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diff --git a/7053-0.txt b/7053-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bfd8f95 --- /dev/null +++ b/7053-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5921 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Pages From a Journal, by Mark Rutherford + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Pages From a Journal + with other Papers + + +Author: Mark Rutherford + + + +Release Date: August 1, 2019 [eBook #7053] +[This file was first posted on March 2, 2003] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAGES FROM A JOURNAL*** + + +Transcribed from the 1901 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + Pages + From a Journal + + + _WITH OTHER PAPERS_ + + BY + MARK RUTHERFORD + + _Author of_ + “THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MARK RUTHERFORD,” + “CLARA HOPGOOD,” ETC., ETC. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + LONDON + T. FISHER UNWIN + PATERNOSTER SQUARE, E.C., + 1901 + + * * * * * + + [_SECOND IMPRESSION_.] + + * * * * * + + [_All rights reserved_.] + + + + +Contents + + PAGE +A Visit to Carlyle in 1868 1 +Early Morning in January 14 +March 16 +June 18 +August 20 +The End of October 22 +November 25 +The Break-up of a Great Drought 28 +Spinoza 32 +Supplementary Note on the Devil 58 +Injustice 62 +Time Settles Controversies 64 +Talking about our Troubles 66 +Faith 70 +Patience 74 +An Apology 78 +Belief, Unbelief, and Superstition 83 +Judas Iscariot 87 +Sir Walter Scott’s Use of the Supernatural 96 +September, 1798 99 +Some Notes on Milton 110 +The Morality of Byron’s Poetry. “The Corsair” 125 +Byron, Goethe, and Mr. Matthew Arnold 133 +A Sacrifice 149 +The Aged Three 152 +Conscience 153 +The Governess’s Story 160 +James Forbes 170 +Atonement 174 +My Aunt Eleanor 180 +Correspondence between George, Lucy, M.A., and Hermione 200 +Russell, B.A. +Mrs. Fairfax 218 + + + + +A VISIT TO CARLYLE IN 1868 + + +ON Saturday, the 22nd of March, 1868, my father and I called on Carlyle +at 5, Cheyne Row, Chelsea, with a message from one of his intimate +friends. + +We were asked upstairs at once, and found Carlyle at breakfast. The room +was large, well-lighted, a bright fire was burning, and the window was +open in order to secure complete ventilation. Opposite the fireplace was +a picture of Frederick the Great and his sister. There were also other +pictures which I had not time to examine. One of them Carlyle pointed +out. It was a portrait of the Elector of Saxony who assisted Luther. +The letters V.D.M.I.Æ. (“Verbum Dei Manet in Æternum”) were round it. +Everything in the room was in exact order, there was no dust or +confusion, and the books on the shelves were arranged in perfect +_evenness_. I noticed that when Carlyle replaced a book he took pains to +get it level with the others. The furniture was solid, neat, and I +should think expensive. I showed him the letter he had written to me +eighteen years ago. It has been published by Mr. Froude, but it will +bear reprinting. The circumstances under which it was written, not +stated by Mr. Froude, were these. In 1850, when the Latter-day Pamphlets +appeared—how well I remember the eager journey to the bookseller for each +successive number!—almost all the reviews united in a howl of execration, +criticism so called. I, being young, and owing so much to Carlyle, wrote +to him, the first and almost the only time I ever did anything of the +kind, assuring him that there was at least one person who believed in +him. This was his answer:— + + “CHELSEA, 9_th March_, 1850. + + “MY GOOD YOUNG FRIEND,—I am much obliged by the regard you entertain + for me; and do not blame your enthusiasm, which well enough beseems + your young years. If my books teach you anything, don’t mind in the + least whether other people believe it or not; but do you for your own + behoof lay it to heart as a real acquisition you have made, more + properly, as a real message left with you, which _you_ must set about + fulfilling, whatsoever others do! This is really all the counsel I + can give you about what you read in my books or those of others: + _practise_ what you learn there; instantly and in all ways begin + turning the belief into a fact, and continue at that—till you get + more and ever more beliefs, with which also do the like. It is idle + work otherwise to write books or to read them. + + “And be not surprised that ‘people have no sympathy with you’; that + is an accompaniment that will attend you all your days if you mean to + lead an earnest life. The ‘people’ could not save you with their + ‘sympathy’ if they had never so much of it to give; a man can and + must save himself, with or without their sympathy, as it may chance. + + “And may all good be with you, my kind young friend, and a heart + stout enough for this adventure you are upon; that is the best ‘good’ + of all. + + “I remain, yours very sincerely, + + “T. CARLYLE.” + +Carlyle had forgotten this letter, but said, “It is undoubtedly mine. It +is what I have always believed . . . it has been so ever since I was at +college. I do not mean to say I was not loved there as warmly by noble +friends as ever man could be, but the world tumbled on me, and has ever +since then been tumbling on me rubbish, huge wagon-loads of rubbish, +thinking to smother me, and was surprised it did not smother me—turned +round with amazement and said, ‘What, you alive yet?’ . . . While I was +writing my _Frederick_ my best friends, out of delicacy, did not call. +Those who came were those I did not want to come, and I saw very few of +them. I shook off everything to right and left. At last the work would +have killed me, and I was obliged to take to riding, chiefly in the dark, +about fourteen miles most days, plunging and floundering on. I ought to +have been younger to have undertaken such a task. If they were to offer +me all Prussia, all the solar system, I would not write _Frederick_ +again. No bribe from God or man would tempt me to do it.” + +He was re-reading his _Frederick_, to correct it for the stereotyped +edition. “On the whole I think it is very well done. No man perhaps in +England could have done it better. If you write a book though now, you +must just pitch it out of window and say, ‘Ho! all you jackasses, come +and trample on it and trample it into mud, or go on till you are tired.’” +He laughed heartily at this explosion. His laughter struck me—humour +controlling his wrath and in a sense _above_ it, as if the final word +were by no means hatred or contempt, even for the jackass. “ . . . No +piece of news of late years has gladdened me like the victory of the +Prussians over the Austrians. It was the triumph of Prussian over French +and Napoleonic influence. The Prussians were a valiant, pious people, +and it was a question which should have the most power in Germany, they +or Napoleon. The French are sunk in all kinds of filth. Compare what +the Prussians did with what we did in the Crimea. The English people are +an incredible people. They seem to think that it is not necessary that a +general should have the least knowledge of the art of war. It is as if +you had the stone, and should cry out to any travelling tinker or +blacksmith and say, ‘Here, come here and cut me for the stone,’ and he +_would_ cut you! Sir Charles Napier would have been a great general if +he had had the opportunity. He was much delighted with Frederick. +‘Frederick was a most extraordinary general,’ said Sir Charles, and on +examination I found out that all that Sir Charles had read of Frederick +was a manual for Prussian officers, published by him about 1760, telling +them what to do on particular occasions. I was very pleased at this +admiration of Frederick by Sir Charles . . . + +“Sir John Bowring was one of your model men; men who go about imagining +themselves the models of all virtues, and they are models of something +very different. He was one of your patriots, and the Government to quiet +him sent him out to China. When he got there he went to war with a third +of the human race! He, the patriot, he who believed in the +greatest-happiness principle, immediately went to war with a third of the +human race!” (Great laughter from T.C.) “And so far as I can make out +he was all wrong. + +“The _Frederick_ is being translated into German. It is being done by a +man whose name I have forgotten, but it was begun by one of the most +faithful friends I ever had, Neuberg. I could not work in the rooms in +the offices where lay the State papers I wanted to use, it brought on +such a headache, but Neuberg went there, and for six months worked all +day copying. He was taken ill, and a surgical operation was badly +performed, and then in that wild, black weather at the beginning of last +year, just after I came back from Mentone, the news came to me one night +he was dead.” + +On leaving Carlyle shook hands with us both and said he was glad to have +seen us. “It was pleasant to have friends coming out of the dark in this +way.” + +Perhaps a reflection or two which occurred to me after this interview may +not be out of place. Carlyle was perfectly frank, even to us of whom he +knew but little. He did not stand off or refuse to talk on any but +commonplace subjects. What was offered to us was his best. And yet +there is to be found in him a singular reserve, and those shallow persons +who taunt him with inconsistency because he makes so much of silence, and +yet talks so much, understand little or nothing of him. In half a dozen +pages one man may be guilty of shameless garrulity, and another may be +nobly reticent throughout a dozen volumes. Carlyle feels the +contradictions of the universe as keenly as any man can feel them. He +knows how easy it is to appear profound by putting anew the riddles which +nobody can answer; he knows how strong is the temptation towards the +insoluble. But upon these subjects he also knows how to hold his tongue; +he does not shriek in the streets, but he bows his head. He has found no +answer—he no more than the feeblest of us, and yet in his inmost soul +there is a shrine, and he worships. + +Carlyle is the champion of morals, ethics, law—call it what you like—of +that which says we must not always do a thing because it is pleasant. +There are two great ethical parties in the world, and, in the main, but +two. One of them asserts the claims of the senses. Its doctrine is +seductive because it is so right. It is necessary that we should in a +measure believe it, in order that life may be sweet. But nature has +heavily weighted the scale in its favour; its acceptance requires no +effort. It is easily perverted and becomes a snare. In our day nearly +all genius has gone over to it, and preaching it is rather superfluous. +The other party affirms what has been the soul of all religions worth +having, that it is by repression and self-negation that men and States +live. + +It has been said that Carlyle is great because he is graphic, and he is +supposed to be summed up in “mere picturesqueness,” the silliest of +verdicts. A man may be graphic in two ways. He may deal with his +subject from the outside, and by dint of using strong language may +“graphically” describe an execution or a drunken row in the streets. But +he may be graphic by ability to penetrate into essence, and to express it +in words which are worthy of it. What higher virtue than this can we +imagine in poet, artist, or prophet? + +Like all great men, Carlyle is infinitely tender. That was what struck +me as I sat and looked in his eyes, and the best portraits in some degree +confirm me. It is not worth while here to produce passages from his +books to prove my point, but I could easily do so, specially from the +_Life of Sterling_ and the _Cromwell_. {10} Much of his fierceness is an +inverted tenderness. + +His greatest book is perhaps the _Frederick_, the biography of a hero +reduced more than once to such extremities that apparently nothing but +some miraculous intervention could save him, and who did not yield, but +struggled on and finally emerged victorious. When we consider +Frederick’s position during the last part of the Seven Years’ War, we +must admit that no man was ever in such desperate circumstances or showed +such uncrushable determination. It was as if the Destinies, in order to +teach us what human nature can do, had ordained that he who had the most +fortitude should also encounter the severest trial of it. Over and over +again Frederick would have been justified in acknowledging defeat, and we +should have said that he had done all that could be expected even of such +a temper as that with which he was endowed. If the struggle of the will +with the encompassing world is the stuff of which epics are made, then no +greater epic than that of _Frederick_ has been written in prose or verse, +and it has the important advantage of being true. It is interesting to +note how attractive this primary virtue of which Frederick is such a +remarkable representative is to Carlyle, how _moral_ it is to him; and, +indeed, is it not the sum and substance of all morality? It should be +noted also that it was due to no religious motive: that it was bare, pure +humanity. At times it is difficult not to believe that Carlyle, +notwithstanding his piety, loves it all the more on that account. It is +strange that an example so salutary and stimulating to the poorest and +meanest of us should be set by an unbelieving king, and that my humdrum +existence should be secretly supported by “Frederick II. Roi de Prusse.” + + * * * + +Soon after Carlyle died I went to Ecclefechan and stood by his grave. It +was not a day that I would have chosen for such an errand, for it was +cold, grey, and hard, and towards the afternoon it rained a slow, +persistent, wintry rain. The kirkyard in Ecclefechan was dismal and +depressing, but my thoughts were not there. I remembered what Carlyle +was to the young men of thirty or forty years ago, in the days of that +new birth, which was so strange a characteristic of the time. His books +were read with excitement, with tears of joy, on lonely hills, by the +seashore and in London streets, and the readers were thankful that it was +their privilege to live when he also was alive. All that excitement has +vanished, but those who knew what it was are the better for it. Carlyle +now is almost nothing, but his day will return, he will be put in his +place as one of the greatest souls who have been born amongst us, and his +message will be considered as perhaps the most important which has ever +been sent to us. This is what I thought as I stood in Ecclefechan +kirkyard, and as I lingered I almost doubted if Carlyle _could_ be dead. +Was it possible that such as he could altogether die? Some touch, some +turn, I could not tell what or how, seemed all that was necessary to +enable me to see and to hear him. It was just as if I were perplexed and +baffled by a veil which prevented recognition of him, although I was sure +he was behind it. + + + + +EARLY MORNING IN JANUARY + + +A WARM, still morning, with a clear sky and stars. At first the hills +were almost black, but, as the dawn ascended, they became dark green, of +a peculiarly delicate tint which is never seen in the daytime. The +quietude is profound, although a voice from an unseen fishing-boat can +now and then be heard. How strange the landscape seems! It is not a +variation of the old landscape; it is a new world. The half-moon rides +high in the sky, and near her is Jupiter. A little way further to the +left is Venus, and still further down is Mercury, rare apparition, just +perceptible where the deep blue of the night is yielding to the green +which foretells the sun. The east grows lighter; the birds begin to stir +in the bushes, and the cry of a gull rises from the base of the cliff. +The sea becomes responsive, and in a moment is overspread with +continually changing colour, partly that of the heavens above it and +partly self-contributed. With what slow, majestic pomp is the day +preceded, as though there had been no day before it and no other would +follow it! + + + + +MARCH + + +IT is a bright day in March, with a gentle south-west wind. Sitting +still in the copse and facing the sun it strikes warm. It has already +mounted many degrees on its way to its summer height, and is regaining +its power. The clouds are soft, rounded, and spring-like, and the white +of the blackthorn is discernible here and there amidst the underwood. +The brooks are running full from winter rains but are not overflowing. +All over the wood which fills up the valley lies a thin, purplish mist, +harmonising with the purple bloom on the stems and branches. The buds +are ready to burst, there is a sense of movement, of waking after sleep; +the tremendous upward rush of life is almost felt. But how silent the +process is! There is no hurry for achievement, although so much has to +be done—such infinite intricacy to be unfolded and made perfect. The +little stream winding down the bottom turns and doubles on itself; a dead +leaf falls into it, is arrested by a twig, and lies there content. + + + + +JUNE + + +IT is a quiet, warm day in June. The wind is westerly, but there is only +just enough of it to waft now and then a sound from the far-off town, or +the dull, subdued thunder of cannon-firing from ships or forts distant +some forty miles or more. Massive, white-bordered clouds, grey +underneath, sail overhead; there was heavy rain last night, and they are +lifting and breaking a little. Softly and slowly they go, and one of +them, darker than the rest, has descended in a mist of rain, blotting out +the ships. The surface of the water is paved curiously in green and +violet, and where the light lies on it scintillates like millions of +stars. The grass is not yet cut, and the showers have brought it up +knee-deep. Its gentle whisper is plainly heard, the most delicate of all +the voices in the world, and the meadow bends into billows, grey, +silvery, and green, when a breeze of sufficient strength sweeps across +it. The larks are so multitudinous that no distinct song can be caught, +and amidst the confused melody comes the note of the thrush and the +blackbird. A constant under-running accompaniment is just audible in the +hum of innumerable insects and the sharp buzz of flies darting past the +ear. Only those who live in the open air and watch the fields and sea +from hour to hour and day to day know what they are and what they mean. +The chance visitor, or he who looks now and then, never understands them. +While I have lain here, the clouds have risen, have become more aërial, +and more suffused with light; the horizon