful sight than it revealed. The roof within was of a +plain and beautiful design, with carved bosses, and beams of some dark +wood. The chapel was fitted with oak Jacobean woodwork, pews, a +reading-desk, and a little screen. At the west was a tiny balustraded +gallery. But the whole was a scene of wretched confusion. The +woodwork was mouldering, the red cloth of the pulpit hung raggedly +down, the leaves of the great prayer-book fluttered about the pavement, +in the draught from the door. The whole place was gnawed by rats and +shockingly befouled by birds; there was a litter of rotting nests upon +the altar itself. Yet in the walls were old memorial tablets, and the +passage of the nave was paved with lettered graves. It brought back to +me the beautiful lines-- + + "En ara, ramis ilicis obsita, + Quae sacra Chryses nomina fert deae, + Neglecta; jamdudum sepultus + Aedituus jacet et sacerdos." + +Outside the sun fell peacefully on the mellow walls, and the starlings +twittered in the roof; but inside the deserted shrine there was a sense +of broken trust, of old memories despised, of the altar of God shamed +and dishonoured. It was a pious design to build the little chapel +there for the secluded hamlet; and loving thought and care had gone to +making the place seemly and beautiful. The very stone of the wall, and +the beam of the roof cried out against the hard and untender usage that +had laid the sanctuary low. Here children had been baptized, tender +marriage vows plighted, and the dead laid to rest; and this was the +end. I turned away with a sense of deep sadness; the very sunshine +seemed blurred with a shadow of dreariness and shame. + +Then I made my way, by a stony road, towards the manor-house; and +presently could see its gables at the end of a pleasant avenue of +limes; but no track led thither. The gate was wired up, and the drive +overgrown with grass. Soon, however, I found a farm-road which led up +to the house from the village. On the left of the manor lay prosperous +barns and byres, full of sleek pigs and busy crested fowls. The teams +came clanking home across the water-meadows. The house itself became +more and more beautiful as I approached. It was surrounded by a moat, +and here, close at hand, stood another ancient chapel, in seemly +repair. All round the house grew dense thickets of sprawling laurels, +which rose in luxuriance from the edge of the water. Then I crossed a +little bridge with a broken parapet; and in front of me stood the house +itself. I have seldom seen a more perfectly proportioned or +exquisitely coloured building. There were three gables in the front, +the central one holding a beautiful oriel window, with a fine oak door +below. The whole was built of a pale red brick, covered with a grey +lichen that cast a shimmering light over the front. Tall chimneys of +solid grace rose from a stone-shingled roof. The coigns, parapets and +mullions were all of a delicately-tinted orange stone. To the right +lay a big walled garden, full of flowers growing with careless +richness, the whole bounded by the moat, and looking out across the +broad green water-meadows, beyond which the low hills rose softly in +gentle curves and dingles. + +A whole company of amiable dogs, spaniels and terriers, came out with +an effusive welcome; a big black yard-dog, after a loud protesting +bark, joined in the civilities. And there I sat down in the warm sun, +to drink in the beauty of the scene, while the moor-hens cried +plaintively in the moat, and the dogs disposed themselves at my feet. +The man who designed this old place must have had a wonderful sense of +the beauty of proportion, the charm of austere simplicity. Generation +after generation must have loved the gentle dignified house, with its +narrow casements, its high rooms. Though the name of the house, though +the tale of its dwellers was unknown to me, I felt the appeal of the +old associations that must have centred about it. The whole air, that +quiet afternoon, seemed full of the calling of forgotten voices, and +dead faces looked out from the closed lattices. So near to my heart +came the spirit of the ancient house, that, as I mused, I felt as +though even I myself had made a part of its past, and as though I were +returning from battling with the far-off world to the home of +childhood. The house seemed to regard me with a mournful and tender +gaze, as though it knew that I loved it, and would fain utter its +secrets in a friendly ear. Is it strange that a thing of man's +construction should have so wistful yet so direct a message for the +spirit? Well, I hardly know what it was that it spoke of; but I felt +the care and love that had gone to the making of it, and the dignity +that it had won from rain and sun and the kindly hand of Nature; it +spoke of hope and brightness, of youth and joy; and told me, too, that +all things were passing away, that even the house itself, though it +could outlive a few restless generations, was indeed _debita morti_, +and bowed itself to its fall. + +And then I too, like a bird of passage that has alighted for a moment +in some sheltered garden-ground, must needs go on my way. But the old +house had spoken with me, had left its mark upon my spirit. And I know +that in weary hours, far hence, I shall remember how it stood, peering +out of its tangled groves, gazing at the sunrise and the sunset over +the green flats, waiting for what may be, and dreaming of the days that +are no more. + + + + +III + +Leucocholy + +I have had to taste, during the last few days, I know not why, of the +cup of what Gray called Leucocholy; it is not Melancholy, only the pale +shadow of it. That dark giant is, doubtless, stalking somewhere in the +background, and the shadow cast by his misshapen head passes over my +little garden ground. + +I do not readily submit to this mood, and I would wish it away. I +would rather feel joyful and free from blame; but Gray called it a good +easy state, and it certainly has its compensations. It does not, like +Melancholy, lay a dark hand on duties and pleasures alike; it is +possible to work, to read, to talk, to laugh when it is by. But it +sends flowing through the mind a gentle current of sad and weary images +and thoughts, which still have a beauty of their own; it tinges one's +life with a sober greyness of hue; it heightens perception, though it +prevents enjoyment. In such a mood one can sit silent a long time, +with one's eyes cast upon the grass; one sees the delicate forms of the +tender things that spring softly out of the dark ground; one hears with +a poignant delight the clear notes of birds; something of the spring +languors move within the soul. There is a sense, too, of reaching out +to light and joy, a stirring of the vague desires of the heart, a +tender hope, an upward-climbing faith; the heart sighs for a peace that +it cannot attain. + +To-day I walked slowly and pensively by little woods and pastures, +taking delight in all the quiet life I saw, the bush pricked with +points of green, the boughs thickened with small reddening buds, the +slow stream moving through the pasture; all the tints faint, airy, and +delicate; the life of the world seemed to hang suspended, waiting for +the forward leap. In a little village I stood awhile to watch the +gables of an ancient house, the wing of a ruined grange, peer solemnly +over the mellow brick wall that guarded a close of orchard trees. A +little way behind, the blunt pinnacles of the old church-tower stood +up, blue and dim, over the branching elms; beyond all ran the long, +pure line of the rising wold. Everything seemed so still, so serene, +as a long, pale ray of the falling sun, which laboured among flying +clouds, touched the westward gables with gold--and mine the only +troubled, unquiet spirit. Hard by there was an old man tottering about +in a little garden, fumbling with some plants, like Laertes on the +upland farm. His worn face, his ragged beard, his pitifully-patched +and creased garments made him a very type of an ineffectual sadness. +Perhaps his thoughts ran as sadly as my own, but I do not think it was +so, because the minds of many country-people, and of almost all the +old, of whatever degree, seem to me free from what is the curse of +delicately-trained and highly-strung temperaments--namely, the +temptation to be always reverting to the past, or forecasting the +future. Simple people and aged people put that aside, and live quite +serenely in the moment; and that is what I believe we ought all to +attempt, for most moments are bearable, if one only does not import +into them the weight of the future and the regret of the past. To +seize the moment with all its conditions, to press the quality out of +it, that is the best victory. But, alas! we are so made that though we +may know that a course is the wise, the happy, the true course, we +cannot always pursue it. I remember a story of a public man who bore +his responsibilities very hardly, worried and agonised over them, +saying to Mr Gladstone, who was at that time in the very thick of a +fierce political crisis: "But don't you find you lie awake at night, +thinking how you ought to act, and how you ought to have acted?" Mr +Gladstone turned his great, flashing eyes upon his interlocutor, and +said, with a look of wonder: "No, I don't; where would be the use of +that?" And again I remember that old Canon Beadon--who lived, I think, +to his 104th year--said to a friend that the secret of long life in his +own case was that he had never thought of anything unpleasant after ten +o'clock at night. Of course, if you have a series of compartments in +your brain, and at ten o'clock can turn the key quietly upon the room +that holds the skeletons and nightmares, you are a very fortunate man. + +But still, we can all of us do something. If one has the courage and +good sense, when in a melancholy mood, to engage in some piece of +practical work, it is wonderful how one can distract the great beast +that, left to himself, crops and munches the tender herbage of the +spirit. For myself I have generally a certain number of dull tasks to +perform, not in themselves interesting, and out of which little +pleasure can be extracted, except the pleasure which always results +from finishing a piece of necessary work. When I am wise, I seize upon +a day in which I am overhung with a shadow of sadness to clear off work +of this kind. It is in itself a distraction, and then one has the +pleasure both of having fought the mood and also of having left the +field clear for the mind, when it has recovered its tone, to settle +down firmly and joyfully to more congenial labours. + +To-day, little by little, the cloudy mood drew off and left me smiling. +The love of the peaceful and patient earth came to comfort me. How +pure and free were the long lines of ploughland, the broad back of the +gently-swelling down! How clear and delicate were the February tints, +the aged grass, the leafless trees! What a sense of coolness and +repose! I stopped a long time upon a rustic-timbered bridge to look at +a little stream that ran beneath the road, winding down through a rough +pasture-field, with many thorn-thickets. The water, lapsing slowly +through withered flags, had the pure, gem-like quality of the winter +stream; in summer it will become dim and turbid with infusorial life, +but now it is like a pale jewel. How strange, I thought, to think of +this liquid gaseous juice, which we call water, trickling in the cracks +of the earth! And just as the fish that live in it think of it as +their world, and have little cognisance of what happens in the acid, +unsubstantial air above, except the occasional terror of the dim, +looming forms which come past, making the soft banks quiver and stir, +so it may be with us; there may be a great mysterious world outside of +us, of which we sometimes see the dark manifestations, and yet of the +conditions of which we are wholly unaware. + +And now it grew dark; the horizon began to redden and smoulder; the +stream gleamed like a wan thread among the distant fields. It was time +to hurry home, to dip in the busy tide of life again. Where was my sad +mood gone? The clear air seemed to have blown through my mind, hands +had been waved to me from leafless woods, quiet voices of field and +stream had whispered me their secrets; "We would tell, if we could," +they seemed to say. And I, listening, had learnt patience, too--for +awhile. + + + + +IV + +The Flower + +I have made friends with a new flower. If it had a simple and +wholesome English name, I would like to know it, though I do not care +to know what ugly and clumsy title the botany books may give it; but it +lives in my mind, a perfect and complete memory of brightness and +beauty, and, as I have said, a friend. + +It was in a steep sea-cove that I saw it. Round a small circular basin +of blue sea ran up gigantic cliffs, grey limestone bluffs; here and +there, where they were precipitous, slanted the monstrous wavy lines of +distorted strata, thrust up, God alone knows how many ages ago, by some +sharp and horrible shiver of the boiling earth. Little waves broke on +the pebbly beach at our feet, and all the air was full of pleasant +sharp briny savours. A few boats were drawn up on the shingle; +lobster-pots, nets, strings of cork, spars, oars, lay in pleasant +confusion, by the sandy road that led up to the tiny hamlet above. We +had travelled far that day and were comfortably weary; we found a +sloping ledge of turf upon which we sat, and presently became aware +that on the little space of grass between us and the cliff must once +have stood a cottage and a cottage garden. There was a broken wall +behind us, and the little platform still held some garden flowers +sprawling wildly, a stunted fruitbush or two, a knotted apple-tree. + +My own flower, or the bushes on which it grew, had once, I think, +formed part of the cottage hedge; but it had found a wider place to its +liking, for it ran riot everywhere; it scaled the cliff, where, too, +the golden wall-flowers of the garden had gained a footing; it fringed +the sand-patches beyond us, it rooted itself firmly in the shingle. +The plant had rough light-brown branches, which were now all starred +with the greenest tufts imaginable; but the flower itself! On many of +the bushes it was not yet fully out, and showed only in an abundance of +small lilac balls, carefully folded; but just below me a cluster had +found the sun and the air too sweet to resist, and had opened to the +light. The flower was of a delicate veined purple, a five-pointed +star, with a soft golden heart. All the open blossoms stared at me +with a tranquil gaze, knowing I would not hurt them. + +Below, two fishermen rowed a boat quietly out to sea, the sharp +creaking of the rowlocks coming lazily to our ears in the pauses of the +wind. The little waves fell with a soft thud, followed by the crisp +echo of the surf, feeling all round the shingly cove. The whole place, +in that fresh spring day, was unutterably peaceful and content. + +And I too forgot all my busy schemes and hopes and aims, the tiny part +I play in the world, with so much petty energy, such anxious +responsibility. My purple-starred flower approved of my acquiescence, +smiling trustfully upon me. "Here," it seemed to say, "I bloom and +brighten, spring after spring. No one regards me, no one cares for me; +no one praises my beauty; no one sorrows when these leaves grow pale, +when I fall from my stem, when my dry stalks whisper together in the +winter wind. But to you, because you have seen and loved me, I whisper +my secret." And then the flower told me something that I cannot write +even if I would, because it is in the language unspeakable, of which St +Paul wrote that such words are not lawful for a man to utter; but they +are heard in the third heaven of God. + +Then I felt that if I could but remember what the flower said I should +never grieve or strive or be sorrowful any more; but, as the wise +Psalmist said, be content to tarry the Lord's leisure. Yet, even when +I thought that I had the words by heart, they ceased like a sweet music +that comes to an end, and which the mind cannot recover. + +I saw many other things that day, things beautiful and wonderful, no +doubt; but they had no voice for me, like the purple flower; or if they +had, the sea wind drowned them in the utterance, for their voices were +of the earth; but the flower's voice came, as I have said, from the +innermost heaven. + +I like well to go on pilgrimage; and in spite of weariness and rainy +weather, and the stupid chatter of the men and women who congregate +like fowls in inn-parlours, I pile a little treasure of sights and +sounds in my guarded heart, memories of old buildings, spring woods, +secluded valleys. All these are things seen, impressions registered +and gratefully recorded. But my flower is somehow different from all +these; and I shall never again hear the name of the place mentioned, or +even see a map of that grey coast, without a quiet thrill of gladness +at the thought that there, spring by spring, blooms my little friend, +whose heart I read, who told me its secret; who will wait for me to +return, and indeed will be faithfully and eternally mine, whether I +return or no. + + + + +V + +The Fens + +I have lately become convinced--and I do not say it either +sophistically, to plead a bad cause with dexterity, or resignedly, to +make the best out of a poor business; but with a true and hearty +conviction--that the most beautiful country in England is the flat +fenland. I do not here mean moderately flat country, low sweeps of +land, like the heaving of a dying groundswell; that has a miniature +beauty, a stippled delicacy of its own, but it is not a fine quality of +charm. The country that I would praise is the rigidly and +mathematically flat country of Eastern England, lying but a few feet +above the sea, plains which were once the bottoms of huge and ancient +swamps. + +In the first place, such country gives a wonderful sense of expanse and +space; from an eminence of a few feet you can see what in other parts +of England you have to climb a considerable hill to discern. I love to +feast my eyes on the interminable rich level plain, with its black and +crumbling soil; the long simple lines of dykes and water-courses carry +the eye peacefully out to a great distance; then, too, by having all +the landscape compressed into so narrow a space, into a belt of what +is, to the eye, only a few inches in depth, you get an incomparable +richness of colour. The solitary distant clumps of trees surrounding a +lonely farm gain a deep intensity of tint from the vast green level all +about them; and the line of the low far-off wolds, that close the view +many miles away, is of a peculiar delicacy and softness; the eye, too, +is provided with a foreground of which the elements are of the +simplest; a reedy pool enclosed by willows, the clustered buildings of +a farmstead; a grey church-tower peering out over churchyard elms; and +thus, instead of being checked by near objects, and hemmed in by the +limited landscape, the eye travels out across the plain with a sense of +freedom and grateful repose. Then, too, there is the huge perspective +of the sky; nowhere else is it possible to see, so widely, the slow +march of clouds from horizon to horizon; it all gives a sense of +largeness and tranquillity such as you receive upon the sea, with the +additional advantage of having the solid earth beneath you, green and +fertile, instead of the steely waste of waters. + +A day or two ago I found myself beside the lower waters of the Cam, in +flat pastures, full of ancient thorn-trees just bursting into bloom. I +gained the towing-path, which led me out gradually into the heart of +the fen; the river ran, or rather moved, a sapphire streak, between its +high green flood-banks; the wide spaces between the embanked path and +the stream were full of juicy herbage, great tracts of white +cow-parsley, with here and there a reed-bed. I stood long to listen to +the sharp song of the reed-warbler, slipping from spray to spray of a +willow-patch. Far to the north the great tower of Ely rose blue and +dim above the low lines of trees; in the centre of the pastures lay the +long brown line of the sedge-beds of Wicken Mere, almost the only +untouched tract of fenland; slow herds of cattle grazed, more and more +minute, in the unhedged pasture-land, and the solitary figure of a +labourer moving homeward on the top of the green dyke, seemed in the +long afternoon to draw no nearer. Here and there were the floodgates +of a lode, with the clear water slowly spilling itself over the rim of +the sluice, full of floating weed. There was something infinitely +reposeful in the solitude, the width of the landscape; there was no +sense of crowded life, no busy figures, intent on their small aims, to +cross one's path, no conflict, no strife, no bitterness, no insistent +voice; yet there was no sense of desolation, but rather the spectacle +of glad and simple lives of plants and birds in the free air, their +wildness tamed by the far-off and controlling hand of man, the calm +earth patiently serving his ends. I seemed to have passed out of +modern life into a quieter and older world, before men congregated into +cities, but lived the quiet and sequestered life of the country side; +and little by little there stole into my heart something of a dreamful +tranquillity, the calm of the slow brimming stream, the leisurely +herds, the growing grass. All seemed to be moving together, neither +lingering nor making haste, to some far-off end within the quiet mind +of God. Everything seemed to be waiting, musing, living the untroubled +life of nature, with no thought of death or care or sorrow. I passed a +trench of still water that ran as far as the eye could follow it across +the flat; it was full from end to end of the beautiful water violet, +the pale lilac flowers, with their faint ethereal scent, clustered on +the head of a cool emerald spike, with the rich foliage of the plant, +like fine green hair, filling the water. The rising of these beautiful +forms, by some secret consent, in their appointed place and time, out +of the fresh clear water, brought me a wistful sense of peace and +order, a desire for I hardly know what--a poised stateliness of life, a +tender beauty--if I could but win it for myself! + +On and on, hour by hour, that still bright afternoon, I made my slow +way over the fen; insensibly and softly the far-off villages fell +behind; and yet I seemed to draw no nearer to the hills of the horizon. +Now and then I passed a lonely grange; once or twice I came near to a +tall shuttered engine-house of pale brick, and heard the slow beat of +the pumps within, like the pulse of a hidden heart, which drew the +marsh-water from a hundred runlets, and poured it slowly seawards. +Field after field slid past me, some golden from end to end with +buttercups, some waving with young wheat, till at last I reached a +solitary inn beside a ferry, with the quaint title: "_No hurry! five +miles from anywhere._" And here I met with a grave and kindly welcome, +such as warms the heart of one who goes on pilgrimage: as though I was +certainly expected, and as if the lord of the place had given charge +concerning me. It would indeed hardly have surprised me if I had been +had into a room, and shown strange symbols of good and evil; or if I +had been given a roll and a bottle, and a note of the way. But no such +presents were made to me, and it was not until after I had left the +little house, and had been ferried in an old blackened boat across the +stream, that I found that I had the gifts in my bosom all the while. + +The roll was the fair sight that I had seen, in this world where it is +so sweet to live. My cordial was the peace within my spirit. And as +for the way, it seemed plain enough that day, easy to discern and +follow; and the heavenly city itself as near and visible as the blue +towers that rose so solemnly upon the green horizon. + + + + +VI + +The Well and the Chapel + +It is not often that one is fortunate enough to see two perfectly +beautiful things in one day. But such was my fortune in the late +summer, on a day that was in itself perfect enough to show what +September can do, if he only has a mind to plan hours of delight for +man. The distance was very blue and marvellously clear. The trees had +the bronzed look of the summer's end, with deep azure shadows. The +cattle moved slowly about the fields, and there was harvesting going +on, so that the villages we passed seemed almost deserted. I will not +say whence we started or where we went, and I shall mention no names at +all, except one, which is of the nature of a symbol or incantation; for +I do not desire that others should go where I went, unless I could be +sure that they went with the same peace in their hearts that I bore +with me that day. + +One of the places we visited on purpose; the other we saw by accident. +On the small map we carried was marked, at the corner of a little wood +that seemed to have no way to it, a well with the name of a saint, of +whom I never heard, though I doubt not she is written in the book of +God. + +We reached the nearest point to the well upon the road, and we struck +into the fields; that was a sweet place where we found ourselves! In +ancient days it had been a marsh, I think. For great ditches ran +everywhere, choked with loose-strife and water-dock, and the ground +quaked as we walked, a pleasant springy black mould, the dust of +endless centuries of the rich water plants. + +To the left, the ground ran up sharply in a minute bluff, with the soft +outline of underlying chalk, covered with small thorn-thickets; and it +was all encircled with small, close woods, where we heard the pheasants +scamper. We found an old, slow, bovine man, with a cheerful face, who +readily threw aside some fumbling work he was doing, and guided us; and +we should never have found the spot without him. He led us to a +stream, crossed by a single plank with a handrail, on which some +children had put a trap, baited with nuts for the poor squirrels, that +love to run chattering across the rail from wood to wood. Then we +entered a little covert; it was very pleasant in there, all dark and +green and still; and here all at once we came to the place; in the +covert were half a dozen little steep pits, each a few yards across, +dug out of the chalk. From each of the pits, which lay side by side, a +channel ran down to the stream, and in each channel flowed a small +bickering rivulet of infinite clearness. The pits themselves were a +few feet deep; at the bottom of each was a shallow pool, choked with +leaves; and here lay the rare beauty of the place. The water rose in +each pit out of secret ways, but in no place that we could see. The +first pit was still when we looked upon it; then suddenly the water +rose in a tiny eddy, in one corner, among the leaves, sending a little +ripple glancing across the pool. It was as though something, branch or +insect, had fallen from above, the water leapt so suddenly. Then it +rose again in another place, then in another; then five or six little +freshets rose all at once, the rings crossing and recrossing. And it +was the same in all the pits, which we visited one by one; we descended +and drank, and found the water as cold as ice, and not less pure; while +the old man babbled on about the waste of so much fine water, and of +its virtues for weak eyes: "Ain't it cold, now? Ain't it, then? My +God, ain't it?"--he was a man with a rich store of simple +asseverations,--"And ain't it good for weak eyes neither! You must +just come to the place the first thing in the morning, and wash your +eyes in the water, and ain't it strengthening then!" So he chirped on, +saying everything over and over, like a bird among the thickets. + +We paid him for his trouble, with a coin that made him so gratefully +bewildered that he said to us: "Now, gentlemen, if there's anything +else that you want, give it a name; and if you meet any one as you go +away, say 'Perrett told me' (Perrett's my name), and then you'll see!" +What the precise virtue of this invocation was, we did not have an +opportunity of testing, but that it was a talisman to unlock hidden +doors, I make no doubt. + +We went back silently over the fields, with the wonder of the thing +still in our minds. To think of the pure wells bubbling and flashing, +by day and by night, in the hot summer weather, when the smell of the +wood lies warm in the sun; on cold winter nights under moon and stars, +for ever casting up the bright elastic jewel, that men call water, and +feeding the flowing stream that wanders to the sea. I was very full of +gratitude to the pure maiden saint that lent her name to the well and I +am sure she never had a more devout pair of worshippers. + +So we sped on in silence, thinking--at least I thought--how the water +leaped and winked in the sacred wells, and how clear showed the chalk, +and the leaves that lay at the bottom: till at last we drew to our +other goal. "Here is the gate," said my companion at last. + +On one side of the road stood a big substantial farm; on the other, by +a gate, was a little lodge. Here a key was given us by an old hearty +man, with plenty of advice of a simple and sententious kind, until I +felt as though I were enacting a part in some little _Pilgrim's +Progress_, and as if _Mr Interpreter_ himself, with a very grave smile, +would come out and have me into a room by myself, to see some odd +pleasant show that he had provided. But it was perhaps more in the +manner of _Evangelist_, for our guide pointed with his finger across a +very wide field, and showed us a wicket to enter in at. + +Here was a great flat grassy pasture, the water again very near the +surface, as the long-leaved water-plants, that sprawled in all the +ditches, showed. But when we reached the wicket we seemed to be as far +removed from humanity as dwellers in a lonely isle. A few cattle +grazed drowsily, and the crisp tearing of the grass by their big lips +came softly across the pasture. Inside the wicket stood a single +ancient house, uninhabited, and festooned with ivy into a thing more +bush than house; though a small Tudor window peeped from the leaves, +like the little suspicious eye of some shaggy beast. + +A stone's throw away lay a large square moat, full of water, all +fringed with ancient gnarled trees; the island which it enclosed was +overgrown with tiny thickets of dishevelled box-trees, and huge +sprawling laurels; we walked softly round it, and there was our goal: a +small church of a whitish stone, in the middle of a little close of old +sycamores in stiff summer leaf. + +It stood so remote, so quietly holy, so ancient, that I could think of +nothing but the "old febel chapel" of the _Morte d'Arthur_. It had, I +know not why, the mysterious air of romance all about it. It seemed to +sit, musing upon what had been and what should be, smilingly guarding +some tender secret for the pure-hearted, full of the peace the world +cannot give. + +Within it was cool and dark, and had an ancient holy smell; it was +furnished sparely with seat and screen, and held monuments of old +knights and ladies, sleeping peacefully side by side, heads pillowed on +hands, looking out with quiet eyes, as though content to wait. + +Upon the island in the moat, we learned, had stood once a flourishing +manor, but through what sad vicissitudes it had fallen into dust I care +not. Enough that peaceful lives had been lived there; children had +been born, had played on the moat-edge, had passed away to bear +children of their own, had returned with love in their hearts for the +old house. From the house to the church children had been borne for +baptism; merry wedding processions had gone to and fro, happy Christmas +groups had hurried backwards and forwards; and the slow funeral pomp +had passed thither, under the beating of the slow bell, bearing one +that should not return. + +Something of the love and life and sorrow of the good days passed into +my mind, and I gave a tender thought to men and women whom I had never +known, who had tasted of life, and of joyful things that have an end; +and who now know the secret of the dark house to which we all are bound. + +When we at last rose unwillingly to go, the sun was setting, and flamed +red and brave through the gnarled trunks of the little wood; the mist +crept over the pasture, and far away the lights of the lonely farm +began to wink through the gathering dark. + +But I had seen! Something of the joy of the two sweet places had +settled in my mind; and now, in fretful, weary, wakeful hours, it is +good to think of the clear wells that sparkle so patiently in the dark +wood; and, better still, to wander in mind about the moat and the +little silent church; and to wonder what it all means; what the love is +that creeps over the soul at the sight of these places, so full of a +remote and delicate beauty; and whether the hunger of the heart for +peace and permanence, which visits us so often in our short and +difficult pilgrimage, has a counterpart in the land that is very far +off. + + + + +VII + +The Cuckoo + +I have been much haunted, indeed infested, if the word may be pardoned, +by cuckoos lately. When I was a child, acute though my observation of +birds and beasts and natural things was, I do not recollect that I ever +saw a cuckoo, though I often tried to stalk one by the ear, following +the sweet siren melody, as it dropped into the expectant silence from a +hedgerow tree; and I remember to have heard the notes of two, that +seemed to answer each other, draw closer each time they called. + +But of late I have become familiar with the silvery grey body and the +gliding flight; and this year I have been almost dogged by them. One +flew beside me, as I rode the other day, for nearly a quarter of a mile +along a hedgerow, taking short gliding flights, and settling till I +came up; I could see his shimmering wings and his long barred tail. I +dismounted at last, and he let me watch him for a long time, noting his +small active head, his decent sober coat. Then, when he thought I had +seen enough, he gave one rich bell-like call, with the full force of +his soft throat, and floated off. + +He seemed loath to leave me. But what word or gift, I thought, did he +bring with him, false and pretty bird? Do I too desire that others +should hatch my eggs, content with flute-like notes of pleasure? + +And yet how strange and marvellous a thing this instinct is; that one +bird, by an absolute and unvarying instinct, should forego the dear +business of nesting and feeding, and should take shrewd advantage of +the labours of other birds! It cannot be a deliberately reasoned or +calculated thing; at least we say that it cannot; and yet not Darwin +and all his followers have brought us any nearer to the method by which +such an instinct is developed and trained, till it has become an +absolute law of the tribe; making it as natural a thing for the cuckoo +to search for a built nest, and to cast away its foundling egg there, +as it is for other birds to welcome and feed the intruder. It seems so +satanically clever a thing to do; such a strange fantastic whim of the +Creator to take thought in originating it! It is this whimsicality, +the _bizarre_ humour in Nature, that puzzles me more than anything in +the world, because it seems like the sport of a child with odd +inconsequent fancies, and with omnipotence behind it all the time. It +seems strange enough to think of the laws that govern the breeding, +nesting, and nurture of birds at all, especially when one considers all +the accidents that so often make the toil futile, like the stealing of +eggs by other birds, and the predatory incursions of foes. One would +expect a law, framed by omnipotence, to be invariable, not hampered by +all kinds of difficulties that omnipotence, one might have thought, +could have provided against. And then comes this further strange +variation in the law, in the case of this single family of birds, and +the mystery thickens and deepens. And stranger than all is the +existence of the questioning and unsatisfied human spirit, that +observes these things and classifies them, and that yet gets no nearer +to the solution of the huge, fantastic, patient plan! To make a law, +as the Creator seems to have done; and then to make a hundred other +laws that seem to make the first law inoperative; to play this gigantic +game century after century; and then to put into the hearts of our +inquisitive race the desire to discover what it is all about; and to +leave the desire unsatisfied. What a labyrinthine mystery! Depth +beyond depth, and circle beyond circle! + +It is a dark and bewildering region that thus opens to the view. But +one conclusion is to beware of seeming certainties, to keep the windows +of the mind open to the light; not to be over-anxious about the little +part we have to play in the great pageant, but to advance, step by +step, in utter trustfulness. + +Perhaps that is your message to me, graceful bird, with the rich joyful +note! With what a thrill, too, do you bring back to me the brightness +of old forgotten springs, the childish rapture at the sweet tunable +cry! Then, in those far-off days, it was but the herald of the glowing +summer days, the time of play and flowers and scents. But now the soft +note, it seems, opens a door into the formless and uneasy world of +speculation, of questions that have no answer, convincing me of +ignorance and doubt, bidding me beat in vain against the bars that hem +me in. Why should I crave thus for certainty, for strength? Answer +me, happy bird! Nay, you guard your secret. Softer and more distant +sound the sweet notes, warning me to rest and believe, telling me to +wait and hope. + +But one further thought! One is expected, by people of conventional +and orthodox minds, to base one's conceptions of God on the writings of +frail and fallible men, and to accept their slender and eager testimony +to the occurrence of abnormal events as the best revelation of God that +the world contains. And all the while we disregard his own patient +writing upon the wall. Every day and every hour we are confronted with +strange marvels, which we dismiss from our minds because, God forgive +us, we call them natural; and yet they take us back, by a ladder of +immeasurable antiquity, to ages before man had emerged from a savage +state. Centuries before our rude forefathers had learned even to +scratch a few hillocks into earthworks, while they lived a brutish +life, herding in dens and caves, the cuckoo, with her traditions +faultlessly defined, was paying her annual visits, fluting about the +forest glades, and searching for nests into which to intrude her +speckled egg. The patient witness of God! She is as direct a +revelation of the Creator's mind, could we but interpret the mystery of +her instincts, as Augustine himself with his scheme of salvation +logically defined. Each of these missions, whether of bird or man, a +wonder and a marvel! But do we not tend to accept the eager and +childish hopes of humanity, arrayed with blithe certainty, as a nearer +evidence of the mind of God than the bird that at his bidding pursues +her annual quest, unaffected by our hasty