has become better defined, and +the yellow shingle beach is visible to its extremest point clasping the +bay in its arms. The bay itself is the tenderest blue-green, and on the +rolling plain which borders it lies intense sunlight chequered with +moving shadows which wander eastwards. The wind has shifted a trifle, +and comes straight up the Channel from the illimitable ocean. + + + + +AUGUST + + +A FEW days ago it was very hot. Afterwards we had a thunderstorm, +followed by rain from the south-west. The wind has veered a point +northerly, and the barometer is rising. This morning at half-past five +the valley below was filled with white mist. Above it the tops of the +trees on the highest points emerged sharply distinct. It was motionless, +but gradually melted before the ascending sun, recalling Plutarch’s +“scenes in the beautiful temple of the world which the gods order at +their own festivals, when we are initiated into their own mysteries.” +Here was a divine mystery, with initiation for those who cared for it. +No priests were waiting, no ritual was necessary, the service was +simple—solitary adoration and perfect silence. + +As the day advances, masses of huge, heavy clouds appear. They are well +defined at the edges, and their intricate folds and depths are +brilliantly illuminated. The infinitude of the sky is not so impressive +when it is quite clear as when it contains and supports great clouds, and +large blue spaces are seen between them. On the hillsides the fields +here and there are yellow and the corn is in sheaves. The birds are +mostly dumb, the glory of the furze and broom has passed, but the heather +is in flower. The trees are dark, and even sombre, and, where they are +in masses, look as if they were in solemn consultation. A fore-feeling +of the end of summer steals upon me. Why cannot I banish this +anticipation? Why cannot I rest and take delight in what is before me? +If some beneficent god would but teach me how to take no thought for the +morrow, I would sacrifice to him all I possess. + + + + +THE END OF OCTOBER + + +IT is the first south-westerly gale of the autumn. Its violence is +increasing every minute, although the rain has ceased for awhile. For +weeks sky and sea have been beautiful, but they have been tame. Now for +some unknown reason there is a complete change, and all the strength of +nature is awake. It is refreshing to be once more brought face to face +with her tremendous power, and to be reminded of the mystery of its going +and coming. It is soothing to feel so directly that man, notwithstanding +his science and pretentions, his subjugation of steam and electricity, is +as nothing compared with his Creator. The air has a freshness and odour +about it to which we have long been strangers. It has been dry, and +loaded with fine dust, but now it is deliciously wet and clean. The wind +during the summer has changed lightly through all the points of the +compass, but it has never brought any scent save that of the land, +nothing from a distance. Now it is charged with messages from the ocean. + +The sky is not uniformly overcast, but is covered with long horizontal +folds of cloud, very dark below and a little lighter where they turn up +one into the other. They are incessantly modified by the storm, and +fragments are torn away from them which sweep overhead. The sea, looked +at from the height, shows white edges almost to the horizon, and although +the waves at a distance cannot be distinguished, the tossing of a +solitary vessel labouring to get round the point for shelter shows how +vast they are. The prevailing colour of the water is greyish-green, +passing into deep-blue, and perpetually shifting in tint. A quarter of a +mile away the breakers begin, and spread themselves in a white sheet to +the land. + +A couple of gulls rise from the base of the cliffs to a height of about a +hundred feet above them. They turn their heads to the south-west, and +hover like hawks, but without any visible movement of their wings. They +are followed by two more, who also poise themselves in the same way. +Presently all four mount higher, and again face the tempest. They do not +appear to defy it, nor even to exert themselves in resisting it. What to +us below is fierce opposition is to them a support and delight. How +these wonderful birds are able to accomplish this feat no mathematician +can tell us. After remaining stationary a few minutes, they wheel round, +once more ascend, and then without any effort go off to sea directly in +the teeth of the hurricane. + + + + +NOVEMBER + + +A NOVEMBER day at the end of the month—the country is left to those who +live in it. The scattered visitors who took lodgings in the summer in +the villages have all departed, and the recollection that they have been +here makes the solitude more complete. The woods in which they wandered +are impassable, for the rain has been heavy, and the dry, baked clay of +August has been turned into a slough a foot deep. The wind, what there +is of it, is from the south-west, soft, sweet and damp; the sky is almost +covered with bluish-grey clouds, which here and there give way and permit +a dim, watery gleam to float slowly over the distant pastures. The grass +for the most part is greyish-green, more grey than green where it has not +been mown, but on the rocky and broken ground there is a colour like that +of an emerald, and the low sun when it comes out throws from the +projections on the hillside long and beautifully shaped shadows. +Multitudes of gnats in these brief moments of sunshine are seen playing +in it. The leaves have not all fallen, down in the hollow hardly any +have gone, and the trees are still bossy, tinted with the delicate +yellowish-brown and brown of different stages of decay. The hedges have +been washed clean of the white dust; the roads have been washed; a deep +drain has just begun to trickle and on the meadows lie little pools of +the clearest rainwater, reflecting with added loveliness any blue patch +of the heavens disclosed above them. The birds are silent save the +jackdaws and the robin, who still sings his recollections of the summer, +or his anticipations of the spring, or perhaps his pleasure in the late +autumn. The finches are in flocks, and whirl round in the air with +graceful, shell-like convolutions as they descend, part separating, for +no reason apparently, and forming a second flock which goes away over the +copse. There is hardly any farm-work going on, excepting in the ditches, +which are being cleaned in readiness for the overflow when the thirsty +ground shall have sucked its fill. Under a bank by the roadside a couple +of men employed in carting stone for road-mending are sitting on a sack +eating their dinner. The roof of the barn beyond them is brilliant with +moss and lichens; it has not been so vivid since last February. It is a +delightful time. No demand is made for ecstatic admiration; everything +is at rest, nature has nothing to do but to sleep and wait. + + + + +THE BREAK-UP OF A GREAT DROUGHT + + +FOR three months there had been hardly a drop of rain. The wind had been +almost continuously north-west, and from that to east. Occasionally +there were light airs from the south-west, and vapour rose, but there was +nothing in it; there was no true south-westerly breeze, and in a few +hours the weather-cock returned to the old quarter. Not infrequently the +clouds began to gather, and there was every sign that a change was at +hand. The barometer at these times fell gradually day after day until at +last it reached a point which generally brought drenching storms, but +none appeared, and then it began slowly to rise again and we knew that +our hopes were vain, and that a week at least must elapse before it would +regain its usual height and there might be a chance of declining. At +last the disappointment was so keen that the instrument was removed. It +was better not to watch it, but to hope for a surprise. The grass became +brown, and in many places was killed down to the roots; there was no hay; +myriads of swarming caterpillars devoured the fruit trees; the brooks +were all dry; water for cattle had to be fetched from ponds and springs +miles away; the roads were broken up; the air was loaded with grit; and +the beautiful green of the hedges was choked with dust. Birds like the +rook, which fed upon worms, were nearly starved, and were driven far and +wide for strange food. It was pitiable to see them trying to pick the +soil of the meadow as hard as a rock. The everlasting glare was worse +than the gloom of winter, and the sense of universal parching thirst +became so distressing that the house was preferred to the fields. We +were close to a water famine! The Atlantic, the source of all life, was +asleep, and what if it should never wake! We know not its ways, it mocks +all our science. Close to us lies this great mystery, incomprehensible, +and yet our very breath depends upon it. Why should not the sweet tides +of soft moist air cease to stream in upon us? No reason could be given +why every green herb and living thing should not perish; no reason, save +a faith which was blind. For aught we _knew_, the ocean-begotten aërial +current might forsake the land and it might become a desert. + +One night grey bars appeared in the western sky, but they had too often +deluded us, and we did not believe in them. On this particular evening +they were a little heavier, and the window-cords were damp. The air +which came across the cliff was cool, and if we had dared to hope we +should have said it had a scent of the sea in it. At four o’clock in the +morning there was a noise of something beating against the panes—they +were streaming! It was impossible to lie still, and I rose and went out +of doors. No creature was stirring, there was no sound save that of the +rain, but a busier time there had not been for many a long month. +Thousands of millions of blades of grass and corn were eagerly drinking. +For sixteen hours the downpour continued, and when it was dusk I again +went out. The watercourses by the side of the roads had a little water +in them, but not a drop had reached those at the edge of the fields, so +thirsty was the earth. The drought, thank God, was at an end! + + + + +SPINOZA + + +NOW that twenty years have passed since I began the study of Spinoza it +is good to find that he still holds his ground. Much in him remains +obscure, but there is enough which is sufficiently clear to give a +direction to thought and to modify action. To the professional +metaphysician Spinoza’s work is already surpassed, and is absorbed in +subsequent systems. We are told to read him once because he is +historically interesting, and then we are supposed to have done with him. +But if “Spinozism,” as it is called, is but a stage of development there +is something in Spinoza which can be superseded as little as the +_Imitation of Christ_ or the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, and it is this which +continues to draw men to him. Goethe never cared for set philosophical +systems. Very early in life he thought he had found out that they were +useless pieces of construction, but to the end of his days he clung to +Spinoza, and Philina, of all persons in the world, repeats one of the +finest sayings in the _Ethic_. So far as the metaphysicians are +carpenters, and there is much carpentering in most of them, Goethe was +right, and the larger part of their industry endures wind and weather but +for a short time. Spinoza’s object was not to make a scheme of the +universe. He felt that the things on which men usually set their hearts +give no permanent satisfaction, and he cast about for some means by which +to secure “a joy continuous and supreme to all eternity.” I propose now, +without attempting to connect or contrast Spinoza with Descartes or the +Germans, to name some of those thoughts in his books by which he +conceived he had attained his end. + +The sorrow of life is the rigidity of the material universe in which we +are placed. We are bound by physical laws, and there is a constant +pressure of matter-of-fact evidence to prove that we are nothing but +common and cheap products of the earth to which in a few moments or years +we return. Spinoza’s chief aim is to free us from this sorrow, and to +free us from it by _thinking_. The emphasis on this word is important. +He continually insists that a thing is not unreal because we cannot +imagine it. His own science, mathematics, affords him examples of what +_must_ be, although we cannot picture it, and he believes that true +consolation lies in the region of that which cannot be imaged but can be +thought. + +Setting out on his quest, he lays hold at the very beginning on the idea +of Substance, which he afterwards identifies with the idea of God. “By +Substance I understand that which is in itself and is conceived through +itself; in other words, that, the conception of which does not need the +conception of another thing from which it must be formed.” {34a} “By +God, I understand Being absolutely infinite, that is to say, substance +consisting of infinite attributes, each one of which expresses eternal +and infinite essence.” {34b} “God, or substance consisting of infinite +attributes, each one of which expresses eternal and infinite essence, +necessarily exists.” {34c} By the phrases “in itself” and “by itself,” +we are to understand that this conception cannot be explained in other +terms. Substance must be posited, and there we must leave it. The +demonstration of the last-quoted proposition, the 11th, is elusive, and I +must pass it by, merely observing that the objection that no idea +involves existence, and that consequently the idea of God does not +involve it, is not a refutation of Spinoza, who might rejoin that it is +impossible not to affirm existence of God as the _Ethic_ defines him. +Spinoza escapes one great theological difficulty. Directly we begin to +reflect we are dissatisfied with a material God, and the nobler religions +assert that God is a Spirit. But if He be a pure spirit whence comes the +material universe? To Spinoza pure spirit and pure matter are mere +artifices of the understanding. His God is the Substance with infinite +attributes of which thought and extension are the two revealed to man, +and he goes further, for he maintains that they are one and the same +thing viewed in different ways, inside and outside of the same reality. +The conception of God, strictly speaking, is not incomprehensible, but it +is not _circum_-prehensible; if it were it could not be the true +conception of Him. + +Spinoza declares that “the human mind possesses an adequate knowledge of +the eternal and infinite essence of God” {36}—not of God in His +completeness, but it is adequate. The demonstration of this proposition +is at first sight unsatisfactory, because we look for one which shall +enable us to form an image of God like that which we can form of a +triangle. But we cannot have “a knowledge of God as distinct as that +which we have of common notions, because we cannot imagine God as we can +bodies.” “To your question,” says Spinoza to Boxel, “whether I have as +clear an idea of God as I have of a triangle? I answer, Yes. But if you +ask me whether I have as clear an image of God as I have of a triangle I +shall say, No; for we cannot imagine God, but we can in a measure +understand Him. Here also, it is to be observed that I do not say that I +altogether know God, but that I understand some of His attributes—not +all, nor the greatest part, and it is clear that my ignorance of very +many does not prevent my knowledge of certain others. When I learned the +elements of Euclid, I very soon understood that the three angles of a +triangle are equal to two right angles, and I clearly perceived this +property of a triangle, although I was ignorant of many others.” {37a} + +“Individual things are nothing but affections or modes of God’s +attributes, expressing those attributes in a certain and determinate +manner,” {37b} and hence “the more we understand individual objects, the +more we understand God.” {37c} + +The intellect of God in no way resembles the human intellect, for we +cannot conceive Him as proposing an end and considering the means to +attain it. “The intellect of God, in so far as it is conceived to +constitute His essence, is in truth the cause of things, both of their +essence and of their existence—a truth which seems to have been +understood by those who have maintained that God’s intellect, will, and +power are one and the same thing.” {37d} + +The whole of God is _fact_, and Spinoza denies any reserve in Him of +something unexpressed. “The omnipotence of God has been actual from +eternity, and in the same actuality will remain to eternity,” {38} not of +course in the sense that everything which exists has always existed as we +now know it, or that nothing will exist hereafter which does not exist +now, but that in God everything that has been, and will be, eternally +_is_. + +The reader will perhaps ask, What has this theology to do with the “joy +continuous and supreme”? We shall presently meet with some deductions +which contribute to it, but it is not difficult to understand that +Spinoza, to use his own word, might call the truths set forth in these +propositions “blessed.” Let a man once believe in that God of infinite +attributes of which thought and extension are those by which He manifests +Himself to us; let him see that the opposition between thought and matter +is fictitious; that his mind “is a part of the infinite intellect of +God”; that he is not a mere transient, outside interpreter of the +universe, but himself the soul or law, which is the universe, and he will +feel a relationship with infinity which will emancipate him. + +It is not true that in Spinoza’s God there is so little that is positive +that it is not worth preserving. All Nature is in Him, and if the +objector is sincere he will confess that it is not the lack of contents +in the idea which is disappointing, but a lack of contents particularly +interesting to himself. + +The opposition between the mind and body of man as two diverse entities +ceases with that between thought and extension. It would be impossible +briefly to explain in all its fulness what Spinoza means by the +proposition: “The object of the idea constituting the human mind is a +body” {39}; it is sufficient here to say that, just as extension and +thought are one, considered in different aspects, so body and mind are +one. We shall find in the fifth part of the _Ethic_ that Spinoza affirms +the eternity of the mind, though not perhaps in the way in which