conclusions, unmoved by our +glorified visions? I have sometimes thought that Christ probably spoke +more than is recorded about the observation of Nature; the hearts of +those that heard him were so set on temporal ends and human +applications, that they had not perhaps leisure or capacity to +recollect aught but those few scattered words, that seem to speak of a +deep love for and insight into the things of earth. They remembered +better that Christ blasted a fig-tree for doing what the Father bade +the poor plant do, than his tender dwelling upon grasses and lilies, +sparrow and sheep. The withering of the tree made an allegory: while +the love of flowers and streams was to those simple hearts perhaps an +unaccountable, almost an eccentric thing. But had Christ drawn human +breath in our bleaker Northern air, he would have perhaps, if those +that surrounded him had had leisure and grace to listen, drawn as grave +and comforting a soul-music from our homely cuckoo, with her punctual +obedience, her unquestioning faith, as he did from the birds and +flowers of the hot hillsides, the pastoral valleys of Palestine. I am +sure he would have loved the cuckoo, and forgiven her her heartless +customs. Those that sing so delicately would not have leisure and +courage to make their music so soft and sweet, if they had not a hard +heart to turn to the sorrows of the world. + +Yet still I am no nearer the secret. God sends me, here the frozen +peak, there the blue sea; here the tiger, there the cuckoo; here +Virgil, there Jeremiah; here St Francis of Assisi, there Napoleon. And +all the while, as he pushes his fair or hurtful toys upon the stage, +not a whisper, not a smile, not a glance escapes him; he thrusts them +on, he lays them by; but the interpretation he leaves with us, and +there is never a word out of the silence to show us whether we have +guessed aright. + + + + +VIII + +Spring-time + +Yesterday was a day of brisk airs. The wind was at work brushing great +inky clouds out of the sky. They came sailing up, those great rounded +masses of dark vapour, like huge galleons driving to the West, spilling +their freight as they came. The air would be suddenly full of tall +twisted rain-streaks, and then would come a bright burst of the sun. + +But a secret change came in the night; some silent power filled the air +with warmth and balm. And to-day, when I walked out of the town with +an old and familiar friend, the spring had come. A maple had broken +into bloom and leaf; a chestnut was unfolding his gummy buds; the +cottage gardens were full of squills and hepatica; and the mezereons +were all thick with damask buds. In green and sheltered underwoods +there were bursts of daffodils; hedges were pricked with green points; +and a delicate green tapestry was beginning to weave itself over the +roadside ditches. + +The air seemed full of a deep content. Birds fluted softly, and the +high elms which stirred in the wandering breezes were all thick with +their red buds. There was so much to look at and to point out that we +talked but fitfully; and there was, too, a gentle languor abroad which +made us content to be silent. + +In one village which we passed, a music-loving squire had made a +concert for his friends and neighbours, and doubtless, too, for our +vagrant delight; we stood uninvited to listen to a tuneful stir of +violins, which with a violoncello booming beneath, broke out very +pleasantly from the windows of a village school-room. + +When body and mind are fresh and vigorous, these outside impressions +often lose, I think, their sharp savours. One is preoccupied with +one's own happy schemes and merry visions; the bird sings shrill within +its cage, and claps its golden wings. But on such soft and languorous +days as these days of early spring, when the body is unstrung, and the +bonds and ties that fasten the soul to its prison are loosened and +unbound, the spirit, striving to be glad, draws in through the passages +of sense these swift impressions of beauty, as a thirsty child drains a +cup of spring-water on a sun-scorched day, lingering over the limpid +freshness of the gliding element. The airy voices of the strings being +stilled, with a sort of pity for those penned in the crowded room, +interchanging the worn coinage of civility, we stood a while looking in +at a gate, through which we could see the cool front of a Georgian +manor-house, built of dusky bricks, with coigns and dressings of grey +stone. The dark windows with their thick white casements, the +round-topped dormers, the steps up to the door, and a prim circle of +grass which seemed to lie like a carpet on the pale gravel, gave the +feeling of a picture; the whole being framed in the sombre yews of +shrubberies which bordered the drive. It was hard to feel that the +quiet house was the scene of a real and active life; it seemed so full +of a slumberous peace, and to be tenanted only by soft shadows of the +past. And so we went slowly on by the huge white-boarded mill, its +cracks streaming with congealed dust of wheat, where the water +thundered through the sluices and the gear rattled within. + +We crossed the bridge, and walked on by a field-track that skirted the +edge of the wold. How thin and clean were the tints of the dry +ploughlands and the long sweep of pasture! Presently we were at the +foot of a green drift-road, an old Roman highway that ran straight up +into the downs. On such a day as this, one follows a spirit in one's +feet, as Shelley said; and we struck up into the wold, on the green +road, with its thorn-thickets, until the chalk began to show white +among the ruts; and we were soon at the top. A little to the left of +us appeared, in the middle of the pasture, a tiny round-topped tumulus +that I had often seen from a lower road, but never visited. It was +fresher and cooler up here. On arriving at the place we found that it +was not a tumulus at all, but a little outcrop of the pure chalk. It +had steep, scarped sides with traces of caves scooped in them. The +grassy top commanded a wide view of wold and plain. + +Our talk wandered over many things, but here, I do not know why, we +were speaking of the taking up of old friendships, and the comfort and +delight of those serene and undisturbed relations which one sometimes +establishes with a congenial person, which no lapse of time or lack of +communication seems to interrupt--the best kind of friendship. There +is here no blaming of conditions that may keep the two lives apart; no +feverish attempt to keep up the relation, no resentment if mutual +intercourse dies away. And then, perhaps, in the shifting of +conditions, one's life is again brought near to the life of one's +friend, and the old easy intercourse is quietly resumed. My companion +said that such a relation seemed to him to lie as near to the solution +of the question of the preservation of identity after death as any +other phenomenon of life. "Supposing," he said, "that such a +friendship as that of which we have spoken is resumed after a break of +twenty years. One is in no respect the same person; one looks +different, one's views of life have altered, and physiologists tell us +that one's body has changed perhaps three times over, in the time, so +that there is not a particle of our frame that is the same; and yet the +emotion, the feeling of the friendship remains, and remains unaltered. +If the stuff of our thoughts were to alter as the materials of our body +alter, the continuity of such an emotion would be impossible. Of +course it is difficult to see how, divested of the body, our +perceptions can continue; but almost the only thing we are really +conscious of is our own identity, our sharp separation from the mass of +phenomena that are not ourselves. And, if an emotion can survive the +transmutation of the entire frame, may it not also survive the +dissolution of that frame?" + +"Could it be thus?" I said. "A ray of light falls through a chink in a +shutter; through the ray, as we watch it, floats an infinite array of +tiny motes, and it is through the striking of the light upon them that +we are aware of the light; but they are never the same. Yet the ray +has a seeming identity, though even the very ripples of light that +cause it are themselves ever changing, ever renewed. Could not the +soul be such a ray, illuminating the atoms that pass through it, and +itself a perpetual motion, a constant renewal?" + +But the day warned us to descend. The shadows grew longer, and a great +pale light of sunset began to gather in the West. We came slowly down +through the pastures, till we joined the familiar road again. And at +last we parted, in that wistful silence that falls upon the mood when +two spirits have achieved a certain nearness of thought, have drawn as +close as the strange fence of identity allows. But as I went home, I +stood for a moment at the edge of a pleasant grove, an outlying +pleasaunce of a great house on the verge of the town. The trees grew +straight and tall within it, and all the underwood was full of spring +flowers and green ground-plants, expanding to light and warmth; the sky +was all full of light, dying away to a calm and liquid green, the +colour of peace. Here I encountered another friend, a retiring man of +letters, who lives apart from the world in dreams of his own. He is a +bright-eyed, eager creature, tall and shadowy, who has but a slight +hold upon the world. We talked for a few moments of trivial things, +till a chance question of mine drew from him a sad statement of his own +health. He had been lately, he said, to a physician, and had been +warned that he was in a somewhat precarious condition. I tried to +comfort him, but he shook his head; and though he tried to speak +lightly and cheerfully, I could see that there was a shadow of doom +upon him. + +As I turned to go, he held up his hand, "Listen to the birds!" he said. +We were silent, and could hear the clear flute-like notes of thrushes +hidden in the tall trees, and the soft cooing of a dove. "That gives +one," he said, "some sense of the happiness which one cannot capture +for oneself!" He smiled mournfully, and in a moment I saw his light +figure receding among the trees. What a world it is for sorrow! My +friend was going, bearing the burden of a lonely grief, which I could +not lighten for him; and yet the whole scene was full of so sweet a +content, the birds full of hope and delight, the flowers and leaves +glad to feel themselves alive. What was one to make of it all? Where +to turn for light? What conceivable benefit could result from thus +perpetually desiring to know and perpetually being baffled? + +Yet, after all, to-day has been one of those rare days, like the gold +sifted from the _debris_ of the mine, which has had for me, by some +subtle alchemy of the spirit, the permanent quality which is often +denied to more stirring incidents and livelier experiences. I had seen +the mysteries of life and death, of joy and sorrow, sharply and sadly +contrasted. I had been one with Nature, with all her ardent ecstasies, +her vital impulses; and then I had seen too the other side of the +picture, a soul confronted with the mystery of death, alone in the +shapeless gloom; the very cries and stirrings and joyful dreams of +Nature bringing no help, but only deepening the shadow. + +And there came too the thought of how little such easy speculations as +we had indulged in on the grassy mound, thoughts which seemed so +radiant with beauty and mystery, how little they could sustain or +comfort the sad spirit which had entered into the cloud. + +So that bright first day of spring shaped itself for me into a day when +not only the innocent and beautiful flowers of the world rose into life +and sunshine; but a day when sadder thoughts raised their head too, red +flowers of suffering, and pale blooms of sadness; and yet these too can +be woven into the spirit's coronal, I doubt not, if one can but find +heart to do it, and patience for the sorrowful task. + + + + +IX + +The Hare + +I have just read a story that has moved me strangely, with a helpless +bewilderment and a sad anger of mind. When the doors of a factory, in +the heart of a northern town, were opened one morning, a workman, going +to move a barrel that stood in a corner, saw something crouching behind +it that he believed to be a dog or cat. He pushed it with his foot, +and a large hare sprang out. I suppose that the poor creature had been +probably startled by some dog the evening before, in a field close to +the town, had fled in the twilight along the streets, frightened and +bewildered, and had slipped into the first place of refuge it had +found; had perhaps explored its prison in vain, when the doors were +shut, with many dreary perambulations, and had then sunk into an uneasy +sleep, with frequent timid awakenings, in the terrifying unfamiliar +place. + +The man who had disturbed it shouted aloud to the other workmen who +were entering; the doors were shut, and the hare was chased by an eager +and excited throng from corner to corner; it fled behind some planks; +the planks were taken up; it made, in its agony of fear, a great leap +over the men who were bending down to catch it; it rushed into a corner +behind some tanks, from which it was dislodged with a stick. For half +an hour the chase continued, until at last it was headed into a +work-room, where it relinquished hope; it crouched panting, with its +long ears laid back, its pretty brown eyes wide open, as though +wondering desperately what it had done to deserve such usage; until it +was despatched with a shower of blows, and the limp, bleeding body +handed over to its original discoverer. + +Not a soul there had a single thought of pity for the creature; they +went back to work pleased, excited, amused. It was a good story to +tell for a week, and the man who had struck the last blows became a +little hero for his deftness. The old savage instinct for prey had +swept fiercely up from the bottom of these rough hearts--hearts +capable, too, of tenderness and grief, of compassion for suffering, +gentle with women and children. It seems to be impossible to blame +them, and such blame would have been looked upon as silly and misplaced +sentiment. Probably not even an offer of money, far in excess of the +market value of the dead body, if the hare could be caught unharmed, +would have prevailed at the moment over the instinct for blood. + +There are many hares in the world, no doubt, and _nous sommes tous +condamnes_. But that the power which could call into being so +harmless, pretty, and delicately organised a creature does not care or +is unable to protect it better, is a strange mystery. It cannot be +supposed that the hare's innocent life deserved such chastisement; and +it is difficult to believe that suffering, helplessly endured at one +point of the creation, can be remedial at another. Yet one cannot bear +to think that the extremity of terror and pain, thus borne by a +sensitive creature, either comes of neglect, or of cruel purpose, or is +merely wasted. And yet the chase and the slaughter of the unhappy +thing cannot be anything but debasing to those who took part in it. +And at the same time, to be angry and sorry over so wretched an episode +seems like trying to be wiser than the mind that made us. What single +gleam of brightness is it possible to extract from the pitiful little +story? Only this: that there must lie some tender secret, not only +behind what seems a deed of unnecessary cruelty, but in the implanting +in us of the instinct to grieve with a miserable indignation over a +thing we cannot cure, and even in the withholding from us any hope that +might hint at the solution of the mystery. + +But the thought of the seemly fur stained and bedabbled, the bright +hazel eyes troubled with the fear of death, the silky ears, in which +rang the horrid din of pursuit, rises before me as I write, and casts +me back into the sad mood, that makes one feel that the closer that one +gazes into the sorrowful texture of the world, the more glad we may +well be to depart. + + + + +X + +The Diplodocus + +I have had my imagination deeply thrilled lately by reading about the +discovery in America of the bones of a fossil animal called the +_Diplodocus_. I hardly know what the word is derived from, but it +might possibly mean an animal which _takes twice as much_, of +nourishment, perhaps, or room; either twice as much as is good for it, +or twice as much as any other animal. In either case it seems a +felicitous description. The creature was a reptile, a gigantic toad or +lizard that lived, it is calculated, about three million years ago. It +was in Canada that this particular creature lived. The earth was then +a far hotter place than now; a terrible steaming swamp, full of rank +and luxuriant vegetation, gigantic palms, ferns as big as trees. The +diplodocus was upwards of a hundred feet long, a vast inert creature, +with a tough black hide. In spite of its enormous bulk its brain was +only the size of a pigeon's egg, so that its mental processes must have +been of the simplest. It had a big mouth full of rudimentary teeth, of +no use to masticate its food, but just sufficing to crop the luxuriant +juicy vegetable stalks on which it lived, and of which it ate in the +course of the day as much as a small hayrick would contain. The +poisonous swamps in which it crept can seldom have seen the light of +day; perpetual and appalling torrents of rain must have raged there, +steaming and dripping through the dim and monstrous forests, with their +fallen day, varied by long periods of fiery tropical sunshine. In this +hot gloom the diplodocus trailed itself about, eating, eating; living a +century or so; loving, as far as a brain the size of a pigeon's egg can +love, and no doubt with a maternal tenderness for its loathly +offspring. It had but few foes, though, in the course of endless +generations, there sprang up a carnivorous race of creatures which seem +to have found the diplodocus tender eating. The particular diplodocus +of which I speak probably died of old age in the act of drinking, and +was engulfed in a pool of the great curdling, reedy river that ran +lazily through the forest. The imagination sickens before the thought +of the speedy putrefaction of such a beast under such conditions; but +this process over, the creature's bones lay deep in the pool. + +Another feature of the earth at that date must have been the vast +volcanic agencies at work; whole continents were at intervals submerged +or uplifted. In this case the whole of the forest country, where the +diplodocus lay, was submerged beneath the sea, and sank to a depth of +several leagues; for, in the course of countless ages, sea-ooze, to a +depth of at least three miles, was deposited over the forest, +preserving the trunks and even the very sprays of the tropical +vegetation. Who would suppose that the secret history of this great +beast would ever be revealed, as it lay century after century beneath +the sea-floor? But another convulsion took place, and a huge ridge of +country, forming the rocky backbone of North and South America, was +thrust up again by a volcanic convulsion, so that the diplodocus now +lay a mile above the sea, with a vast pile of downs over his head which +became a huge range of snow mountains. Then the rain and the sun began +their work; and the whole of the immense bed of uplifted ocean-silt, +now become chalk, was carried eastward by mighty rivers, forming the +whole continent of North America, between these mountains and the +eastern sea. At last the tropic forest was revealed again, a wide +tract of petrified tree-trunks and fossil wood. And then out of an +excavation, made where one of the last patches of the chalk still lay +in a rift of the hills, where the old river-pool had been into which +the great beast had sunk, was dug the neck-bone of the creature. +Curiosity was aroused by the sight of this fragment of an unknown +animal, and bit by bit the great bones came to light; some portions +were missing, but further search revealed the remains of three other +specimens of the great lizard, and a complete skeleton was put together. + +The mind positively reels before the story that is here revealed; we, +who are feebly accustomed to regard the course of recorded history as +the crucial and critical period of the life of the world, must be +sobered by the reflection that the whole of the known history of the +human race is not the thousandth, not the ten-thousandth part of the +history of the planet. What does this vast and incredible panorama +mean to us? What is it all about? This ghastly force at work, dealing +with life and death on so incredible a scale, and yet guarding its +secret so close? The diplodocus, I imagine, seldom indulged in +reveries as to how it came to be there; it awoke to life; its business +was to crawl about in the hot gloom, to eat, and drink, and sleep, to +propagate its kind; and not the least amazing part of the history is +that at length should have arisen a race of creatures, human beings, +that should be able to reconstruct, however faintly, by investigation, +imagination, and deduction, a picture of the dead life of the world. +It is this capacity for arriving at what has been, for tracing out the +huge mystery of the work of God, that appears to me the most wonderful +thing of all. And yet we seem no nearer to the solution of the secret; +we come into the world with this incredible gift of placing ourselves, +so to speak, on the side of the Creator, of surveying his work; and yet +we cannot guess what is in his heart; the stern and majestic eyes of +Nature behold us stonily, permitting us to make question, to explore, +to investigate, but withholding the secret. And in the light of those +inscrutable eyes, how weak and arrogant appear our dogmatic systems of +religion, that would profess to define and read the very purposes of +God; our dearest conceptions of morality, our pathetic principles, pale +and fade before these gigantic indications of mysterious, indifferent +energy. + +Yet even here, I think, the golden thread gleams out in the darkness; +for slight and frail as our so-called knowledge, our beliefs, appear, +before that awful, accumulated testimony of the past, yet the latest +development is none the less the instant guiding of God; it is all as +much a gift from him as the blind impulses of the great lizard in the +dark forest; and again there emerges the mighty thought, the only +thought that can give us the peace we seek, that we are all in his +hand, that nothing is forgotten, nothing is small or great in his +sight; and that each of our frail, trembling spirits has its place in +the prodigious scheme, as much as the vast and fiery globe of the sun +on the one hand, and, on the other, the smallest atom of dust that +welters deep beneath the sea. All that is, exists; indestructible, +august, divine, capable of endless rearrangement, infinite +modifications, but undeniably there. + +This truth, however dimly apprehended, however fitfully followed, ought +to give us a certain confidence, a certain patience. In careless moods +we may neglect it; in days of grief and pain we may feel that it cannot +help us; but it is the truth; and the more we can make it our own, the +deeper that we can set it in our trivial spirits, the better are we +prepared to learn the lesson which the deepest instinct of our nature +bids us believe, that the Father is trying to teach us, or is at least +willing that we should learn if we can. + + + + +XI + +The Beetle + +How strange it is that sometimes the smallest and commonest incident, +that has befallen one a hundred times before, will suddenly open the +door into that shapeless land of fruitless speculation; the land on to +which, I think, the Star Wormwood fell, burning it up and making it +bitter; the land in which we most of us sometimes have to wander, and +always alone. + +It was such a trifling thing after all. I was bicycling very +pleasantly down a country road to-day, when one of those small pungent +beetles, a tiny thing, in black plate-armour, for all the world like a +minute torpedo, sailed straight into my eye. The eyelid, quicker even +than my own thought, shut itself down, but too late. The little fellow +was engulphed in what Walt Whitman would call the liquid rims. These +small, hard creatures are tenacious of life, and they have, moreover, +the power of exuding a noxious secretion--an acrid oil, with a strong +scent, and even taste, of saffron. It was all over in a moment. I +rubbed my eye, and I suppose crushed him to death; but I could not get +him out, and I had no companion to extract him; the result was that my +eye was painful and inflamed for an hour or two, till the tiny, black, +flattened corpse worked its way out for itself. + +Now, that is not a very marvellous incident; but it set me wondering. +In the first place, what a horrible experience for the creature; in a +moment, as he sailed joyfully along, saying, "Aha," perhaps, like the +war-horse among the trumpets, on the scented summer breeze, with the +sun warm on his mail, to find himself stuck fast in a hot and oozy +crevice, and presently to be crushed to death. His little taste of the +pleasant world so soon over, and for me an agreeable hour spoilt, so +far as I could see, to no particular purpose. + +Now, one is inclined to believe that such an incident is what we call +fortuitous; but the only hope we have in the world is to believe that +things do not happen by chance. One believes, or tries to believe, +that the Father of all has room in his mind for the smallest of his +creatures; that not a sparrow, as Christ said, falls to the ground +without his tender care. Theologians tell us that death entered into +the world by sin; but it is not consistent to believe that, whereas +both men and animals suffer and die, the sufferings and death of men +are caused by their sins, or by the sins of their ancestors, while +animals suffer and die without sin being the cause. Surely the cause +must be the same for all the creation? and still less is it possible to +believe that the suffering and death of creatures is caused by the sin +of man, because they suffered and died for thousands of centuries +before man came upon the scene. + +If God is omnipotent and all-loving, we are bound to believe that +suffering and death are sent by him deliberately, and not cruelly. One +single instance, however minute, that established the reverse, would +vitiate the whole theory; and if so, then we are the sport of a power +that is sometimes kind and sometimes malignant. An insupportable +thought! + +Is it possible to conceive that the law of sin works in the lower +creation, and that they, too, are punished, or even wisely corrected, +for sinning against such light as they have? Had the little beetle +that sailed across my path acted in such a way that he had deserved his +fate? Or was his death meant to make him a better, a larger-minded +beetle? I cannot bring myself to believe that. Perhaps a +philosophical theologian would say that creation was all one, and that +suffering at one point was remedial at some other point. I am not in a +position to deny the possibility of that, but I am equally unable to +affirm that it is so. There is no evidence which would lead me to +think it. It only seems to me necessary to affirm it, in order to +confirm the axiom that God is omnipotent and all-loving. Much in +nature and in human life would seem to be at variance with that. + +It may be said that one is making too much of a minute incident; but +such incidents are of hourly occurrence all the world over; and the +only possible method for arriving at truth is the scientific method of +cumulative evidence. The beetle was small, indeed, and infinitely +unimportant in the scheme of things. But he was all in all to himself. +The world only existed so far as he was concerned, through his tiny +consciousness. + +The old-fashioned religious philosophers held that man was the crown +and centre of creation, and that God was mainly preoccupied with man's +destiny. They maintained that all creatures were given us for our use +and enjoyment. The enjoyment that I derived from the beetle, in this +case, was not conspicuous. But I suppose that such cheerful optimists +would say that the beetle was sent to give me a little lesson in +patience, to teach me not to think so much about myself. But, as a +matter of fact, the little pain I suffered made me think more of myself +than I had previously been doing; it turned me for the time from a +bland and hedonistic philosopher into a petulant pessimist, because it +seemed that no one was the better for the incident; certainly, if life +is worth having at all, the beetle was no better off, and in my own +case I could trace no moral improvement. I had been harmlessly enough +employed in getting air and exercise in the middle of hard work. It +was no vicious enjoyment that was temporarily suspended. + +Again, there are people who would say that to indulge in such reveries +is morbid; that one must take the rough with the smooth, and not +trouble about beetles or inflamed eyes. But if one is haunted by the +hopeless desire to search out the causes of things, such arguments do +not assist one. Such people would say, "Oh, you must take a larger or +wider view of it all, and not strain at gnats!" But the essence of +God's omnipotence is, that while he can take the infinitely wide view +of all created things, he can also take, I would fain believe, the +infinitely just and minute point of view, and see the case from the +standpoint of the smallest of his creatures! + +What, then, is my solution? That is the melancholy part of it; I am +not prepared to offer one. I am met on every side by hopeless +difficulties. I am tempted to think that God is not at all what we +imagine him to be; that our conceptions of benevolence and justice and +love are not necessarily true of him at all. That he is not in the +least like our conceptions of him; that he has no particular tenderness +about suffering, no particular care for animal life. Nature would seem +to prove that at every turn; and yet, if it be true, it leaves me +struggling in a sad abyss of thought; it substitutes for our grave, +beautiful, and hopeful conceptions of God a kind of black mystery +which, I confess, lies very heavy on the heart, and seems to make +effort vain. + +And thus I fall back again upon faith and hope. I know that I wish all +things well, that I desire with all my heart that everything that +breathes and moves should be happy and joyful; and I cannot believe in +my heart that it is different with God. And thus I rest in the trust +that there is somewhere, far-off, a beauty and a joy in suffering; and +that, perhaps, death itself is a fair and a desirable thing. + +As I rode to-day in the summer sun, far off, through the haze, I could +see the huge Cathedral towers and portals looming up over the trees. +Even so might be the gate of death! As we fare upon our pilgrimage, +that shadowy doorway waits, silent and sombre, to receive us. That +gate, the gate of death, seems to me, as in strength and health I sweep +along the pleasant road of life, a terrible, an appalling place. But +shall I feel so, when indeed I tread the threshold, and see the dark +arches, the mysterious windows to left and right? It may prove a cool +and secure haven of beauty and refreshment, rich in memory, echoing +with melodious song. The poor beetle knows about it now, whatever it +is; he is wise with the eternal wisdom of all that have entered in, +leaving behind them the frail and delicate tabernacle, in which the +spirit dwelt, and which is so soon to moulder into dust. + + + + +XII + +The Farm-yard + +There is a big farm-yard close to the house where I am staying just +now; it is a constant pleasure, as I pass that way, to stop and watch +the manners and customs of the beasts and birds that inhabit it; I am +ashamed to think how much time I spend in hanging over a gate, to watch +the little dramas of the byre. I am not sure that pigs are an +altogether satisfactory subject of contemplation. They always seem to +me like a fallen race that has seen better days. They are able, +intellectual, inquisitive creatures. When they are driven from place +to place, they are not gentle or meek, like cows and sheep, who follow +the line of least resistance. The pig is suspicious and cautious; he +is sure that there is some uncomfortable plot on foot, not wholly for +his good, which he must try to thwart if he can. Then, too, he never +seems quite at home in his deplorably filthy surroundings; he looks at +you, up to the knees in ooze, out of his little eyes, as if he would +live in a more cleanly way, if he were permitted. Pigs always remind +me of the mariners of Homer, who were transformed by Circe; there is a +dreadful humanity about them, as if they were trying to endure their +base conditions philosophically, waiting for their release. + +But cows bring a deep tranquillity into the spirit; their glossy skins, +their fragrant breath, their contented ease, their mild gaze, their +Epicurean rumination tend to restore the balance of the mind, and make +one feel that vegetarianism must be a desirable thing. There is the +dignity of innocence about the cow, and I often wish that she did not +bear so poor a name, a word so unsuitable for poetry; it is lamentable +that one has to take refuge in the archaism of _kine_, when the thing +itself is so gentle and pleasant. + +But the true joy of the farm-yard is, undoubtedly, in the domestic +fowls. It is long since I was frightened of turkeys; but I confess +that there is still something awe-inspiring about an old turkey-cock, +with a proud and angry eye, holding his breath till his wattles are +blue and swollen, with his fan extended, like a galleon in full sail, +his wings held stiffly down, strutting a few rapid steps, and then +slowly revolving, like a king in royal robes. There is something +tremendous about his supremacy, his almost intolerable pride and glory. + +And then we come to cocks and hens. The farm-yard cock is an +incredibly grotesque creature. His furious eye, his blood-red crest, +make him look as if he were seeking whom he might devour. But he is +the most craven of creatures. In spite of his air of just anger, he +has no dignity whatever. To hear him raise his voice, you would think +that he was challenging the whole world to combat. He screams +defiance, and when he has done, he looks round with an air of +satisfaction. "There! that is what you have to expect if you interfere +with me!" he seems to say. But an alarm is given; the poultry seek +refuge in a hurried flight. Where is the champion? You would expect +to see him guarding the rear, menacing his pursuer; but no, he has +headed the flight, he is far away, leading the van with a desperate +intentness. + +This morning I was watching the behaviour of a party of fowls, who were +sitting together on a dusty ledge above the road, sheltering from the +wind. I do not know whether they meant to be as humorous as they were, +but I can hardly think they were not amused at each other. They stood +and lay very close together, with fierce glances, and quick, jerky +motions of the head. Now and then one, tired of inaction, raised a +deliberate claw, bowed its head, scratched with incredible rapidity, +shook its tumbled feathers, and looked round with angry +self-consciousness, as though to say: "I will ask any one to think me +absurd at his peril." Now and then one of them kicked diligently at +the soil, and then, turning round, scrutinised the place intently, and +picked delicately at some minute object. One examined the neck of her +neighbour with a fixed stare, and then pecked the spot sharply. One +settled down on the dust, and gave a few vigorous strokes with her legs +to make herself more comfortable. Occasionally they all crooned and +wailed together, and at the passing of a cart all stood up defiantly, +as if intending to hold their fort at all hazards. Presently a woman +came out of a house-door opposite, at which the whole party ran +furiously and breathlessly across the road, as if their lives depended +upon arriving in time. There was not a gesture or a motion that was +not admirably conceived, intensely dramatic. + +Again, what is more delightfully absurd than to see a hen find a large +morsel which she cannot deal with at one gulp? She has no sense of +diplomacy or cunning; her friends, attracted by her motions, close in +about her; she picks up the treasured provender, she runs, bewildered +with anxiety, till she has distanced her pursuers; she puts the object +down and takes a couple of desperate pecks; but her kin are at her +heels; another flight follows, another wild attempt; for half an hour +the same tactics are pursued. At last she is at bay; she makes one +prodigious effort, and gets the treasure down with a convulsive +swallow; you see her neck bulge with the moving object; while she looks +at her baffled companions with an air of meek triumph. + +Ducks, too, afford many simple joys to the contemplative mind. A slow +procession of white ducks, walking delicately, with heads lifted high +and timid eyes, in a long line, has the air of an ecclesiastical +procession. The singers go before, the minstrels follow after. There +is something liturgical, too, in the way in which, as if by a +preconcerted signal, they all cry out together, standing in a group, +with a burst of hoarse cheering, cut off suddenly by an intolerable +silence. The arrival of ducks upon the scene, when the fowls are fed, +is an impressive sight. They stamp wildly over the pasture, falling, +stumbling, rising again, arrive on the scene with a desperate +intentness, and eat as though they had not seen food for months. + +The pleasure of these farm-yard sights is two-fold. It is partly the +sense of grave, unconscious importance about the whole business, +serious lives lived with such whole-hearted zeal. There is no sense of +divided endeavour; the discovery of food is the one thing in the world, +and the sense of repletion is also the sense of virtue. But there is +something pathetic, too, about the taming to our own ends of these +forest beasts, these woodland birds; they are so unconscious of the sad +reasons for which we desire their company, so unsuspicious, so serene! +Instead of learning by the sorrowful experience of generations what our +dark purposes are, they become more and more fraternal, more and more +dependent. And yet how little we really know what their thoughts are. +They are so unintelligent in some regions, so subtly wise in others. +We cannot share our thoughts with them; we cannot explain anything to +them. We can sympathise with them in their troubles, but cannot convey +our sympathy to them. There is a little bantam hen here, a great pet, +who comes up to the front door with the other bantams to be fed. She +has been suffering for some time from an obscure illness. She arrives +with the others, full of excitement, and begins to pick at the grain +thrown them; but the effort soon exhausts her; she goes sadly apart, +and sits with dim eye and ruffled plumage, in silent suffering, +wondering, perhaps, why she is not as brisk and joyful as ever, what is +the sad thing that has befallen her. And one can do nothing, express +nothing of the pathetic sorrow that fills one's mind. But, none the +less, one tries to believe, to feel, that this suffering is not +fortuitous, is not wasted--how could one endure the thought otherwise, +if one did not hope that "the earnest expectation of the creature +waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God!" + + + + +XIII + +The Artist + +I have been reading with much emotion the life of a great artist. It +is a tender, devoted record; and there is an atmosphere of delicate +beauty about the style. It is as though his wife, who wrote the book, +had gained through the years of companionship, a pale, pure reflection +of her husband's simple and impassioned style, just as the moon's +clear, cold light is drawn from the hot fountains of the sun. And yet, +there is an individuality about the style, and the reflection is rather +of the same nature as the patient likeness of expression which is to be +seen in the faces of an aged pair, who have travelled in love and unity +down the vale of years together. + +In this artist's own writing, which has a pure and almost childlike +_naivete_ of phrasing, there is a glow, not of rhetoric or language, +but of emotion, an almost lover-like attitude towards his friends, +which is yet saved from sentimentality by an obvious sincerity of +feeling. In this he seems to me to be different from the majority of +artistic natures and temperaments. It is impossible not to feel, as a +rule, when one is brought into contact with an artistic temperament, +that the basis of it is a kind of hardness, a fanaticism of spirit. +There is, of course, in the artistic temperament, an abundance of +sensitiveness which is often mistaken for feeling. But it is not +generally an unselfish devotion, which desires to give, to lavish, to +make sacrifices for the sake of the beloved. It is, after all, +impossible to serve two masters; and in the highly developed artist, +the central passion is the devotion to art, and sins against art are +the cardinal and unpardonable sins. The artist has an eager thirst for +beautiful impressions, and his deepest concern is how to translate +these impressions into the medium in which he works. Many an artist +has desired and craved for love. But even love in the artist is not +the end; love only ministers to the sacred fire of art, and is treated +by him as a costly and precious fuel, which he is bound to use to feed +the central flame. If one examines the records of great artistic +careers, this will, I think, be found to be a true principle; and it +is, after all, inevitable that it should be so, in the case of a nature +which has the absorbing desire for self-expression. Perhaps, it is not +always consciously recognised by the artist, but the fact is there; he +tends to regard the deepest and highest experiences of life as +ministering to the fulness of his nature. I remember hearing a great +master of musical art discussing the music of a young man of +extraordinary promise; he said: "Yes, it is very beautiful, very pure; +he is perfect in technique and expression, as far as it goes; but it is +incomplete and undeveloped. What he wants is to fall in love." + +A man who is not bound by the noble thraldom of art, who is full of +vitality and emotion, but yet without the imperative desire for +self-expression, regards life in a different mood. He may be fully as +eager to absorb beautiful impressions, he may love the face of the +earth, the glories of hill and plain, the sweet dreams of art, the +lingering cadences of music; but he takes them as a child takes food, +with a direct and eager appetite, without any impulse to dip them in +his own personality, or to find an expression for them. The point for +him is not how they strike him and affect him, but that they are there. +Such a man will perhaps find his deepest experience in the mysteries of +human relationship; and he will so desire the happiness of those he +loves, that he will lose himself in efforts to remove obstacles, to +lighten burdens, to give rather than to receive joy. And this, I +think, is probably the reason why so few women, even those possessed of +the most sensitive perception and apprehension, achieve the highest +triumphs of art; because they cannot so subordinate life to art, +because they have a passionate desire for the happiness of others, and +find their deepest satisfaction in helping to further it. Who does not +know instances of women of high possibilities, who have quietly +sacrificed the pursuit of their own accomplishments to the tendance of +some brilliant self-absorbed artist? With such love is often mingled a +tender compassionateness, as of a mother for a high-spirited and eager +child, who throws herself with perfect sympathy into his aims and +tastes, while all the time there sits a gentle knowledge in the +background of her heart, of the essential unimportance of the things +that the child desires so eagerly, and which she yet desires so +whole-heartedly for him. Women who have made such a sacrifice do it +with no feeling that they are resigning the best for the second best, +but because they have a knowledge of mysteries that are even higher +than the mysteries of art; and they have their reward, not in the +contemplation of the sacrifice that they have made, but in having +desired and attained something that is more beautiful still than any +dream that the artist cherishes and follows. + +Yet the fact remains that it is useless to preach to the artist the +mystery that there is a higher region than the region of art. A man +must aim at the best 'that he can conceive; and it is not possible to +give men higher motives, by removing the lower motives that they can +comprehend. Such an attempt is like building without foundations; and +those who have relations with artists should do all they can to +encourage them to aim at what they feel to be the highest. + +But, on the other hand, it is a duty for the artist to keep his heart +open, if he can, to the higher influences. He must remember, that +though the eye can see certain colours, and hear certain vibrations of +sound, yet there is an infinite scale of colour, and an infinite +gradation of sound, both above and below what the eye and the ear can +apprehend, and that mortal apprehension can only appropriate to itself +but a tiny fragment of the huge gamut. He ought to believe that if he +is faithful to the best that he can apprehend, a door may be opened to +him which may lead him into regions which are at present closed to him. +To accept the artistic conscience, the artistic aim, as the highest +ideal of which the spirit is capable, is to be a Pharisee in art, to be +self-sufficient, arrogant, limited. It is a kind of spiritual pride, a +wilful deafness to more remote voices; and it is thus of all sins, the +one which the artist, who lives the life of perception, whose mind +must, above all things, be open and transparent, should be loth to +commit. He should rather keep his inner eye--for the artist is like +the great creatures that, in the prophet's vision, stood nearest to the +presence, who were full of eyes, without and within--open to the +unwonted apparition which may, suddenly, like a meteor of the night, +sail across the silent heaven. It may be that, in some moment of +fuller perception, he may even have to divorce the sweeter and more +subtle mistress in exchange for one who comes in a homelier guise, and +take the beggar girl for his queen. But the abnegation will be no +sacrifice; rather a richer and livelier hope. + + + + +XIV + +Young Love + +We had a charming idyll here to-day. A young husband and wife came to +stay with us in all the first flush of married happiness. One realised +all day long that other people merely made a pleasant background for +their love, and that for each there was but one real figure on the +scene. This was borne witness to by a whole armoury of gentle looks, +swift glances, silent gestures. They were both full to the brim of a +delicate laughter, of over-brimming wonder, of tranquil desire. And we +all took part in their gracious happiness. In the evening they sang +and played to us, the wife being an accomplished pianist, the husband a +fine singer. But though the glory of their art fell in rainbow showers +on the audience, it was for each other that they sang and played. We +sat in the dim light of a little panelled room, the lamps making a +circle of light about the happy pair; seldom have I felt the revelation +of personality more. The wife played to us a handful of beautiful +things; but I noticed that she could not interpret the sadder and +darker strains, into which the shadow and malady of a suffering spirit +had passed; but into little tripping minuets full of laughter and +light, and into melodies that spoke of a pure passion of sweetness and +human delight, her soul passed, till the room felt as though flooded +with the warmth of the sun. And he, too, sang with all his might some +joyful and brave utterances, with the lusty pride of manhood; and in a +gentler love-song too, that seemed to linger in a dream of delight by +crystal streams, the sweet passion of the heart rose clear and true. +But when he too essayed a song of sorrow and reluctant sadness, there +was no spirit in it; it seemed to him, I suppose, so unlike life, and +the joy of life,--so fantastic and unreal an outpouring of the heart. + +We sat long in the panelled room, till it seemed all alive with soft +dreams and radiant shapes, that floated in a golden air. All that was +dark and difficult seemed cast out and exercised. But it was all so +sincere and contented a peace that the darker and more sombre shadows +had no jealous awakening; for the two were living to each other, not in +a selfish seclusion, but as though they gave of their joy in handfuls +to the whole world. The raptures of lovers sometimes take them back so +far into a kind of unashamed childishness that the spectacle rouses the +contempt and even the indignation of world-worn and cynical people. +But here it never deviated from dignity and seemliness; it only seemed +new and true, and the best gift of God. These two spirits seemed, with +hands intertwined, to have ascended gladly into the mountain, and to +have seen a transfiguration of life: which left them not in a blissful +eminence of isolation, but rather, as it were, beckoning others +upwards, and saying that the road was indeed easy and plain. And so +the sweet hour passed, and left a fragrance behind it; whatever might +befall, they had tasted of the holy wine of joy; they had blessed the +cup, and bidden us too to set our lips to it. + + + + +XV + +A Strange Gathering + +I was walking one summer day in the pleasant hilly country near my +home. There is a road which I often traverse, partly because it is a +very lonely one, partly because it leads out on a high brow or shoulder +of the uplands, and commands a wide view of the plain. Moreover, the +road is so deeply sunken between steep banks, overgrown with hazels, +that one is hardly aware how much one climbs, and the wide clear view +at the top always breaks upon the eye with a certain shock of agreeable +surprise. A little before the top of the hill a road turns off, +leading into a long disused quarry, surrounded by miniature cliffs, +full of grassy mounds and broken ground, overgrown with thickets and +floored with rough turf. It is a very enchanting place in spring, and +indeed at all times of the year; many flowers grow there, and the birds +sing securely among the bushes. I have always imagined that the Red +Deeps, in _The Mill on the Floss_, was just such a place, and the +scenes described as taking place there have always enacted themselves +for me in the quarry. I have always had a fancy too that if there are +any fairies hereabouts, which I very much doubt, for I fear that the +new villas which begin to be sprinkled about the countryside have +scared them all away, they would be found here. I visited the place +one moonlight night, and I am sure that the whole dingle was full of a +bright alert life which mocked my clumsy eyes and ears. If I could +have stolen upon the place unawares, I felt that I might have seen +strange businesses go forward, and tiny revels held. + +That afternoon, as I drew near, I was displeased to see that my little +retreat was being profaned by company. Some brakes were drawn up in +the road, and I heard loud voices raised in untuneful mirth. As I came +nearer I was much bewildered to divine who the visitors were. They +seemed on the point of departing; two of the brakes were full, and into +another some men were clambering. As I came close to them I was still +more puzzled. The majority of the party were dressed all alike, in +rough brown clothes, with soft black felt hats; but in each of the +brakes that were tenanted sat a man as well, with a braided cap, in a +sort of uniform. Most of the other men were old or elderly; some had +white beards or whiskers, almost all were grizzled. They were talking, +too, in an odd, inconsequent, chirping kind of way, not listening to +each other; and moreover they were strangely adorned. Some had their +hats stuck full of flowers, others were wreathed with leaves. A few +had chains of daisies round their necks. They seemed as merry and as +obedient as children. Inside the gate, in the centre of the quarry, +was a still stranger scene. Here was a ring of elderly and aged men, +their hats wreathed with garlands, hand-in-hand, executing a slow and +solemn dance in a circle. One, who seemed the moving spirit, a small +wiry man with a fresh-coloured face and a long chin-beard, was leaping +high in the air, singing some rustic song, and dragging his less active +companions round and round. The others all entered into the spirit of +the dance. One very old and feeble man, with a smile on his face, was +executing little clumsy hops, deeply intent on the performance. A few +others stood round admiring the sport; a little apart was a tall grave +man, talking loudly to himself, with flowers stuck all over him, who +was spinning round and round in an ecstasy of delight. Becoming giddy, +he took a few rapid steps to the left, but fell to the ground, where he +lay laughing softly, and moving his hands in the air. Presently one of +the officials said a word to the leader of the dance; the ring broke +up, and the performers scattered, gathering up little bundles of leaves +and flowers that lay all about in some confusion, and then trooping out +to the brakes. The quarry was deserted. Several of the group waved +their hands to me, uttering unintelligible words, and holding out +flowers. + +I was so much surprised at the odd scene that I asked one of the +officials what it all meant. He said politely that it was a picnic +party from the Pauper Lunatic Asylum at H----. The mystery was +explained. I said: "They seem to be enjoying themselves." "Yes, +indeed, sir," he said, "they are like children; they look forward to +this all the year; there is no greater punishment than to deprive a man +of his outing." He entered the last brake as he said these words, and +the carriages moved off, a shrill and aged cheer rising from thin and +piping voices on the air. + +The whole thing did not strike me as grotesque, but as infinitely +pathetic and even beautiful. Here were these old pitiful creatures, so +deeply afflicted, condemned most of them to a lifelong seclusion, who +were recalling and living over again their childish sports and +delights. What dim memories of old spring days, before their sad +disabilities had settled upon them, were working in those aged and +feeble brains! What pleased me best was the obvious and light-hearted +happiness of the whole party, a compensation for days of starved +monotony. No party of school-children on a holiday could have been +more thoughtlessly, more intently gay. Here was a desolate company, +one would have thought, of life's failures, facing one of the saddest +and least hopeful prospects that the world can afford; yet on this day +at least they were full to the brim of irresponsible and complete +happiness and delight, tasting an enjoyment, it seemed, more vivid than +often falls to my own lot. In the presence of such happiness it seemed +so useless, so unnecessary to ask why so heavy a burden was bound on +their backs, because here at all events was a scene of the purest and +most innocent rapture. I went on my way full of wonder and even of +hope. I could not fathom the deep mystery of the failure, the +suffering, the weakness that runs across the world like an ugly crack +across the face of a fair building. But then how tenderly and wisely +does the great Artificer lend consolation and healing, repairing and +filling so far as he may, the sad fracture; he seems to know better +than we can divine the things that belong to our peace; so that as I +looked across the purple rolling plain, with all its wooded ridges, its +rich pastures, the smoke going up from a hundred hamlets, a confidence, +a quiet trust seemed to rise in my mind, filling me with a strange +yearning to know what were the thoughts of the vast Mind that makes us +and sustains us, mingled with a faith in some large and far-off issue +that shall receive and enfold our little fretful spirits, as the sea +receives the troubled leaping streams, to move in slow unison with the +wide and secret tides. + + + + +XVI + +The Cripple + +I went to-day to see an old friend whom I had not met for ten years. +Some time ago he had a bad fall which for a time crippled him, but from +which it was hoped he would recover; but he must have received some +obscure and deep-seated injury, because after improving for a time, he +began to go backwards, and has now to a great extent lost the use of +his limbs. He was formerly a very active man, both intellectually and +physically. He had a prosperous business in the country town on the +outskirts of which he lives. He was one of those tall spare men, +black-haired and black-eyed, capable of bearing great fatigue, full to +the brim of vitality. He was a great reader, fond of music and art; +married to a no less cultivated and active wife, but childless. There +never was a man who had a keener enjoyment of existence in all its +aspects. It used to be a marvel to me to see at how many points a man +could touch life, and the almost child-like zest which he threw into +everything which he did. + +On arriving at the house, a pleasant old-fashioned place with a big +shady garden, I was shown into a large book-lined study, and there +presently crept and tottered into the room, leaning on two sticks, a +figure which I can only say in no respect recalled to me the +recollection of my friend. He was bent and wasted, his hair was white; +and there was that sunken look about the temples, that tracery of lines +about the eyes that tells of constant suffering. But the voice was +unaltered, full, resonant, and distinct as ever. He sat down and was +silent for a moment. I think that the motion even from one room into +another caused him great pain. Then he began to talk; first he told me +of the accident, and his journeys in search of health. "But the +comfort is," he added, "that the doctors have now decided that they can +do no more for me, and I need leave home no more." He told me that he +still went to his business every day--and I found that it was +prospering greatly--and that though he could not drive, he could get +out in a wheeled chair; he said nothing of his sufferings, and +presently began to talk of books and politics. Gradually I realised +that I was in the company of a thoroughly cheerful man. It was not the +cheerfulness that comes of effort, of a determined attempt to be +interested in old pursuits, but the abundant and overflowing +cheerfulness of a man who has still a firm grasp on life. He argued, +he discussed with the same eager liveliness; and his laugh had the +careless and good-humoured ring of a man whose mind was entirely +content. + +His wife soon entered; and we sat for a long time talking. I was +keenly moved by the relations between them; she displayed none of that +minute attention to his needs, none of that watchful anxiety which I +have often thought, tenderly lavished as it is upon invalids, must +bring home to them a painful sense of their dependence and +helplessness; and he too showed no trace of that fretful exigence which +is too often the characteristic of those who cannot assist themselves, +and which almost invariably arises in the case of eager and active +temperaments thus afflicted, those whose minds range quickly from +subject to subject, and who feel their disabilities at every turn. At +one moment he wanted his glasses to read something from a book that lay +beside him. He asked his wife with a gentle courtesy to find them. +They were discovered in his own breast-pocket, into which he could not +even put his feeble hand, and he apologised for his stupidity with an +affectionate humility which made me feel inclined to tears, especially +when I saw the pleasure which the performance of this trifling service +obviously caused her. It was just the same, I afterwards noticed, with +a young attendant who waited on him at luncheon, an occasion which +revealed to me the full extent of his helplessness. + +I gathered from his wife in the course of the afternoon that though his +life was not threatened, yet that there was no doubt that his +helplessness was increasing. He could still hold a book and turn the +pages; but it was improbable that he could do so for long, and he was +amusing himself by inventing a mechanical device for doing this. But +she too talked of the prospect with a quiet tranquillity. She said +that he was making arrangements to direct his business from his house, +as it was becoming difficult for him to enter the office. + +He himself showed the same unabated cheerfulness during the whole of my +visit, and spoke of the enjoyment it had brought him. There was not +the slightest touch of self-pity about his talk. + +I should have admired and wondered at the fortitude of this gallant +pair, if I had seen signs of repression and self-conquest about them; +if they had relapsed even momentarily into repining, if they had shown +signs of a faithful determination to make the best of a bad business. +But I could discern no trace of such a mood about either of them. +Whether this kindly and sweet patience has been acquired, after hard +and miserable wrestlings with despair and wretchedness, I cannot say, +but I am inclined to think that it is not so. It seems to me rather to +be the display of perfect manliness and womanliness in the presence of +an irreparable calamity, a wonderful and amazing compensation, sent +quietly from the deepest fortress of Love to these simple and generous +natures, who live in each other's lives. I tried to picture to myself +what my own thoughts would be if condemned to this sad condition; I +could only foresee a fretful irritability, a wild anguish, alternating +with a torpid stupefaction. "I seem to love the old books better than +ever," my friend had said, smiling softly, in the course of the +afternoon; "I used to read them hurriedly and greedily in the old days, +but now I have time to think over them--to reflect--I never knew what a +pleasure reflection was." I could not help feeling as he said the +words that with me such a stroke as he had suffered would have dashed +the life, the colour, out of books, and left them faded and withered +husks. Half the charm of books, I have always thought, is the +inter-play of the commentary of life and experience. I ventured to ask +him if this was not the case. "No," he said, "I don't think it is--I +seem more interested in people, in events, in thoughts than ever; and +one gets them from a purer spring--I don't know if I can explain," he +added, "but I think that one sees it all from a different perspective, +in a truer light, when one's own desires and possibilities are so much +more limited." When I said good-bye to him, he smiled at me and hoped +that I should repeat my visit. "Don't think of me as unhappy," he +added, and his wife, who was standing by him, said, "Indeed you need +not;" and the two smiled at each other in a way which made me feel that +they were speaking the simple truth, and that they had found an +interpretation of life, a serene region to abide in, which I, with all +my activities, hopes, fears, businesses, had somehow missed. The pity +of it! and yet the beauty of it! as I went away I felt that I had +indeed trodden on holy ground, and seen the transfiguration of humanity +and pain into something august, tranquil, and divine. + + + + +XVII + +Oxford + +There are certain things in the world that are so praiseworthy that it +seems a needless, indeed an almost laughable thing to praise them; such +things are love and friendship, food and sleep, spring and summer; such +things, too, are the wisest books, the greatest pictures, the noblest +cities. But for all that I mean to try and make a little hymn in prose +in honour of Oxford, a city I have seen but seldom, and which yet +appears to me one of the most beautiful things in the world. + +I do not wish to single out particular buildings, but to praise the +whole effect of the place, such as it seemed to me on a day of bright +sun and cool air, when I wandered hour after hour among the streets, +bewildered and almost intoxicated with beauty, feeling as a poor man +might who has pinched all his life, and made the most of single coins, +and who is brought into the presence of a heap of piled-up gold, and +told that it is all his own. + +I have seen it said in foolish books that it is a misfortune to Oxford +that so many of the buildings have been built out of so perishable a +vein of stone. It is indeed a misfortune in one respect, that it +tempts men of dull and precise minds to restore and replace buildings +of incomparable grace, because their outline is so exquisitely blurred +by time and decay. I remember myself, as a child, visiting Oxford, and +thinking that some of the buildings were almost shamefully ruinous of +aspect; now that I am wiser I know that we have in these battered and +fretted palace-fronts a kind of beauty that fills the mind with an +almost despairing sense of loveliness, till the heart aches with +gratitude, and thrills with the desire to proclaim the glory of the +sight aloud. + +These black-fronted blistered facades, so threatening, so sombre, yet +screening so bright and clear a current of life; with the tender green +of budding spring trees, chestnuts full of silvery spires, +glossy-leaved creepers clinging, with tiny hands, to cornice and +parapet, give surely the sharpest and most delicate sense that it is +possible to conceive of the contrast on which the essence of so much +beauty depends. To pass through one of these dark and smoke-stained +courts, with every line mellowed and harmonised, as if it had grown up +so out of the earth; to find oneself in a sunny pleasaunce, carpeted +with velvet turf, and set thick with flowers, makes the spirit sigh +with delight. Nowhere in the world can one see such a thing as those +great gate-piers, with a cognisance a-top, with a grille of iron-work +between them, all sweetly entwined with some slim vagrant creeper, that +give a glimpse and a hint--no more--of a fairy-land of shelter and +fountains within. I have seen such palaces stand in quiet and stately +parks, as old, as majestic, as finely proportioned as the buildings of +Oxford; but the very blackness of the city air, and the drifting smoke +of the town, gives that added touch of grimness and mystery that the +country airs cannot communicate. And even fairer sights are contained +within; those panelled, dark-roofed halls, with their array of +portraits gravely and intently regarding the stranger; the chapels, +with their splendid classical screens and stalls, rich and dim with +ancient glass. The towers, domes, and steeples; and all set not in a +mere paradise of lawns and glades, but in the very heart of a city, +itself full of quaint and ancient houses, but busy with all the +activity of a brisk and prosperous town; thereby again giving the +strong and satisfying sense of contrast, the sense of eager and +every-day cares and pleasures, side by side with these secluded havens +of peace, the courts and cloister, where men may yet live a life of +gentle thought and quiet contemplation, untroubled, nay, even +stimulated, by the presence of a bustling life so near at hand, which +yet may not intrude upon the older dream. + +I do not know whether my taste is entirely trustworthy, but I confess +that I find the Italianate and classical buildings of Oxford finer than +the Gothic buildings. The Gothic buildings are quainter, perhaps, more +picturesque, but there is an air of solemn pomp and sober dignity about +the classical buildings that harmonises better with the sense of wealth +and grave security that is so characteristic of the place. The Gothic +buildings seem a survival, and have thus a more romantic interest, a +more poetical kind of association. But the classical porticos and +facades seem to possess a nobler dignity, and to provide a more +appropriate setting for modern Oxford; because the spirit of Oxford is +more the spirit of the Renaissance than the spirit of the Schoolmen; +and personally I prefer that ecclesiasticism should be more of a +flavour than a temper; I mean that though I rejoice to think that sober +ecclesiastical influences contribute a serious grace to the life of +Oxford, yet I am glad to feel that the spirit of the place is liberal +rather than ecclesiastical. Such traces as one sees in the chapels of +the Oxford Movement, in the shape of paltry stained glass, starved +reredoses, modern Gothic woodwork, would be purely deplorable from the +artistic point of view, if they did not possess a historical interest. +They speak of interrupted development, an attempt to put back the +shadow on the dial, to return to a narrower and more rigid tone, to put +old wine into new bottles, which betrays a want of confidence in the +expansive power of God. I hate with a deep-seated hatred all such +attempts to bind and confine the rising tide of thought. I want to see +religion vital and not formal, elastic and not cramped by precedent and +tradition. And thus I love to see worship enshrined in noble classical +buildings, which seem to me to speak of a desire to infuse the +intellectual spirit of Greece, the dignified imperialism of Rome into +the more timid and secluded ecclesiastical life, making it fuller, +larger, more free, more deliberate. + +But even apart from the buildings, which are after all but the body of +the place, the soul of Oxford, its inner spirit, is what lends it its +satisfying charm. On the one hand, it gives the sense of the dignity +of the intellect; one reflects that here can be lived lives of stately +simplicity, of high enthusiasm, apart from personal wealth, and yet +surrounded by enough of seemly dignity to give life the charm of grave +order and quiet solemnity. Here are opportunities for peaceful and +congenial work, to the sound of mellodious bells; uninterrupted hours, +as much society of a simple kind as a man can desire, and the whole +with a background of exquisite buildings and rich gardens. And then, +too, there is the tide of youthful life that floods every corner of the +place. It is an endless pleasure to see the troops of slim and alert +young figures, full of enjoyment and life, with all the best gifts of +life, health, work, amusement, society, friendship, lying ready to +their hand. The sense of this beating and thrilling pulse of life +circulating through these sombre and splendid buildings is what gives +the place its inner glow; this life full of hope, of sensation, of +emotion, not yet shadowed or disillusioned or weary, seems to be as the +fire on the altar, throwing up its sharp darting tongues of flame, its +clouds of fragrant smoke, giving warmth and significance and a fiery +heart to a sombre shrine. + +And so it is that Oxford is in a sort a magnetic pole for England; a +pole not, perhaps, of intellectual energy, or strenuous liberalism, or +clamorous aims, or political ideas; few, perhaps, of the sturdy forces +that make England potently great, centre there. The greatness of +England is, I suppose, made up by her breezy, loud-voiced sailors, her +lively, plucky soldiers, her ardent, undefeated merchants, her tranquil +administrators; by the stubborn adventurous spirit that makes itself at +home everywhere, and finds it natural to assume responsibilities. But +to Oxford set the currents of what may be called intellectual emotion, +the ideals that may not make for immediate national greatness, but +which, if delicately and faithfully nurtured, hold out at least a hope +of affecting the intellectual and spiritual life of the world. There +is something about Oxford which is not in the least typical of England, +but typical of the larger brotherhood that is independent of +nationalities; that is akin to the spirit which in any land and in +every age has produced imperishable monuments of the ardent human soul. +The tribe of Oxford is the tribe from whose heart sprang the Psalms of +David; Homer and Sophocles, Plato and Virgil, Dante and Goethe are all +of the same divine company. It may be said that John Bull, the sturdy +angel of England, turns his back slightingly upon such influences; that +he regards Oxford as an incidental ornament of his person, like a seal +that jingles at his fob. But all generous and delicate spirits do her +a secret homage, as a place where the seeds of beauty and emotion, of +wisdom and understanding, are sown, as in a secret garden. Hearts such +as these, even whirling past that celestial city, among her poor +suburbs, feel an inexpressible thrill at the sight of her towers and +domes, her walls and groves. _Quam dilecta sunt tabernacula_, they +will say; and they will breathe a reverent prayer that there may be no +leading into captivity and no complaining in her streets. + + + + +XVIII + +Authorship + +I found myself at dinner the other day next to an old friend, whom I +see but seldom; a quiet, laborious, able man, with the charm of perfect +modesty and candour, who, moreover, writes a very beautiful and lucid +style. I said to him that I conceived it to be my mission, whenever I +met him, to enquire what he was writing, and to beg him to write more. +He said smilingly that he was very much occupied in his work, which is +teaching, and found little time to write; "besides," he said, "I think +that one writes too much." He went on to say that though he loved +writing well enough when he was in the mood for it, yet that the labour +of shaping sentences, and lifting them to their places, was very severe. + +I felt myself a little rebuked by this, for I will here confess that +writing is the one pleasure and preoccupation of my own life, though I +do not publish a half of what I write. It set me wondering whether I +did indeed write too much; and so I said to him: "You mean, I suppose, +that one gets into the habit of serving up the same ideas over and over +again, with a different sauce, perhaps; but still the same ideas?" +"Yes," he said, "that is what I mean. When I have written anything +that I care about, I feel that I must wait a long time before the +cistern fills again." + +We went on to talk of other things; but I have since been reflecting +whether there is truth in what my friend said. If his view is true of +writing, then it is surely the only art that is so hampered. We should +never think that an artist worked too much; we might feel that he did +not perhaps finish his big pictures sufficiently; but if he did not +spare labour in finishing his pictures, we should never find fault with +him for doing, say, as Turner did, and making endless studies and +sketches, day after day, of all that struck him as being beautiful. We +should feel indeed that some of these unconsidered and rapid sketches +had a charm and a grace that the more elaborate pictures might miss; +and in any case we should feel that the more that he worked, the firmer +and easier would become his sweep of hand, the more deft his power of +indicating a large effect by an economy of resource. The musician, +too: no one would think of finding fault with him for working every day +at his art; and it is the same with all craftsmen; the more they +worked, the surer would their touch be. + +Now I am inclined to believe that what makes writing good is not so +much the pains taken with a particular piece of work, the retouching, +the corrections, the dear delays. Still more fruitful than this labour +is the labour spent on work that is never used, that never sees the +light. Writing is to me the simplest and best pleasure in the world; +the mere shaping of an idea in words is the occupation of all others I +most love; indeed, to speak frankly, I plan and arrange all my days +that I may secure a space for writing, not from a sense of duty, but +merely from a sense of delight. The whole world teems with subjects +and thoughts, sights of beauty and images of joy and sorrow, that I +desire to put into words; and to forbid myself to write would be to +exercise the strongest self-denial of which I am capable. Of course I +do not mean that I can always please myself. I have piles of +manuscripts laid aside which fail either in conception or expression, +or in both. But there are a dozen books I would like to write if I had +the time. + +To be honest, I do not believe in fretting too much over a piece of +writing. Writing, laboriously constructed, painfully ornamented, is +often, I think, both laborious and painful to read; there is a sense of +strain about it. It is like those uneasy figures that one sees in the +carved gargoyles of old churches, crushed and writhing for ever under a +sense of weight painfully sustained, or holding a gaping mouth open, +for the water-pipe to discharge its contents therethrough. However +ingenious these carvings are, they always give a sense of tension and +oppression to the mind; and it is the same with laboured writers; my +theory of writing rather is that the conception should be as clear as +possible, and then that the words should flow like a transparent +stream, following as simply as possible the shape and outline of the +thought within, like a waterbreak over a boulder in a stream's bed. +This, I think, is best attained by infinite practice. If a piece of +work seems to be heavy and muddy, let it be thrown aside ungrudgingly; +but the attempt, even though it be a failure, makes the next attempt +easier. + +I do not think that one can write for very long at a time to much +purpose; I take the two or three hours when the mind is clearest and +freshest, and write as rapidly as I can; this secures, it seems to me, +a clearness and a unity which cannot be attained by fretful labour, by +poking and pinching at one's work. One avoids by rapidity and ardour +the dangerous defect of repetition; a big task must be divided into +small sharp episodes to be thus swiftly treated. The thought of such a +writer as Flaubert lying on his couch or pacing his room, the racked +and tortured medium of his art, spending hours in selecting the one +perfect word for his purpose, is a noble and inspiring picture; but +such a process does not, I fear, always end in producing the effect at +which it aims; it improves the