it is +usually believed. + +Following the order of the _Ethic_ we now come to its more directly +ethical maxims. Spinoza denies the freedom commonly assigned to the +will, or perhaps it is more correct to say he denies that it is +intelligible. The will is determined by the intellect. The idea of the +triangle involves the affirmation or volition that its three angles are +equal to two right angles. If we understand what a triangle is we are +not “free” to believe that it contains more or less than two right +angles, nor to act as if it contained more or less than two. The only +real freedom of the mind is obedience to the reason, and the mind is +enslaved when it is under the dominion of the passions. “God does not +act from freedom of the will,” {40a} and consequently “things could have +been produced by God in no other manner and in no other order than that +in which they have been produced.” {40b} + +“If you will but reflect,” Spinoza tells Boxel, “that indifference is +nothing but ignorance or doubt, and that a will always constant and in +all things determinate is a virtue and a necessary property of the +intellect, you will see that my words are entirely in accord with the +truth.” {40c} To the same effect is a passage in a letter to Blyenbergh, +“Our liberty does not consist in a certain contingency nor in a certain +indifference, but in the manner of affirming or denying, so that in +proportion as we affirm or deny anything with less indifference, are we +the more free.” {41a} So also to Schuller, “I call that thing free which +exists and acts solely from the necessity of its own nature: I call that +thing coerced which is determined to exist and to act in a certain and +determinate manner by another.” {41b} With regard to this definition it +might be objected that the necessity does not lie solely in the person +who wills but is also in the object. The triangle as well as the nature +of man contains the necessity. What Spinoza means is that the free man +by the necessity of his nature is bound to assert the truth of what +follows from the definition of a triangle and that the stronger he feels +the necessity the more free he is. Hence it follows that the wider the +range of the intellect and the more imperative the necessity which binds +it, the larger is its freedom. + +In genuine freedom Spinoza rejoices. “The doctrine is of service in so +far as it teaches us that we do everything by the will of God alone, and +that we are partakers of the divine nature in proportion as our actions +become more and more perfect and we more and more understand God. This +doctrine, therefore, besides giving repose in every way to the soul, has +also this advantage, that it teaches us in what our highest happiness or +blessedness consists, namely, in the knowledge of God alone, by which we +are drawn to do those things only which love and piety persuade.” {42a} +In other words, being part of the whole, the grandeur and office of the +whole are ours. We are anxious about what we call “personality,” but in +truth there is nothing in it of any worth, and the less we care for it +the more “blessed” we are. + +“By the desire which springs from reason we follow good directly and +avoid evil indirectly” {42b}: our aim should be the good; in obtaining +that we are delivered from evil. To the same purpose is the conclusion +of the fifth book of the _Ethic_ that “No one delights in blessedness +because he has restrained his affects, but, on the contrary, the power of +restraining his lusts springs from blessedness itself.” {43a} This is +exactly what the Gospel says to the Law. + +Fear is not the motive of a free man to do what is good. “A free man +thinks of nothing less than of death, and his wisdom is not a meditation +upon death, but upon life.” {43b} This is the celebrated sixty-seventh +proposition of the fourth part. If we examine the proof which directly +depends on the sixty-third proposition of the same part—“he who is led by +fear, and does what is good in order that he may avoid what is evil, is +not led by reason”—we shall see that Spinoza is referring to the fear of +the “evil” of hell-fire. + +All Spinoza’s teaching with regard to the passions is a consequence of +what he believes of God and man. He will study the passions and not +curse them. He finds that by understanding them “we can bring it to pass +that we suffer less from them. We have, therefore, mainly to strive to +acquire a clear and distinct knowledge of each affect.” {43c} “If the +human mind had none but adequate ideas it would form no notion of evil.” +{44a} “The difference between a man who is led by affect or opinion +alone and one who is led by reason” is that “the former, whether he wills +it or not, does those things of which he is entirely ignorant, but the +latter does the will of no one but himself.” {44b} _They know not what +they do_. + +The direct influence of Spinoza’s theology is also shown in his treatment +of pity, hatred, laughter, and contempt. “The man who has properly +understood that everything follows from the necessity of the divine +nature, and comes to pass according to the eternal laws and rules of +nature, will in truth discover nothing which is worthy of hatred, +laughter, or contempt, nor will he pity any one, but, so far as human +virtue is able, he will endeavour to _do well_, as we say, and to +_rejoice_.” {44c} By pity is to be understood mere blind sympathy. The +good that we do by this pity with the eyes of the mind shut ought to be +done with them open. “He who lives according to the guidance of reason +strives as much as possible to repay the hatred, anger, or contempt of +others towards himself with love or generosity. . . . He who wishes to +avenge injuries by hating in return does indeed live miserably. But he +who, on the contrary, strives to drive out hatred by love, fights +joyfully and confidently, with equal ease resisting one man or a number +of men, and needing scarcely any assistance from fortune. Those whom he +conquers yield gladly, not from defect of strength, but from an increase +of it.” {45a} + +“Joy is the passion by which the mind passes to a greater perfection: +sorrow, on the other hand, is the passion by which it passes to a less +perfection.” {45b} “No God and no human being, except an envious one, is +delighted by my impotence or my trouble, or esteems as any virtue in us +tears, sighs, fears, and other things of this kind, which are signs of +mental impotence; on the contrary, the greater the joy with which we are +affected, the greater the perfection to which we pass thereby; that is to +say, the more do we necessarily partake of the divine nature.” {46} It +would be difficult to find an account of joy and sorrow which is closer +to the facts than that which Spinoza gives. He lived amongst people +Roman Catholic and Protestant who worshipped sorrow. Sorrow was the +divinely decreed law of life and joy was merely a permitted exception. +He reversed this order and his claim to be considered in this respect as +one of the great revolutionary religious and moral reformers has not been +sufficiently recognised. It is remarkable that, unlike other reformers, +he has not contradicted error by an exaggeration, which itself very soon +stands in need of contradiction, but by simple sanity which requires no +correction. One reason for this peculiarity is that the _Ethic_ was the +result of long meditation. It was published posthumously and was +discussed in draft for many years before his death. Usually what we call +our convictions are propositions which we have not thoroughly examined in +quietude, but notions which have just come into our heads and are +irreversible to us solely because we are committed to them. Much may be +urged against the _Ethic_ and on behalf of hatred, contempt, and sorrow. +The “other side” may be produced mechanically to almost every truth; the +more easily, the more divine that truth is, and against no truths is it +producible with less genuine mental effort than against those uttered by +the founder of Christianity. The question, however, if we are dealing +with the New Testament, is not whether the Sermon on the Mount can be +turned inside out in a debating society, but whether it does not +represent better than anything which the clever leader of the opposition +can formulate the principle or temper which should govern our conduct. + +There is a group of propositions in the last part of the _Ethic_, which, +although they are difficult, it may be well to notice, because they were +evidently regarded by Spinoza as helping him to the end he had in view. +The difficulty lies in a peculiar combination of religious ideas and +scientific form. These propositions are the following:—{47} + + “The mind can cause all the affections of the body or the images of + things to be related to the idea of God.” + + “He who clearly and distinctly understands himself and his affects + loves God, and loves Him better the better he understands himself and + his affects.” + + “This love to God above everything else ought to occupy the mind.” + + “God is free from passions, nor is He affected with any affect of joy + or sorrow.” + + “No one can hate God.” + + “He who loves God cannot strive that God should love him in return.” + + “This love to God cannot be defiled either by the effect of envy or + jealousy, but is the more strengthened the more people we imagine to + be connected with God by the same bond of love.” + +The proof of the first of these propositions, using language somewhat +different from that of the text, is as follows:—There is no affection of +the body of which the mind cannot form some clear and distinct +conception, that is to say, of everything perceived it is capable of +forming a clear and adequate idea, not exhaustive, as Spinoza is careful +to warn us, but an idea not distorted by our personality, and one which +is in accordance with the thing itself, adequate as far as it goes. +Newton’s perception that the moon perpetually falls to the earth by the +same numerical law under which a stone falls to it was an adequate +perception. “Therefore,” continues the demonstration (quoting the +fifteenth proposition of the first part—“Whatever is, is in God, and +nothing can either be or be conceived without God”), “the mind can cause +all the affections of the body to be related to the idea of God.” +Spinoza, having arrived at his adequate idea thus takes a further step to +the idea of God. What is perceived is not an isolated external +phenomenon. It is a reality in God: it _is_ God: there is nothing more +to be thought or said of God than the affirmation of such realities as +these. The “relation to the idea of God” means that in the affirmation +He is affirmed. “Nothing,” that is to say, no reality “can be conceived +without God.” + +But it is possible for the word “love” to be applied to the relationship +between man and God. He who has a clear and adequate perception passes +to greater perfection, and therefore rejoices. Joy, accompanied with the +idea of a cause, is love. By the fourteenth proposition this joy is +accompanied by the idea of God as its cause, and therefore love to God +follows. The demonstration seems formal, and we ask ourselves, What is +the actual emotion which Spinoza describes? It is not new to him, for in +the _Short Treatise_, which is an early sketch for the _Ethic_, he thus +writes:—“Hence it follows incontrovertibly that it is knowledge which is +the cause of love, so that when we learn to know God in this way, we must +necessarily unite ourselves to Him, for He cannot be known, nor can he +reveal Himself, save as that which is supremely great and good. In this +union alone, as we have already said, our happiness consists. I do not +say that we must know Him adequately; but it is sufficient for us, in +order to be united with Him, to know Him in a measure, for the knowledge +we have of the body is not of such a kind that we can know it as it is or +perfectly; and yet what a union! what love!” {50} + +Perhaps it may clear the ground a little if we observe that Spinoza often +avoids a negative by a positive statement. Here he may intend to show us +what the love of God is not, that it is not what it is described in the +popular religion to be. “The only love of God I know,” we may imagine +him saying, “thus arises. The adequate perception is the keenest of +human joys for thereby I see God Himself. That which I see is not a +thing or a person, but nevertheless what I feel towards it can be called +by no other name than love. Although the object of this love is not +thing or person it is not indefinite, it is this only which is definite; +‘thing’ and ‘person’ are abstract and unreal. There was a love to God in +Kepler’s heart when the three laws were revealed to him. If it was not +love to God, what is love to Him?” + +To the eighteenth proposition, “No one can hate God,” there is a scholium +which shows that the problem of pain which Spinoza has left unsolved must +have occurred to him. “But some may object that if we understand God to +be the cause of all things, we do for that very reason consider Him to be +the cause of sorrow. But I reply that in so far as we understand the +causes of sorrow, it ceases to be a passion (Prop. 3, pt. 5), that is to +say (Prop. 59, pt. 3) it ceases to be a sorrow; and therefore in so far +as we understand God to be the cause of sorrow do we rejoice.” The third +proposition of the fifth part which he quotes merely proves that in so +far as we understand passion it ceases to be a passion. He replies to +those “who ask why God has not created all men in such a manner that they +might be controlled by the dictates of reason alone,” {52} “Because to +Him material was not wanting for the creation of everything, from the +highest down to the very lowest grade of perfection; or, to speak more +properly, because the laws of His nature were so ample that they sufficed +for the production of everything which can be conceived by an infinite +intellect.” Nevertheless of pain we have no explanation. Pain is not +lessened by understanding it, nor is its mystery penetrated if we see +that to God material could not have been wanting for the creation of men +or animals who have to endure it all their lives. But if Spinoza is +silent in the presence of pain, so also is every religion and philosophy +which the world has seen. Silence is the only conclusion of the Book of +Job, and patient fortitude in the hope of future enlightenment is the +conclusion of Christianity. + +It is a weak mistake, however, to put aside what religions and +philosophies tell us because it is insufficient. To Job it is not +revealed why suffering is apportioned so unequally or why it exists, but +the answer of the Almighty from the whirlwind he cannot dispute, and +although Spinoza has nothing more to say about pain than he says in the +passages just quoted and was certainly not exempt from it himself, it may +be impossible that any man should hate God. + +We now come to the final propositions of the _Ethic_, those in which +Spinoza declares his belief in the eternity of mind. The twenty-second +and twenty-third propositions of the fifth part are as follows:— + + “In God, nevertheless, there necessarily exists an idea which + expresses the essence of this or that human body under the form of + eternity.” + + “The human mind cannot be absolutely destroyed with the body, but + something of it remains which is eternal.” + +The word “nevertheless” is a reference to the preceding proposition which +denies the continuity of memory or imagination excepting so long as the +body lasts. The demonstration of the twenty-third proposition is not +easy to grasp, but the substance of it is that although the mind is the +idea of the body, that is to say, the mind is body as thought and body is +thought as extension, the mind, or essence of the body, is not completely +destroyed with the body. It exists as an eternal idea, and by an eternal +necessity in God. Here again we must not think of that personality which +is nothing better than a material notion, an image from the concrete +applied to mind, but we must cling fast to thought, to the thoughts which +alone makes us what we _are_, and these, says Spinoza, are in God and are +not to be defined by time. They have always been and always will be. +The enunciation of the thirty-third proposition is, “The intellectual +love of God which arises from the third kind of knowledge is eternal.” +The “third kind of knowledge” is that intuitive science which “advances +from an adequate idea of the formal essence of certain attributes of God +to the adequate knowledge of the essence of things;” {54} “No love except +intellectual love is eternal,” {55a} and the scholium to this proposition +adds, “If we look at the common opinion of men, we shall see that they +are indeed conscious of the eternity of their minds, but they confound it +with duration, and attribute it to imagination or memory, which they +believe remain after death.” The intellectual love of the mind towards +God is the very “love with which He loves Himself, not in so far as He is +infinite, but in so far as He can be manifested through the essence of +the human mind, considered under the form of eternity; that is to say, +the intellectual love of the mind towards God is part of the infinite +love with which God loves Himself.” {55b} “Hence it follows that God, in +so far as He loves Himself, loves men, and consequently that the love of +God towards men and the intellectual love of the mind towards God are one +and the same thing.” {55c} The more adequate ideas the mind forms “the +less it suffers from those affects which are evil, and the less it fears +death” because “the greater is that part which remains unharmed, and the +less consequently does it suffer from the affects.” It is possible even +“for the human mind to be of such a nature that that part of it which we +have shown perishes with its body, in comparison with the part of it +which remains, is of no consequence.” {56a} + +Spinoza, it is clear, holds that in some way—in what way he will not +venture to determine—the more our souls are possessed by the intellectual +love of God, the less is death to be dreaded, for the smaller is that +part of us which can die. Three parallel passages may be appended. One +will show that this was Spinoza’s belief from early years and the other +two that it is not peculiar to him. “If the soul is united with some +other thing which is and remains unchangeable, it must also remain +unchangeable and permanent.” {56b} “Further, this creative reason does +not at one time think, at another time not think [it