texture at a minute point; it sacrifices +width and freedom. + +Together with clearness of conception and resource of vocabulary must +come a certain eagerness of mood. When all three qualities are +present, the result is good work, however rapidly it may be produced. +If one of the three is lacking, the work sticks, hangs, and grates; and +thus what I feel that the word-artist ought to do is to aim at working +on these lines, but to be very strict and severe about the ultimate +selection of his work. If, for instance, in a big task, a section has +been dully and impotently written, let him put the manuscript aside, +and think no more of it for a while; let him not spend labour in +attempting to mend bad work; then, on some later occasion, let him +again get his conception clear, and write the whole section again; if +he loves writing for itself he will not care how often this process is +repeated. + +I am speaking here very frankly; and I will own that for myself, when +the day has rolled past and when the sacred hour comes, I sit down to +write with an appetite, a keen rapture, such as a hungry man may feel +when he sits down to a savoury meal. There is a real physical emotion +that accompanies the process; and it is a deep and lively distress that +I feel when I am living under conditions that do not allow me to +exercise my craft, at being compelled to waste the appropriate hours in +other occupations. + +It may be fairly urged that with this intense impulse to write, I ought +to have contrived to make myself into a better writer; and it might be +thought that there is something either grotesque or pathetic in so much +emotional enjoyment issuing in so slender a performance. But the +essence of the happiness is that the joy resides in the doing of the +work and not in the giving it to the world; and though I do not pretend +not to be fully alive to the delight of having my work praised and +appreciated, that is altogether a secondary pleasure which in no way +competes with the luxury of expression. + +I am not ungrateful for this delight; it may, I know, be withdrawn from +me; but meanwhile the world seems to be full to the brim of expressive +and significant things. There is a beautiful old story of a saint who +saw in a vision a shining figure approaching him, holding in his hand a +dark and cloudy globe. He held it out, and the saint looking +attentively upon it, saw that it appeared to represent the earth in +miniature; there were the continents and seas, with clouds sweeping +over them; and, for all that it was so minute, he could see cities and +plains, and little figures moving to and fro. The angel laid his +finger on a part of the globe, and detached from it a small cluster of +islands, drawing them out of the sea; and the saint saw that they were +peopled by a folk, whom he knew, in some way that he could not wholly +understand, to be dreary and uncomforted. He heard a voice saying, +"_He taketh up the isles as a very small thing_"; and it darted into +his mind that his work lay with the people of those sad islands; that +he was to go thither, and speak to them a message of hope. + +It is a beautiful story; and it has always seemed to me that the work +of the artist is like that. He is to detach from the great peopled +globe what little portion seems to appeal to him most; and he must then +say what he can to encourage and sustain men, whatever thoughts of joy +and hope come most home to him in his long and eager pilgrimage. + + + + +XIX + +Hamlet + +We were talking yesterday about the stage, a subject in which I am +ashamed to confess I take but a feeble interest, though I fully +recognise the appeal of the drama to certain minds, and its +possibilities. One of the party, who had all his life been a great +frequenter of theatres, turned to me and said: "After all, there is one +play which seems to be always popular, and to affect all audiences, the +poor, the middle-class, the cultivated, alike--_Hamlet_." "Yes," I +said, "and I wonder why that is?" "Well," he said, "it is this, I +think: that beneath all its subtleties, all its intellectual force, it +has an emotional appeal to every one who has lived in the world; every +one sees himself more or less in Hamlet; every one has been in a +situation in which he felt that circumstances were too strong for him; +and then, too," he added, "there is always a deep and romantic interest +about the case of a man who has every possible external advantage, +youth, health, wealth, rank, love, ardour, and zest, who is yet utterly +miserable, and moves to a dark end under a shadow of doom." + +I thought, and think this a profound and delicate criticism. There is, +of course, a great deal more in _Hamlet_; there is its high poetry, its +mournful dwelling upon deep mysteries, its supernatural terrors, its +worldly wisdom, its penetrating insight; but these are all accessories +to the central thought; the conception is absolutely firm throughout. +The hunted soul of Hamlet, after a pleasant and easy drifting upon the +stream of happy events, finds a sombre curtain suddenly twitched aside, +and is confronted with a tragedy so dark, a choice so desperate, that +the reeling brain staggers, and can hardly keep its hold upon the +events and habits of life. Day by day the shadow flits beside him; +morning after morning he uncloses his sad eyes upon a world, which he +had found so sweet, and which he now sees to be so terrible; the +insistent horror breeds a whole troop of spectres, so that all the +quiet experiences of life, friendship, love, nature, art, become big +with uneasy speculations and surmises; from the rampart-platform by the +sea until the peal of ordnance is shot off, as the poor bodies are +carried out, every moment brings with it some shocking or brooding +experience. Hamlet is not strong enough to close his eyes to these +things; if for a moment he attempts this, some tragic thought plucks at +his shoulder, and bids the awakened sleeper look out into the +struggling light. Neither is he strong enough to face the situation +with resolution and courage. He turns and doubles before the pursuing +Fury; he hopes against hope that a door of escape may be opened. He +poisons the air with gloom and suspicion; he feeds with wilful sadness +upon the most melancholy images of death and despair. And though the +great creator of this mournful labyrinth, this atrocious dilemma, can +involve the sad spirit with an art that thrills all the most delicate +fibres of the human spirit, he cannot stammer out even the most +faltering solution, the smallest word of comfort or hope. He leaves +the problem, where he took it up, in the mighty hands of God. + +And thus the play stands as the supreme memorial of the tortured +spirit. The sad soul of the prince seems like an orange-banded bee, +buzzing against the glass of some closed chamber-window, wondering +heavily what is the clear yet palpable medium that keeps it, in spite +of all its efforts, from re-entering the sunny paradise of tree and +flower, that lies so close at hand, and that is yet unattainable; until +one wonders why the supreme Lord of the place cannot put forth a +finger, and release the ineffectual spirit from its fruitless pain. As +the play gathers and thickens to its crisis, one experiences--and this +is surely a test of the highest art--the poignant desire to explain, to +reason, to comfort, to relieve; even if one cannot help, one longs at +least to utter the yearning of the heart, the intense sympathy that one +feels for the multitude of sorrows that oppress this laden spirit; to +assuage if only for a moment, by an answering glance of love, the fire +that burns in those stricken eyes. And one must bear away from the +story not only the intellectual satisfaction, the emotional excitement, +but a deep desire to help, as far as a man can, the woes of spirits +who, all the world over, are in the grip of these dreary agonies. + +And that, after all, is the secret of the art that deals with the +presentment of sorrow; with the art that deals with pure beauty the end +is plain enough; we may stay our hearts upon it, plunge with gratitude +into the pure stream, and recognise it for a sweet and wholesome gift +of God; but the art that makes sorrow beautiful, what are we to do with +that? We may learn to bear, we may learn to hope that there is, in the +mind of God, if we could but read it, a region where both beauty and +sadness are one; and meanwhile it may teach us to let our heart go out, +in love and pity, to all who are bound upon their pilgrimage in +heaviness, and passing uncomforted through the dark valley. + + + + +XX + +A Sealed Spirit + +A few weeks ago I was staying with a friend of mine, a clergyman in the +country. He told me one evening a very sad story about one of his +parishioners. This was a man who had been a clerk in a London Bank, +whose eyesight had failed, and who had at last become totally blind. +He was, at the time when this calamity fell upon him, about forty years +of age. The Directors of the Bank gave him a small pension, and he had +a very small income of his own; he was married, with one son, who was +shortly after taken into the Bank as a clerk. The man and his wife +came into the parish, and took a tiny cottage, where they lived very +simply and frugally. But within a year or two his hearing had also +failed, and he had since become totally deaf. It is almost appalling +to reflect upon the condition of helplessness to which this double +calamity can reduce a man. To be cut off from the sights and sounds of +the world, with these two avenues of perception closed, so as to be +able to take cognisance of external things only through scent and +touch! It would seem to be well-nigh unendurable! He had learnt to +read raised type with his fingers, and had been presented by some +friends with two or three books of this kind. His speech was, as is +always the case, affected, but still intelligible. Only the simplest +facts could be communicated to him, by means of a set of cards, with +words in raised type, out of which a few sentences could be arranged. +But he and his wife had invented a code of touch, by means of which she +was able to a certain extent, though of course very inadequately, to +communicate with him. I asked how he employed himself, and I was told +that he wrote a good deal,--curious, rhapsodical compositions, dwelling +much on his own thoughts and fancies. "He sits," said the Vicar, "for +hours together on a bench in his garden, and walks about, guided by his +wife. His sense of both smell and touch have become extraordinarily +acute; and, afflicted as he is, I am sure he is not at all an unhappy +man." He produced some of the writings of which he had spoken. They +were written in a big, clear hand. I read them with intense interest. +Some of them were recollections of his childish days, set in a somewhat +antique and biblical phraseology. Some of them were curious reveries, +dwelling much upon the perception of natural things through scent. He +complained, I remember, that life was so much less interesting in +winter because scents were so much less sweet and less complex than in +summer. But the whole of the writings showed a serene exaltation of +mind. There was not a touch of repining or resignation about them. He +spoke much of the aesthetic pleasure that he received from an increased +power of disentangling the component elements of a scent, such as came +from his garden on a warm summer day. Some of the writings that were +shown me were religious in character, in which the man spoke of a +constant sense of the nearness of God's presence, and of a strange joy +that filled his heart. + +On the following day the Vicar suggested that we should go to see him; +we turned out of a lane, and found a little cottage with a thatched +roof, standing in a small orchard, bright with flowers. On a bench we +saw the man sitting, entirely unconscious of our presence. He was a +tall, strongly-built fellow with a beard, bronzed and healthy in +appearance. His eyes were wide open, and, but for a curious fixity of +gaze, I should not have suspected that he was blind. His hands were +folded on his knee, and he was smiling; once or twice I saw his lips +move as if he was talking to himself. "We won't go up to him," said +the Vicar, "as it might startle him; we will find his wife." So we +went up to the cottage door, and knocked. It was opened to us by a +small elderly woman, with a grave, simple look, and a very pleasant +smile. The little place was wonderfully clean and neat. The Vicar +introduced me, saying that I had been much interested in her husband's +writings, and had come to call on him. She smiled briskly, and said +that he would be much pleased. We walked down the path; when we were +within a few feet of him, he became aware of our presence, and turned +his head with a quiet, expectant air. His wife went up to him, took +his hand, and seemed to beat on it softly with her fingers; he smiled, +and presently raised his hat, as if to greet us, and then took up a +little writing-pad which lay beside him, and began to write. A little +conversation followed, his wife reading out what he had written, and +then interpreting our remarks to him. What struck me most was the +absence of egotism in what he wrote. He asked the Vicar one or two +questions, and desired to know who I was. I went and sate down beside +him; he wrote in his book that it was a pleasure to him to meet a +stranger. Might he take the liberty of seeing him in his own way? "He +means," said the wife, smiling, "might he put his hand on your +face--some people do not like it," she added apologetically, "and he +will quite understand if you do not." I said that I was delighted; and +the blind man thereupon laid his hand upon my sleeve, and with an +incredible deftness and lightness of touch, so that I hardly felt it, +passed his finger-tips over my coat and waistcoat, lingered for a +moment over my watch-chain, then over my tie and collar, and then very +gently over my face and hair; it did not last half a minute, and there +was something curiously magnetic in the touch of the slim firm fingers. +"Now I see him," he wrote; "please thank him." "It will please him," +said the Vicar, "if we ask him to describe you." In a moment, after a +few touches of his wife's hand, he smiled, and wrote down a really +remarkably accurate picture of my appearance. We then asked him a few +questions about himself. "Very well and very happy," he wrote, "full +of the love of God;" and then added, "You will perhaps think that I get +tired of doing nothing, but the time is too short for all I want to +do." "It is quite true," said his wife, smiling as she read it. "He +is as pleased as a child with everything, and every one is so good to +him." Presently she asked him to read aloud to us; and in a voice of +great distinctness, he read a few verses of the Book of Job from a big +volume. The voice was high and resonant, but varied strangely in +pitch. He asked at the end whether we had heard every word, and being +told that we had, smiled very sweetly and frankly, like a boy who has +performed a task well. The Vicar suggested that he should come for a +turn with us, at which he visibly brightened, and said he would like to +walk through the village. He took our arms, walking between us; and +with a delicate courtesy, knowing that we could not communicate with +him, talked himself, very quietly and simply, almost all the way, +partly of what he was convinced we were passing,--guessing, I imagine, +mainly by a sense of smell, and interpreting it all with astonishing +accuracy, though I confess I was often unable even to detect the scents +which guided him. We walked thus for half an hour, listening to his +quiet talk. Two or three people came up to us. Each time the Vicar +checked him, and he held out his hand to be shaken; in each case he +recognised the person by the mere touch of the hand. "Mrs Purvis, +isn't it? Well, you see me in very good company this morning, don't +you? It is so kind of the Vicar and his friend to take me out, and it +is pleasant to meet friends in the village." He seemed to know all +about the affairs of the place, and made enquiries after various people. + +It was a very strange experience to walk thus with a fellow-creature +suffering from these sad limitations, and yet to be conscious of being +in the presence of so perfectly contented and cheerful a spirit. +Before we parted, he wrote on his pad that he was working hard. "I am +trying to write a little book; of course I know that I can never see +it, but I should like to tell people that it is possible to live a life +like mine, and to be full of happiness; that God sends me abundance of +joy, so that I can say with truth that I am happier now than ever I was +in the old days. Such peace and joy, with so many to love me; so +little that I can do for others, except to speak of the marvellous +goodness of God, and of the beautiful thoughts he gives me." "Yes, he +has written some chapters," said the faithful wife; "but he does not +want any one to see them till they are done." + +I shall never forget the sight of the two as we went away: he stood, +smiling and waving his hand, under an apple-tree in full bloom, with +the sun shining on the flowers. It gave me the sense of a pure and +simple content such as I have rarely experienced. The beauty and +strength of the picture have dwelt with me ever since, showing me that +a soul can be thus shut up in what would seem to be so dark a prison, +with the windows, through which most of us look upon the world, closed +and shuttered; and yet not only not losing the joy of life, but seeming +to taste it in fullest measure. If one could but accept thus one's own +limitations, viewing them not as sources of pleasure closed, but as +opening the door more wide to what remains; the very simplicity and +rarity of the perceptions that are left, gaining in depth and quality +from their isolation. But beyond all this lies that well-spring of +inner joy, which seems to be withheld from so many of us. Is it indeed +withheld? Is it conferred upon this poor soul simply as a tender +compensation? Can we not by quiet passivity, rather than by resolute +effort, learn the secret of it? I believe myself that the source is +there in many hearts, but that we visit it too rarely, and forget it in +the multitude of little cares and businesses, which seem so important, +so absorbing. It is like a hidden treasure, which we go so far abroad +to seek, and for which we endure much weariness of wandering; while all +the while it is buried in our own garden-ground; we have paced to and +fro above it many times, never dreaming that the bright thing lay +beneath our feet, and within reach of our forgetful hand. + + + + +XXI + +Leisure + +It was a bright day in early spring; large, fleecy clouds floated in a +blue sky; the wind was cool, but the sun lay hot in sheltered places. + +I was spending a few days with an old friend, at a little house he +calls his Hermitage, in a Western valley; we had walked out, had passed +the bridge, and had stood awhile to see the clear stream flowing, a +vein of reflected sapphire, among the green water-meadows; we had +climbed up among the beech-woods, through copses full of primroses, to +a large heathery hill, where a clump of old pines stood inside an +ancient earth-work. The forest lay at our feet, and the doves cooed +lazily among the tree-tops; beyond lay the plain, with a long range of +smooth downs behind, where the river broadened to the sea-pool, which +narrowed again to the little harbour; and, across the clustered +house-roofs and the lonely church tower of the port, we could see a +glint of the sea. + +We sat awhile in silence; then "Come," I said, "I am going to be +impertinent! I am in a mood to ask questions, and to have full +answers." + +"And I," said my host placidly, "am always in the mood to answer +questions." + +I would call my friend a poet, because he is sealed of the tribe, if +ever man was; yet he has never written verses to my knowledge. He is a +big, burly, quiet man, gentle and meditative of aspect; shy before +company, voluble in private. Half-humorous, half melancholy. He has +been a man of affairs, prosperous, too, and shrewd. But nothing in his +life was ever so poetical as the way in which, to the surprise and even +consternation of all his friends, he announced one day, when he was +turned of forty, that he had had enough of work, and that he would do +no more. Well, he had no one to say him nay; he has but few relations, +none in any way dependent on him; he has a modest competence; and, +being fond of all leisurely things--books, music, the open air, the +country, flowers, and the like--he has no need to fear that his time +will be unoccupied. + +He looked lazily at me, biting a straw. "Come," said I again, "here is +the time for a catechism. I have reason to think you are over forty?" + +"Yes," said he, "the more's the pity!" + +"And you have given up regular work," I said, "for over a year; and how +do you like that?" + +"Like it?" he said. "Well, so much that I can never work again; and +what is stranger still is that I never knew what it was to be really +busy till I gave up work. Before, I was often bored; now, the day is +never long enough for all I have to do." + +"But that is a dreadful confession," I said; "and how do you justify +yourself for this miserable indifference to all that is held to be of +importance?" + +"Listen!" he said, smiling and holding up his hand. There floated up +out of the wood the soft crooning of a dove, like the over-brimming of +a tide of content. "There's the answer," he added. "How does that +dove justify his existence? and yet he has not much on his mind." + +"I have no answer ready," I said, "though there is one, I am sure, if +you will only give me time; but let that come later: more questions +first, and then I will deliver judgment. Now, attend to this +seriously," I said. "How do you justify it that you are alone in the +world, not mated, not a good husband and father? The dove has not got +that on his conscience." + +"Ah!" said my friend, "I have often asked myself that. But for many +years I had not the time to fall in love; if I had been an idle man it +would have been different, and now that I am free--well, I regard it +as, on the whole, a wise dispensation. I have no domestic virtues; I +am a pretty commonplace person, and I think there is no reason why I +should perpetuate my own feeble qualities, bind my dull qualities up +closer with the life of the world. Besides, I have a theory that the +world is made now very much as it was in the Middle Ages. There was +but one choice then--a soldier or a monk. Now, I have no combative +blood in me; I hate a row; I am a monk to the marrow of my bones, and +the monks are the failures from the point of view of race. No monk +should breed monks; there are enough of his kind in the hive already." + +"You a monk?" said I, laughing. "Why, you are nothing of the kind; you +are just the sort of man for an adoring wife and a handful of big +children. I must have a better answer." + +"Well, then," said he, rather seriously, "I will give you a better +answer. There are some people whose affections are made to run, strong +and straight, in a narrow channel. The world holds but one woman for a +man of that type, and it is his business to find her; but there are +others, and I am one, who dribble away their love in a hundred +channels--in art, in nature, among friends. To speak frankly, I have +had a hundred such passions. I made friends as a boy, quickly and +romantically, with all kinds of people--some old, some young. Then I +have loved books, and music, and, above all, the earth and the things +of the earth. To the wholesome, normal man these things are but an +agreeable background, and the real business of life lies with wife and +child and work. But to me the real things have been the beautiful +things--sunrise and sunset, streams and woods, old houses, talk, +poetry, pictures, ideas. And I always liked my work, too." + +"And you did it well?" I said. + +"Oh, yes, well enough," he replied. "I have a clear head, and I am +conscientious; and then there was some fun to be got out of it at +times. But it was never a part of myself for all that. And the reason +why I gave it up was not because I was tired of it, but because I was +getting to depend too much upon it. I should very soon have been +unable to do without it." + +"But what is your programme?" I said, rather urgently. "Don't you want +to be of some use in the world? To make other people better and +happier, for instance." + +"My dear boy," said my companion, with a smile, "do you know that you +are talking in a very conventional way? Of course, I desire that +people should be better and happier, myself among the number; but how +am I to set about it? Most people's idea of being better and happier +is to make other people subscribe to make them richer. They want more +things to eat and drink and wear; they want success and respectability, +to be sidesmen and town councillors, and even Members of Parliament. +Nothing is more hopelessly unimaginative than ordinary people's aims +and ideas, and the aims and ideas, too, that are propounded from +pulpits. I don't want people to be richer and more prosperous; I want +them to be poorer and simpler. Which is the better man, the shepherd +there on the down, out all day in the air, seeing a thousand pretty +things, or the grocer behind his counter, living in an odour of lard +and cheese, bowing and fussing, and drinking spirits in the evening? +Of course, a wholesome-minded man may be wholesome-minded everywhere +and anywhere; but prosperity, which is the Englishman's idea of +righteousness, is a very dangerous thing, and has very little of what +is divine about it. If I had stuck to my work, as all my friends +advised me, what would have been the result? I should have had more +money than I want, and nothing in the world to live for but my work. +Of course, I know that I run the risk of being thought indolent and +unpractical. If I were a prophet, I should find it easy enough to +scold everybody, and find fault with the poor, peaceful world. But as +I am not, I can only follow my own line of life, and try to see and +love as many as I can of the beautiful things that God flings down all +round us. I am not a philanthropist, I suppose; but most of the +philanthropists I have known have seemed to me tiresome, self-seeking +people, with a taste for trying to take everything out of God's hands. +I am an individualist, I imagine. I think that most of us have to find +our way, and to find it alone. I do try to help a few quiet people at +the right moment; but I believe that every one has his own circle--some +larger, some smaller--and that one does little good outside it. If +every one would be content with that, the world would be mended in a +trice." + +"I am glad that you, at least, admit that there is something to be +mended," I said. + +"Oh, yes," said he, "the general conditions seem to me to want mending; +but that, I humbly think, is God's matter, and not mine. The world is +slowly broadening and improving, I believe. In these days, when we +shoot our enemies and then nurse them, we are coming, I believe, to see +even the gigantic absurdity of war; but all that side of it is too big +for me. I am no philosopher! What I believe we ought to do is to be +patient, kind, and courageous in a corner. Now, I will give you an +instance. I had a friend who was a good, hard-working clergyman; a +brave, genial, courageous creature; he had a town parish not far from +here; he liked his work, and he did it well. He was the friend of all +the boys and girls in the parish; he worked a hundred useful, humble +institutions. He was nothing of a preacher, and a poor speaker; but +something generous, honest, happy seemed to radiate from the man. Of +course, they could not let him alone. They offered him a Bishopric. +All his friends said he was bound to take it; the poor fellow wrote to +me, and said that he dared not refuse a sphere of wider influence, and +all that. I wrote and told him my mind--namely, that he was doing a +splendid piece of quiet, sober work, and that he had better stick to +it. But, of course, he didn't. Well, what is the result? He is +worried to death. He has a big house and a big household; he is a +welcome guest in country-houses and vicarages; he opens churches, he +confirms; he makes endless poor speeches, and preaches weak sermons. +His time is all frittered away in directing the elaborate machinery of +a diocese; and all his personal work is gone. I don't say he doesn't +impress people. But his strength lay in his personal work, his work as +a neighbour and a friend. He is not a clever man; he never says a +suggestive thing--he is not a sower of thoughts, but a simple pastor. +Well, I regard it as a huge and lamentable mistake that he should ever +have changed his course; and the motive that made him do it was a bad +one, only disguised as an angel of light. Instead of being the stoker +of the train, he is now a distinguished passenger in a first-class +carriage." + +"Well," I said, "I admit that there is a good deal in what you say. +But if such a summons comes to a man, is it not more simple-minded to +follow it dutifully? Is it not, after all, part of the guiding of God?" + +"Ah!" said my host, "that is a hard question, I admit. But a man must +look deep into his heart, and face a situation of the kind bravely and +simply. He must be quite sure that it is a summons from God, and not a +temptation from the world. I admit that it may be the former. But in +the case of which I have just spoken, my friend ought to have seen that +it was the latter. He was made for the work he was doing; he was +obviously not made for the other. And to sum it up, I think that God +puts us into the world to live, not necessarily to get influence over +other people. If a man is worth anything, the influence comes; and I +don't call it living to attend public luncheons, and to write +unnecessary letters, because public luncheons are things which need not +exist, and are only amusements invented by fussy and idle people. I am +not at all against people amusing themselves. But they ought to do it +quietly and inexpensively, and not elaborately and noisily. The only +thing that is certain is that men must work and eat and sleep and die. +Well, I want them to enjoy their work, their food, their rest; and then +I should like them to enjoy their leisure hours peacefully and quietly. +I have done as much in my twenty years of business as a man in a +well-regulated state ought to do in the whole of his life; and the rest +I shall give, God willing, to leisure--not eating my cake in a corner, +but in quiet good fellowship, with an eye and an ear for this wonderful +and beautiful world." And my companion smiled upon me a large, gentle, +engaging smile. + +"Yes," I said, "you have answered well, and you have given me plenty to +think about. And at all events you have a point of view, and that is a +great thing." + +"Yes," said he, "a great thing, as long as one is not sure one is +right, but ready to learn, and not desirous to teach. That is the +mistake. We are children at school--we ought not to forget that; but +many of us want to sit in the master's chair, and rap the desk, and +cane the other children." + +And so our talk wandered to other things; then we were silent for a +little, while the birds came home to their roosts, and the trees +shivered in the breeze of sunset; till at last the golden glow gathered +in the west, and the sun went down in state behind the crimson line of +sea. + + + + +XXII + +The Pleasures of Work + +I desire to do a very sacred thing to-day: to enunciate a couple of +platitudes and attest them. It is always a solemn moment in life when +one can sincerely subscribe to a platitude. Platitudes are the things +which people of plain minds shout from the steps of the staircase of +life as they ascend; and to discover the truth of a platitude by +experience means that you have climbed a step higher. + +The first enunciation is, that in this world we most of us do what we +like. And the corollary to that is, that we most of us like what we do. + +Of course, we must begin by taking for granted that we most of us are +obliged to do something. But that granted, it seems to me that it is +very rare to find people who do not take a certain pleasure in their +work, and even secretly congratulate themselves on doing it with a +certain style and efficiency. To find a person who has not some +species of pride of this nature is very rare. Other people may not +share our opinion of our own work. But even in the case of those whose +work is most open to criticism, it is almost invariable to find that +they resent criticism, and are very ready to appropriate praise. I had +a curiously complete instance of this the other day. In a parish which +I often visit, the organ in the church is what is called presided over +by the most infamous executant I have ever heard--an elderly man, who +seldom plays a single chord correctly, and whose attempts to use the +pedals are of the nature of tentative and unsuccessful experiments. +His performance has lately caused a considerable amount of indignation +in the parish, for a new organ has been placed in the church, of far +louder tone than the old instrument, and my friend the organist is +hopelessly adrift upon it. The residents in the place have almost made +up their minds to send a round-robin to the Vicar to ask that the +_pulsator organorum_, the beater of the organ, as old Cathedral +statutes term him, may be deposed. The last time I attended service, +one of those strangely appropriate verses came up in the course of the +Psalms, which make troubled spirits feel that the Psalter does indeed +utter a message to faithful individual hearts. "_I have desired that +they, even my enemies,_" ran the verse, "_should not triumph over me; +for when my foot slipped, they rejoiced greatly against me._" In the +course of the verse the unhappy performer executed a perfect fandango +on the pedals. I looked guiltily at the senior churchwarden, and saw +his mouth twitch. + +In the same afternoon I fell in with the organist, in the course of a +stroll, and discoursed to him in a tone of gentle condolence about the +difficulties of a new instrument. He looked blankly at me, and then +said that he supposed that some people might find a change of +instrument bewildering, but that for himself he felt equally at home on +any instrument. He went on to relate a series of compliments that +well-known musicians had paid him, which I felt must either have been +imperfectly recollected, or else must have been of a consolatory or +even ironical nature. In five minutes, I discovered that my friend was +the victim of an abundant vanity, and that he believed that his +vocation in life was organ-playing. + +Again, I remember that, when I was a schoolmaster, one of my colleagues +was a perfect byword for the disorder and noise that prevailed in his +form. I happened once to hold a conversation with him on disciplinary +difficulties, thinking that he might have the relief of confiding his +troubles to a sympathising friend. What was my amazement when I +discovered that his view of the situation was, that every one was +confronted with the same difficulties as himself, and that he obviously +believed that he was rather more successful than most of us in dealing +with them tactfully and strictly. + +I believe my principle to be of almost universal application; and that +if one could see into the heart of the people who are accounted, and +rightly accounted, to be gross and conspicuous failures, we should find +that they were not free from a certain pleasant vanity about their own +qualifications and efficiency. The few people whom I have met who are +apt to despond over their work are generally people who do it +remarkably well, and whose ideal of efficiency is so high that they +criticise severely in themselves any deviation from their standard. +Moreover, if one goes a little deeper--if, for instance, one cordially +re-echoes their own criticisms upon their work--such criticisms are apt +to be deeply resented. + +I will go further, and say that only once in the course of my life have +I found a man who did his work really well, without any particular +pride and pleasure in it. To do that implies an extraordinary degree +of will-power and self-command. + +I do not mean to say that, if any professional person found himself +suddenly placed in the possession of an independent income, greater +than he had ever derived from his professional work, his pleasure in +his work would be sufficient to retain him in the exercise of it. We +have most of us an unhappy belief in our power of living a pleasurable +and virtuous life of leisure; and the desire to live what is called the +life of a gentleman, which character has lately been defined as a +person who has no professional occupation, is very strong in the hearts +of most of us. + +But, for all that, we most of us enjoy our work; the mere fact that one +gains facility, and improves from day to day, is a source of sincere +pleasure, however far short of perfection our attempts may fall; and, +generally speaking, our choice of a profession is mainly dictated by a +certain feeling of aptitude for and interest in what we propose to +undertake. + +It is, then, a happy and merciful delusion by which we are bound. We +grow, I think, to love our work, and we grow, too, to believe in our +method of doing it. We cannot, a great preacher once said, all delude +ourselves into believing that we are richer, handsomer, braver, more +distinguished than others; but there are few of us who do not cherish a +secret belief that, if only the truth were known, we should prove to be +more interesting than others. + +To leave our work for a moment, and to turn to ordinary social +intercourse. I am convinced that the only thing that can account for +the large number of bad talkers in the world is the wide-spread belief +that prevails among individuals as to their power of contributing +interest and amusement to a circle. One ought to keep this in mind, +and bear faithfully and patiently the stream of tiresome talk that +pours, as from a hose, from the lips of diffuse and lengthy +conversationalists. I once made a terrible mistake. I complimented, +from the mere desire of saying something agreeable, and finding my +choice of praiseworthy qualities limited, an elderly, garrulous +acquaintance on his geniality, on an evening when I had writhed +uneasily under a steady downpour of talk. I have bitterly rued my +insincerity. Not only have I received innumerable invitations from the +man whom the Americans would call my complimentee, but when I am in his +company I see him making heroic attempts to make his conversation +practically continuous. How often since that day have I sympathised +with St James in his eloquent description of the deadly and poisonous +power of the tongue! A bore is not, as is often believed, a merely +selfish and uninteresting person. He is often a man who labours +conscientiously and faithfully at an accomplishment, the exercise of +which has become pleasurable to him. And thus a bore is the hardest of +all people