thinks eternally]: +and when separated from the body it remains nothing but what it +essentially is: and thus it is alone immortal and eternal. Of this +unceasing work of thought, however, we retain no memory, because this +reason is unaffected by its objects; whereas the receptive, passive +intellect (which is affected) is perishable, and can really think nothing +without the support of the creative intellect.” {57a} The third +quotation is from a great philosophic writer, but one to whom perhaps we +should not turn for such a coincidence. “I believe,” said Pantagruel, +“that all intellectual souls are exempt from the scissors of Atropos. +They are all immortal.” {57b} + +I have not tried to write an essay on Spinoza, for in writing an essay +there is a temptation to a consistency and completeness which are +contributed by the writer and are not to be found in his subject. The +warning must be reiterated that here as elsewhere we are too desirous, +both writers and readers, of clear definition where none is possible. We +do not stop where the object of our contemplation stops for our eyes. +For my own part I must say that there is much in Spinoza which is beyond +me, much which I cannot _extend_, and much which, if it can be extended, +seems to involve contradiction. But I have also found his works +productive beyond those of almost any man I know of that _acquiescentia +mentis_ which enables us to live. + + + + +SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE ON THE DEVIL + + +SPINOZA denies the existence of the Devil, and says, in the _Short +Treatise_, that if he is the mere opposite of God and has nothing from +God, he is simply the Nothing. But if a philosophical doctrine be true, +it does not follow that as it stands it is applicable to practical +problems. For these a rule may have to be provided, which, although it +may not be inconsistent with the scientific theorem, differs from it in +form. The Devil is not an invention of priests for priestly purposes, +nor is he merely a hypothesis to account for facts, but he has been +forced upon us in order that we may be able to deal with them. Unless we +act as though there were an enemy to be resisted and chained, if we +fritter away differences of kind into differences of degree, we shall +make poor work of life. Spinoza himself assumes that other commands than +God’s may be given to us, but that we are unhesitatingly to obey His and +His only. “Ad fidem ergo catholicam,” he says, “ea solummodo pertinent, +quæ erga Deum _obedientia_ absolute ponit.” Consciousness seems to +testify to the presence of two mortal foes within us—one Divine and the +other diabolic—and perhaps the strongest evidence is not the rebellion of +the passions, but the picturing and the mental processes which are almost +entirely beyond our control, and often greatly distress us. We look down +upon them; they are not ours, and yet they are ours, and we cry out with +St. Paul against the law warring with the law of our minds. Bunyan of +course knows the practical problem and the rule, and to him the Devil is +not merely the tempter to crimes, but the great Adversary. In the _Holy +War_ the chosen regiments of Diabolus are the Doubters, and +notwithstanding their theologic names, they carried deadlier weapons than +the theologic doubters of to-day. The captain over the Grace-doubters +was Captain Damnation; he over the Felicity-doubters was Captain +Past-hope, and his ancient-bearer was Mr. Despair. The nature of the +Doubters is “to put a question upon every one of the truths of Emanuel, +and their country is called the Land of Doubting, and that land lieth off +and furthest remote to the north between the land of Darkness and that +called the Valley of the Shadow of Death.” They are not children of the +sun, and although they are not sinners in the common sense of the word, +those that were caught in Mansoul were promptly executed. + +There is nothing to be done but to fight and wait for the superior help +which will come if we do what we can. Emanuel at first delayed his aid +in the great battle, and the first brunt was left to Captain Credence. +Presently, however, Emanuel appeared “with colours flying, trumpets +sounding, and the feet of his men scarce touched the ground; they hasted +with such celerity towards the captains that were engaged that . . . +there was not left so much as one Doubter alive, they lay spread upon the +ground dead men as one would spread dung on the land.” The dead were +buried “lest the fumes and ill-favours that would arise from them might +infect the air and so annoy the famous town of Mansoul.” But it will be +a fight to the end for Diabolus, and the lords of the pit escaped. + +After Emanuel had finally occupied Mansoul he gave the citizens some +advice. The policy of Diabolus was “to make of their castle a +warehouse.” Emanuel made it a fortress and a palace, and garrisoned the +town. “O my Mansoul,” he said, “nourish my captains; make not my +captains sick, O Mansoul.” + + + + +INJUSTICE + + +A NOTION, self-begotten in me, of the limitations of my friend is +answerable for the barrenness of my intercourse with him. I set him down +as hard; I speak to him as if he were hard and from that which is hard in +myself. Naturally I evoke only that which is hard, although there may be +fountains of tenderness in him of which I am altogether unaware. It is +far better in conversation not to regulate it according to supposed +capacities or tempers, which are generally those of some fictitious +being, but to be simply ourselves. We shall often find unexpected and +welcome response. + +Our estimates of persons, unless they are frequently revived by personal +intercourse, are apt to alter insensibly and to become untrue. They +acquire increased definiteness but they lose in comprehensiveness. + +Especially is this true of those who are dead. If I do not read a great +author for some time my mental abstract of him becomes summary and false. +I turn to him again, all summary judgments upon him become impossible, +and he partakes of infinitude. Writers, and people who are in society +and talk much are apt to be satisfied with an algebraic symbol for a man +of note, and their work is done not with him but with _x_. + + + + +TIME SETTLES CONTROVERSIES + + +WE ought to let Time have his own way in the settlement of our disputes. +It is a commonplace how much he is able to do with some of our troubles, +such as loss of friends or wealth; but we do not sufficiently estimate +his power to help our arguments. If I permit myself to dispute, I always +go beyond what is necessary for my purpose, and my continual iteration +and insistence do nothing but provoke opposition. Much better would it +be simply to state my case and leave it. To do more is not only to +distrust it, but to distrust that in my friend which is my best ally, and +will more surely assist me than all my vehemence. Sometimes—nay, +often—it is better to say nothing, for there is a constant tendency in +Nature towards rectification, and her quiet protest and persuasiveness +are hindered by personal interference. If anybody very dear to me were +to fall into any heresy of belief or of conduct, I am not sure that I +ought to rebuke him, and that he would not sooner be converted by +observing my silent respect for him than by preaching to him. + + + + +TALKING ABOUT OUR TROUBLES + + +WE may talk about our troubles to those persons who can give us direct +help, but even in this case we ought as much as possible to come to a +provisional conclusion before consultation; to be perfectly clear to +ourselves within our own limits. Some people have a foolish trick of +applying for aid before they have done anything whatever to aid +themselves, and in fact try to talk themselves into perspicuity. The +only way in which they can think is by talking, and their speech +consequently is not the expression of opinion already and carefully +formed, but the manufacture of it. + +We may also tell our troubles to those who are suffering if we can lessen +their own. It may be a very great relief to them to know that others +have passed through trials equal to theirs and have survived. There are +obscure, nervous diseases, hypochondriac fancies, almost uncontrollable +impulses, which terrify by their apparent singularity. If we could +believe that they are common, the worst of the fear would vanish. + +But, as a rule, we should be very careful for our own sake not to speak +much about what distresses us. Expression is apt to carry with it +exaggeration, and this exaggerated form becomes henceforth that under +which we represent our miseries to ourselves, so that they are thereby +increased. By reserve, on the other hand, they are diminished, for we +attach less importance to that which it was not worth while to mention. +Secrecy, in fact, may be our salvation. + +It is injurious to be always treated as if something were the matter with +us. It is health-giving to be dealt with as if we were healthy, and the +man who imagines his wits are failing becomes stronger and sounder by +being entrusted with a difficult problem than by all the assurances of a +doctor. + +They are poor creatures who are always craving for pity. If we are sick, +let us prefer conversation upon any subject rather than upon ourselves. +Let it turn on matters that lie outside the dark chamber, upon the last +new discovery, or the last new idea. So shall we seem still to be linked +to the living world. By perpetually asking for sympathy an end is put to +real friendship. The friend is afraid to intrude anything which has no +direct reference to the patient’s condition lest it should be thought +irrelevant. No love even can long endure without complaint, silent it +may be, an invalid who is entirely self-centred; and what an agony it is +to know that we are tended simply as a duty by those who are nearest to +us, and that they will really be relieved when we have departed! From +this torture we may be saved if we early apprentice ourselves to the art +of self-suppression and sternly apply the gag to eloquence upon our own +woes. Nobody who really cares for us will mind waiting on us even to the +long-delayed last hour if we endure in fortitude. + +There is no harm in confronting our disorders or misfortunes. On the +contrary, the attempt is wholesome. Much of what we dread is really due +to indistinctness of outline. If we have the courage to say to +ourselves, What _is_ this thing, then? let the worst come to the worst, +and what then? we shall frequently find that after all it is not so +terrible. What we have to do is to subdue tremulous, nervous, insane +fright. Fright is often prior to an object; that is to say, the fright +comes first and something is invented or discovered to account for it. +There are certain states of body and mind which are productive of +objectless fright, and the most ridiculous thing in the world is able to +provoke it to activity. It is perhaps not too much to say that any +calamity the moment it is apprehended by the reason alone loses nearly +all its power to disturb and unfix us. The conclusions which are so +alarming are not those of the reason, but, to use Spinoza’s words, of the +“affects.” + + + + +FAITH + + +FAITH is nobly seen when a man, standing like Columbus upon the shore +with a dark, stormy Atlantic before him, resolves to sail, and although +week after week no land be visible, still believes and still sails on; +but it is nobler when there is no America as the goal of our venture, but +something which is unsubstantial, as, for example, self-control and +self-purification. It is curious, by the way, that discipline of this +kind should almost have disappeared. Possibly it is because religion is +now a matter of belief in certain propositions; but, whatever the cause +may be, we do not train ourselves day by day to become better as we train +ourselves to learn languages or science. To return from this +parenthesis, we say that when no applause nor even recognition is +expected, to proceed steadily and alone for its own sake in the work of +saving the soul is truer heroism than that which leads a martyr +cheerfully to the stake. + +Faith is at its best when we have to wrestle with despair, not only of +ourselves but of the Universe; when we strain our eyes and see nothing +but blackness. In the _Gorgias_ Socrates maintains, not only that it is +always better to suffer injustice than to commit it, but that it is +better to be punished for injustice than to escape, and better to die +than to do wrong; and it is better not only because of the effect on +others but for our own sake. We are naturally led to ask what support a +righteous man unjustly condemned could find, supposing he were about to +be executed, if he had no faith in personal immortality and knew that his +martyrdom could not have the least effect for good. Imagine him, for +example, shut up in a dungeon and about to be strangled in it and that +not a single inquiry will be made about him—where will he look for help? +what hope will compose him? He may say that in a few hours he will be +asleep, and that nothing will then be of any consequence to him, but that +thought surely will hardly content him. He may reflect that he at least +prevents the evil which would be produced by his apostasy; and very +frequently in life, when we abstain from doing wrong, we have to be +satisfied with a negative result and with the simple absence (which +nobody notices) of some direct mischief, although the abstention may cost +more than positive well-doing. This too, however, is but cold +consolation when the cord is brought and the grave is already dug. + +It must be admitted that Reason cannot give any answer. Socrates, when +his reasoning comes to an end, often permits himself to tell a story. +“My dialectic,” he seems to say, “is of no further use; but here is a +tale for you,” and as he goes on with it we can see his satyr eyes gleam +with an intensity which shows that he did not consider he was inventing a +mere fable. That was the way in which he taught theology. Perhaps we +may find that something less than logic and more than a dream may be of +use to us. We may figure to ourselves that this universe of souls is the +manifold expression of the One, and that in this expression there is a +purpose which gives importance to all the means of which it avails +itself. Apparent failure may therefore be a success, for the mind which +has been developed into perfect virtue falls back into the One, having +served (by its achievements) the end of its existence. The potential in +the One has become actual, has become real, and the One is the richer +thereby. + + + + +PATIENCE + + +WHAT is most to be envied in really religious people of the earlier type +is their intellectual and moral peace. They had obtained certain +convictions, a certain conception of the Universe, by which they could +live. Their horizon may have been encompassed with darkness; experience +sometimes contradicted their faith, but they trusted—nay, they knew—that +the opposition was not real and that the truths were not to be shaken. +Their conduct was marked by a corresponding unity. They determined once +for all that there were rules which had to be obeyed, and when any +particular case arose it was not judged according to the caprice of the +moment, but by statute. + +We, on the other hand, can only doubt. So far as those subjects are +concerned on which we are most anxious to be informed, we are sure of +nothing. What we have to do is to accept the facts and wait. We must +take care not to deny beauty and love because we are forced also to admit +ugliness and hatred. Let us yield ourselves up utterly to the +magnificence and tenderness of the sunrise, though the East End of London +lies over the horizon. That very same Power, and it is no other, which +blasts a country with the cholera or drives the best of us to madness has +put the smile in a child’s face and is the parent of Love. It is +curious, too, that the curse seems in no way to qualify the blessing. +The sweetness and majesty of Nature are so exquisite, so pure, that when +they are before us we cannot imagine they could be better if they +proceeded from an omnipotently merciful Being and no pestilence had ever +been known. We must not worry ourselves with attempts at reconciliation. +We must be satisfied with a hint here and there, with a ray of sunshine +at our feet, and we must do what we can to make the best of what we +possess. Hints and sunshine will not be wanting, and science, which was +once considered to be the enemy of religion, is dissolving by its later +discoveries the old gross materialism, the source of so much despair. + +The conduct of life is more important than speculation, but the lives of +most of us are regulated by no principle whatever. We read our Bible, +Thomas à Kempis, and Bunyan, and we are persuaded that our salvation lies +in the perpetual struggle of the higher against the lower self, the +spirit against the flesh, and that the success of the flesh is damnation. +We take down Horace and Rabelais and we admit that the body also has its +claims. We have no power to dominate both sets of books, and +consequently they supersede one another alternately. Perhaps life is too +large for any code we can as yet frame, and the dissolution of all codes, +the fluid, unstable condition of which we complain, may be a necessary +antecedent of new and more lasting combinations. One thing is certain, +that there is not a single code now in existence which is not false; that +the graduation of the vices and virtues is wrong, and that in the future +it will be altered. We must not hand ourselves over to a despotism with +no Divine right, even if there be a risk of anarchy. In the +determination of our own action, and in our criticism of other people, we +must use the whole of ourselves and not mere fragments. If we do this we +need not fear. We may suppose we are in danger because the stone tables +of the Decalogue have gone to dust, but it is more dangerous to attempt +to control men by fictions. Better no chart whatever than one which +shows no actually existing perils, but warns us against Scylla, +Charybdis, and the Cyclops. If we are perfectly honest with ourselves we +shall not find it difficult to settle whether we ought to do this or that +particular thing, and we may be content. The new legislation will come +naturally at the appointed time, and it is not impossible to live while +it is on the way. + + + + +AN APOLOGY + + +IN these latter days of anarchy and tumult, when there is no gospel of +faith or morals, when democracy seems bent on falsifying every