to convert, because he is, as a rule, conscious of virtue +and beneficence. + +On the whole, it is better not to disturb the amiable delusions of our +fellow-men, unless we are certain that we can improve them. To break +the spring of happiness in a virtuous bore is a serious responsibility. +It is better, perhaps, both in matters of work and in matters of social +life, to encourage our friends to believe in themselves. We must not, +of course, encourage them in vicious and hurtful enjoyment, and there +are, of course, bores whose tediousness is not only not harmless, but a +positively noxious and injurious quality. There are bores who have but +to lay a finger upon a subject of universal or special interest, to +make one feel that under no circumstances will one ever be able to +allow one's thoughts to dwell on the subject again; and such a person +should be, as far as possible, isolated from human intercourse, like a +sufferer from a contagious malady. But this extremity of noxiousness +is rare. And it may be said that, as a rule, one does more to increase +happiness by a due amount of recognition and praise, even when one is +recognising rather the spirit of a performance than the actual result; +and such a course of action has the additional advantage of making one +into a person who is eagerly welcomed and sought after in all kinds of +society. + + + + +XXIII + +The Abbey + +The fresh wind blew cheerily as we raced, my friend and I, across a +long stretch of rich fen-land. The sunlight, falling somewhat dimly +through a golden haze, lay very pleasantly on the large pasture-fields. +There are few things more beautiful, I think, than these great level +plains; they give one a delightful sense of space and repose. The +distant lines of trees, the far-off church towers, the long dykes, the +hamlets half-hidden in orchards, the "sky-space and field-silence," +give one a feeling of quiet rustic life lived on a large and simple +scale, which seems the natural life of the world. + +Our goal was the remains of an old religious house, now a farm. We +were soon at the place; it stood on a very gentle rising ground, once +an island above the fen. Two great columns of the Abbey Church served +as gate-posts. The house itself lay a little back from the road, a +comfortable cluster of big barns and outhouses, with great walnut trees +all about, in the middle of an ancient tract of pasture, full of +dimpled excavations, in which the turf grew greener and more compact. +The farm-house itself, a large irregular Georgian building covered with +rough orange plaster, showed a pleasant tiled roof among the barns, +over a garden set with venerable sprawling box-trees. We found a +friendly old labourer, full of simple talk, who showed us the orchard, +with its mouldering wall of stone, pierced with niches, the line of dry +stew-ponds, the refectory, now a great barn, piled high with heaps of +grain and straw. We walked through byres tenanted by comfortable pigs +routing in the dirt. We hung over a paling to watch the creased and +discontented face of an old hog, grunting in shrill anticipation of a +meal. Our guide took us to the house, where we found a transept of the +church, now used as a brew-house, with the line of the staircase still +visible, rising up to a door in the wall that led once to the +dormitory, down the steps of which, night after night, the shivering +and sleepy monks must have stumbled into their chilly church for +prayers. The hall of the house was magnificent with great Norman +arches, once the aisle of the nave. + +The whole scene had the busy, comfortable air of a place full of +patriarchal life, the dignity of a thing existing for use and not for +show, of quiet prosperity, of garnered provender and well-fed stock. +Though it made no deliberate attempt at beauty, it was full of a seemly +and homely charm. The face of the old fellow that led us about, +chirping fragments of local tradition, with a mild pride in the fact +that strangers cared to come and see the place, wore the contented, +weather-beaten look that comes of a life of easy labour spent in the +open air. His patched gaiters, the sacking tied round him with a cord +to serve as an apron, had the same simple appropriateness. We walked +leisurely about, gathering a hundred pretty impressions,--as the old +filbert-trees that fringed the orchard, the wall-flowers, which our +guide called the blood-warriors, on the ruined coping, a flight of +pigeons turning with a sharp clatter in the air. At last he left us to +go about his little business; and we, sitting on a broken +mounting-block in the sunshine, gazed lazily and contentedly at the +scene. + +We attempted to picture something of the life of the Benedictines who +built the house. It must have been a life of much quiet happiness. We +tried to see in imagination the quaint clustered fabrics, the ancient +church, the cloister, the barns, the out-buildings. The brethren must +have suffered much from cold in winter. The day divided by services, +the nights broken by prayers; probably the time was dull enough, but +passed quickly, like all lives full of monotonous engagements. They +were not particularly ascetic, these Benedictines, and insisted much on +manual labour in the open air. Probably at first the monks did their +farm-work as well; but as they grew richer, they employed labourers, +and themselves fell back on simpler and easier garden-work. Perhaps +some few were truly devotional spirits, with a fire of prayer and +aspiration burning in their hearts; but the majority would be quiet +men, full of little gossip about possible promotions, about lands and +crops, about wayfarers and ecclesiastics who passed that way and were +entertained. Very few, except certain officials like the Cellarer, who +would have to ride to market, ever left the precincts of the place, but +laid their bones in the little graveyard east of the church. We make a +mistake in regarding the life and the buildings as having been so +picturesque, as they now appear after the long lapse of time. The +church was more venerable than the rest; but the refectory, at the time +of the dissolution, cannot have been long built; still, the old tiled +place, with its rough stone walls, must have always had a quaint and +irregular air. + +Probably it was as a rule a contented and amiable society. The regular +hours, the wholesome fatigue which the rule entailed, must have tended +to keep the inmates in health and good-humour. But probably there was +much tittle-tattle; and a disagreeable, jealous, or scheming inmate +must have been able to stir up a good deal of strife in a society +living at such close quarters. One thinks loosely that it must have +resembled the life of a college at the University, but that is an +entire misapprehension; for the idea of a college is liberty with just +enough discipline to hold it together, while the idea of a monastery +was discipline with just enough liberty to make life tolerable. + +Well, it is all over now! the idea of the monastic life, which was to +make a bulwark for quiet-minded people against the rougher world, is no +longer needed. The work of the monks is done. Yet I gave an +affectionate thought across the ages to the old inmates of the place, +whose bones have mouldered into the dust of the yard where we sat. It +seemed half-pleasant, half-pathetic to think of them as they went about +their work, sturdy, cheerful figures, looking out over the wide fen +with all its clear pools and reed-beds, growing old in the familiar +scene, passing from the dormitory to the infirmary, and from the +infirmary to the graveyard, in a sure and certain hope. They too +enjoyed the first breaking of spring, the return of balmy winds, the +pushing up of the delicate flowers in orchard and close, with something +of the same pleasure that I experience to-day. The same wonder that I +feel, the same gentle thrill speaking of an unattainable peace, an +unruffled serenity that lies so near me in the spring sunshine, +flashed, no doubt, into those elder spirits. Perhaps, indeed, their +heart went out to the unborn that should come after them, as my heart +goes out to the dead to-day. + +And even the slow change that has dismantled that busy place, and +established it as the quiet farmstead that I see, holds a hope within +it. There must indeed have been a sad time when the buildings were +slipping into decay, and the church stood ruined and roofless. But how +soon the scars are healed! How calmly nature smiles at the eager +schemes of men, breaks them short, and then sets herself to harmonise +and adorn the ruin, till she makes it fairer than before, writing her +patient lesson of beauty on broken choir and tottering wall, flinging +her tide of fresh life over the rents, and tenderly drawing back the +broken fragments into her bosom. If we could but learn from her not to +fret or grieve, to gather up what remains, to wait patiently and wisely +for our change! + +So I reasoned softly to myself in a train of gentle thought, till the +plough-horses came clattering in, and the labourers plodded gratefully +home; and the sun went down over the flats in a great glory of orange +light. + + + + +XXIV + +Wordsworth + +I believe that I was once taken to Rydal Mount as a small boy, led +there meekly, no doubt, in a sort of dream; but I retain not the +remotest recollection of the place, except of a small flight of stone +steps, which struck me as possessing some attractive quality or other. +And I have since read, I suppose, a good many descriptions of the +place; but on visiting it, as I recently did, I discovered that I had +not the least idea of what it was like. And I would here shortly speak +of the extraordinary kindness which I received from the present +tenants, who are indeed of the hallowed dynasty; it may suffice to say +that I could only admire the delicate courtesy which enabled people, +who must have done the same thing a hundred times before, to show me +the house with as much zest and interest, as if I was the first pilgrim +that had ever visited the place. + +In the first place, the great simplicity of the whole struck me. It is +like a little grange or farm. The rooms are small and low, and of a +pleasant domesticity; it is a place apt for a patriarchal life, where +simple people might live at close quarters with each other. The house +is hardly visible from the gate. You turn out of a steep lane, +embowered by trees, into a little gravel sweep, approaching the house +from the side. But its position is selected with admirable art; the +ground falls steeply in front of it, and you look out over a wide +valley, at the end of which Windermere lies, a tract of sapphire blue, +among wooded hills and dark ranges. Behind, the ground rises still +more steeply, to the rocky, grassy heights of Nab Scar; and the road +leads on to a high green valley among the hills, a place of unutterable +peace. + +In this warm, sheltered nook, hidden in woods, with its southerly +aspect, the vegetation grows with an almost tropical luxuriance, so +that the general impression of the place is by no means typically +English. Laurels and rhododendrons grow in dense shrubberies; the +trees are full of leaf; flowers blossom profusely. There is a little +orchard beneath the house, and everywhere there is the fragrant and +pungent smell of sun-warmed garden-walks and box-hedges. There are +little terraces everywhere, banked up with stone walls built into the +steep ground, where stonecrops grow richly. One of these leads to a +little thatched arbour, where the poet often sat; below it, the ground +falls very rapidly, among rocks and copse and fern, so that you look +out on to the tree-tops below, and catch a glimpse of the steely waters +of the hidden lake of Rydal. + +Wordsworth lived there for more than thirty years; and half a century +has passed since he died. He was a skilful landscape gardener; and I +suppose that in his lifetime, when the walks were being constructed and +the place laid out, it must have had a certain air of newness, of +interference with the old wild peace of the hillside, which it has +since parted with. Now it is all as full of a quiet and settled order, +as if it had been thus for ever. One little detail deserves a special +mention; just below the house, there is an odd, circular, low, grassy +mound, said to be the old meeting-place for the village council, in +primitive and patriarchal days,--the Mount, from which the place has +its name. + +I thought much of the stately, simple, self-absorbed poet, whom somehow +one never thinks of as having been young; the lines of Milton haunted +me, as I moved about the rooms, the garden-terraces:-- + + "_In this mount he appeared; under this tree + Stood visible; among these pines his voice + I heard; here with him at this fountain talked._" + +The place is all permeated with the thought of him, his deep and +tranquil worship of natural beauty, his love of the kindly earth. + +I do not think that Wordsworth is one whose memory evokes a deep +personal attachment. I doubt if any figures of bygone days do that, +unless there is a certain wistful pathos about them; unless something +of compassion, some wish to proffer sympathy or consolation, mingles +with one's reverence. I have often, for instance, stayed at a house +where Shelley spent a few half-rapturous, half-miserable months. +There, meditating about him, striving to reconstruct the picture of his +life, one felt that he suffered much and needlessly; one would have +wished to shelter, to protect him if it had been possible, or at least +to have proffered sympathy to that inconsolable spirit. One's heart +goes out to those who suffered long years ago, whose love of the earth, +of life, of beauty, was perpetually overshadowed by the pain that comes +from realising transitoriness and decay. + +But Wordsworth is touched by no such pathos. He was extraordinarily +prosperous and equable; he was undeniably self-sufficient. Even the +sorrows and bereavements that he had to bear were borne gently and +philosophically. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and did it. +Those sturdy, useful legs of his bore him many a pleasant mile. He +always had exactly as much money as he needed, in order to live his +life as he desired. He chose precisely the abode he preferred; his +fame grew slowly and solidly. He became a great personage; he was +treated with immense deference and respect. He neither claimed nor +desired sympathy; he was as strong and self-reliant as the old yeomen +of the hills, of whom he indeed was one; his vocation was poetry, just +as their vocation was agriculture; and this vocation he pursued in as +business-like and intent a spirit as they pursued their farming. + +Wordsworth, indeed, was armed at all points by a strong and simple +pride, too strong to be vanity, too simple to be egotism. He is one of +the few supremely fortunate men in the history of literature, because +he had none of the sensitiveness or indecision that are so often the +curse of the artistic temperament. He never had the least misgivings +about the usefulness of his life; he wrote because he enjoyed it; he +ate and drank, he strolled and talked, with the same enjoyment. He had +a perfect balance of physical health. His dreams never left him cold; +his exaltations never plunged him into depression. He felt the +mysteries of the world with a solemn awe, but he had no uneasy +questionings, no remorse, no bewilderment, no fruitless melancholy. + +He bore himself with the same homely dignity in all companies alike; he +was never particularly interested in any one; he never had any fear of +being thought ridiculous or pompous. His favourite reading was his own +poetry; he wished every one to be interested in his work, because he +was conscious of its supreme importance. He probably made the mistake +of thinking that it was his sense of poetry and beauty that made him +simple and tranquil. As a matter of fact, it was the simplicity and +tranquillity of his temperament that gave him the power of enjoyment in +so large a measure. There is no growth or expansion about his life; he +did not learn his serene and impassioned attitude through failures and +mistakes: it was his all along. + +And yet what a fine, pure, noble, gentle life it was! The very thought +of him, faring quietly about among his hills and lakes, murmuring his +calm verse, in a sober and temperate joy, looking everywhere for the +same grave qualities among quiet homekeeping folk, brings with it a +high inspiration. But we tend to think of Wordsworth as a father and a +priest, rather than as a brother and a friend. He is a leader and a +guide, not a comrade. We must learn that, though he can perhaps turn +our heart the right way, towards the right things, we cannot +necessarily acquire that pure peace, that solemn serenity, by obeying +his precepts, unless we too have something of the same strong calmness +of soul. In some moods, far from sustaining and encouraging us, the +thought of his equable, impassioned life may only fill us with +unutterable envy. But still to have sat in his homely rooms, to have +paced his little terraces, does bring a certain imagined peace into the +mind, a noble shame for all that is sordid or mean, a hatred for the +conventional aims, the pitiful ambitions of the world. + +Alas, that the only sound from the little hill-platform, the embowered +walks, should be the dull rolling of wheels--motors, coaches, +omnibuses--in the road below! That is the shadow of his greatness. It +is a pitiable thought that one of the fruits of his genius is that it +has made his holy retreat fashionable. The villas rise in rows along +the edges of the clear lakes, under the craggy fell-sides, where the +feathery ashes root among the mimic precipices. A stream of +chattering, vacuous, indifferent tourists pours listlessly along the +road from _table-d'hote_ to _table-d'hote_. The turbid outflow of the +vulgar world seems a profanation of these august haunts. One hopes +despairingly that something of the spirit of lonely beauty speaks to +these trivial heads and hearts. But is there consolation in this? +What would the poet himself have felt if he could have foreseen it all? + +I descended the hill-road and crossed the valley highway; it was full +of dust; the vehicles rolled along, crowded with men smoking cigars and +reading newspapers, tired women, children whose idea of pleasure had +been to fill their hands with ferns and flowers torn from cranny and +covert. I climbed the little hill opposite the great Scar; its green +towering head, with its feet buried in wood, the hardy trees straggling +up the front wherever they could get a hold among the grey crags, rose +in sweet grandeur opposite to me. I threaded tracks of shimmering +fern, out of which the buzzing flies rose round me; I went by silent, +solitary places where the springs soak out of the moorland, while I +pondered over the bewildering ways of the world. The life, the ideals +of the great poet, set in the splendid framework of the great hills, +seemed so majestic and admirable a thing. But the visible results--the +humming of silly strangers round his sacred solitudes, the +contaminating influence of commercial exploitation--made one +fruitlessly and hopelessly melancholy. + +But even so the hills were silent; the sun went down in a great glory +of golden haze among the shadowy ridges. The valleys lay out at my +feet, the rolling woodland, the dark fells. There fell a mood of +strange yearning upon me, a yearning for the peaceful secret that, as +the orange sunset slowly waned, the great hills seemed to guard and +hold. What was it that was going on there, what solemn pageant, what +sweet mystery, that I could only desire to behold and apprehend? I +know not! I only know that if I could discern it, if I could tell it, +the world would stand to listen; its littleness, its meanness, would +fade in that august light; the peace of God would go swiftly and +secretly abroad. + + + + +XXV + +Dorsetshire + +I am travelling just now, and am this week at _Dorchester_, in the +company of my oldest and best friend. We like the same things; and I +can be silent if I will, while I can also say anything, however +whimsical, that comes into my mind; there are few things better than +that in the world, and I count the precious hours very gratefully; +_appono lucro_. + +Dorsetshire gives me the feeling of being a very old country. The big +downs seem like the bases of great rocky hills which have through long +ages been smoothed and worn away, softened and mellowed, the rocks, +grain by grain, carried downwards into the flat alluvial meadowlands +beneath. In these rich pastures, all intersected with clear streams, +runnels and water-courses, full at this season of rich water-plants, +the cattle graze peacefully. The downs have been ploughed and sown up +to the sky-line. Then there are fine tracts of heather and pines in +places. And then, too, there is a sense of old humanity, of ancient +wars about the land. There are great camps and earthworks everywhere, +with ramparts and ditches, both British and Roman. The wolds from +which the sea is visible are thickly covered with barrows, each holding +the mouldering bones of some forgotten chieftain, laid to rest, how +many centuries ago, with the rude mourning of a savage clan. I stood +on one of the highest of these the other day, on a great gorse-clad +headland, and sent my spirit out in quest of the old warrior that lay +below--"Audisne haec, Amphiaraee, sub terram condite?" But there was no +answer from the air; though in my sleep one night I saw a wild, +red-bearded man, in a coat of skins, with rude gaiters, and a hat of +foxes' fur on his head; he carried a long staff in his hand, pointed +with iron, and looked mutely and sorrowfully upon me. Who knows if it +was he? + +And then of later date are many ruinous strongholds, with Cyclopean +walls, like the huge shattered bulk of _Corfe_, upon its green hill, +between the shoulders of great downs. There are broken abbeys, +pinnacled church-towers in village after village. And then, too, in +hamlet after hamlet, rise quaint stone manors, high-gabled, +many-mullioned, in the midst of barns and byres. One of the sweetest +places I have seen is _Cerne Abbas_. The road to it winds gently up +among steep downs, a full stream gliding through flat pastures at the +bottom. The hamlet has a forgotten, wistful air; there are many houses +in ruins. Close to the street rises the church-tower, of rich and +beautiful design, with gurgoyles and pinnacles, cut out of a soft +orange stone and delicately weathered. At the end of the village +stands a big farm-house, built out of the abbey ruins, with a fine +oriel in one of the granaries. In a little wilderness of trees, the +ground covered with primroses, stands the exquisite old gatehouse with +mullioned windows. I have had for years a poor little engraving of the +place, and it seemed to greet me like an old friend. Then, in the +pasture above, you can see the old terraces and mounds of the monastic +garden, where the busy Benedictines worked day by day; further still, +on the side of the down itself, is cut a very strange and ancient +monument. It is the rude and barbarous figure of a naked man, sixty +yards long, as though moving northwards, and brandishing a huge knotted +club. It is carved deep into the turf, and is overgrown with rough +grass. No one can even guess at the antiquity of the figure, but it is +probably not less than three thousand years old. Some say that it +records the death of a monstrous giant of the valley. The good monks +Christianised it, and named it _Augustine_. But it seems to be +certainly one of the frightful figures of which Caesar speaks, on which +captives were bound with twisted osiers, and burnt to death for a +Druidical sacrifice. The thing is grotesque, vile, horrible; the very +stones of the place seemed soaked with terror, cruelty and death. Even +recently foul and barbarous traditions were practised there, it is +said, by villagers, who were Christian only in name. Yet it lay +peacefully enough to-day, the shadows of the clouds racing over it, the +wind rustling in the grass, with nothing to break the silence but the +twitter of birds, the bleat of sheep on the down, and the crying of +cocks in the straw-thatched village below. + +What a strange fabric of history, memory, and tradition is here +unrolled, of old unhappy far-off things! How bewildering to think of +the horrible agonies of fear, the helpless, stupefied creatures lying +bound there, the smoke sweeping over them and the flames crackling +nearer, while their victorious foes laughed and exulted round them, and +the priests performed the last hideous rites. And all the while God +watched the slow march of days from the silent heaven, and worked out +his mysterious purposes! And yet, surveying the quiet valley to-day, +it seems as though there were no memory of suffering or sorrow in it at +all. + +We climbed the down; and there at our feet the world lay like a map, +with its fields, woods, hamlets and church-towers, the great rich plain +rolling to the horizon, till it was lost in haze. How infinitely +minute and unimportant seemed one's own life, one's own thoughts, the +schemes of one tiny moving atom on the broad back of the hills. And +yet my own small restless identity is almost the only thing in the +world of which I am assured! + +There came to me at that moment a thrill of the spirit which comes but +rarely; a deep hope, the sense of a secret lying very near, if one +could only grasp it; an assurance that we are safe and secure in the +hand of God, and a certainty that there is a vast reality behind, +veiled from us only by the shadows of fears, ambitions, and desires. +And the thought, too, came that all the tiny human beings that move +about their tasks in the plain beneath--nay, the animals, the trees, +the flowers, every blade of grass, every pebble--each has its place in +the great and awful mystery. Then came the sense of the vast +fellowship of created things, the tender Fatherhood of the God who made +us all. I can hardly put the thought into words; but it was one of +those sudden intuitions that seem to lie deeper even than the mind and +the soul, a message from the heart of the world, bidding one wait and +wonder, rest and be still. + + + + +XXVI + +Portland + +I will put another little sketch side by side with the last, for the +sake of contrast; I think it is hardly possible within the compass of a +few days to have seen two scenes of such minute and essential +difference. At _Cerne_ I had the tranquil loneliness of the +countryside, the silent valley, the long faintly-tinted lines of +pasture, space and stillness; the hamlets nestled among trees in the +dingles of the down. To-day I went south along a dusty road; at first +there were quiet ancient sights enough, such as the huge grass-grown +encampment of _Maiden Castle_, now a space of pasture, but still +guarded by vast ramparts and ditches, dug in the chalk, and for a +thousand years or more deserted. The downs, where they faced the sea, +were dotted with grassy barrows, air-swept and silent. We topped the +hill, and in a moment there was a change; through the haze we saw the +roofs of _Weymouth_ laid out like a map before us, with the smoke +drifting west from innumerable chimneys; in the harbour, guarded by the +slender breakwaters, floated great ironclads, black and sinister bulks; +and beyond them frowned the dark front of _Portland_. Very soon the +houses began to close in upon the road,--brick-built, pretentious, +bow-windowed villas; then we were in the streets, showing a wholesome +antiquity in the broad-windowed mansions of mellow brick, which sprang +into life when the honest king George III. made the quiet port +fashionable by spending his simple summers there. There was the king's +lodging itself, Gloucester House, now embedded in a hotel, with the big +pilastered windows of its saloons giving it a faded courtly air. Soon +we were by the quays, with black red-funnelled steamers unloading, and +all the quaint and pretty bustle of a port. We went out to a +promontory guarded by an old stone fort, and watched a red merchant +steamer roll merrily in, blowing a loud sea-horn. Then over a +low-shouldered ridge, and we were by the great inner roads, full of +shipping; we sat for a while by the melancholy walls of an ancient +Tudor castle, now crumbling into the sea; and then across the narrow +causeway that leads on to _Portland_. On our right rose the _Chesil +Bank_, that mysterious mole of orange shingle, which the sea, for some +strange purpose of its own, has piled up, century after century, for +eighteen miles along the western coast. And then the grim front of +_Portland Island_ itself loomed out above us. The road ran up steeply +among the bluffs, through line upon line of grey-slated houses; to the +left, at the top of the cliff, were the sunken lines of the huge fort, +with the long slopes of its earthworks, the glacis overgrown with +grass, and the guns peeping from their embrasures; to the left, dipping +to the south, the steep grey crags, curve after curve. The streets +were alive with an abundance of merry young sailors and soldiers, +brisk, handsome boys, with the quiet air of discipline that converts a +country lout into a self-respecting citizen. An old bronzed sergeant +led a child with one hand, and with the other tried to obey her shrill +directions about whirling a skipping-rope, so that she might skip +beside him; he looked at us with a half-proud, half-shamefaced smile, +calling down a rebuke for his inattention from the girl. + +We wound slowly up the steep roads smothered in dust; landwards the +view was all drowned in a pale haze, but the steep grey cliffs by +_Lulworth_ gleamed with a tinge of gold across the sea. + +At the top, one of the dreariest landscapes I have ever seen met the +sight. The island lies, so to speak, like a stranded whale, the great +head and shoulders northwards to the land. The moment you surmount the +top, the huge, flat side of the monster is extended before you, +shelving to the sea. Hardly a tree grows there; there is nothing but a +long perspective of fields, divided here and there by stone walls, with +scattered grey houses at intervals. There is not a feature of any kind +on which the eye can rest. In the foreground the earth is all +tunnelled and tumbled; quarries stretch in every direction, with huge, +gaunt, straddling, gallows-like structures emerging, a wheel spinning +at the top, and ropes travelling into the abyss; heaps of grey +_debris_, interspersed with stunted grass, huge excavations, ugly +ravines with a spout of grim stone at the seaward opening, like the +burrowings of some huge mole. The placid green slopes of the fort give +an impression of secret strength, even grandeur. Otherwise it is but a +ragged, splashed aquarelle of grey and green. Over the _debris_ appear +at a distance the blunt ominous chimneys of the convict prison, which +seems to put the finishing touch on the forbidding character of the +scene. + +To-day the landward view was all veiled in haze, which seemed to shut +off the sad island from the world. On a clear day, no doubt, the view +must be full of grandeur, the inland downs, edged everywhere with the +tall scarped cliffs, headland after headland, with the long soft line +of the _Chesil Bank_ below them. But on a day of sea mist, it must be, +I felt, one of the saddest and most mournful regions in the world, with +no sound but the wail of gulls, and the chafing of the surge below. + + + + +XXVII + +Canterbury Tower + +To-day I had a singular pleasure heightened by an intermingled +strangeness and even terror--qualities which bring out the quality of +pleasure in the same way that a bourdon in a pedal-point passage brings +out the quality of what a German would, I think, call the _over-work_. +I was at _Canterbury_, where the great central tower is wreathed with +scaffolding, and has a dim, blurred outline from a distance, as though +it were being rapidly shaken to and fro. I found a friendly and +communicable man who offered to take me over it; we climbed a dizzy +little winding stair, with bright glimpses at intervals, through +loop-holes, of sunlight and wheeling birds; then we crept along the top +of a vaulted space with great pockets of darkness to right and left. +Soon we were in the gallery of the lantern, from which we could see the +little people crawling on the floor beneath, like slow insects. And +then we mounted a short ladder which took us out of one of the great +belfry windows, on to the lowest of the planked galleries. What a +frail and precarious structure it seemed: the planks bent beneath our +feet. And here came the first exquisite delight--that of being close +to the precipitous face of the tower, of seeing the carved work which +had never been seen close at hand since its erection except by the +jackdaws and pigeons. I was moved and touched by observing how fine +and delicate all the sculpture was. There were rows and rows of little +heraldic devices, which from below could appear only as tiny fretted +points; yet every petal of rose or _fleur-de-lys_ was as scrupulously +and cleanly cut as if it had been meant to be seen close at hand; a +waste of power, I suppose; but what a pretty and delicate waste! and +done, I felt, in faithful days, when the carving was done as much to +delight, if possible, the eye of God, as to please the eye of man. +Higher and higher we went, till at last we reached the parapet. And +then by a dizzy perpendicular ladder to which I committed myself in +faith, we reached a little platform on the very top of one of the +pinnacles. The vane had just been fixed, and the stone was splashed +with the oozing solder. And now came the delight of the huge view all +round: the wooden heights, the rolling hills; old church towers rose +from flowering orchards; a mansion peeped through immemorial trees; and +far to the north-east we could see the white cliff of _Pegwell Bay_; +endeared to me through the beautiful picture by Dyce, where the pale +crags rise from the reefs green with untorn weeds. There on the +horizon I could see shadowy sails on the steely sea-line. + +Near at hand there were the streets, and then the Close, with its +comfortable canonical houses, in green trim gardens, spread out like a +map at my feet. We looked down on to the tops of tall elm-trees, and +saw the rooks walking and sitting on the grey-splashed platforms of +twigs, that swayed horribly in the breeze. It was pleasant to see, as +I did, the tiny figure of my reverend host walking, a dot of black, in +his garden beneath, reading in a book. The long grey-leaded roof ran +broad and straight, a hundred feet below. One felt for a moment as a +God might feel, looking on a corner of his created world, and seeing +that it was good. One seemed to have surmounted the earth, and to +watch the little creeping orbits of men with a benevolent compassion, +perceiving how strait they were. The large air hissed briskly in the +pinnacles, and roared through the belfry windows beneath. I cannot +describe the eager exhilaration which filled me; but I guessed that the +impulse which bids men fling themselves from such heights is not a +morbid prepossession, not a physical dizziness, but an intemperate and +overwhelming joy. It seems at such a moment so easy to float and swim +through the viewless air, as if one would be borne up on the wings of +angels. + +But, alas! the hour warned us to return. On our way down we disturbed +a peevish jackdaw from her nest; she had dragged up to that intolerable +height a pile of boughs that would have made a dozen nests; she had +interwoven for the cup to hold her eggs a number of strips of purloined +canvas. There lay the three speckled eggs, the hope of the race, while +the chiding mother stood on a pinnacle hard by, waiting for the +intruder to begone. + +A strange sense of humiliation and smallness came upon me as we emerged +at last into the nave; the people that had seemed so small and +insignificant, were, alas! as big and as important as myself; I felt as +an exile from the porches of heaven, a fallen spirit. + + + + +XXVIII + +Prayer + +I am often baffled when I try to think what prayer is; if our thoughts +do indeed lie open before the eyes of the Father, like a little clear +globe of water which a man may hold in his hand--and I am sure they +do--it certainly seems hardly worth while to put those desires into +words. Many good Christians seem to me to conceive of prayers partly +as a kind of tribute they are bound to pay, and partly as requests that +are almost certain to be refused. With such people religion, then, +means the effort which they make to trust a Father who hears prayers, +and very seldom answers them. But this does not seem to be a very +reasonable attitude. + +I confess that liturgical prayer does not very much appeal to me. It +does not seem to me to correspond to any particular need in my mind. +It seems to me to sacrifice almost all the things that I mean by +prayer--the sustained intention of soul, the laying of one's own +problems before the Father, the expression of one's hopes for others, +the desire that the sorrows of the world should be lightened. Of +course, a liturgy touches these thoughts at many points; but the +exercise of one's own liberty of aspiration and wonder, the pursuing of +a train of thought, the quiet dwelling upon mysteries, are all lost if +one has to stumble and run in a prescribed track. To follow a service +with uplifted attention requires more mental agility than I possess; +point after point is raised, and yet, if one pauses to meditate, to +wonder, to aspire, one is lost, and misses the thread of the service. +I suppose that there is or ought to be something in the united act of +intercession. But I dislike all public meetings, and think them a +waste of time. I should make an exception in favour of the Sacrament, +but the rapid disappearance of the majority of a congregation before +the solemn act seems to me to destroy the sense of unity with singular +rapidity. As to the old theory that God requires of his followers that +they should unite at intervals in presenting him with a certain amount +of complimentary effusion, I cannot even approach the idea. The +holiest, simplest, most benevolent being of whom I can conceive would +be inexpressibly pained and distressed by such an intention on the part +of the objects of his care; and to conceive of God as greedy of +recognition seems to me to be one of the conceptions which insult the +dignity of the soul. + +I have heard lately one or two mediaeval stories which illustrate what +I mean. There is a story of a pious monk, who, worn out by long +vigils, fell asleep, as he was saying his prayers before a crucifix. +He was awakened by a buffet on the head, and heard a stern voice +saying, "Is this an oratory or a dormitory?" I cannot conceive of any +story more grotesquely human than the above, or more out of keeping +with one's best thoughts about God. Again, there is a story which is +told, I think, of one of the first monasteries of the Benedictine +order. One of the monks was a lay brother, who had many little menial +tasks to fulfil; he was a well-meaning man, but extremely forgetful, +and he was often forced to retire from some service in which he was +taking part, because he had forgotten to put the vegetables on to boil, +or omitted other duties which would lead to the discomfort of the +brethren. Another monk, who was fond of more secular occupations, such +as wood-carving and garden-work, and not at all attached to habits of +prayer, seeing this, thought that he would do the same; and he too used +to slip away from a service, in order to return to the business that he +loved better. The Prior of the monastery, an anxious, humble man, was +at a loss how to act; so he called in a very holy hermit, who lived in +a cell hard by, that he might have the benefit of his advice. The +hermit came and attended an Office. Presently the lay brother rose +from his knees and slipped out. The hermit looked up, followed him +with his eyes, and appeared to be greatly moved. But he took no +action, and only addressed himself more assiduously to his prayers. +Shortly after, the other brother rose and went out. The hermit looked +up, and seeing him go, rose too, and followed him to the door, where he +fetched him a great blow upon the head that nearly brought him to the +ground. Thereupon the stricken man went humbly back to his place and +addressed himself to his prayers; and the hermit did the same. + +The Office was soon over, and the hermit went to the Prior's room to +talk the matter over. The hermit said: "I bore in my mind what you +told me, dear Father, and when I saw one of the brethren rise from his +prayers, I asked God to show me what I should do; but I saw a wonderful +thing; there was a shining figure with our brother, his hand upon the +other's sleeve; and this fair comrade, I have no doubt, was an angel of +God, that led the brother forth, that he might be about his Father's +business. So I prayed the more earnestly. But when our other brother +rose, I looked up; and I saw that he had been plucked by the sleeve by +a little naked, comely boy, very swarthy of hue, that I saw had no +business among our holy prayers; he wore a mocking smile on his face, +as though he prevailed in evil. So I rose and followed; and just as +they came to the door, I aimed a shrewd blow, for it was told me what +to do, at the boy, and struck him on the head, so that he fell to the +ground, and presently went to his own place; and then our brother came +back to his prayers." + +The Prior mused a little over this wonder, and then he said, smiling: +"It seemed to me that it was our brother that was smitten." "Very +like," said the hermit, "for the two were close together, and I think +the boy was whispering in the brother's ear; but give God the glory; +for the dear brother will not offend again." + +There is an abundance of truth in this wholesome ancient tale; but I +will not draw the morals out here. All I will say is that the old +theory of prayer, simple and childlike as it is, seems to have a +curious vitality even nowadays. It presupposes that the act of prayer +is in itself pleasing to God; and that is what I am not satisfied of. + +That theory seems to prevail even more strongly in the Roman Church of +to-day than in our own. The Roman priest is not a man occupied +primarily with pastoral duties; his business is the business of prayer. +To neglect his daily offices is a mortal sin, and when he has said +them, his priestly duty is at an end. This does not seem to me to bear +any relation to the theory of prayer as enunciated in the Gospel. +There the practice of constant and secret prayer, of a direct and +informal kind, is enjoined upon all followers of Christ; but Our Lord +seems to be very hard upon the lengthy and public prayers of the +Pharisees, and indeed against all formality in the matter at all. The +only united service that he enjoined upon his followers was the +Sacrament of the common meal; and I confess that the saying of formal +liturgies in an ornate building seems to me to be a practice which has +drifted very far away from the simplicity of individual religion which +Christ appears to have aimed at. + +My own feeling about prayer is that it should not be relegated to +certain seasons, or attended by certain postures, or even couched in +definite language; it should rather be a constant uplifting of the +heart, a stretching out of the hands to God. I do not think we should +ask for definite things that we desire; I am sure that our definite +desires, our fears, our plans, our schemes, the hope that visits one a +hundred times a day, our cravings for wealth or success or influence, +are as easily read by God, as a man can discern the tiny atoms and +filaments that swim in his crystal globe. But I think we may ask to be +led, to be guided, to be helped; we may put our anxious little +decisions before God; we may ask for strength to fulfil hard duties; we +may put our desires for others' happiness, our hopes for our country, +our compassion for sorrowing or afflicted persons, our horror of +cruelty and tyranny before him; and here I believe lies the force of +prayer; that by practising this sense of aspiration in his presence, we +gain a strength to do our own part. If we abstain from prayer, if we +limit our prayers to our own small desires, we grow, I know, petty and +self-absorbed and feeble. We can leave the fulfilment of our concrete +aims to God; but we ought to be always stretching out our hands and +opening our hearts to the high and gracious mysteries that lie all +about us. + +A friend of mine told me that a little Russian peasant, whom he had +visited often in a military hospital, told him, at their last +interview, that he would tell him a prayer that was always effective, +and had never failed of being answered. "But you must not use it," he +said, "unless you are in a great difficulty, and there seems no way +out." The prayer which he then repeated was this: "Lord, remember King +David, and all his grace." + +I have never tested the efficacy of this prayer, but I have a thousand +times tested the efficacy of sudden prayer in moments of difficulty, +when confronted with a little temptation, when overwhelmed with +irritation, before an anxious interview, before writing a difficult +passage. How often has the temptation floated away, the irritation +mastered itself, the right word been said, the right sentence written! +To do all we are capable of, and then to commit the matter to the hand +of the Father, that is the best that we can do. + +Of course, I am well aware that there are many who find this kind of +help in liturgical prayer; and I am thankful that it is so. But for +myself, I can only say that as long as I pursued the customary path, +and confined myself to fixed moments of prayer, I gained very little +benefit. I do not forego the practice of liturgical attendance even +now; for a solemn service, with all the majesty of an old and beautiful +building full of countless associations, with all the resources of +musical sound and ceremonial movement, does uplift and rejoice the +soul. And even with simpler services, there is often something vaguely +sustaining and tranquillising in the act. But the deeper secret lies +in the fact that prayer is an attitude of soul, and not a ceremony; +that it is an individual mystery, and not a piece of venerable pomp. I +would have every one adopt his own method in the matter. I would not +for an instant discourage those who find that liturgical usage uplifts +them; but neither would I have those to be discouraged who find that it +has no meaning for them. The secret lies in the fact that our aim +should be a relation with the Father, a frank and reverent confidence, +a humble waiting upon God. That the Father loves all his children with +an equal love I doubt not. But he is nearest to those who turn to him +at every moment, and speak to him with a quiet trustfulness. He alone +knows why he has set us in the middle of such a bewildering world, +where joy and sorrow, darkness and light, are so strangely +intermingled; and all that we can do is to follow wisely and patiently +such clues as he gives us, into the cloudy darkness in which he seems +to dwell. + + + + +XXIX + +The Death-bed of Jacob + +I heard read the other morning, in a quiet house-chapel, a chapter +which has always seemed to me one of the most perfectly beautiful +things in the Bible. And as it was read, I felt, what is always a test +of the highest kind of beauty, that I had never known before how +perfect it was. It was the 48th chapter of Genesis, the blessing of +Ephraim and Manasses. Jacob, feeble and spent, is lying in the quiet, +tranquil passiveness of old age, with bygone things passing like dreams +before the inner eye of the spirit--in that mood, I think, when one +hardly knows where the imagined begins or the real ends. He is told +that his son Joseph is coming, and he strengthens himself for an +effort. Joseph enters, and, in a strain of high solemnity, Jacob +speaks of the promise made long before on the stone-strewn hills of +Bethel, and its fulfilment; but even so he seems to wander in his +thought, the recollection of his Rachel comes over him, and he cannot +forbear to speak of her: "_And as for me, when I came from Padan, +Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan, in the way, and when yet there +was but a little way to come unto Ephrath; and I buried her there in +the way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem._" + +Could there be anything more human, more tender than that? The memory +of the sad day of loss and mourning, and then the gentle, aged +precision about names and places, the details that add nothing, and yet +are so natural, so sweet an echo of the old tale, the symbols of the +story, that stand for so much and mean so little,--"_the same is +Bethlehem_." Who has not heard an old man thus tracing out the +particulars of some remote recollected incident, dwelling for the +hundredth time on the unimportant detail, the side-issue, so needlessly +anxious to avoid confusion, so bent on useless accuracy. + +Then, as he wanders thus, he becomes aware of the two boys, standing in +wonder and awe beside him; and even so he cannot at once piece together +the facts, but asks, with a sudden curiosity, "_Who are these?_" Then +it is explained very gently by the dear son whom he had lost, and who +stands for a parable of tranquil wisdom and loyal love. The old man +kisses and embraces the boys, and with a full heart says, "_I had not +thought to see thy face; and lo, God hath showed me also thy seed._" +And at this Joseph can bear it no more, puts the boys forward, who seem +to be clinging shyly to him, and bows himself down with his face to the +earth, in a passion of grief and awe. + +And then the old man will not bless them as intended, but gives the +richer blessing to the younger; with those words which haunt the memory +and sink into the heart: "_The angel which redeemed me from all evil, +bless the lads._" And Joseph is moved by what he thinks to be a +mistake, and would correct it, so as to give the larger blessing to his +firstborn. But Jacob refuses. "_I know it, my son, I know it ... he +also shall be great, but truly his younger brother shall be greater +than he._" + +And so he adds a further blessing; and even then, at that deep moment, +the old man cannot refrain from one flash of pride in his old prowess, +and speaks, in his closing words, of the inheritance he won from the +Amorite with his sword and bow; and this is all the more human because +there is no trace in the records of his ever having done anything of +the kind. He seems to have been always a man of peace. And so the +sweet story remains human to the very end. I care very little what the +critics may have to say on the matter. They may call it legendary if +they will, they may say that it is the work of an Ephraimite scribe, +bent on consecrating the Ephraimite supremacy by the aid of tradition. +But the incident appears to me to be of a reality, a force, a +tenderness, that is above historical criticism. Whatever else may be +true, there is a breathing reality in the picture of the old weak +patriarch making his last conscious effort; Joseph, that wise and +prudent servant, whose activities have never clouded his clear natural +affections; the boys, the mute and awed actors in the scene, not made +to utter any precocious phrases, and yet centring the tenderness of +hope and joy upon themselves. If it is art, it is the perfection of +art, which touches the very heart-strings into a passion of sweetness +and wonder. + +Compare this ancient story with other achievements of the human mind +and soul: with Homer, with Virgil, with Shakespeare. I think they pale +beside it, because with no sense of effort or construction, with all +the homely air of a simple record, the perfectly natural, the perfectly +pathetic, the perfectly beautiful, is here achieved. There is no +painting of effects, no dwelling on accessories, no consciousness of +beauty; and yet the heart is fed, the imagination touched, the spirit +satisfied. For here one has set foot in the very shrine of truth and +beauty, and the wise hand that wrote it has just opened the door of the +heart, and stands back, claiming no reward, desiring no praise. + + + + +XXX + +By the Sea of Galilee + +I have often thought that the last chapter of St John's Gospel is one +of the most bewildering and enchanting pieces of literature I know. I +suppose Robert Browning must have thought so, because he makes the +reading of it, in that odd rich poem, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, the +sign, together with testing a plough, of a man's conversion, from the +unreal life of talk and words, to the realities of life; though I have +never divined why he used this particular chapter as a symbol; and +indeed I hope no one will ever make it clear to me, though I daresay +the connection is plain enough. + +It is bewildering, because it is a postscript, added, with a singular +artlessness, after the Gospel has come to a full close. Perhaps St +John did not even write it, though the pretty childlike conclusion +about the world itself not being able to contain the books that might +be written about Christ has always seemed to me to be in his spirit, +the words of a very simple-minded and aged man. It is enchanting, +because it contains two of the most beautiful episodes in the whole of +the Gospel History, the charge to St Peter to feed the lambs and sheep +of the fold, where one of the most delicate nuances of language is lost +in the English translation, and the appearance of Jesus beside the sea +of Galilee. I must not here discuss the story of the charge to St +Peter, though I once heard it read, with exquisite pathos, when an +archbishop of Canterbury was being enthroned with all the pomp and +circumstance of ecclesiastical ceremony, in such a way that it brought +out, by a flash of revelation, the true spirit of the scene we were +attending; we were simple Christians, it seemed, assembled only to set +a shepherd over a fold, that he might lead a flock in green pastures +and by waters of comfort. + +But a man must not tell two tales at once, or he loses the savour of +both. Let us take the other story. + +The dreadful incidents of the Passion are over; the shame, the horror, +the humiliation, the disappointment. The hearts of the Apostles must +have been sore indeed at the thought that they had deserted their +friend and Master. Then followed the mysterious incidents of the +Resurrection, about which I will only say that it is plain from the +documents, if they are accepted as a record at all, from the +astonishing change which seems to have passed over the Apostles, +converting their timid faithfulness into a tranquil boldness, that +they, at all events, believed that some incredibly momentous thing had +happened, and that their Master was among them again, returning through +the gates of Death. + +They go back, like men wearied of inaction, tired of agitated thought, +to their homely trade. All night the boat sways in the quiet tide, but +they catch nothing. Then, as the morning begins to come in about the +promontories and shores of the lake, they see the figure of one moving +on the bank, who hails them with a familiar heartiness, as a man might +do who had to provide for unexpected guests, and had nothing to give +them to eat. I fancy, I know not whether rightly, that they see in him +a purchaser, and answer sullenly that they have nothing to sell. Then +follows a direction, which they obey, to cast the net on the right side +of the boat. Perhaps they thought the stranger--for it is clear that +as yet they had no suspicion of his identity--had seen some sign of a +moving shoal which had escaped them. They secure a great haul of fish. +Then John has an inkling of the truth; and I know no words which thrill +me more strangely than the simple expression that bursts from his lips: +_It is the Lord!_ With characteristic impetuosity Peter leaps into the +water, and wades or swims ashore. + +And then comes another of the surprising touches of the story. As a +mother might tenderly provide a meal for her husband and sons who have +been out all night, they find that their visitant has made and lit a +little fire, and is broiling fish, how obtained one knows not; then the +haul is dragged ashore, the big shoal leaping in the net; and then +follows the simple invitation and the distribution of the food. It +seems as though that memorable meal, by the shore of the lake, with the +fresh brightness of the morning breaking all about them, must have been +partaken of in silence; one can almost hear the soft crackling of the +fire, and the waves breaking on the shingle. They dared not ask him +who he was: they knew; and yet, considering that they had only parted +from him a few days before, the narrative implies that some mysterious +change must have passed over him. Perhaps they were wondering, as we +may wonder, how he was spending those days. He was seen only in sudden +and unexpected glimpses; where was he living, what was he doing through +those long nights and days in which they saw him not? I can only say +that for me a deep mystery broods over the record. The glimpses of +him, and even more his absences, seem to me to transcend the powers of +human invention. That these men lived, that they believed they saw the +Lord, seems to me the only possible explanation, though I admit to the +full the baffling mystery of it all. + +And then the scene closes with absolute suddenness; there is no attempt +to describe, to amplify, to analyse. There follows the charge to +Peter, the strange prophecy of his death, and the still stranger +repression of curiosity as to what should be the fate of St John. + +But the whole incident, coming to us as it does out of the hidden +ancient world, defying investigation, provoking the deepest wonder, +remains as faint and sweet as the incense of the morning, as the cool +breeze that played about the weary brows of the sleepless fishermen, +and stirred the long ripple of the clear lake. + + + + +XXXI + +The Apocalypse + +I think that there are few verses of the Bible that give one a more +sudden and startling thrill than the verse at the beginning of the +viiith chapter of the Revelation. _And when he had opened the seventh +seal there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour_. The +very simplicity of the words, the homely note of specified time, is in +itself deeply impressive. But further, it gives the dim sense of some +awful and unseen preparation going forward, a period allowed in which +those that stood by, august and majestic as they were, should collect +their courage, should make themselves ready with bated breath for some +dire pageant. Up to that moment the vision had followed hard on the +opening of each seal. Upon the opening of the first, had resounded a +peal of thunder, and the voice of the first beast had called the +awestruck eyes and the failing heart to look upon the sight: _Come and +see_! Then the white horse with the crowned conqueror had ridden +joyfully forth. At the opening of the second seal, had sprung forth +the red horse, and the rider with the great sword. When the third was +opened, the black horse had gone forth, the rider bearing the balances; +and then had followed the strange and naive charge by the unknown +voice, which gives one so strong a sense that the vision was being +faithfully recorded rather than originated, the voice that quoted a +price for the grain of wheat and barley, and directed the protection of +the vineyard and olive-yard. This homely reference to the simple food +of earth keeps the mind intent upon the actual realities and needs of +life in the midst of these bewildering sights. Then at the fourth +opening, the pale horse, bestridden by Death, went mournfully abroad. +At the fifth seal, the crowded souls beneath the altar cry out for +restlessness; they are clothed in white robes, and bidden to be patient +for a while. Then, at the sixth seal, falls the earthquake, the +confusion of nature, the dismay of men, before the terror of the anger +of God; and the very words _the wrath of the Lamb_, have a marvellous +significance; the wrath of the Most Merciful, the wrath of one whose +very symbol is that of a blithe and meek innocence. Then the earth is +guarded from harm, and the faithful are sealed; and in words of the +sublimest pathos, the end of pain and sorrow is proclaimed, and the +promise that the redeemed shall be fed and led forth by fountains of +living waters. And then, at the very moment of calm and peace, the +seventh seal is opened,--and nothing follows! the very angels of heaven +seem to stand with closed eyes, compressed lips, and beating heart, +waiting for what shall be. + +And then at last the visions come crowding before the gaze again--the +seven trumpets are sounded, the bitter, burning stars fall, the locusts +swarm out from the smoking pit, and death and woe begin their work; +till at last the book is delivered to the prophet, and his heart is +filled with the sweetness of the truth. + +I have no desire to trace the precise significance of these things. I +do not wish that these tapestries of wrought mysteries should be +suspended upon the walls of history. I do not think that they can be +so suspended; nor have I the least hope that these strange sights, so +full both of brightness and of horror, should ever be seen by mortal +eye. But that a human soul should have lost itself in these august +dreams, that the book of visions should have been thus strangely +guarded through the ages, and at last, clothed in the sweet cadences of +our English tongue, should be read in our ears, till the words are +soaked through and through with rich wonder and tender +associations--that is, I think, a very wonderful and divine thing. The +lives of all men that have an inner eye for beauty are full of such +mysteries, and surely there is no one, of those that strive to pierce +below the dark experiences of life, who is not aware, as he reckons +back the days of his life, of hours when the seals of the book have +been opened. It has been so, I know, in my own life. Sometimes, at +the rending of the seal, a gracious thing has gone forth, bearing +victory and prosperity. Sometimes a dark figure has ridden away, +changing the very face of the earth for a season. Sometimes a thunder +of dismay has followed, or a vision of sweet peace and comfort; and +sometimes one has assuredly known that a seal has been broken, to be +followed by a silence in heaven and earth. + +And thus these solemn and mournful visions retain a great hold over the +mind; it is, with myself, partly the childish associations of wonder +and delight. One recurred so eagerly to the book, because, instead of +mere thought and argument, earthly events, wars and dynasties, here was +a gallery of mysterious pictures, things seen out of the body, scenes +of bright colour and monstrous forms, enacted on the stage of heaven. +That is entrancing still; but beyond and above these strange forms and +pictured fancies, I now discern a deeper mystery of thought; not pure +and abstract thought, flashes of insight, comforting grace, kindled +desires, but rather that more complex thought that, through a +perception of strange forms, a waving robe of scarlet, a pavement +bright with jewels, a burning star, a bird of sombre plumage, a dark +grove, breathes a subtle insight, like a strain of unearthly music, +interpreting the hopes and fears of the heart by haunted glimpses and +obscure signs. I do not know in what shadowy region of the soul these +things draw near, but it is in a region which is distinct and apart, a +region where the dreaming mind projects upon the dark its dimly-woven +visions; a region where it is not wise to wander too eagerly and +carelessly, but into which one may look warily and intently at seasons, +standing upon the dizzy edge of time, and gazing out beyond the flaming +ramparts of the world. + + + + +XXXII + +The Statue + +I saw a strange and moving thing to-day. I went with a friend to visit +a great house in the neighbourhood. The owner was away, but my friend +enjoyed the right of leisurely access to the place, and we thought we +would take the opportunity of seeing it. + +We entered at the lodge, and walked through the old deer-park with its +huge knotted oaks, its wide expanse of grass. The deer were feeding +quietly in a long herd. The great house itself came in sight, with its +portico and pavilions staring at us, so it seemed, blankly and +seriously, with shuttered eyes. The whole place unutterably still and +deserted, like a house seen in a dream. + +There was one particular thing that we came to visit; we left the house +on the left, and turned through a little iron gate into a thick grove +of trees. We soon became aware that there was open ground before us, +and presently we came to a space in the heart of the wood, where there +was a silent pool all overgrown with water-lilies; the bushes grew +thickly round the edge. The pool was full of water-birds, coots, and +moor-hens, sailing aimlessly about, and uttering strange, melancholy +cries at intervals. On the edge of the water stood a small marble +temple, streaked and stained by the weather. As we approached it, my +friend told me something of the builder of the little shrine. He was a +former owner of the place, a singular man, who in his later days had +lived a very solitary life here. He was a man of wild and wayward +impulses, who had drunk deeply in youth of pleasure and excitement. He +had married a beautiful young wife, who had died childless in the first +year of their marriage, and he had abandoned himself after this event +to a despairing seclusion, devoted to art and music. He had filled the +great house with fine pictures, he had written a book of poems, and +some curious stilted volumes of autobiographical prose; but he had no +art of expression, and his books had seemed like a powerless attempt to +give utterance to wild and melancholy musings; they were written in a +pompous and elaborate style, which divested the thoughts of such charm +as they might have possessed. + +He had lived thus to a considerable age in a wilful sadness, unloving +and unloved. He had cared nothing for the people of the place, +entertained no visitors; rambling, a proud solitary figure, about the +demesne, or immured for days together in his library. Had the story +not been true, it would have appeared like some elaborate fiction. + +He built this little temple in memory of the wife whom he had lost, and +often visited it, spending hours on hot summer days wandering about the +little lake, or sitting silent in the portico. We went up to the +building. It was a mere alcove, open to the air. But what arrested my +attention was a marble figure of a young man, in a sitting position, +lightly clad in a tunic, the neck, arms, and knees bare; one knee was +flung over the other, and the chin was propped on an arm, the elbow of +which rested on the knee. The face was a wonderful and expressive +piece of work. The boy seemed to be staring out, not seeing what he +looked upon, but lost in a deep agony of thought. The face was +wonderfully pure and beautiful; and the anguish seemed not the anguish +of remorse, but the pain of looking upon things both sweet and +beautiful, and of yet being unable to take a share in them. The whole +figure denoted a listless melancholy. It was the work of a famous +French sculptor, who seemed to have worked under close and minute +direction; and my friend told me that no less than three statues had +been completed before the owner was satisfied. + +On the pedestal were sculptured the pathetic words, _Oimoi mal authis_. +There was a look of revolt of dumb anger upon the face that lay behind +its utter and hopeless sadness. I knew too well, by a swift instinct, +what the statue stood for. Here was one, made for life, activity, and +joy, who yet found himself baffled, thwarted, shut out from the +paradise that seemed to open all about him; it was the face of one who +had found satiety in pleasure, and sorrow in the very heart of joy. +There was no taint of grossness or of luxury in the face, but rather a +strength, an intellectual force, a firm lucidity of thought. I confess +that the sight moved me very strangely. I felt a thrill of the deepest +compassion, a desire to do something that might help or comfort, a +yearning wish to aid, to explain, to cheer. The silence, the +stillness, the hopelessness of the pathetic figure woke in me the +intensest desire to give I knew not what--an overwhelming impulse of +pity. It seemed a parable of all the joy that is so sternly checked, +all the hopes made vain, the promise disappointed, the very death of +the soul. It seemed infinitely pathetic that God should have made so +fair a thing, and then withheld joy. And it seemed as though I had +looked into the very soul of the unhappy man who had set up so strange +and pathetic an allegory of his sufferings. The boy seemed as though +he would have welcomed death--anything that brought an end; yet the +health and suppleness of the bright figure held out no hope of that. +It was the very type of unutterable sorrow, and that not in an outworn +body, and reflected in a face dim with sad experience, but in a +perfectly fresh and strong frame, built for action and life. I cannot +say what remote thoughts, what dark communings, visited me at the +sight. I seemed confronted all at once with the deepest sadness of the +world, as though an unerring arrow had pierced my very heart--an arrow +winged by beauty, and shot on a summer day of sunshine and song. + +Is there any faith that is strong enough and deep enough to overcome +such questionings? It seemed to bring me near to all those pale and +hopeless agonies of the world; all the snapping short of joy, the +confronting of life with death--those dreadful moments when the heart +asks itself, in a kind of furious horror, "How can it be that I am +filled so full of all the instinct of joy and life, and yet bidden to +suffer and to die?" + +The only hope is in an utter and silent resignation; in the belief +that, if there is a purpose in the gift of joy, there is a purpose in +the gift of suffering. And as thus, in that calm afternoon, in the +silent wood, by the shining pool, I lifted up my heart to God to be +consoled, I felt a great hope draw near, as when the vast tide flows +landward, and fills the dry, solitary sand-pools with the leaping +brine. "Only wait," said the deep and tender voice, "only endure, only +believe; and a sweetness, a beauty, a truth beyond your utmost dreams +shall be revealed." + + + + +XXXIII + +The Mystery of Suffering + +Here is a story which has much occupied my thoughts lately. A man in +middle life, with a widowed sister and her children depending on him, +living by professional exertions, is suddenly attacked by a painful, +horrible, and fatal complaint. He goes through a terrible operation, +and then struggles back to his work again, with the utmost courage and +gallantry. Again the complaint returns, and the operation is repeated. +After this he returns again to his work, but at last, after enduring +untold agonies, he is forced to retire into an invalid life, after a +few months of which he dies in terrible suffering, and leaves his +sister and the children nearly penniless. + +The man was a quiet, simple-minded person, fond of his work, fond of +his home, conventional and not remarkable except for the simply heroic +quality he displayed, smiling and joking up to the moment of the +administering of anaesthetics for his operations, and bearing his +sufferings with perfect patience and fortitude, never saying an +impatient word, grateful for the smallest services. + +His sister, a simple, active woman, with much tender affection and +considerable shrewdness, finding that the fear of incurring needless +expense distressed her brother, devoted herself to the ghastly and +terrible task of nursing him through his illnesses. The children +behaved with the same straightforward affection and goodness. None of +the circle ever complained, ever said a word which would lead one to +suppose that they had any feeling of resentment or cowardice. They +simply received the blows of fate humbly, resignedly, and cheerfully, +and made the best of the situation. + +Now, let us look this sad story in the face, and see if we can derive +any hope or comfort from it. In the first place, there was nothing in +the man's life which would lead one to suppose that he deserved or +needed this special chastening, this crucifixion of the body. He was +by instinct humble, laborious, unselfish, and good, all of which +qualities came out in his illness. Neither was there anything in the +life or character of the sister which seemed to need this stern and +severe trial. The household had lived a very quiet, active, useful +life, models of good citizens--religious, contented, drawing great +happiness from very simple resources. + +One's belief in the goodness, the justice, the patience of the Father +and Maker of men forbids one to believe that he can ever be wantonly +cruel, unjust, or unloving. Yet it is impossible to see the mercy or +justice of his actions in this case. And the misery is that, if it +could be proved that in one single case, however small, God's goodness +had, so to speak, broken down; if there were evidence of neglect or +carelessness or indifference, in the case of one single child of his, +one single sentient thing that he has created, it would be impossible +to believe in his omnipotence any more. Either one would feel that he +was unjust and cruel, or that there was some evil power at work in the +world which he could not overcome. + +For there is nothing remedial in this suffering. The man's useful, +gentle life is over, the sister is broken down, unhappy, a second time +made desolate; the children's education has suffered, their home is +made miserable. The only thing that one can see, that is in any degree +a compensation, is the extraordinary kindness displayed by friends, +relations, and employers in making things easy for the afflicted +household. And then, too, there is the heroic quality of soul +displayed by the sufferer himself and his sister--a heroism which is +ennobling to think of, and yet humiliating too, because it seems to be +so far out of one's own reach. + +This is a very dark abyss of the world into which we are looking. The +case is an extreme one perhaps, but similar things happen every day, in +this sad and wonderful and bewildering world. Of course, one may take +refuge in a gloomy acquiescence, saying that such things seem to be +part of the world as it is made, and we cannot explain them, while we +dumbly hope that we may be spared such woes. But that is a dark and +despairing attitude, and, for one, I cannot live at all, unless I feel +that God is indeed more upon our side than that. I cannot live at all, +I say. And yet I must live; I must endure the Will of God in whatever +form it is laid upon me--in joy or in pain, in contentment or sick +despair. Why am I at one with the Will of God when it gives me +strength, and hope, and delight? Why am I so averse to it when it +brings me languor, and sorrow, and despair? That I cannot tell; and +that is the enigma which has confronted men from generation to +generation. + +But I still believe that there is a Will of God; and, more than that, I +can still believe that a day comes for all of us, however far off it +may be, when we shall understand; when these tragedies, that now +blacken and darken the very air of Heaven for us, will sink into their +places in a scheme so august, so magnificent, so joyful, that we shall +laugh for wonder and delight; when we shall think not more sorrowfully +over these sufferings, these agonies, than we think now of the sad days +in our childhood when we sat with a passion of tears over a broken toy +or a dead bird, feeling that we could not be comforted. We smile as we +remember such things--we smile at our blindness, our limitations. We +smile to reflect at the great range and panorama of the world that has +opened upon us since, and of which, in our childish grief, we were so +ignorant. Under what conditions the glory will be revealed to us I +cannot guess. But I do not doubt that it will be revealed; for we +forget sorrow, but we do not forget joy. + + + + +XXXIV + +Music + +I have just come back from hearing a great violinist, who played, with +three other professors, in two quartettes, Mozart and Beethoven. I +know little of the technicalities of music, but I know that the Mozart +was full to me of air and sunlight, and a joy which was not the +light-hearted gaiety of earth, but the untainted and unwearying joy of +heaven; the Beethoven I do not think I understood, but there was a +grave minor movement, with pizzicato passages for the violoncello, +which seemed to consecrate and dignify the sorrow of the heart. + +But apart from the technical merits of the music--and the performance, +indeed, seemed to me to lie as near the thought and the conception as +the translation of music into sound can go--the sight of these four big +men, serious and grave, as though neither pursuing nor creating +pleasure, but as though interpreting and giving expression to some +weighty secret, had an inspiring and solemnising effect. The sight of +the great violinist himself was full of awe; his big head, the full +grey beard which lay over the top of the violin, his calm, set brows, +his weary eyes with their heavy lids, had a profound dignity and +seriousness; and to see his wonderful hands, not delicate or slender, +but full, strong, and muscular, moving neither lingeringly nor hastily, +but with a firm and easy deliberation upon the strings, was deeply +impressive. It all seemed so easy, so inevitable, so utterly without +display, so simple and great. It gave one a sense of mingled fire and +quietude, which is the end of art,--one may almost say the end of life; +it was no leaping and fitful flame, but a calm and steady glow; not a +consuming fire, but like the strength of a mighty furnace; and then the +peace of it! The great man did not stand before us as a performer; he +seemed utterly indifferent to praise or applause, and he had rather a +grave, pontifical air, as of a priest, divinely called to minister, +celebrating a divine mystery, calling down the strength of heaven to +earth. Neither was there the least