prediction +of earlier democratic enthusiasts by developing worse dangers to liberty +than any which our forefathers had to encounter, and when the misery of +cities is so great, it appears absurd, not to say wrong, that we should +sit still and read books. I am ashamed when I go into my own little room +and open Milton or Shakespeare after looking at a newspaper or walking +through the streets of London. I feel that Milton and Shakespeare are +luxuries, and that I really belong to the class which builds palaces for +its pleasure, although men and women may be starving on the roads. + +Nevertheless, if I were placed on a platform I should be obliged to say, +“My brethren, I plainly perceive the world is all wrong, but I cannot see +how it is to be set right,” and I should descend the steps and go home. +There may be others who have a clearer perception than mine, and who may +be convinced that this way or that way lies regeneration. I do not wish +to discourage them; I wish them God-speed, but I cannot help them nor +become their disciple. Possibly I am doing nothing better than devising +excuses for lotus-eating, but here they are. + +To take up something merely because I am idle is useless. The message +must come to me, and with such urgency that I cannot help delivering it. +Nor is it of any use to attempt to give my natural thoughts a force which +is not inherent in them. + +The disease is often obvious, but the remedies are doubtful. The +accumulation of wealth in a few hands, generally by swindling, is +shocking, but if it were distributed to-morrow we should gain nothing. +The working man objects to the millionaire, but would gladly become a +millionaire himself, even if his million could be piled up in no other +way than by sweating thousands of his fellows. The usurpation of +government by the ignorant will bring disaster, but how in these days +could a wise man reign any longer than ignorance permitted him? The +everlasting veerings of the majority, without any reason meanwhile for +the change, show that, except on rare occasions of excitement, the +opinion of the voters is of no significance. But when we are asked what +substitute for elections can be proposed, none can be found. So with the +relationship between man and woman, the marriage laws and divorce. The +calculus has not been invented which can deal with such complexities. We +are in the same position as that in which Leverrier and Adams would have +been, if, observing the irregularities of Uranus, which led to the +discovery of Neptune, they had known nothing but the first six books of +Euclid and a little algebra. + +There has never been any reformation as yet without dogma and +supernaturalism. Ordinary people acknowledge no real reasons for virtue +except heaven and hell-fire. When heaven and hell-fire cease to +persuade, custom for a while is partly efficacious, but its strength soon +decays. Some good men, knowing the uselessness of rational means to +convert or to sustain their fellows, have clung to dogma with hysterical +energy, but without any genuine faith in it. They have failed, for dogma +cannot be successful unless it be the _inevitable_ expression of the +inward conviction. + +The voices now are so many and so contradictory that it is impossible to +hear any one of them distinctly, no matter what its claim on our +attention may be. The newspaper, the circulating library, the free +library, and the magazine are doing their best to prevent unity of +direction and the din and confusion of tongues beget a doubt whether +literature and the printing press have actually been such a blessing to +the race as enlightenment universally proclaims them to be. + +The great currents of human destiny seem more than ever to move by forces +which tend to no particular point. There is a drift, tremendous and +overpowering, due to nobody in particular, but to hundreds of millions of +small impulses. Achilles is dead, and the turn of the Myrmidons has +come. + + “Myrmdons, race féconde + Myrmidons, + Enfin nous commandons: + Jupiter livre le monde + Aux Myrmidons, aux Myrmidons. + + Voyant qu’ Achille succombe, + Ses Myrmidons, hors des rangs, + Disent: Dansons sur sa tombe + Ses petits vont être grands.” + +My last defence is that the Universe is an organic unity, and so subtle +and far-reaching are the invisible threads which pass from one part of it +to another that it is impossible to limit the effect which even an +insignificant life may have. “Were a single dust-atom destroyed, the +universe would collapse.” + + “ . . . who of men can tell + That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell + To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, + The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale, + The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, + The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, + Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet + If human souls did never kiss and greet?” + + + + +BELIEF, UNBELIEF, AND SUPERSTITION + + +TRUE belief is rare and difficult. There is no security that the +fictitious beliefs which have been obtained by no genuine mental process, +that is to say, are not vitally held, may not be discarded for those +which are exactly contrary. We flatter ourselves that we have secured a +method and freedom of thought which will not permit us to be the victims +of the absurdities of the Middle Ages, but, in fact, there is no solid +obstacle to our conversion to some new grotesque religion more miraculous +than Roman Catholicism. Modern scepticism, distinguishing it from +scholarly scepticism, is nothing but stupidity or weakness. Few people +like to confess outright that they do not believe in a God, although the +belief in a personal devil is considered to be a sign of imbecility. +Nevertheless, men, as a rule, have no ground for believing in God a whit +more respectable than for disbelief in a devil. The devil is not seen +nor is God seen. The work of the devil is as obvious as that of God. +Nay, as the devil is a limited personality, belief in him is not +encumbered with the perplexities which arise when we attempt to apprehend +the infinite Being. Belief may often be tested; that is to say, we may +be able to discover whether it is an active belief or not by inquiring +what disbelief it involves. So also the test of disbelief is its +correspondent belief. + +Superstition is a name generally given to a few only of those beliefs for +which it is imagined that there is no sufficient support, such as the +belief in ghosts, witches, and, if we are Protestants, in miracles +performed after a certain date. Why these particular beliefs have been +selected as solely deserving to be called superstitious it is not easy to +discover. If the name is to be extended to all beliefs which we have not +attempted to verify, it must include the largest part of those we +possess. We vote at elections as we are told to vote by the newspaper +which we happen to read, and our opinions upon a particular policy are +based upon no surer foundation than those of the Papist on the +authenticity of the lives of the Saints. + +Superstition is a matter of _relative_ evidence. A thousand years ago it +was not so easy as it is now to obtain rigid demonstration in any +department except mathematics. Much that was necessarily the basis of +action was as incapable of proof as the story of St. George and the +Dragon, and consequently it is hardly fair to say that the dark ages were +more superstitious than our own. Nor does every belief, even in +supernatural objects, deserve the name of superstition. Suppose that the +light which struck down St. Paul on his journey to Damascus was due to +his own imagination, the belief that it came from Jesus enthroned in the +heavens was a sign of strength and not of weakness. Beliefs of this +kind, in so far as they exalt man, prove greatness and generosity, and +may be truer than the scepticism which is formally justified in rejecting +them. If Christ never rose from the dead, the women who waited at the +sepulchre were nearer to reality than the Sadducees, who denied the +resurrection. + +There is a half-belief, which we find in Virgil that is not superstition, +nor inconstancy, nor cowardice. A child-like faith in the old creed is +no longer possible, but it is equally impossible to surrender it. I +refer now not to those who select from it what they think to be in +accordance with their reason, and throw overboard the remainder with no +remorse, but rather to those who cannot endure to touch with sacrilegious +hands the ancient histories and doctrines which have been the +depositaries of so much that is eternal, and who dread lest with the +destruction of a story something precious should also be destroyed. The +so-called superstitious ages were not merely transitionary. Our regret +that they have departed is to be explained not by a mere idealisation of +the past, but by a conviction that truths have been lost, or at least +have been submerged. Perhaps some day they may be recovered, and in some +other form may again become our religion. + + + + +JUDAS ISCARIOT—WHAT CAN BE SAID FOR HIM? + + +JUDAS ISCARIOT has become to Christian people an object of horror more +loathsome than even the devil himself. The devil rebelled because he +could not brook subjection to the Son of God, a failing which was noble +compared with treachery to the Son of man. The hatred of Judas is not +altogether virtuous. We compound thereby for our neglect of Jesus and +His precepts: it is easier to establish our Christianity by cursing the +wretched servant than by following his Master. The heinousness also of +the crime in Gethsemane has been aggravated by the exaltation of Jesus to +the Redeemership of the world. All that can be known of Judas is soon +collected. He was chosen one of the twelve apostles, and received their +high commission to preach the kingdom of heaven, to heal the sick, raise +the dead, cleanse the lepers, and cast out devils. He was appointed +treasurer to the community. John in telling the story of the anointing +at Bethany says that he was a thief, but John also makes him the sole +objector to the waste of the ointment. According to the other +evangelists all the disciples objected. Since he remained in office it +could hardly have been known at the time of the visit to Bethany that he +was dishonest, nor could it have been known at any time to Matthew and +Mark, for they would not have lost the opportunity of adding such a touch +to the portrait. The probability, therefore, is that the robbery of the +bag is unhistorical. When the chief priests and scribes sought how they +might apprehend Jesus they made a bargain with Judas to deliver Him to +them for thirty pieces of silver. He was present at the Last Supper but +went and betrayed his Lord. A few hours afterwards, when he found out +that condemnation to death followed, he repented himself and brought +again the thirty pieces of silver to his employers, declared that he had +sinned in betraying innocent blood, cast down the money at their feet, +and went and hanged himself. + +This is all that is discoverable about Judas, and it has been considered +sufficient for a damnation deeper than any allotted to the worst of the +sons of Adam. Dante places him in the lowest round of the ninth or last +of the hellish circles, where he is eternally “champed” by Satan, +“bruised as with ponderous engine,” his head within the diabolic jaws and +“plying the feet without.” In the absence of a biography with details, +it is impossible to make out with accuracy what the real Judas was. We +can, however, by dispassionate examination of the facts determine their +sole import, and if we indulge in inferences we can deduce those which +are fairly probable. As Judas was treasurer, he must have been trusted. +He could hardly have been naturally covetous, for he had given up in +common with the other disciples much, if not all, to follow Jesus. The +thirty pieces of silver—some four or five pounds of our money—could not +have been considered by him as a sufficient bribe for the ignominy of a +treason which was to end in legal murder. He ought perhaps to have been +able to measure the ferocity of an established ecclesiastical order and +to have known what would have been the consequence of handing over to it +perfect, and therefore heretical, sincerity and purity, but there is no +evidence that he did know: nay, we are distinctly informed, as we have +just seen, that when he became aware what was going to happen his sorrow +for his wicked deed took a very practical shape. + +We cannot allege with confidence that it was any permanent loss of +personal attachment to Jesus which brought about his defection. It came +when the belief in a theocracy near at hand filled the minds of the +disciples. These ignorant Galilean fishermen expected that in a very +short time they would sit on twelve thrones judging the twelve tribes of +Israel. The custodian of the bag, gifted with more common sense than his +colleagues, probably foresaw the danger of a collision with Rome, and may +have desired by a timely arrest to prevent an open revolt, which would +have meant immediate destruction of the whole band with women and +children. Can any position be imagined more irritating that that of a +careful man of business who is keeper of the purse for a company of +heedless enthusiasts professing complete indifference to the value of +money, misunderstanding the genius of their chief, and looking out every +morning for some sign in the clouds, a prophecy of their immediate +appointment as vicegerents of a power that would supersede the awful +majesty of the Imperial city? He may have been heated by a long series +of petty annoyances to such a degree that at last they may have ended in +rage and a sudden flinging loose of himself from the society. It is the +impulsive man who frequently suffers what appears to be inversion, and +Judas was impulsive exceedingly. Matthew, and Matthew only, says that +Judas asked for money from the chief priests. “What will ye give me, and +I will deliver Him unto you?” According to Mark, whose account of the +transaction is the same as Luke’s, “Judas . . . went unto the chief +priests to betray Him unto them. And when they heard it, they were glad, +and promised to give him money.” If the priests were the tempters, a +slight difference is established in favour of Judas, but this we will +neglect. The sin of taking money and joining in that last meal in any +case is black enough, although, as we have before pointed out, Judas did +not at the time know what the other side of the bargain was. Admitting, +however, everything that can fairly be urged against him, all that can be +affirmed with certainty is that we are in the presence of strange and +unaccountable inconsistency, and that an apostle who had abandoned his +home, who had followed Jesus for three years amidst contempt and +persecution, and who at last slew himself in self-reproach, could be +capable of committing the meanest of sins. Is the co-existence of +irreconcilable opposites in human nature anything new? The story of +Judas may be of some value if it reminds us that man is incalculable, and +that, although in theory, and no doubt in reality, he is a unity, the +point from which the divergent forces in him rise is often infinitely +beyond our exploration; a lesson not merely in psychology but for our own +guidance, a warning that side by side with heroic virtues there may sleep +in us not only detestable vices, but vices by which those virtues are +contradicted and even for the time annihilated. The mode of betrayal, +with a kiss, has justly excited loathing, but it is totally +unintelligible. Why should he have taken the trouble to be so base when +the movement of a finger would have sufficed? Why was any sign necessary +to indicate one who was so well known? The supposition that the devil +compelled him to superfluous villainy in order that he might be secured +with greater certainty and tortured with greater subtlety is one that can +hardly be entertained except by theologians. It is equally difficult to +understand why Jesus submitted to such an insult, and why Peter should +not have smitten down its perpetrator. Peter was able to draw his sword, +and it would have been safer and more natural to kill Judas than to cut +off the ear of the high priest’s servant. John, who shows a special +dislike to Judas, knows nothing of the kiss. According to John, Jesus +asked the soldiers whom they sought, and then stepped boldly forward and +declared Himself. “Judas,” adds John, “was standing with them.” As John +took such particular notice of what happened, the absence of the kiss in +his account can hardly have been accidental. It is a sound maxim in +criticism that what is simply difficult of explanation is likely to be +authentic. An awkward reading in a manuscript is to be preferred to one +which is easier. But an historical improbability, especially if no +corroboration of it is to be found in a better authority, may be set +aside, and in this case we are justified in neglecting the kiss. +Whatever may have been the exact shade of darkness in the crime of Judas, +it was avenged with singular swiftness, and he himself was the avenger. +He did not slink away quietly and poison himself in a ditch. He boldly +encountered the sacred college, confessed his sin and the innocence of +the man they were about to crucify. Compared with these pious miscreants +who had no scruples about corrupting one of the disciples, but shuddered +at the thought of putting back into the treasury the money they had taken +from it, Judas becomes noble. His remorse is so unendurable that it +drives him to suicide. + +If a record could be kept of those who have abjured Jesus through love of +gold, through fear of the world or of the scribes and Pharisees, we +should find many who are considered quite respectable, or have even been +canonised, and who, nevertheless, much more worthily than Iscariot, are +entitled to “champing” by the jaws of Sathanas. Not a single scrap from +Judas himself has reached us. He underwent no trial, and is condemned +without plea or excuse on his own behalf, and with no cross-examination +of the evidence. No witnesses have been called to his character. What +would his friends at Kerioth have said for him? What would Jesus have +said? If He had met Judas with the halter in his hand would He not have +stopped him? Ah! I can see the Divine touch on the shoulder, the +passionate prostration of the repentant in the dust, the hands gently +lifting him, the forgiveness because he knew not what he did, and the +seal of a kiss indeed from the sacred lips. + + + + +SIR WALTER SCOTT’S USE OF THE SUPERNATURAL IN THE “BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR” + + +THE supernatural machinery in Sir Walter Scott’s _Monastery_ is generally +and, no doubt, correctly, set down as a mistake. Sir Walter fails, not +because the White Lady of Avenel is a miracle, but because being +miraculous, she is made to do what sometimes is not worthy of her. This, +however, is not always true, for nothing can be finer than the change in +Halbert Glendinning after he has seen the spirit, and the great master +himself has never drawn a nobler stroke than that in which he describes +the effect which intercourse with her has had upon Mary. Halbert, on the +morning of the duel between himself and Sir Piercie Shafton, is trying to +persuade her that he intends no harm, and that he and Sir Piercie are +going on a hunting expedition. “Say not thus,” said the maiden, +interrupting him, “say not thus to me. Others thou may’st deceive, but +me thou can’st not. There has been that in me from the earliest youth +which fraud flies from, and which imposture cannot deceive.” The +transforming influence of the Lady is here just what it should be, and +the consequence is that she becomes a reality. + +But it is in the _Bride of Lammermoor_ more particularly that the use of +the supernatural is not only blameless but indispensable. We begin to +rise to it in that scene in which the Master of Ravenswood meets Alice. +“Begone from among them,” she says, “and if God has destined vengeance on +the oppressor’s house, do not you be the instrument. . . . If you remain +here, her destruction or yours, or that of both, will be the inevitable +consequence of her misplaced attachment.” A little further on, with +great art, Scott having duly prepared us by what has preceded, adds +intensity and colour. He apologises for the “tinge of superstition,” +but, not believing, he evidently believes, and we justly surrender +ourselves to him. The Master of Ravenswood after the insult received +from Lady Ashton wanders round the Mermaiden’s Well on his way to Wolf’s +Crag and sees the wraith of Alice. Scott makes horse as well as man +afraid so that we may not immediately dismiss the apparition as a mere +ordinary product of excitement. Alice at that moment was dying, and had +“prayed powerfully that she might see her master’s son and renew her +warning.” Observe the difference between this and any vulgar ghost +story. From the very first we feel that the Superior Powers are against +this match, and that it will be cursed. The beginning of the curse lies +far back in the hereditary temper of the Ravenswoods, in the intrigues of +the Ashtons, and in the feuds of the times. When Love intervenes we +discover in an instant that he is not sent by the gods to bring peace, +but that he is the awful instrument of destruction. The spectral +appearance of Alice at the hour of her departure, on the very spot “on +which Lucy Ashton had reclined listening to the fatal tale of woe . . . +holding up her shrivelled hand as if to prevent his coming more near,” is +necessary in order to intimate that the interdict is pronounced not by a +mortal human being but by a dread, supernal authority. + + + + +SEPTEMBER, 1798. “THE LYRICAL BALLADS.” + + +THE year 1798 was a year of great excitement: England was alone in the +struggle against Buonaparte; the mutiny at the Nore had only just been +quelled: the 3 per cent. Consols had been marked at 49 or 50; the +Gazettes were occupied with accounts of bloody captures of French ships; +Ireland may be said to have been in rebellion, and horrible murders were +committed there; the King sent a message to Parliament telling it that an +invasion might be expected and that it was to be assisted by +“incendiaries” at home; and the Archbishop of Canterbury and eleven +bishops passed a resolution declaring that if the French should land, or +a dangerous insurrection should break out, it would be the duty of the +clergy to take up arms against an enemy whom the Bishop of Rochester +described as “instigated by that desperate malignity against the Faith he +has abandoned, which in all ages has marked the horrible character of the +vile apostate.” + +In the midst of this raving political excitement three human beings were +to be found who although they were certainly not unmoved by it, were able +to detach themselves from it when they pleased, and to seclude themselves +in a privacy impenetrable even to an echo of the tumult around them. + +In April or May, 1798, the _Nightingale_ was written, and these are the +sights and sounds which were then in young Coleridge’s eyes and ears:— + + “No cloud, no relique of the sunken day + Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip + Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. + Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! + You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, + But hear no murmuring: it flows silently, + O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, + A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim, + Yet let us think upon the vernal showers + That gladden the green earth, and we shall find + A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.” + +We happen also to have Dorothy Wordsworth’s journal for April and May. +Here are a few extracts from it:— + + April 6th.—“Went a part of the way home with Coleridge. . . . The + spring still advancing very slowly. The horse-chestnuts budding, and + the hedgerows beginning to look green, but nothing fully expanded.” + + April 9th.—“Walked to Stowey . . . The sloe in blossom, the hawthorns + green, the larches in the park changed from black to green in two or + three days. Met Coleridge in returning.” + + April 12th.—“ . . . The spring advances rapidly, multitudes of + primroses, dog-violets, periwinkles, stitchwort.” + + April 27th.—“Coleridge breakfasted and drank tea, strolled in the + wood in the morning, went with him in the evening through the wood, + afterwards walked on the hills: the moon; a many-coloured sea and + sky.” + + May 6th, Sunday.—“Expected the painter {101} and Coleridge. A rainy + morning—very pleasant in the evening. Met Coleridge as we were + walking out. Went with him to Stowey; heard the nightingale; saw a + glow-worm.” + +What was it which these three young people (for Dorothy certainly must be +included as one of its authors) proposed to achieve by their book? +Coleridge, in the _Biographia Literaria_, says (vol. ii. c. 1): “During +the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours, our +conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the +power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to +the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novelty by +the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm, which accidents +of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset diffused over a known and +familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicability of combining +both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself—(to +which of us I do not recollect)—that a series of poems might be composed +of two sorts. In the one, the agents and incidents were to be, in part +at least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the +interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions, as +would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real. And real +in this sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever +source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernatural +agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary +life; the characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in +every village and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling +mind to seek after them, or to notice them, when they present themselves. + + “In this idea originated the plan of the LYRICAL BALLADS; in which it + was agreed, that my endeavours should be directed to persons and + characters supernatural, or at least romantic; yet so as to transfer + from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth + sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing + suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic + faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself + as his object, to give the charm of novelty to things of everyday and + to excite a feeling _analogous to the supernatural_, {103} by + awakening the mind’s attention to the lethargy of custom, and + directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before + us; an inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the + film of familiarity and selfish solicitude we have eyes, yet see not, + ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand. + + “With this view I wrote THE ANCIENT MARINER, and was preparing, among + other poems, THE DARK LADIE and the CHRISTABEL, in which I should + have more nearly have realised my ideal, than I had done in my first + attempt.” + +Coleridge, when he wrote to Cottle offering him the _Lyrical Ballads_, +affirms that “the volumes offered to you are, to a certain degree, _one +work in kind_” {104a} (_Reminiscences_, p. 179); and Wordsworth declares, +“I should not, however, have requested this assistance, had I not +believed that the poems of my Friend would in a great measure _have the +same tendency as my own_, {104b} and that though there would be found a +difference, there would be found no discordance in the colours of our +style; as our opinions on the subject of poetry do almost entirely +coincide” (Preface to _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800). + +It is a point carefully to be borne in mind that we have the explicit and +contemporary authority of both poets that their aim was the same. + +There are difficulties in the way of believing that _The Ancient Mariner_ +was written for the _Lyrical Ballads_. It was planned in 1797 and was +originally intended for a magazine. Nevertheless, it may be asserted +that the purpose of _The Ancient Mariner_ and of _Christabel_ (which was +originally intended for the _Ballads_) was, as their author said, +_truth_, living truth. He was the last man in the world to care for a +story simply as a chain of events with no significance, and in these +poems the supernatural, by interpenetration with human emotions, comes +closer to us than an event of daily life. In return the emotions +themselves, by means of the supernatural expression, gain intensity. The +texture is so subtly interwoven that it is difficult to illustrate the +point by example, but take the following lines:— + + “Alone, alone, all, all alone, + Alone on a wide wide sea! + And never a saint took pity on + My soul in agony. + + The many men, so beautiful! + And they all dead did lie: + And a thousand thousand slimy things + Lived on; and so did I. + + * * * * + + The self-same moment I could pray: + And from my neck so free + The Albatross fell off, and sank + Like lead into the sea. + + * * * * + + And the hay was white with silent light + Till rising from the same, + Full many shapes, that shadows were, + In crimson colours came. + + A little distance from the prow + Those crimson shadows were: + I turned my eyes upon the deck— + Oh, Christ! what saw I there! + + Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, + And, by the holy rood! + A man all light, a seraph-man, + On every corse there stood.” + +Coleridge’s marginal gloss to these last stanzas is “The angelic spirits +leave the dead bodies, and appear in their own forms of light.” + +Once more from _Christabel_:— + + “The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, + She nothing sees—no sight but one! + The maid, devoid of guile and sin, + I know not how, in fearful wise, + So deeply had she drunken in + That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, + That all her features were resigned + To this sole image in her mind: + And passively did imitate + That look of dull and treacherous hate.” + +What Wordsworth intended we have already heard from Coleridge, and +Wordsworth confirms him. It was, says the Preface of 1802, “to present +ordinary things to the mind in an unusual way.” In Wordsworth the +miraculous inherent in the commonplace, but obscured by “the film of +familiarity,” is restored to it. This translation is effected by the +imagination, which is not fancy nor dreaming, as Wordsworth is careful to +warn us, but that power by which we see things as they are. The authors +of _The Ancient Mariner_ and _Simon Lee_ are justified in claiming a +common object. It is to prove that the metaphysical in Shakespeare’s +sense of the word interpenetrates the physical, and serves to make us see +and feel it. + +Poetry, if it is to be good for anything, must help us to live. It is to +this we come at last in our criticism, and if it does not help us to live +it may as well disappear, no matter what its fine qualities may be. The +help to live, however, that is most wanted is not remedies against great +sorrows. The chief obstacle to the enjoyment of life is its dulness and +the weariness which invades us because there is nothing to be seen or +done of any particular value. If the supernatural becomes natural and +the natural becomes supernatural, the world regains its splendour and +charm. Lines may be drawn from their predecessors to Coleridge and the +Wordsworths, but the work they did was distinctly original, and renewed +proof was given of the folly of despair even when fertility seems to be +exhausted. There is always a hidden conduit open into an unknown region +whence at any moment streams may rush and renew the desert with foliage +and flowers. + +The reviews which followed the publication of the _Lyrical Ballads_ were +nearly all unfavourable. Even Southey discovered nothing in _The Ancient +Mariner_ but “a Dutch attempt at German sublimity.” A certain learned +pig thought it “the strangest story of a cock and bull that he ever saw +on paper,” and not a single critic, not even the one or two who had any +praise to offer, discerned the secret of the book. The publisher was so +alarmed that he hastily sold his stock. Nevertheless Coleridge, +Wordsworth, and his sister quietly went off to Germany without the least +disturbance of their faith, and the _Ballads_ are alive to this day. + + + + +SOME NOTES ON MILTON + + +MUCH of the criticism on Milton, if not hostile, is apologetic, and it is +considered quite correct to say we “do not care” for him. Partly this +indifference is due to his Nonconformity. The “superior” Englishman who +makes a jest of the doctrines and ministers of the Established Church +always pays homage to it because it is _respectable_, and sneers at +Dissent. Another reason why Milton does not take his proper place is +that his theme is a theology which for most people is no longer vital. A +religious poem if it is to be deeply felt must embody a living faith. +The great poems of antiquity are precious to us in proportion to our +acceptance, now, as fact, of what they tell us about heaven and earth. +There are only a few persons at present who perceive that in substance +the account which was given in the seventeenth century of the relation +between man and God is immortal and worthy of epic treatment. A thousand +years hence a much better estimate of Milton will be possible than that +which can be formed to-day. We attribute to him mechanic construction in +dead material because it is dead to ourselves. Even Mr. Ruskin who was +far too great not to recognise in part at least Milton’s claims, says +that “Milton’s account of the most important event in his whole system of +the universe, the fall of the angels, is evidently unbelievable to +himself; and the more so, that it is wholly founded on, and in a great +part spoiled and degraded from, Hesiod’s account of the decisive war of +the younger gods with the Titans. The rest of his poem is a picturesque +drama, in which every artifice of invention is visibly and consciously +employed; not a single fact being for an instant conceived as tenable by +any living faith” (_Sesame and Lilies_, section iii.). + +Mr. Mark Pattison, quoting part of this passage, remarks with justice, +“on the contrary, we shall not rightly apprehend either the poetry or the +character of the poet until we feel that throughout _Paradise Lost_, as +in _Paradise Regained_ and _Samson_, Milton felt himself to be standing +on the sure ground of fact and reality” (_English Men of Letters_—Milton, +p. 186, ed. 1879). + +St. Jude for ages had been sufficient authority for the angelic revolt, +and in a sense it was a reasonable dogma, for although it did not explain +the mystery of the origin of evil it pushed it a step further backwards, +and without such a revolt the Christian scheme does not well hold +together. So also with the entrance of the devil into the serpent. It +is not expressly taught in any passage of the canonical Scriptures, but +to the Church and to Milton it was as indisputable as the presence of sin +in the world. Milton, I repeat, _believed_ in the framework of his poem, +and unless we can concede this to him we ought not to attempt to +criticise him. He was impelled to turn his religion into poetry in order +to bring it closer to him. The religion of every Christian if it is real +is a poem. He pictures a background of Holy Land scenery, and he creates +a Jesus who continually converses with him and reveals to him much more +than is found in the fragmentary details of the Gospels. When Milton +goes beyond his documents he does not imagine for the purpose of filling +up: the additions are expression. + +Milton belonged to that order of poets whom the finite does not satisfy. +Like Wordsworth, but more eminently, he was “powerfully affected” only by +that “which is conversant with or turns upon infinity,” and man is to him +a being with such a relationship to infinity that Heaven and Hell contend +over him. Every touch which sets forth the eternal glory of Heaven and +the scarcely subordinate power of Hell magnifies him. Johnson, whose +judgment on Milton is unsatisfactory because he will not deliver himself +sufficiently to beauty which he must have recognised, nevertheless says +of the _Paradise Lost_, that “its end is to raise the thoughts above +sublunary cares,” and this is true. The other great epic poems worthy to +be compared with Milton’s, the Iliad, Odyssey, Æneid, and Divine Comedy, +all agree in representing man as an object of the deepest solicitude to +the gods or God. Milton’s conception of God is higher than Homer’s, +Virgil’s, or Dante’s, but the care of the Miltonic God for his offspring +is