sense of one conferring a favour; +he rather appeared to recognise that we were there in the same spirit +as himself, the worshippers in some high solemnity, and his own skill +not a thing to be shown or gloried in, but a mere ministering of a +sacred gift. He seemed, indeed, to be like one who distributed a +sacramental meat to an intent throng; not a giver of pleasure, but a +channel of secret grace. + +From such art as this one comes away not only with a thrill of mortal +rapture, but with a real and deep faith in art, having bowed the head +before a shrine, and having tasted the food of the spirit. When, at +the end of a sweet and profound movement, the player raised his great +head and looked round tenderly and gently on the crowd, one felt as +though, like Moses, he had struck the rock, and the streams had gushed +out, _ut bibat populus_. And there fell an even deeper awe, which +seemed to say, "God was in this place ... and I knew it not." The +world of movement, of talk, of work, of conflicting interests, into +which one must return, seemed all a fantastic noise, a shadowy +striving; the only real thing seemed the presence-chamber from which we +had gone out, the chamber in which music had uttered its voice at the +bidding of some sacred spell, the voice of an infinite Spirit, the +Spirit that had brooded upon the deep, evoking order out of chaos and +light out of darkness; with no eager and dusty manoeuvrings, no clink +and clatter of human toil, but gliding resistlessly and largely upon +the world, as the sun by silent degrees detaches himself from the dark +rim of the world, and climbs in stately progress into the unclouded +heaven. + + + + +XXXV + +The Faith of Christ + +I read a terrible letter in the newspaper this morning, a letter from a +clergyman of high position, finding fault with a manifesto put out by +certain other clergymen; the letter had a certain volubility about it, +and the writer seemed to me to pull out rather adroitly one or two +loose sticks in his opponents' bundle, and to lay them vehemently about +their backs. But, alas! the acrimony, the positiveness, the arrogance +of it! + +I do not know that I admired the manifesto very much myself; it was a +timid and half-hearted document, but it was at least sympathetic and +tender. The purport of it was to say that, just as historical +criticism has shown that some of the Old Testament must be regarded as +fabulous, so we must be prepared for a possible loss of certitude in +some of the details of the New Testament. It is conceivable, for +instance, that without sacrificing the least portion of the essential +teaching of Christ, men may come to feel justified in a certain +suspension of judgment with regard to some of the miraculous +occurrences there related; may even grow to believe that an element of +exaggeration is there, that element of exaggeration which is never +absent from the writings of any age in which scientific historical +methods had no existence. A suspension of judgment, say: because in +the absence of any converging historical testimony to the events of the +New Testament, it will never be possible either to affirm or to deny +historically that the facts took place exactly as related; though, +indeed, the probability of their having so occurred may seem to be +diminished. + +The controversialist, whose letter I read with bewilderment and pain, +involved his real belief in ingenious sentences, so that one would +think that he accepted the statements of the Old Testament, such as the +account of the Creation and the Fall, the speaking of Balaam's Ass, the +swallowing of Jonah by the whale, as historical facts. He went on to +say that the miraculous element of the New Testament is accredited by +the Revelation of God, as though some definite revelation of truth had +taken place at some time or other, which all rational men recognised. +But the only objective process which has ever taken place is, that at +certain Councils of the Church, certain books of Scripture were +selected as essential documents, and the previous selection of the Old +Testament books was confirmed. But would the controversialist say that +these Councils were infallible? It must surely be clear to all +rational people that the members of these Councils were merely doing +their best, under the conditions that then prevailed, to select the +books that seemed to them to contain the truth. It is impossible to +believe that if the majority at these Councils had supposed that such +an account as the account in Genesis of the Creation was mythological, +they would thus have attested its literal truth. It never occurred to +them to doubt it, because they did not understand the principle that, +while a normal event can be accepted, if it is fairly well confirmed, +an abnormal event requires a far greater amount of converging testimony +to confirm it. + +If only the clergy could realise that what ordinary laymen like myself +want is a greater elasticity instead of an irrational certainty! if +only instead of feebly trying to save the outworks, which are already +in the hands of the enemy, they would man the walls of the central +fortress! If only they would say plainly that a man could remain a +convinced Christian, and yet not be bound to hold to the literal +accuracy of the account of miraculous incidents recorded in the Bible, +it would be a great relief. + +I am myself in the position of thousands of other laymen. I am a +sincere Christian; and yet I regard the Old Testament and the New +Testament alike as the work of fallible men and of poetical minds. I +regard the Old Testament as a noble collection of ancient writings, +containing myths, chronicles, fables, poems, and dramas, the value of +which consists in the intense faith in a personal God and Father with +which it is penetrated. + +When I come to the New Testament, I feel myself, in the Gospels, +confronted by the most wonderful personality which has ever drawn +breath upon the earth. I am not in a position to affirm or to deny the +exact truth of the miraculous occurrences there related; but the more +conscious I am of the fallibility, the lack of subtlety, the absence of +trained historical method that the writers display, the more convinced +I am of the essential truth of the Person and teaching of Christ, +because he seems to me a figure so infinitely beyond the intellectual +power of those who described him to have invented or created. + +If the authors of the Gospels had been men of delicate literary skill, +of acute philosophical or poetical insight, like Plato or Shakespeare, +then I should be far less convinced of the integral truth of the +record. But the words and sayings of Christ, the ideas which he +disseminated, seem to me so infinitely above the highest achievements +of the human spirit, that I have no difficulty in confessing, humbly +and reverently, that I am in the presence of one who seems to me to be +above humanity, and not only of it. If all the miraculous events of +the Gospels could be proved never to have occurred, it would not +disturb my faith in Christ for an instant. But I am content, as it is, +to believe in the possibility of so abnormal a personality being +surrounded by abnormal events, though I am not in a position to +disentangle the actual truth from the possibilities of +misrepresentation and exaggeration. + +Dealing with the rest of the New Testament, I see in the Acts of the +Apostles a deeply interesting record of the first ripples of the faith +in the world. In the Pauline and other epistles I see the words of +fervent primitive Christians, men of real and untutored genius, in +which one has amazing instances of the effect produced, on contemporary +or nearly contemporary persons, of the same overwhelming personality, +the personality of Christ. In the Apocalypse I see a vision of deep +poetical force and insight. + +But in none of these compositions, though they reveal a glow and +fervour of conviction that places them high among the memorials of the +human spirit, do I recognise anything which is beyond human +possibilities. I observe, indeed, that St Paul's method of argument is +not always perfectly consistent, nor his conclusions absolutely cogent. +Such inspiration as they contain they draw from their nearness to and +their close apprehension of the dim and awe-inspiring presence of +Christ Himself. + +If, as I say, the Church would concentrate her forces in this inner +fortress, the personality of Christ, and quit the debatable ground of +historical enquiry, it would be to me and to many an unfeigned relief; +but meanwhile, neither scientific critics nor irrational pedants shall +invalidate my claim to be of the number of believing Christians. I +claim a Christian liberty of thought, while I acknowledge, with bowed +head, my belief in God the Father of men, in a Divine Christ, the +Redeemer and Saviour, and in the presence in the hearts of men of a +Divine spirit, leading humanity tenderly forward. I can neither affirm +nor deny the literal accuracy of Scripture records; I am not in a +position to deny the superstructure of definite dogma raised by the +tradition of the Church about the central truths of its teaching, but +neither can I deny the possibility of an admixture of human error in +the fabric. I claim my right to receive the Sacraments of my Church, +believing as I do that they invigorate the soul, bring the presence of +its Redeemer near, and constitute a bond of Christian unity. But I +have no reason to believe that any human pronouncement whatever, the +pronouncements of men of science as well as the pronouncements of +theologians, are not liable to error. There is indeed no fact in the +world except the fact of my own existence of which I am absolutely +certain. And thus I can accept no system of religion which is based +upon deductions, however subtle, from isolated texts, because I cannot +be sure of the infallibility of any form of human expression. Yet, on +the other hand, I seem to discern with as much certainty as I can +discern anything in this world, where all is so dark, the presence upon +earth at a certain date of a personality which commands my homage and +allegiance. And upon this I build my trust. + + + + +XXXVI + +The Mystery of Evil + +I was staying the other day in a large old country-house. One morning, +my host came to me and said: "I should like to show you a curious +thing. We have just discovered a cellar here that seems never to have +been visited or used since the house was built, and there is the +strangest fungoid growth in it I have ever seen." He took a big bunch +of keys, rang the bell, gave an order for lights to be brought, and we +went together to the place. There were ranges of brick-built, vaulted +chambers, through which we passed, pleasant, cool places, with no +plaster to conceal the native brick, with great wine-bins on either +hand. It all gave one an inkling of the change in material conditions +which must have taken place since they were built; the quantity of wine +consumed in eighteenth-century days must have been so enormous, and the +difficulty of conveyance so great, that every great householder must +have felt like the Rich Fool of the parable, with much goods laid up +for many years. In the corner of one of the great vaults was a low +arched door, and my friend explained that some panelling which had been +taken out of an older house, demolished to make room for the present +mansion, had been piled up here, and thus the entrance had been hidden. +He unlocked the door, and a strange scent came out. An abundance of +lights were lit, and we went into the vault. It was the strangest +scene I have ever beheld; the end of the vault seemed like a great bed, +hung with brown velvet curtains, through the gaps of which were visible +what seemed like white velvet pillows, strange humped conglomerations. +My friend explained to me that there had been a bin at the end of the +vault, out of the wood of which these singular fungi had sprouted. The +whole place was uncanny and horrible. The great velvet curtains swayed +in the current of air, and it seemed as though at any moment some +mysterious sleeper might be awakened, might peer forth from his dark +curtains, with a fretful enquiry as to why he was disturbed. + +The scene dwelt in my mind for many days, and aroused in me a strange +train of thought; these dim vegetable forms, with their rich +luxuriance, their sinister beauty, awoke a curious repugnance in the +mind. They seemed unholy and evil. And yet it is all part of the life +of nature; it is just as natural, just as beautiful to find life at +work in this gloomy and unvisited place, wreathing the bare walls with +these dark, soft fabrics. It was impossible not to feel that there was +a certain joy of life in these growths, sprouting with such security +and luxuriance in a place so precisely adapted to their well-being; and +yet there was the shadow of death and darkness about them, to us whose +home is the free air and the sun. It seemed to me to make a curious +parable of the baffling mystery of evil, the luxuriant growth of sin in +the dark soul. I have always felt that the reason why the mystery of +evil is so baffling is because we so resolutely think of evil as of +something inimical to the nature of God; and yet evil must derive its +vitality from him. The one thing that it is impossible to believe is +that, in a world ruled by an all-powerful God, anything should come +into existence which is in opposition to his Will. It is impossible to +arrive at any solution of the difficulty, unless we either adopt the +belief that God is not all-powerful, and that there is a real dualism +in nature, two powers in eternal opposition; or else realise that evil +is in some way a manifestation of God. If we adopt the first theory, +we may conceive of the stationary tendency in nature, its inertness, +the force that tends to bring motion to a standstill, as one power, the +power of Death; and we may conceive of all motion and force as the +other power, the quickening spirit, the power of life. But even here +we are met with a difficulty, for when we try to transfer this dualism +to the region of humanity, we see that in the phenomena of disease we +are confronted, not with inertness fighting against motion, but with +one kind of life, which is inimical to human life, fighting with +another kind of life which is favourable to health. I mean that when a +fever or a cancer lays hold of a human frame, it is nothing but the +lodging inside the body of a bacterial and an infusorial life which +fights against the healthy native life of the human organism. There +must be, I will not say a consciousness, but a sense of triumphant +life, in the cancer which feeds upon the limb, in spite of all efforts +to dislodge it; and it is impossible to me to believe that the vitality +of those parasitical organisms, which prey upon the human frame, is not +derived from the vital impulse of God. We, who live in the free air +and the sun, have a way of thinking and speaking as if the plants and +animals which develop under the same conditions were of a healthy type, +while the organisms which flourish in decay and darkness, such as the +fungi of which I saw so strange an example, the larva; which prey on +decaying matter, the soft and pallid worm-like forms that tunnel in +vegetable ooze, were of an unhealthy type. But yet these creatures are +as much the work of God as the flowers and trees, the brisk animals +which we love to see about us. We are obliged in self-defence to do +battle with the creatures which menace our health; we do not question +our right to deprive them of life for our own comfort; but surely with +this analogy before us, we are equally compelled to think of the forms +of moral evil, with all their dark vitality, as the work of God's hand. +It is a sad conclusion to be obliged to draw, but I can have no doubt +that no comprehensive system of philosophy can ever be framed, which +does not trace the vitality of what we call evil to the same hand as +the vitality of what we call good. I have no doubt myself of the +supremacy of a single power; but the explanation that evil came into +the world by the institution of free-will, and that suffering is the +result of sin, seems to me to be wholly inadequate, because the mystery +of strife and pain and death is "far older than any history which is +written in any book." The mistake that we make is to count up all the +qualities which seem to promote our health and happiness, and to invent +an anthropomorphic figure of God, whom we array upon the side which we +wish to prevail. The truth is far darker, far sterner, far more +mysterious. The darkness is his not less than the light; selfishness +and sin are the work of his hand, as much as unselfishness and +holiness. To call this attitude of mind pessimism, and to say that it +can only end in acquiescence or despair, is a sin against truth. A +creed that does not take this thought into account is nothing but a +delusion, with which we try to beguile the seriousness of the truth +which we dread; but such a stern belief does not forbid us to struggle +and to strive; it rather bids us believe that effort is a law of our +natures, that we are bound to be enlisted for the fight, and that the +only natures that fail are those that refuse to take a side at all. + +There is no indecision in nature, though there is some illusion. The +very star that rises, pale and serene, above the darkening thicket, is +in reality a globe wreathed in fiery vapour, the centre of a throng of +whirling planets. What we have to do is to see as deep as we can into +the truth of things, not to invent paradises of thought, sheltered +gardens, from which grief and suffering shall tear us, naked and +protesting; but to gaze into the heart of God, and then to follow as +faithfully as we can the imperative voice that speaks within the soul. + + + + +XXXVII + +Renewal + +There sometimes falls upon me a great hunger of heart, a sad desire to +build up and renew something--a broken building it may be, a fading +flower, a failing institution, a ruinous character. I feel a great and +vivid pity for a thing which sets out to be so bright and beautiful, +and lapses into shapeless and uncomely neglect. Sometimes, indeed, it +must be a desolate grief, a fruitless sorrow: as when a flower that has +stood on one's table, and cheered the air with its freshness and +fragrance, begins to droop, and to grow stained and sordid. Or I see +some dying creature, a wounded animal; or even some well-loved friend +under the shadow of death, with the hue of health fading, the dear +features sharpening for the last change; and then one can only bow, +with such resignation as one can muster, before the dreadful law of +death, pray that the passage may not be long or dark, and try to dream +of the bright secrets that may be waiting on the other side. + +But sometimes it is a more fruitful sadness, when one feels that decay +can be arrested, that new life can be infused; that a fresh start may +be taken, and a life may be beautifully renewed, and be even the +brighter, one dares to hope, for a lapse into the dreary ways of +bitterness. + +This sadness is most apt to beset those who have anything to do with +the work of education. One feels sometimes, with a sudden shiver, as +when the shadow of a cloud passes over a sunlit garden, that many +elements are at work in a small society; that an evil secret is +spreading over lives that were peaceful and contented, that suspicion +and disunion and misunderstanding are springing up, like poisonous +weeds, in the quiet corner that God has given one to dress and keep. +Then perhaps one tries to put one's hand on what is amiss; sometimes +one does too much, and in the wrong way; one has not enough faith, one +dares not leave enough to God. Or from timidity or diffidence, or from +the base desire not to be troubled, from the poor hope that perhaps +things will straighten themselves out, one does too little; and that is +the worst shadow of all, the shadow of cowardice or sloth. + +Sometimes, too, one has the grief of seeing a slow and subtle change +passing over the manner and face of one for whom one cares--not the +change of languor or physical weakness; that can be pityingly borne; +but one sees innocence withering, indifference to things wholesome and +fair creeping on, even sometimes a ripe and evil sort of beauty +maturing, such as comes of looking at evil unashamed, and seeing its +strong seductiveness. One feels instinctively that the door which had +been open before between such a soul and one's own spirit is being +slowly and firmly closed, or even, if one attempts to open it, pulled +to with a swift motion; and then one may hear sounds within, and even +see, in that moment, a rush of gliding forms, that makes one sure that +a visitant is there, who has brought with him a wicked company; and +then one has to wait in sadness, with now and then a timid knocking, +even happy, it may be, if the soul sometimes call fretfully within, to +say that it is occupied and cannot come forth. + +But sometimes, God be praised, it is the other way. A year ago a man +came at his own request to see me. I hardly knew him; but I could see +at once that he was in the grip of some hard conflict, which withered +his natural bloom. I do not know how all came to be revealed; but in a +little while he was speaking with simple frankness and naturalness of +all his troubles, and they were many. What was the most touching thing +of all was that he spoke as if he were quite alone in his experience, +isolated and shut off from his kind, in a peculiar horror of darkness +and doubt; as if the thoughts and difficulties at which he stumbled had +never strewn a human path before. I said but little to him; and, +indeed, there was but little to say. It was enough that he should +"cleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs upon the +heart." I tried to make him feel that he was not alone in the matter, +and that other feet had trodden the dark path before him. No advice is +possible in such cases; "therein the patient must minister to himself"; +the solution lies in the mind of the sufferer. He knows what he ought +to do; the difficulty is for him sufficiently to desire to do it; yet +even to speak frankly of cares and troubles is very often to melt and +disperse the morbid mist that gathers round them, which grows in +solitude. To state them makes them plain and simple; and, indeed, it +is more than that; for I have often noticed that the mere act of +formulating one's difficulties in the hearing of one who sympathises +and feels, often brings the solution with it. One finds, like +Christian in Doubting Castle, the key which has lain in one's bosom all +the time--the key of Promise; and when one has finished the recital, +one is lost in bewilderment that one ever was in any doubt at all. + +A year has passed since that date, and I have had the happiness of +seeing health and contentment stream back into the man's face. He has +not overcome, he has not won an easy triumph; but he is in the way now, +not wandering on trackless hills. + +So, in the mood of which I spoke at first--the mood in which one +desires to build up and renew--one must not yield oneself to luxurious +and pathetic reveries, or allow oneself to muse and wonder in the +half-lit region in which one may beat one's wings in vain--the region, +I mean, of sad stupefaction as to why the world is so full of broken +dreams, shattered hopes, and unfulfilled possibilities. One must +rather look round for some little definite failure that is within the +circle of one's vision. And even so, there sometimes comes what is the +most evil and subtle temptation of all, which creeps upon the mind in +lowly guise, and preaches inaction. What concern have you, says the +tempting voice, to meddle with the lives and characters of others--to +guide, to direct, to help--when there is so much that is bitterly amiss +with your own heart and life? How will you dare to preach what you do +not practice? The answer of the brave heart is that, if one is aware +of failure, if one has suffered, if one has gathered experience, one +must be ready to share it. If I falter and stumble under my own heavy +load, which I have borne so querulously, so clumsily, shall not I say a +word which can help a fellow-sufferer to bear his load more easily, +help him to avoid the mistakes, the falls into which my own perversity +has betrayed me? To make another's burden lighter is to lighten one's +own burden; and, sinful as it may be to err, it is still more sinful to +see another err, and be silent, to withhold the word that might save +him. Perhaps no one can help so much as one that has suffered himself, +who knows the turns of the sad road, and the trenches which beset the +way. + +For thus comes most truly the joy of repentance; it is joy to feel that +one's own lesson is learnt, and that the feeble feet are a little +stronger; but if one may also feel that another has taken heed, has +been saved the fall that must have come if he had not been warned, one +does not grudge one's own pain, that has brought a blessing with it, +that is outside of one's own blessing; one hardly even grudges the sin. + + + + +XXXVIII + +The Secret + +I have been away from my books lately, in a land of downs and valleys; +I have walked much alone, or with a silent companion--that greatest of +all luxuries. And, as is always the case when I get out of the reach +of books, I feel that I read a great deal too much, and do not meditate +enough. It sounds indolent advice to say that one ought to meditate; +but I cannot help feeling that reading is often a still more indolent +affair. When I am alone, or at leisure among my books, I take a volume +down; and the result is that another man does my thinking for me. It +is like putting oneself in a comfortable railway carriage; one runs +smoothly along the iron track, one stops at specified stations, one +sees a certain range of country, and an abundance of pretty things in +flashes--too many, indeed, for the mind to digest; and that is the +reason, I think, why a modern journey, even with all the luxuries that +surround it, is so tiring a thing. But to meditate is to take one's +own path among the hills; one turns off the track to examine anything +that attracts the attention; one makes the most of the few things that +one sees. + +Reading is often a mere saving of trouble, a soporific for a restless +brain. This last week, as I say, I have had very few books with me. +One of the few has been Milton's _Paradise Lost_, and I have read it +from end to end. I want to say a few words about the book first, and +then to diverge, to a larger question. I have read the poem with a +certain admiration; it is a large, strong, rugged, violent thing. I +have, however, read it without emotion, except that a few of the +similes in it, which lie like shells on a beach of sand, have pleased +me. Yet it is not true to say that I have read it without emotion, +because I have read it with anger and indignation. I have come to the +conclusion that the book has done a great deal of harm. It is +responsible, I think, for a great many of the harsh, business-like, +dismal views of religion that prevail among us. Milton treated God, +the Saviour, and the angels, from the point of view of a scholar who +had read the _Iliad_. I declare that I think that the passages where +God the Father speaks, discusses the situation of affairs, and arranges +matters with the Saviour, are some of the most profane and vicious +passages in English literature. I do not want to be profane myself, +because it is a disgusting fault; but the passage where the scheme of +Redemption is arranged, where God enquires whether any of the angels +will undergo death in order to satisfy his sense of injured justice, is +a passage of what I can only call stupid brutality, disguised, alas, in +the solemn and majestic robe of sonorous language. The angels timidly +decline, and the Saviour volunteers, which saves the shameful +situation. The character of God, as displayed by Milton, is that of a +commercial, complacent, irritable Puritan. There is no largeness or +graciousness about it, no wistful love. He keeps his purposes to +himself, and when his arrangements break down, as indeed they deserve +to do, some one has got to be punished. If the guilty ones cannot, so +much the worse; an innocent victim will do, but a victim there must be. +It is a wicked, an abominable passage, and I would no more allow an +intelligent child to read it than I would allow him to read an obscene +book. + +Then, again, the passage where the rebel angels cast cannon, make +gunpowder, and mow the good angels down in rows, is incredibly puerile +and ridiculous. The hateful materialism of the whole thing is patent. +I wish that the English Church could have an Index, and put _Paradise +Lost_ upon it, and allow no one to read it until he had reached years +of discretion, and then only with a certificate, and for purely +literary purposes. + +It is a terrible instance how strong a thing Art is; the grim old +author, master of every form of ugly vituperation, had drifted +miserably away from his beautiful youth, when he wrote the sweet poems +and sonnets that make the pedestal for his fame; and on that delicate +pedestal stands this hideous iron figure, with its angry gestures, its +sickening strength. + +I could pile up indignant instances of the further harm the book has +done. Who but Milton is responsible for the hard and shameful view of +the position of women? He represents her as a clinging, soft, +compliant creature, whose only ideal is to be to make things +comfortable for her husband, and to submit to his embraces. Milton +spoilt the lives of all the women he had to do with, by making them +into slaves, with the same consciousness of rectitude with which he +whipped his nephews, the sound of whose cries made his poor girl-wife +so miserable. But I do not want to go further into the question of +Milton himself. I want to follow out a wider thought which came to me +among the downs to-day. + +There seems to me to be in art, to take the metaphor of the temple at +Jerusalem, three gradations or regions, which may be typified by the +Court, the Holy Place, and the Holy of Holies. Into the Court many +have admittance, both writers and readers; it is just shut off from the +world, but admittance is easy and common. All who are moved and +stirred by ideas and images can enter here. Then there is the Holy +Place, dark and glorious, where the candlestick glimmers and the altar +gleams. And to this place the priests of art have access. Here are to +be found all delicate and strenuous craftsmen, all who understand that +there are secrets and mysteries in art. They can please and thrill the +mind and ear; they can offer up a fragrant incense; but the full +mystery is not revealed to them. Here are to be found many graceful +and soulless poets, many writers of moving tales, and discriminating +critics, who are satisfied, but cannot satisfy. Those who frequent +this place are generally of opinion that they know all that is to be +known; they talk much of form and colour, of values and order. They +can make the most of their materials; and indeed their skill outruns +their emotion. + +But there is the inmost shrine of all within, where the darkness +broods, lit at intervals by the shining of a divine light, that +glimmers on the ark and touches the taper wings of the adoring angels. +The contents indeed of the sacred chest are of the simplest; a withered +branch, a pot of food, two slabs of grey stone, obscurely engraved. +Nothing rich or rare. But those who have access to the inner shrine +are face to face with the mystery. Some have the skill to hint it, +none to describe it. And there are some, too, who have no skill to +express themselves, but who have visited the place, and bring back some +touch of radiance gushing from their brows. + +Milton, in his youth, had looked within the shrine, but he forgot, in +the clamorous and sordid world, what he had seen. Only those who have +visited the Holiest place know those others who have set foot there, +and they cannot err. I cannot define exactly what it is that makes the +difference. It cannot be seen in performance; for here I will humbly +and sincerely make the avowal that I have been within the veil myself, +though I know not when or how. I learnt there no perfection of skill, +no methods of expression. But ever since, I have looked out for the +signs that tell me whether another has set foot there or no. I +sometimes see the sign in a book, or a picture; sometimes it comes out +in talk; and sometimes I discern it in the glance of an eye, for all +the silence of the lips. It is not knowledge, it is not pride that the +access confers. Indeed it is often a sweet humility of soul. It is +nothing definite; but it is a certain attitude of mind, a certain +quality of thought. Some of those who have been within are very sinful +persons, very unhappy, very unsatisfactory, as the world would say. +But they are never perverse or wilful natures; they are never cold or +mean. Those in whom coldness and meanness are found are of necessity +excluded from the Presence. But though the power to step behind the +veil seldom brings serenity, or strength, or confidence, yet it is the +best thing that can happen to a man in the world. + +Some perhaps of those who read these words will think that it is all a +vain shadow, and that I am but wrapping up an empty thought in veils of +words. But though I cannot explain, though I cannot say what the +secret is, I can claim to be able to say almost without hesitation +whether a human spirit has passed within; and more than that. As I +write these words, I know that if any who have set foot in the secret +shrine reads them, they will understand, and recognise that I am +speaking a simple truth. + +Some, indeed, find their way thither through religion; but none whose +religion is like Milton's. Indeed, part of the wonder of the secret is +the infinite number of paths that lead there; they are all lonely; the +moment is unexpected; indeed, as was the case with myself, it is +possible to set foot within, and yet not to know it at the time. + +It is this secret which constitutes the innermost brotherhood of the +world. The innermost, I say, because neither creed, nor nationality, +nor occupation, nor age, nor sex affects the matter. It is difficult, +or shall I say unusual, for the old to enter; and most find the way +there in youth, before habit and convention have become tyrannous, and +have fenced the path of life with hedges and walls. + +Again it is the most secret brotherhood of the world; no one can dare +to make public proclamation of it, no one can gather the saints +together, for the essence of the brotherhood is its isolation. One may +indeed recognise a brother or a sister, and that is a blessed moment; +but one must not speak of it in words; and indeed there is no need of +words, where all that matters is known. It may be asked what are the +benefits which this secret brings. It does not bring laughter, or +prosperity, or success, or even cheerfulness; but it brings a high, +though fitful, joy--a joy that can be captured, practised, retained. +No one can, I think, of set purpose, capture the secret. No one can +find the way by desiring it. And yet the desire to do so is the seed +of hope. And if it be asked, why I write and print these veiled words +about so deep and intimate a mystery, I would reply that it is because +not all who have found the way, know that they have found it; and my +hope is that these words of mine may show some restless hearts that +they have found it. For one may find the shrine in youth, and for want +of knowing that one has found it, may forget it in middle age; and that +is what I sorrowfully think that not a few of my brothers do. And the +sign of such a loss is that such persons speak contemptuously and +disdainfully of their visions, and try to laugh and deride the young +and gracious out of such hopes; which is a sin that is hateful to God, +a kind of murder of souls. + +And now I have travelled a long way from where I began, but the path +was none of my own making. It was Milton, that fierce and childish +poet, that held open the door, and within I saw the ladder, at the +fiery head of which is God Himself. And like Jacob (who was indeed of +our company) I made a pillow for my head of the stones of the place, +that I might dream more abundantly. + +And so, as I walked to-day among the green places of the down, I made a +prayer in my heart to God, the matter of which I will now set down; and +it was that all of us who have visited that most Holy Place may be true +to the vision; and that God may reveal us to each other, as we go on +pilgrimage; and that as the world goes forward, he may lead more and +more souls to visit it, that bare and secret place, which yet holds +more beauty than the richest palace of the world. For palaces but hold +the outer beauty, in types and glimpses and similitudes. While in the +secret shrine we visit the central fountainhead, from which the water +of life, clear as crystal, breaks in innumerable channels, and flows +out from beneath the temple door, as Ezekiel saw it flow, lingering and +delaying, but surely coming to gladden the earth. I could indeed go +further, and speak many things out of a full heart about the matter. I +could quote the names of many poets and artists, great and small; and I +could say which of them belongs to the inner company, and which of them +is outside. But I will not do this, because it would but set +inquisitive people puzzling and wondering, and trying to guess the +secret; and that I have no desire to do; because these words are not +written to make those who do not understand to be curious; but they are +written to those who know, and, most of all, to those who know, but +have forgotten. No one may traffic in these things; and indeed there +is no opportunity to do so. I could learn in a moment, from a sentence +or a smile, if one had the secret; and I could spend a long summer day +trying to explain it to a learned and intelligent person, and yet give +no hint of what I meant. For the thing is not an intelligible process, +a matter of reasoning and logic; it is an intuition. And therefore it +is that those who cannot believe in anything that they do not +understand, will think these words of mine to be folly and vanity. The +only case where I have found a difficulty in deciding, is when I talk +to one who has lived much with those who had the secret, and has +caught, by a kind of natural imitation, some of the accent and cadence +of the truth. An old friend of mine, a pious woman, used in her last +days to have prayers and hymns read much in her room; there was a +parrot that sat there in his cage, very silent and attentive; and not +long after, when the parrot was ill, he used to mutter prayers and +hymns aloud, with a devotion that would have deceived the very elect. +And it is even so with the people of whom I have spoken. Not long ago +I had a long conversation with one, a clever woman, who had lived much +in the house of a man who had seen the truth; and I was for a little +deceived, and thought that she also knew the truth. But suddenly she +made a hard judgment of her own, and I knew in a moment that she had +never seen the shrine. + +And now I have said enough, and must make an end. I remember that long +ago, when I was a boy, I painted a picture on a panel, and set it in my +room. It was the figure of a kneeling youth on a hillock, looking +upwards; and beyond the hillock came a burst of rays from a hidden sun. +Underneath it, for no reason that I can well explain, I painted the +words _phos etheasamen kai emphobos en_--_I beheld a light and was +afraid_. I was then very far indeed from the sight of the truth; but I +know now that I was prophesying of what should be; for the secret sign +of the mystery is a fear, not a timid and shrinking fear, but a holy +and transfiguring awe. I little guessed what would some day befall me; +but now that I have seen, I can only say with all my heart that it is +better to remember and be sad, than to forget and smile. + + + + +XXXIX + +The Message + +I was awakened this morning, at the old house where I am staying, by +low and sweet singing. The soft murmur of an organ was audible, on +which some clear trebles seemed to swim and float--one voice of great +richness and force seeming to utter the words, and to draw into itself +the other voices, appropriating their tone but lending them +personality. These were the words I heard-- + + "The High Priest once a year + Went in the Holy Place + With garments white and clear; + It was the day of Grace. + + Without the people stood + While unseen and alone + With incense and with blood + He did for them atone. + + "So we without abide + A few short passing years, + While Christ who for us died + Before our God appears. + + "Before His Father there + His Sacrifice He pleads, + And with unceasing prayer + For us He intercedes." + + +The sweet sounds ceased; the organ lingered for an instant in a low +chord of infinite sweetness, and then a voice was heard in prayer. +That there was a chapel in the house I knew, and that a brief morning +prayer was read there. But I could not help wondering at the +remarkable distinctness with which I heard the words--they seemed close +to my ear in the air beside me. I got up, and drawing my curtains +found that it was day; and then I saw that a tiny window in the corner +of my room, that gave on the gallery of the chapel, had been left open, +by accident or design, and that thus I had been an auditor of the +service. + +I found myself pondering over the words of the hymn, which was familiar +to me, though strangely enough is to be found in but few collections. +It is a perfect lyric, both in its grave language and its beautiful +balance; and it is too, so far as such a composition can be, or ought +to be, intensely dramatic. The thought is just touched, and stated +with exquisite brevity and restraint; there is not a word too much or +too little; the image is swiftly presented, the inner meaning flashed +upon the mind. It seemed to me, too, a beautiful and desirable thing +to begin the day thus, with a delicate hallowing of the hours; to put +one gentle thought into the heart, perfumed by the sweet music. But +then my reflections took a further drift; beautiful as the little +ceremony was, noble and refined as the thought of the tender hymn was, +I began to wonder whether we do well to confine our religious life to +so restricted a range of ideas. It seemed almost ungrateful to +entertain the thought, but I felt a certain bewilderment as to whether +this remote image, drawn from the ancient sacrificial ceremony, was not +even too definite a thought to feed the heart upon. For strip the idea +of its fair accessories, its delicate art, and what have we but the sad +belief, drawn from the dark ages of the world, that the wrathful +Creator of men, full of gloomy indignation at their perverseness and +wilfulness, needs the constant intercession of the Eternal Son, who is +too, in a sense, Himself, to appease the anger with which he regards +the sheep of his hand. I cannot really in the depths of my heart echo +that dark belief. I do not indeed know why God permits such blindness +and sinfulness among men, and why he allows suffering to cloud and +darken the world. But it would cause me to despair of God and man +alike, if I felt that he had flung our pitiful race into the world, +surrounded by temptation both within and without, and then abandoned +himself to anger at their miserable dalliance with evil. I rather +believe that we are rising and struggling to the light, and that his +heart is with us, not against us in the battle. It may of course be +said that all that kind of Calvinism has disappeared; that no rational +Christians believe it, but hold a larger and a wider faith. I think +that this is true of a few intelligent Christians, as far as the +dropping of Calvinism goes, though it seems to me that they find it +somewhat difficult to define their faith; but as to Calvinism having +died out in England, I do not think that there is any reason to suppose +that it has done so; I believe that a large majority of English +Christians would believe the above-quoted hymn to be absolutely +justified in its statements both by Scripture and reason, and that a +considerable minority would hardly consider it definite enough. + +But then came a larger and a wider thought. We talk and think so +carelessly of the divine revelation; we, who have had a religious +bringing up, who have been nurtured upon Israelite chronicles and +prophecies, are inclined, or at least predisposed, to think that the +knowledge of God is written larger and more directly in these records, +the words of anxious and troubled persons, than in the world which we +see about us. Yet surely in field and wood, in sea and sky, we have a +far nearer and more instant revelation of God. In these ancient +records we have the thoughts of men, intent upon their own schemes and +struggles, and looking for the message of God, with a fixed belief that +the history of one family of the human race was his special and +particular prepossession. Yet all the while his immediate Will was +round them, written in a thousand forms, in bird and beast, in flower +and tree. He permits and tolerates life. He deals out joy and sorrow, +life and death. Science has at least revealed a far more vast and +inscrutable force at work in the world, than the men of ancient days +ever dreamed of. + +Do we do well to confine our religious life to these ancient +conceptions? They have no doubt a certain shadow of truth in them; but +while I know for certain that the huge Will of God is indeed at work +around me, in every field and wood, in every stream and pool, do I +_really_ know, do I honestly believe that any such process as the hymn +indicates, is going on in some distant region of heaven? The hymn +practically presupposes that our little planet is the only one in which +the work of God is going forward. Science hints to me that probably +every star that hangs in the sky has its own ring of planets, and that +in every one of these some strange drama of life and death is +proceeding. It is a dizzy thought! But if it be true, is it not +better to face it? The mind shudders, appalled at the immensity of the +prospect. But do not such thoughts as these give us a truer picture of +ourselves, and of our own humble place in the vast complexity of +things, than the excessive dwelling upon the wistful dreams of ancient +law-givers and prophets? Or is it better to delude ourselves? +Deliberately to limit our view to the history of a single race, to a +few centuries of records? Perhaps that may be a more practical, a more +effective view; but when once the larger thought has flashed into the +mind, it is useless to try and drown it. + +Everything around me seems to cry aloud the warning, not to aim at a +conceit of knowledge about these deep secrets, but to wait, to leave +the windows of the soul open for any glimpse of truth from without. + +To beguile the time I took up a volume near me, the work of a much +decried poet, Walt Whitman. Apart from the exquisite power of +expression that he possesses, he always seems to me to enter, more than +most poets, into the largeness of the world, to keep his heart fixed on +the vast wonder and joy of life. I read that poem full of tender +pathos and suggestiveness, _A Word out of the Sea_, where the child, +with the wind in his hair, listens to the lament of the bird that has +lost his mate, and tries to guide her wandering wings back to the +deserted nest. While the bird sings, with ever fainter hope, its +little heart aching with the pain of loss, the child hears the sea, +with its "liquid rims and wet sands" breathing out the low and +delicious word _death_. + +The poet seems to think of death as the loving answer to the yearning +of all hearts, the sleep that closes the weary eyes. But I cannot rise +to this thought, tender and gentle as it is. + +If indeed there be another life beyond death, I can well believe that +death is in truth an easier and simpler thing than one fears; only a +cloud on the hill, a little darkness upon Nature. But God has put it +into my heart to dread it; and he hides from me the knowledge of +whether indeed there be another side to it. And while I do not even +know that, I can but love life, and be fain of the good days. All the +religion in the world depends upon the belief that, set free from the +bonds of the flesh, the spirit will rest and recollect. But is that +more than a hope? Is it more than the passionate instinct of the heart +that cannot bear the thought that it may cease to be? + +I seem to have travelled far away from the hymn that sounded so sweetly +in my ears; but I return to the thought; is not, I will ask, the poet's +reverie--the child with his wet hair floating in the sea-breeze, the +wailing of the deserted bird, the waves that murmur that death is +beautiful--is not this all more truly and deeply religious than the +hymn which speaks of things, that not only I cannot affirm to be true, +but which, if true, would plunge me into a deeper and darker +hopelessness even than that in which my ignorance condemns me to live? +Ought we not, in fact, to try and make our religion a much wider, +quieter thing? Are we not exchanging the melodies of the free birds +that sing in the forest glade, for the melancholy chirping of the caged +linnet? It seems to me often as though we had captured our religion +from a multitude of fair hovering presences, that would speak to us of +the things of God, caged it in a tiny prison, and closed our ears to +the larger and wider voices? + +I walked to-day in sheltered wooded valleys; and at one point, in a +very lonely and secluded lane, leant long upon a gate that led into a +little forest clearing, to watch the busy and intent life of the wood. +There were the trees extending their fresh leaves to the rain; the +birds slipped from tree to tree; a mouse frisked about the grassy road; +a hundred flowers raised their bright heads. None of these little +lives have, I suppose, any conception of the extent of life that lies +about them; each of them knows the secrets and instincts of its own +tiny brain, and guesses perhaps at the thoughts of the little lives +akin to it. Yet every tiniest, shortest, most insignificant life has +its place in the mind of God. It seemed to me then such an amazing, +such an arrogant thing to define, to describe, to limit the awful +mystery of the Creator and his purpose. Even to think of him, as he is +spoken of in the Old Testament, with fierce and vindictive schemes, +with flagrant partialities, seemed to me nothing but a dreadful +profanation. And yet these old writings do, in a degree, from old +association, colour my thoughts about him. + +And then all these anxious visions left me; and I felt for awhile like +a tiny spray of sea-weed floating on an infinite sea, with the +brightness of the morning overhead. I felt that I was indeed set where +I found myself to be, and that if now my little heart and brain are too +small to hold the truth, yet I thanked God for making even the +conception of the mystery, the width, the depth, possible to me; and I +prayed to him that he would give me as much of the truth as I could +bear. And I do not doubt that he gave me that; for I felt for an +instant that whatever befell me, I was indeed a part of Himself; not a +thing outside and separate; not even his son and his child: but Himself. + + + + +XL + +After Death + +I had so strange a dream or vision the other night, that I cannot +refrain from setting it down; because the strangeness and the wonder of +it seem to make it impossible for me to have conceived of it myself; it +was suggested by nothing, originated by nothing that I can trace; it +merely came to me out of the void. + +After confused and troubled dreams of terror and bewilderment, enacted +in blind passages and stifling glooms, with crowds of unknown figures +passing rapidly to and fro, I seemed to grow suddenly light-hearted and +joyful. I next appeared to myself to be sitting or reclining on the +grassy top of a cliff, in bright sunlight. The ground fell +precipitously in front of me, and I saw to left and right the sharp +crags and horns of the rock-face below me; behind me was a wide space +of grassy down, with a fresh wind racing over it. The sky was +cloudless. Far below I could see yellow sands, on which a blue sea +broke in crisp waves. To the left a river flowed through a little +hamlet, clustered round a church; I looked down on the roofs of the +small houses, and saw people passing to and fro, like ants. The river +spread itself out in shallow shining channels over the sand, to join +the sea. Further to the left rose shadowy headland after headland, and +to the right lay a broad well-watered plain, full of trees and +villages, bounded by a range of blue hills. On the sea moved ships, +the wind filling their sails, and the sun shining on them with a +peculiar brightness. The only sound in my ears was that of the whisper +of the wind in the grass and stone crags. + +But I soon became aware with a shock of pleasant surprise that my +perception of the whole scene was of a different quality to any +perception I had before experienced. I have spoken of seeing and +hearing: but I became aware that I was doing neither; the perceptions, +so to speak, both of seeing and hearing were not distinct, but the +same. I was aware, for instance, at the same moment, of the _whole_ +scene, both of what was behind me and what was in front of me. I have +described what I saw successively, because there is no other way of +describing it; but it was all present at once in my mind, and I had no +need to turn my attention to one point or another, but everything was +there before me, in a unity at which I cannot even hint in words. I +then became aware too, that, though I have spoken of myself as seated +or reclined, I had no body, but was merely, as it were, a sentient +point. In a moment I became aware that to transfer that sentience to +another point was merely an act of will. I was able to test this; in +an instant I was close above the village, which a moment before was far +below me, and I perceived the houses, the very faces of the people +close at hand; at another moment I was buried deep in the cliff, and +felt the rock with its fissures all about me; at another moment, +following my wish, I was beneath the sea, and saw the untrodden sands +about me, with the blue sunlit water over my head. I saw the fish dart +and poise above me, the ribbons of sea-weed floating up, just swayed by +the currents, shells crawling like great snails on the ooze, crabs +hurrying about among piles of boulders. But something drew me back to +my first station, I know not why; and there I poised, as a bird might +have poised, and lost myself in a blissful dream. Then it darted into +my mind that I was what I had been accustomed to call dead. So this +was what lay on the other side of the dark passage, this lightness, +this perfect freedom, this undreamed-of peace! I had not a single care +or anxiety. It seemed as if nothing could trouble my repose and +happiness. I could only think with a deep compassion of those who were +still pent in uneasy bodies, under strait and sad conditions, anxious, +sad, troubled, and blind, not knowing that the shadow of death which +encompassed them was but the cloud which veiled the gate of perfect and +unutterable happiness. + +I felt rising in my mind a sense of all that lay before me, of all the +mysteries that I would penetrate, all the unvisited places that I would +see. But at present I was too full of peace and quiet happiness to do +anything but stay in an infinite content where I was. All sense of +_ennui_ or restlessness had left me. I was utterly free, utterly +blest. I did, indeed, once send my thought to the home which I loved, +and saw a darkened house, and my dear ones moving about with grief +written legibly on their faces. I saw my mother sitting looking at +some letters which I perceived to be my own, and was aware that she +wept. But I could not even bring myself to grieve at that, because I +knew that the same peace and joy that filled me was also surely +awaiting them, and the darkest passage, the sharpest human suffering, +seemed so utterly little and trifling in the light of my new knowledge; +and I was soon back on my cliff-top again, content to wait, to rest, to +luxuriate in a happiness which seemed to have nothing selfish about it, +because the satisfaction was so perfectly pure and natural. + +While I thus waited I became aware, with the same sort of sudden +perception, of a presence beside me. It had no outward form; but I +knew that it was a spirit full of love and kindness: it seemed to me to +be old; it was not divine, for it brought no awe with it; and yet it +was not quite human; it was a spirit that seemed to me to have been +human, but to have risen into a higher sphere of perception. I simply +felt a sense of deep and pure companionship. And presently I became +aware that some communication was passing between my consciousness and +the consciousness of the newly-arrived spirit. It did not take place +in words, but in thought; though only by words can I now represent it. + +"Yes," said the other, "you do well to rest and to be happy: is it not +a wonderful experience? and yet you have been through it many times +already, and will pass through it many times again." + +I suppose that I did not wholly understand this, for I said: "I do not +grasp that thought, though I am certain it is true: have I then died +before?" + +"Yes," said the other, "many times. It is a long progress; you will +remember soon, when you have had time to reflect, and when the sweet +novelty of the change has become more customary. You have but returned +to us again for a little; one needs that, you know, at first; one needs +some refreshment and repose after each one of our lives, to be renewed, +to be strengthened for what comes after." + +All at once I understood. I knew that my last life had been one of +many lives lived at all sorts of times and dates, and under various +conditions; that at the end of each I had returned to this joyful +freedom. + +It was the first cloud that passed over my thought. "Must I return +again to life?" I said. + +"Oh yes," said the other; "you see that; you will soon return +again--but never mind that now; you are here to drink your fill of the +beautiful things which you will only remember by glimpses and visions +when you are back in the little life again." + +And then I had a sudden intuition. I seemed to be suddenly in a small +and ugly street of a dark town. I saw slatternly women run in and out +of the houses; I saw smoke-stained grimy children playing in the +gutter. Above the poor, ill-kept houses a factory poured its black +smoke into the air, and hummed behind its shuttered windows. I knew in +a sad flash of thought that I was to be born there, to be brought up as +a wailing child, under sad and sordid conditions, to struggle into a +life of hard and hopeless labour, in the midst of vice, and poverty, +and drunkenness, and hard usage. It filled me for a moment with a sort +of nauseous dread, remembering the free and liberal conditions of my +last life, the wealth and comfort I had enjoyed. + +"No," said the other; for in a moment I was back again, "that is an +unworthy thought--it is but for a moment; and you will return to this +peace again." + +But the sad thought came down upon me like a cloud. "Is there no +escape?" I said; and at that, in a moment, the other spirit seemed to +chide me, not angrily, but patiently and compassionately. "One +suffers," he said, "but one gains experience; one rises," adding more +gently: "We do not know why it must be, of course--but it is the Will; +and however much one may doubt and suffer in the dark world there, one +does not doubt of the wisdom or the love of it here." And I knew in a +moment that I did not doubt, but that I would go willingly wherever I +should be sent. + +And then my thought became concerned with the spirit that spoke with +me, and I said, "And what is your place and work? for I think you are +like me and yet unlike." And he said: "Yes, it is true; I have to +return thither no more; that is finished for me, and I grudge no single +step of the dark road: I cannot explain to you what my work or place +is; but I am old, and have seen many things; each of us has to return +and return, not indeed till we are made perfect, but till we have +finished that part of our course; but the blessedness of this peace +grows and grows, while it becomes easier to bear what happens in that +other place, for we grow strong and simple and sincere, and then the +world can hurt us but little. We learn that we must not judge men; but +we know that when we see them cruel and vicious and selfish, they are +then but children learning their first lessons; and on each of our +visits to this place we see that the evil matters less and less, and +the hope becomes brighter and brighter; till at last we see." And I +then seemed to turn to him in thought, for he said with a grave joy: +"Yes, I have seen." And presently I was left alone to my happiness. + +How long it lasted I cannot tell; but presently I seemed less free, +less light of heart; and soon I knew that I was bound; and after a +space I woke into the world again, and took up my burden of cares. + +But for all that I have a sense of hopefulness left which I think will +not quite desert me. From what dim cell of the brain my vision rose, I +know not, but though it came to me in so precise and clear a form, yet +I cannot help feeling that something deep and true has been revealed to +me, some glimpse of pure heaven and bright air, that lies outside our +little fretted lives. + + + + +XLI + +The Eternal Will + +I have spoken above, I know well, of things in which I have no skill to +speak; I know no philosophy or metaphysics; to look into a +philosophical book is to me like looking into a room piled up with +bricks, the pure materials of thought; they have no meaning for me, +until the beautiful mind of some literary architect has built them into +a house of life; but just as a shallow pool can reflect the dark and +infinite spaces of night, pierced with stars, so in my own shallow mind +these perennial difficulties, which lie behind all that we do and say, +can be for a moment mirrored. + +The only value that such thoughts can have in life is that they should +teach us to live in a frank and sincere mood, waiting patiently for the +Lord, as the old Psalmist said. My own philosophy is a very simple +one, and, if I could only be truer to it, it would bring me the +strength which I lack. It is this; that being what we are, such frail, +mysterious, inexplicable beings, we should wait humbly and hopefully +upon God, not attempting, nor even wishing, to make up our minds upon +these deep secrets, only determined that we will be true to the inner +light, and that we will not accept any solution which depends for its +success upon neglecting or overlooking any of the phenomena with which +we are confronted. We find ourselves placed in the world, in definite +relations with certain people, endowed with certain qualities, with +faults and fears, with hopes and joys, with likes and dislikes. Evil +haunts us like a shadow, and though it menaces our happiness, we fall +again and again under its dominion; in the depths of our spirit a voice +speaks, which assures us again and again that truth and purity and love +are the best and dearest things that we can desire; and that voice, +however imperfectly, I try to obey, because it seems the strongest and +clearest of all the voices that call to me. I try to regard all +experience, whether sweet or bitter, fair or foul, as sent me by the +great and awful power that put me where I am. The strongest and best +things in the world seem to me to be peace and tranquillity, and the +same hidden power seems to be leading me thither; and to lead me all +the faster whenever I try not to fret, not to grieve, not to despair. +"_Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you,_" says the +Divine Word; and the more that I follow intuition rather than reason, +the nearer I seem to come to the truth. I have lately wasted much +fruitless thought over an anxious decision, weighing motives, +forecasting possibilities. I knew at the time how useless it all was, +and that my course would be made clear at the right moment; and I will +tell the story of how it was made clear, as testimony to the perfect +guidance of the divine hand. I was taking a journey, and the weary +process was going on in my mind; every possible argument for and +against the step was being reviewed and tested; I could not read, I +could not even look abroad upon the world. The train drew up at a dull +suburban station, where our tickets were collected. The signal was +given, and we started. It was at this moment that the conviction came, +and I saw how I must act, with a certainty which I could not gainsay or +resist. My reason had anticipated the opposite decision, but I had no +longer any doubt or hesitation. The only question was how and when to +announce the result; but when I returned home the same evening there +was the letter waiting for me which gave the very opportunity I +desired; and I have since learnt without surprise that the letter was +being penned at the very moment when the conviction came to me. + +I have told this experience in detail, because it seems to me to be a +very perfect example of the suddenness with which conviction comes. +But neither do I grudge the anxious reveries which for many days had +preceded that conviction, because through them I learnt something of +the inner weakness of my nature. But the true secret of it all is that +we ought to live as far as we can in the day, the hour, the minute; to +waste no time in anxious forecasting and miserable regrets, but just do +what lies before us as faithfully as possible. Gradually, too, one +learns that the restricting of what is called religion to certain times +of prayer and definite solemnities is the most pitiful of all mistakes; +life lived with the intuition that I have indicated is all religion. +The most trivial incident has to be interpreted; every word and deed +and thought becomes full of a deep significance. One has no longer any +anxious sense of duty; one desires no longer either to impress or +influence; one aims only at guarding the quality of all one does or +says--or rather the very word "aims" is a wrong one; there is no longer +any aim or effort, except the effort to feel which way the gentle +guiding hand would have us to go; the only sorrow that is possible is +when we rather perversely follow our own will and pleasure. + +The reason why I desire this book to say its few words to my brothers +and sisters of this life, without any intrusion of personality, is that +I am so sure of the truth of what I say, that I would not have any one +distracted from the principles I have tried to put into words, by being +able to compare it with my own weak practice. I am so far from having +attained; I have, I know, so many weary leagues to traverse yet, that I +would not have my faithless and perverse wanderings known. But the +secret waits for all who can throw aside convention and insincerity, +who can make the sacrifice with a humble heart, and throw themselves +utterly and fearlessly into the hands of God. Societies, +organisations, ceremonies, forms, authority, dogma--they are all +outside; silently and secretly, in the solitude of one's heart, must +the lonely path be found; but the slender track once beneath our feet, +all the complicated relations of the world become clear and simple. We +have no need to change our path in life, to seek for any human guide, +to desire new conditions, because we have the one Guide close to us, +closer than friend or brother or lover, and we know that we are set +where he would have us to be. Such a belief destroys in a flash all +our embarrassment in dealing with others, all our anxieties in dealing +with ourselves. In dealing with ourselves we shall only desire to be +faithful, fearless and sincere; in dealing with others we shall try to +be patient, tender, appreciative, and hopeful. If we have to blame, we +shall blame without bitterness, without the outraged sense of personal +vanity that brings anger with it. If we can praise, we shall praise +with generous prodigality; we shall not think of ourselves as a centre +of influence, as radiating example and precept; but we shall know our +own failures and difficulties, and shall realise as strongly that +others are led likewise, and that each is the Father's peculiar care, +as we realise it about ourselves. There will be no thrusting of +ourselves to the front, nor an uneasy lingering upon the outskirts of +the crowd, because we shall know that our place and our course are +defined. We may crave for happiness, but we shall not resent sorrow. +The dreariest and saddest day becomes the inevitable, the true setting +for our soul; we must drink the draught, and not fear to taste its +bitterest savour; it is the Father's cup. That a Christian, in such a +mood, can concern himself with what is called the historical basis of +the Gospels, is a thought which can only be met by a smile; for there +stands the record of perhaps the only life ever lived upon earth that +conformed itself, at every moment, in the darkest experiences that life +could bring, entirely and utterly to the Divine Will. One who walks in +the light that I have spoken of is as inevitably a Christian as he is a +human being, and is as true to the spirit of Christ as he is +indifferent to the human accretions that have gathered round the august +message. + +The possession of such a secret involves no retirement from the world, +no breaking of ties, no ecclesiastical exercises, no endeavour to +penetrate obscure ideas. It is as simple as the sunlight and the air. +It involves no protest, no phrase, no renunciation. Its protest will +be an unconcerned example, its phrase will be a perfect sincerity of +speech, its renunciation will be what it does, not what it abstains +from doing. It will go or stay as the inner voice bids it. It will +not attempt the impossible nor the novel. Very clearly, from hour to +hour, the path will be made plain, the weakness fortified, the sin +purged away. It will judge no other life, it will seek no goal; it +will sometimes strive and cry, it will sometimes rest; it will move as +gently and simply in unison with the one supreme will, as the tide +moves beneath the moon, piled in the central deep with all its noises, +flooding the mud-stained waterway, where the ships ride together, or +creeping softly upon the pale sands of some sequestered bay. + + + + +XLII + +Until the Evening + +I stop sometimes on a landing in an old house, where I often stay, to +look at a dusky, faded water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do not +think its technical merit is great, but it somehow has the poetical +quality. It represents, or seems to represent, a piece of high open +ground, down-land or heath, with a few low bushes growing there, +sprawling and wind-brushed; a road crosses the fore-ground, and dips +over to the plain beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, dappled +by open spaces. There is a long faint distant line of hills on the +horizon. The time appears to be just after sunset, when the sky is +still full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost their +colour, but are just beginning to be tinged with dusk. In the road +stands the figure of a man, with his back turned, his hand shading his +eyes as he gazes out across the plain. He appears to be a wayfarer, +and to be weary but not dispirited. There is a look of serene and +sober content about him, how communicated I know not. He would seem to +have far to go, but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his home, +which indeed he seems to discern afar off. The picture bears the +simple legend, _Until the evening_. + +This design seems always to be charged for me with a beautiful and +grave meaning. Just so would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage, +wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. The freshness and +blithe eagerness of the morning are over, the solid hours of sturdy +progress are gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the gentle +descent among the shadows remains, with cool airs blowing from darkling +thickets, laden with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of rushy +dingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer will push the familiar gate +open, and see the lamplit windows of home, with the dark chimneys and +gables outlined against the green sky. Those that love him are +awaiting him, listening for the footfall to draw near. + +Is it not possible to attain this? And yet how often does it seem to +be the fate of a human soul to stumble, like one chased and hunted, +with dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous phrase, down the +darkening track. Yet one should rather approach God, bearing in +careful hands the priceless and precious gift of life, ready to restore +it if it be his will. God grant us so to live, in courage and trust, +that, when he calls us, we may pass willingly and with a quiet +confidence to the gate that opens into tracts unknown! + + + + +CONCLUSION + +_And now I will try if I can in a few words to sum up what the purpose +of this little volume has been, these pages torn from my book of life, +though I hope that some of my readers may, before now, have discerned +it for themselves. _The Thread of Gold_ has two chief qualities. It +is bright, and it is strong; it gleams with a still and precious light +in the darkness, glowing with the reflected radiance of the little lamp +that we carry to guide our feet, and adding to the ray some rich tinge +from its own goodly heart; and it is strong too; it cannot easily be +broken; it leads a man faithfully through the dim passages of the cave +in which he wanders, with the dark earth piled above his head._ + +_The two qualities that we should keep with us in our journey through a +world where it seems that so much must be dark, are a certain rich +fiery essence, a glowing ardour of spirit, a mind of lofty temper, +athirst for all that is noble and beautiful. That first; and to that +we must add a certain soberness and sedateness of mood, a smiling +tranquillity, a true directness of aim, that should lead us not to form +our ideas and opinions too swiftly and too firmly; for then we suffer +from an anxious vexation when experience contradicts hope, when things +turn out different from what we had desired and supposed. We should +deal with life in a generous and high-hearted mood, giving men credit +for lofty aims and noble imaginings, and not be cast down if we do not +see these purposes blazing and glowing on the surface of things; we +should believe that such great motives are there even if we cannot see +them; and then we should sustain our lively expectations with a deep +and faithful confidence, assured that we are being tenderly and wisely +led, and that the things which the Father shows us by the way, if they +bewilder, and disappoint, and even terrify us, have yet some great and +wonderful meaning, if we can but interpret them rightly. Nay, that the +very delaying of these secrets to draw near to our souls, holds within +it a strong and temperate virtue for our spirits._ + +_Neither of these great qualities, ardour and tranquillity, can stand +alone; if we aim merely at enthusiasm, the fire grows cold, the world +grows dreary, and we lapse into a cynical mood of bitterness, as the +mortal flame turns low._ + +_Nor must we aim at mere tranquillity; for so we may fall into a mere +placid acquiescence, a selfish inaction; our peace must be heartened by +eagerness, our zest calmed by serenity. If we follow the fire alone, +we become restless and dissatisfied; if we seek only for peace, we +become like the patient beasts of the field._ + +_I would wish, though I grow old and grey-haired, a hundred times a day +to ask why things are as they are, and to desire that they were +otherwise; and again a hundred times a day I would thank God that they +are as they are, and praise him for showing me his will rather than my +own. For the secret lies in this; that we must not follow our own +impulses, and thus grow pettish and self-willed: neither must we float +feebly upon the will of God, like a branch that spins in an eddy; +rather we must try to put our utmost energy in line with the will of +God, hasten with all our might where he calls us, and turn our back as +resolutely as we can when he bids us go no further; as an eager dog +will intently await his master's choice, as to which of two paths he +may desire to take; but the way once indicated, he springs forward, +elate and glad, rejoicing with all his might._ + +_He leads me. He leads me; but He has also given me this wild and +restless heart, these untamed desires: not that I may follow them and +obey them, but that I may patiently discern His will, and do it to the +uttermost._ + + +_Father, be patient with me, for I yield myself to Thee; Thou hast +given me a desirous heart, and I have a thousand times gone astray +after vain shadows, and found no abiding joy. I have been weary many +times, and sad often; and I have been light of heart and very glad; but +my sadness and my weariness, my lightness and my joy have only blessed +me, whenever I have shared them with Thee. I have shut myself up in a +perverse loneliness, I have closed the door of my heart, miserable that +I am, even upon Thee. And Thou hast waited smiling, till I knew that I +had no joy apart from Thee. Only uphold me, only enfold me in Thy +arms, and I shall be safe; for I know that nothing can divide us, +except my own wilful heart; we forget and are forgotten, but Thou alone +rememberest; and if I forget Thee, at least I know that Thou forgettest +not me._ + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Thread of Gold, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREAD OF GOLD *** + +***** This file should be named 30326.txt or 30326.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/3/2/30326/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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