greater, and the profound truth unaffected by Copernican discoveries +and common to all these poets is therefore more impressive in Milton than +in the others. + +There is nothing which the most gifted of men can create that is not +mixed up with earth, and Milton, too, works it up with his gold. The +weakness of the _Paradise Lost_ is not, as Johnson affirms, its lack of +human interest, for the _Prometheus Bound_ has just as little, nor is +Johnson’s objection worth anything that the angels are sometimes +corporeal and at other times independent of material laws. Spirits could +not be represented to a human mind unless they were in a measure subject +to the conditions of time and space. The principal defect in _Paradise +Lost_ is the justification which the Almighty gives of the creation of +man with a liability to fall. It would have been better if Milton had +contented himself with telling the story of the Satanic insurrection, of +its suppression, of its author’s revenge, of the expulsion from Paradise, +and the promise of a Redeemer. But he wanted to “justify the ways of God +to man,” and in order to do this he thought it was necessary to show that +man must be endowed with freedom of will, and consequently could not be +directly preserved from yielding to the assaults of Satan. + +_Paradise Regained_ comes, perhaps, closer to us than _Paradise Lost_ +because its temptations are more nearly our own, and every amplification +which Milton introduces is designed to make them more completely ours +than they seem to be in the New Testament. It has often been urged +against _Paradise Regained_ that Jesus recovered Paradise for man by the +Atonement and not merely by resistance to the devil’s wiles, but inasmuch +as Paradise was lost by the devil’s triumph through human weakness it is +natural that _Paradise Regained_ should present the triumph of the +Redeemer’s strength. It is this victory which proves Jesus to be the Son +of God and consequently able to save us. + +He who has now become incarnated for our redemption is that same Messiah +who, when He rode forth against the angelic rebels, + + “into terror chang’d + His count’nance too severe to be beheld, + And full of wrath bent on his enemies.” + +It is He who + + “on his impious foes right onward drove, + Gloomy as night:” + +whose right hand grasped + + “ten thousand thunders, which he sent + Before him, such as in their souls infix’d + Plagues.” + + (_P. L._ vi. 824–38.) + +Now as Son of Man he is confronted with that same Archangel, and he +conquers by “strong sufferance.” He comes with no fourfold visage of a +charioteer flashing thick flames, no eye which glares lightning, no +victory eagle-winged and quiver near her with three-bolted thunder +stored, but in “weakness,” and with this he is to “overcome satanic +strength.” + +Milton sees in the temptation to turn the stones into bread a devilish +incitement to use miraculous powers and not to trust the Heavenly Father. + + “Why dost thou then suggest to me distrust, + Knowing who I am, as I know who thou art?” + + (_P. R._ i. 355–6.) + +Finding his enemy steadfast, Satan disappears, + + “bowing low + His gray dissimulation,” + + (_P. R._ i. 497–8.) + +and calls to council his peers. He disregards the proposal of Belial to +attempt the seduction of Jesus with women. If he is vulnerable it will +be to objects + + “such as have more shew + Of worth, of honour, glory, and popular praise, + Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wreck’d; + Or that which only seems to satisfy + Lawful desires of Nature, not beyond.” + + (_P. R._ ii. 226–30.) + +The former appeal is first of all renewed. “Tell me,” says Satan, + + “‘if food were now before thee set + Would’st thou not eat?’ ‘Thereafter as I like + The giver,’ answered Jesus.” + + (_P. R._ ii. 320–22.) + +A banquet is laid, and Satan invites Jesus to partake of it. + + “What doubts the Son of God to sit and eat? + These are not fruits forbidd’n.” + + (_P. R._ ii. 368–9.) + +But Jesus refuses to touch the devil’s meat— + + “Thy pompous delicacies I contemn, + And count thy specious gifts no gifts, but guiles.” + + (_P. R._ ii. 390–1.) + +So they were, for at a word + + “Both table and provision vanish’d quite, + With sound of harpies’ wings and talons heard.” + + (_P. R._ ii. 402–3.) + +If but one grain of that enchanted food had been eaten, or one drop of +that enchanted liquor had been drunk, there would have been no Cross, no +Resurrection, no salvation for humanity. + +The temptation on the mountain is expanded by Milton through the close of +the second book, the whole of the third and part of the fourth. It is a +temptation of peculiar strength because it is addressed to an aspiration +which Jesus has acknowledged. + + “Yet this not all + To which my spirit aspir’d: victorious deeds + Flam’d in my heart, heroic acts.” + + (_P. R._ i. 214–16.) + +But he denies that the glory of mob-applause is worth anything. + + “What is glory but the blaze of fame, + The people’s praise, if always praise unmixt? + And what the people but a herd confus’d, + A miscellaneous rabble, who extol + Things vulgar, and, well weigh’d, scarce worth the praise?” + + (_P. R._ iii. 47–51.) + +To the Jesus of the New Testament this answer is, in a measure, +inappropriate. He would not have called the people “a herd confus’d, a +miscellaneous rabble.” But although inappropriate it is Miltonic. The +devil then tries the Saviour with a more subtle lure, an appeal to duty. + + “If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal + And duty; zeal and duty are not slow; + But on occasion’s forelock watchful wait. + They themselves rather are occasion best, + Zeal of thy father’s house, duty to free + Thy country from her heathen servitude.” + + (_P. R._ iii. 171–6.) + +But zeal and duty, the endeavour to hurry that which cannot and must not +be hurried may be a suggestion from hell. + + “If of my reign prophetic writ hath told + That it shall never end, so when begin + The Father in His purpose hath decreed.” + + (_P. R._ iii. 184–6.) + +Acquiescence, a conviction of the uselessness of individual or organised +effort to anticipate what only slow evolution can bring, is +characteristic of increasing years, and was likely enough to be the +temper of Milton when he had seen the failure of the effort to make +actual on earth the kingdom of Heaven. The temptation is developed in +such a way that every point supposed to be weak is attacked. “You may be +what you claim to be,” insinuates the devil, “but are rustic.” + + “Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent + At home, scarce view’d the Galilean towns, + And once a year Jerusalem.” + + (_P. R._ iii. 232–4.) + +Experience and alliances are plausibly urged as indispensable for +success. But Jesus knew that the sum total of a man’s power for good is +precisely what of good there is in him and that if it be expressed even +in the simplest form, all its strength is put forth and its office is +fulfilled. To suppose that it can be augmented by machinery is a foolish +delusion. The + + “projects deep + Of enemies, of aids, battles and leagues, + Plausible to the world” + + (_P. R._ iii. 395–3.) + +are to the Founder of the kingdom not of this world “worth naught.” +Another side of the mountain is tried. Rome is presented with Tiberius +at Capreæ. Could it possibly be anything but a noble deed to + + “expel this monster from his throne + Now made a sty, and in his place ascending, + A victor people free from servile yoke!” + + (_P. R._ iv. 100–102.) + +“_And with my help thou may’st_.” With the devil’s help and not without +can this glorious revolution be achieved! “For him,” is the Divine +reply, “I was not sent.” The attack is then directly pressed. + + “The kingdoms of the world, to thee I give; + For, giv’n to me, I give to whom I please, + No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else, + On this condition, if thou wilt fall down + And worship me as thy superior lord.” + + (_P. R._ iv. 163–7.) + +This, then, is the drift and meaning of it all. The answer is taken +verbally from the gospel. + + “‘Thou shalt worship + The Lord thy God, and only Him shalt serve.’” + + (_P. R._ iv. 176–7.) + +That is to say, Thou shalt submit thyself to God’s commands and God’s +methods and thou shalt submit thyself to _no other_. + +Omitting the Athenian and philosophic episode, which is unnecessary and a +little unworthy even of the Christian poet, we encounter not an +amplification of the Gospel story but an interpolation which is entirely +Milton’s own. Night gathers and a new assault is delivered in darkness. +Jesus wakes in the storm which rages round Him. The diabolic hostility +is open and avowed and He hears the howls and shrieks of the infernals. +He cannot banish them though He is so far master of Himself that He is +able to sit “unappall’d in calm and sinless peace.” He has to endure the +hellish threats and tumult through the long black hours + + “till morning fair + Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray, + Who with her radiant finger still’d the roar + Of thunder, chas’d the clouds, and laid the winds, + And grisly spectres, which the Fiend had rais’d + To tempt the Son of God with terrors dire. + But now the sun with more effectual beams + Had cheer’d the face of earth, and dri’d the wet + From drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birds, + Who all things now beheld more fresh and green, + After a night of storm so ruinous, + Clear’d up their choicest notes in bush and spray + To gratulate the sweet return of morn.” + + (_P. R._ iv. 426–38.) + +There is nothing perhaps in _Paradise Lost_ which possesses the peculiar +quality of this passage, nothing which like these verses brings into the +eyes the tears which cannot be repressed when a profound experience is +set to music. + +The temptation on the pinnacle occupies but a few lines only of the poem. +Hitherto Satan admits that Jesus had conquered, but he had done no more +than any wise and good man could do. + + “Now show thy progeny; if not to stand, + Cast thyself down; safely, if Son of God; + For it is written, ‘He will give command + Concerning thee to His angels; in their hands + They shall uplift thee, lest at any time + Thou chance to dash thy foot against a stone.’” + + (_P. R._ iv. 554–9.) + +The promise of Divine aid is made in mockery. + + “To whom thus Jesus: ‘Also it is written, + Tempt not the Lord thy God.’ He said, and stood: + But Satan, smitten with amazement, fell.” + + (_P. R._ iv. 560–2.) + +It is not meant, “thou shalt not tempt _me_,” but rather, “it is not +permitted me to tempt God.” In this extreme case Jesus depends on God’s +protection. This is the devil’s final defeat and the seraphic company +for which our great Example had refused to ask instantly surrounds and +receives him. Angelic quires + + “the Son of God, our Saviour meek, + Sung victor, and from heavenly feast refresh’t, + Brought on His way with joy; He unobserv’d, + Home to His mother’s house private return’d.” + + (_P. R._ iv. 636–9.) + +Warton wished to expunge this passage, considering it an unworthy +conclusion. It is to be hoped that there are many readers of Milton who +are able to see what is the value of these four lines, particularly of +the last. + +It is hardly necessary to say more in order to show how peculiarly Milton +is endowed with that quality which is possessed by all great poets—the +power to keep in contact with the soul of man. + + + + +THE MORALITY OF BYRON’S POETRY. “THE CORSAIR.” + + +[This is an abstract of an essay four times as long written many years +ago. Although so much has been struck out, the substance is unaltered, +and the conclusion is valid for the author now as then.] + +BYRON above almost all other poets, at least in our day, has been set +down as immoral. In reality he is moral, using the word in its proper +sense, and he is so, not only in detached passages, but in the general +drift of most of his poetry. We will take as an example “The Corsair.” + +Conrad is not a debauched buccaneer. He was not— + + “by Nature sent + To lead the guilty—guilt’s worst instrument.” + +He had been betrayed by misplaced confidence. + + “Doom’d by his very virtues for a dupe, + He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, + And not the traitors who betray’d him still; + Nor deem’d that gifts bestow’d on better men + Had left him joy, and means to give again, + Fear’d—shunn’d—belied—ere youth had lost her force, + He hated man too much to feel remorse, + And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, + To pay the injuries of some on all.” + +Conrad was not, and could not be, mean and selfish. A selfish Conrad +would be an absurdity. His motives are not gross— + + “he shuns the grosser joys of sense, + His mind seems nourished by that abstinence.” + +He is protected by a charm against undistinguishing lust— + + “Though fairest captives daily met his eye, + He shunn’d, nor sought, but coldly pass’d them by;” + +and even Gulnare, his deliverer, fails to seduce him. + +Mr. Ruskin observes that Byron makes much of courage. It is Conrad, the +leader, who undertakes the dangerous errand of surprising Seyd; it is he +who determines to save the harem. His courage is not the mere excitement +of battle. When he is captured— + + “A conqueror’s more than captive’s air is seen,” + +and he is not insensible to all fear. + + “Each has some fear, and he who least betrays, + The only hypocrite deserving praise. + + * * * * * + + One thought alone he could not—dared not meet— + ‘Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?’” + +Gulnare announces his doom to him, but he is calm. He cannot stoop even +to pray. He has deserted his Maker, and it would be baseness now to +prostrate himself before Him. + + “I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer + Wrung from the coward crouching of despair; + It is enough—I breathe—and I can bear.” + +He has no martyr-hope with which to console himself; his endurance is of +the finest order—simple, sheer resolution, a resolve that with no reward, +he will never disgrace himself. He knows what it is + + “To count the hours that struggle to thine end, + With not a friend to animate, and tell + To other ears that death became thee well,” + +but he does not break down. + +Gulnare tries to persuade him that the only way by which he can save +himself from tortures and impalement is by the assassination of Seyd, but +he refuses to accept the terms— + + “Who spares a woman’s seeks not slumber’s life”— + +and dismisses her. When she has done the deed and he sees the single +spot of blood upon her, he, the Corsair, is unmanned as he had never been +in battle, prison, or by consciousness of guilt. + + “But ne’er from strife—captivity—remorse— + From all his feelings in their inmost force— + So thrill’d—so shudder’d every creeping vein, + As now they froze before that purple stain. + That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, + Had banish’d all the beauty from her cheek!” + +The Corsair’s misanthropy had not destroyed him. Small creatures alone +are wholly converted into spite and scepticism by disappointment and +repulse. Those who are larger avenge themselves by devotion. Conrad’s +love for Medora was intensified and exalted by his hatred of the world. + + “Yes, it was Love—unchangeable—unchanged, + Felt but for one from whom he never ranged;” + +and she was worthy of him, the woman who could sing— + + “Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, + Lonely and lost to light for evermore, + Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, + Then trembles into silence as before. + + There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp + Burns the slow flame, eternal—but unseen; + Which not the darkness of despair can damp, + Though vain its ray as it had never been.” + +He finds Medora dead, and— + + “his mother’s softness crept + To those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept.” + +If his crimes and love could be weighed in a celestial balance, weight +being apportioned to the rarity and value of the love, which would +descend? + +The points indicated in Conrad’s character are not many, but they are +sufficient for its delineation, and it is a moral character. We must, of +course, get rid of the notion that the relative magnitude of the virtues +and vices according to the priest or society is authentic. A reversion +to the natural or divine scale has been almost the sole duty preached to +us by every prophet. If we could incorporate Conrad with ourselves we +should find that the greater part of what is worst in us would be +neutralised. The sins of which we are ashamed, the dirty, despicable +sins, Conrad could not have committed; and in these latter days they are +perhaps the most injurious. + +We do not understand how moral it is to yield unreservedly to enthusiasm, +to the impression which great objects would fain make upon us, and to +embody that impression in worthy language. It is rare to meet now even +with young people who will abandon themselves to a heroic emotion, or +who, if they really feel it, do not try to belittle it in expression. +Byron’s poetry, above most, tempts and almost compels surrender to that +which is beyond the commonplace self. + +It is not true that “The Corsair” is insincere. He who hears a note of +insincerity in Conrad and Medora may have ears, but they must be those of +the translated Bottom who was proud of having “a reasonable good ear in +music.” Byron’s romance has been such a power exactly because men felt +that it was not fiction and that his was one of the strongest minds of +his day. He was incapable of toying with the creatures of the fancy +which had no relationship with himself and through himself with humanity. + +A word as to Byron’s hold upon the people. He was able to obtain a +hearing from ordinary men and women, who knew nothing even of +Shakespeare, save what they had seen at the theatre. Modern poetry is +the luxury of a small cultivated class. We may say what we like of +popularity, and if it be purchased by condescension to popular silliness +it is nothing. But Byron secured access to thousands of readers in +England and on the Continent by strength and loveliness, a feat seldom +equalled and never perhaps surpassed. The present writer’s father, a +compositor in a dingy printing office, repeated verses from “Childe +Harold” at the case. Still more remarkable, Byron reached one of this +writer’s friends, an officer in the Navy, of the ancient stamp; and the +attraction, both to printer and lieutenant, lay in nothing lower than +that which was best in him. It is surely a service sufficient to +compensate for many more faults than can be charged against him that +wherever there was any latent poetic dissatisfaction with the vulgarity +and meanness of ordinary life he gave it expression, and that he has +awakened in the _people_ lofty emotions which, without him, would have +slept. The cultivated critics, and the refined persons who have +_schrecklich viel gelesen_, are not competent to estimate the debt we owe +to Byron. + + + + +BYRON, GOETHE, AND MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD + + +(_Reprinted_, _with corrections_, _by permission from the_ “_Contemporary +Review_,” _August_, 1881.) + +MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD has lately published a remarkable essay {133} upon +Lord Byron. Mr. Arnold’s theory about Byron is, that he is neither +artist nor thinker—that “he has no light, cannot lead us from the past to +the future;” “the moment he reflects, he is a child;” “as a poet he has +no fine and exact sense for word and structure and rhythm; he has not the +artist’s nature and gifts.” The excellence of Byron mainly consists in +his “sincerity and strength;” in his rhetorical power; in his +“irreconcilable revolt and battle” against the political and social order +of things in which he lived. “Byron threw himself upon poetry as his +organ; and in poetry his topics were not Queen Mab, and the Witch of the +Atlas, and the Sensitive Plant, they were the upholders of the old order, +George the Third and Lord Castlereagh and the Duke of Wellington and +Southey, and they were the canters and tramplers of the great world, and +they were his enemies and himself.” + +Mr. Arnold appeals to Goethe as an authority in his favour. In order, +therefore, that English people may know what Goethe thought about Byron I +have collected some of the principal criticisms upon him which I can find +in Goethe’s works. The text upon which Mr. Arnold enlarges is the remark +just quoted which Goethe made about Byron to Eckermann: “_so bald er +reflectirt ist er ein Kind_”—_as soon as he reflects he is a child_. + +Goethe, it is true, did say this; but the interpretation of the saying +depends upon the context, which Mr. Arnold omits. I give the whole +passage, quoting from Oxenford’s translation of the _Eckermann +Conversations_, vol. i. p. 198 (edition 1850):— + + “‘Lord Byron,’ said Eckermann, ‘is no wiser when he takes ‘Faust’ to + pieces and thinks you found one thing here, the other there.’ ‘The + greater part of those fine things cited by Lord Byron,’ Goethe + replied, ‘I have never even read; much less did I think of them when + I was writing “Faust.” But Lord Byron is only great as a poet; as + soon as he reflects he is a child. He knows not how to help himself + against the stupid attacks of the same kind made upon him by his own + countrymen. He ought to have expressed himself more strongly against + them. ‘What is there is mine,’ he should have said, ‘and whether I + got it from a book or from life is of no consequence; the only point + is, whether I have made a right use of it.’ Walter Scott used a + scene from my ‘Egmont,’ and he had a right to do so; and because he + did it well, he deserves praise.’” + +Goethe certainly does not mean that Byron was unable to reflect in the +sense in which Mr. Arnold interprets the word. What was really meant we +shall see in a moment. + +We will, however, continue the quotations from the _Eckermann_:— + + “We see how the inadequate dogmas of the Church work upon a free mind + like Byron’s and how by such a piece (‘Cain’) he struggles to get rid + of a doctrine which has been forced upon him” (vol. i. p. 129). + + “The world to him was transparent, and he could paint by way of + anticipation” (vol. i. p. 140). + + “That which I call invention I never saw in any one in the world to a + greater degree than in him” (vol. i. p. 205). + + “Lord Byron is to be regarded as a man, as an Englishman, and as a + great talent. His good qualities belong chiefly to the man, his bad + to the Englishman and the peer, his talent is incommensurable. All + Englishmen are, as such, without reflection properly so-called; + distractions and party-spirit will not permit them to perfect + themselves in quiet. But they are great as practical men. Thus, + Lord Byron could never attain reflection on himself, and on this + account his maxims in general are not successful. . . . But where he + will create, he always succeeds; and we may truly say that, with him, + inspiration supplies the place of reflection. He was always obliged + to go on poetizing, and then everything that came from the man, + especially from his heart, was excellent. He produced his best + things, as women do pretty children, without thinking about it, or + knowing how it was done. He is a great talent, a born talent, and I + never saw the true poetical power greater in any man than in him. In + the apprehension of external objects, and a clear penetration into + past situations, he is quite as great as Shakespeare. But as a pure + individuality, Shakespeare is his superior” (vol. i. p. 209). + +We see now what Goethe means by “reflection.” It is the faculty of +self-separation, or conscious _consideration_, a faculty which would have +enabled Byron, as it enabled Goethe, to reply successfully to a charge of +plagiarism. It is not thought in its widest sense, nor creation, and it +has not much to do with the production of poems of the highest order—the +poems that is to say, which are written by the impersonal thought. + +But again— + + “The English may think of Byron as they please; but this is certain, + that they can show no poet who is to be compared to him. He is + different from all the others, and for the most part, greater” (vol. + i. p. 290). + +This passage is one which Mr. Arnold quotes, and he strives to diminish +its importance by translating _der ihm zu vergleichen wäre_, by “who is +his parallel,” and maintains that Goethe “was not so much thinking of the +strict rank, as poetry, of Byron’s production; he was thinking of that +wonderful personality of Byron which so enters into his poetry.” It is +just possible; but if Goethe did think this, he used words which are +misleading, and if the phrase _der ihm zu vergleichen wäre_ simply +indicates parallelism, it has no point, for in that sense it might have +been applied to Scott or to Southey. + + “I have read once more Byron’s ‘Deformed Transformed,’ and must say + that to me his talent appears greater than ever. His devil was + suggested by my Mephistopheles; but it is no imitation—it is + thoroughly new and original; close, genuine, and spirited. There are + no weak passages—not a place where you could put the head of a pin, + where you do not find _invention and thought_ [italics mine]. Were + it not for his hypochondriacal negative turn, he would be as great as + Shakespeare and the ancients” (vol. i. p. 294). + +Eckermann expressed his surprise. “Yes,” said Goethe, “you may believe +me, I have studied him anew and am confirmed in this opinion.” The +position which Byron occupies in the Second Part of “Faust” is well +known. Eckermann talked to Goethe about it, and Goethe said, “I could +not make use of any man as the representative of the modern poetical era +except him, who undoubtedly is to be regarded as the greatest genius of +our century” (vol. i. p. 425). Mr. Arnold translates this word “genius” +by “talent.” The word in the original is _talent_, and I will not +dispute with so accomplished a German scholar as Mr. Arnold as to what is +the precise meaning of _talent_. In both the English translations of +Eckermann the word is rendered “genius,” and after the comparison between +Byron, Shakespeare, and the ancients just quoted, we can hardly admit +that Goethe meant to distinguish scientifically between the two orders of +intellect and to assign the lower to Byron. + +But, last of all, I will translate Goethe’s criticism upon “Cain.” So +far as I know, it has not yet appeared in English. It is to be found in +the Stuttgart and Tübingen edition of Goethe, 1840, vol. xxxiii. p. 157. +Some portions which are immaterial I have omitted:— + + “After I had listened to the strangest things about this work for + almost a year, I at last took it myself in hand, and it excited in me + astonishment and admiration; an effect which will produce in the mind + which is simply susceptible, everything good, beautiful, and great. . + . . The poet who, surpassing the limit of all our conceptions, has + penetrated with burning spiritual vision the past and present, and + consequently the future, has now subdued new regions under his + limitless talent, but what he will accomplish therein can be + predicted by no human being. His procedure, however, we can + nevertheless in a measure more closely determine. He adheres to the + letter of the Biblical tradition, for he allows the first pair of + human beings to exchange their original purity and innocence for a + guilt mysterious in its origin; the punishment which is its + consequence descending upon all posterity. The monstrous burden of + such an event he lays upon the shoulders of Cain as the + representative of a wretched humanity, plunged for no fault of its + own into the depths of misery. + + “To this primitive son of man, bowed down and heavily burdened, + death, which as yet he has not seen, is an especial trouble; and + although he may desire the end of his present distress, it seems + still more hateful to exchange it for a condition altogether unknown. + Hence we already see that the full weight of a dogmatic system, + explaining, mediating, yet always in conflict with itself, just as it + still for ever occupies us, was imposed on the first miserable son of + man. These contradictions, which are not strange to human nature, + possessed his mind, and could not be brought to rest, either through + the divinely-given gentleness of his father and brother, or the + loving and alleviating co-operation of his sister-wife. In order to + sharpen them to the point of impossibility of endurance, Satan comes + upon the scene, a mighty and misleading spirit, who begins by + unsettling him morally, and then conducts him miraculously through + all worlds, causing him to see the past as overwhelmingly vast, the + present as small and of no account, and the future as full of + foreboding and void of consolation. + + “So he turns back to his own family, more excited, but not worse than + before; and finding in the family circle everything as he has left + it, the urgency of Abel, who wishes to make him offer a sacrifice, + becomes altogether insupportable. More say we not, excepting that + the motivation of the scene in which Abel perishes is of the rarest + excellence, and what follows is equally great and priceless. There + now lies Abel! That now is Death—there was so much talk about it, + and man knows about it as little as he did before. + + “We must not forget, that through the whole piece there runs a kind + of presentiment of a Saviour, so that the poet at this point, as well + as in all others, has known how to bring himself near to the ideas by + which we explain things, and to our modes of faith. + + “Of the scene with the parents, in which Eve at last curses the + speechless Cain, which our western neighbour lifts into such striking + prominence, there remains nothing more for us to say: we have to + approach the conclusion with astonishment and reverence. + + “With regard to this conclusion, an intelligent and fair friend, + related to us through esteem for Byron, has asserted that everything + religious and moral in the world was put into the last three words of + the piece.” {143} + +We have now heard enough from Goethe to prove that Mr. Arnold’s +interpretation of “_so bald er reflectirt ist er ein Kind_” is not +Goethe’s interpretation of Byron. It is to be remembered that Goethe was +not a youth overcome by Mr. Arnold’s “vogue” when he read Byron. He was +a singularly self-possessed old man. + +Many persons will be inclined to think that Goethe, so far from putting +Byron on a lower level than that usually assigned to him, has +over-praised him, and will question the “burning spiritual vision” which +the great German believed the great Englishman to possess. But if we +consider what Goethe calls the “motivation” of Cain; if we reflect on +what the poet has put into the legend; on the exploration of the universe +with Lucifer as a guide; on its result, on the mode in which the death of +Abel is reached; on the doom of the murderer—the limitless wilderness +henceforth and no rest; on the fidelity of Adah, who, with the true +instinct of love, separates between the man and the crime; on the majesty +of the principal character, who stands before us as the representative of +the insurgence of the human intellect, so that, if we know him, we know a +whole literature; if we meditate hereon, we shall say that Goethe has not +exaggerated. It is the same with the rest of Byron’s dramas. Over and +above the beauty of detached passages, there is in each one of them a +large and universal meaning, or rather meaning within meaning, precisely +the same for no reader, but none the less certain, and as inexhaustible +as the meanings of Nature. This is one reason why the wisdom of a +selection from Byron is so doubtful. The worth of “Cain,” of +“Sardanapalus,” of “Manfred,” of “Marino Faliero,” is the worth of an +outlook over the sea; and we cannot take a sample of the scene from a +cliff by putting a pint of water into a bottle. But Byron’s critics and +the compilers tell us of failures, which ought not to survive, and that +we are doing a kindness to him if we suppress these and exhibit him at +his best. No man who seriously cares for Byron will assent to this +doctrine. We want to know the whole of him, his weakness as well as his +strength; for the one is not intelligible without the other. A human +being is an indivisible unity, and his weakness _is_ his strength, and +his strength _is_ his weakness. + +It is not my object now, however, to justify what Mr. Arnold calls the +Byronic “superstition.” I hope I could justify a good part of it, but +this is not the opportunity. I cannot resist, however, saying a word by +way of conclusion on the manner in which Byron has fulfilled what seems +to me one of the chief offices of the poet. Mr. Arnold, although he is +so dissatisfied with Byron because he “cannot reflect,” would probably in +another mood admit that “reflections” are not what we demand of a poet. +We do not ask of him a rhymed book of proverbs. He should rather be the +articulation of what in Nature is great but inarticulate. In him the +thunder, the sea, the peace of morning, the joy of youth, the rush of +passion, the calm of old age, should find words, and men should through +him become aware of the unrecognised wealth of existence. Byron had the +power above most poets of acting as a kind of tongue to Nature. His +descriptions are on everybody’s lips, and it is superfluous to quote +them. He represented things not as if they were aloof from him, but as +if they were the concrete embodiment of his soul. The woods, the wilds, +the waters of Nature are to him— + + “the intense + Reply of _hers_ to our intelligence.” + +His success is equally marked when he portrays men or women whose +character attracts him. Take, for example, the girl in “The Island”:— + + “The sunborn blood suffused her neck, and threw + O’er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue, + Like coral reddening through the darken’d wave, + Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. + Such was this daughter of the southern seas, + _Herself a billow in her energies_. + + * * * * * + + Her smiles and tears had pass’d, as light winds pass + O’er lakes to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, + _Whose depths unsearch’d_, _and fountains from the hill_, + _Restore their surface_, _in itself so still_.” + +Passages like these might be quoted without end from Byron, and they +explain why he is and must be amongst the immortals. He may have been +careless in expression; he may have been a barbarian and not a εύφυής, as +Mr. Matthew Arnold affirms, but he was _great_. This is the word which +describes him. He was a mass of living energy, and therefore he is +sanative. Energy, power, is the one thing after which we pine in this +sickly age. We do not want carefully and consciously constructed poems +of mosaic. Strength is what we need and what will heal us. Strength is +true morality, and true beauty. It is the strength in Byron that +falsifies the accusation of affectation and posing, which is brought +against him. All that is meant by affectation and posing was a mere +surface trick. The real man, Byron, and his poems are perfectly +unconscious, as unconscious as the wind. The books which have lived and +always will live have this unconsciousness in them, and what is +manufactured, self-centred, and self-contemplative will perish. The +world’s literature is the work of men, who, to use Byron’s own words— + + “Strip off this fond and false identity;” + +who are lost in their object, who write because they cannot help it, +imperfectly or perfectly, as the case may be, and who do not sit down to +fit in this thing and that thing from a commonplace book. Many novelists +there are who know their art better than Charlotte Brontë, but she, like +Byron—and there are more points of resemblance between them than might at +first be supposed—is imperishable because she speaks under overwhelming +pressure, self-annihilated, we may say, while the spirit breathes through +her. The Byron “vogue” will never pass so long as men and women are men +and women. Mr. Arnold and the critics may remind us of his imperfections +of form, but Goethe is right after all, for not since Shakespeare have we +had any one _der ihm zu vergleichen wäre_. + + + + +A SACRIFICE + + +A FATAL plague devastated the city. The god had said that it would +continue to rage until atonement for a crime had been offered by the +sacrifice of a man. He was to be perfect in body; he must not desire to +die because he no longer loved life, or because he wished for fame. A +statue must not be erected to his memory; no poem must be composed for +him; his name must not appear in the city’s records. + +A few volunteers presented themselves, but none of them satisfied all the +conditions. At last a young man came who had served as the model for the +image of the god in his temple. There was no question, therefore, of +soundness of limb, and when he underwent the form of examination no spot +nor blemish was found on him. The priest asked him whether he was in +trouble, and especially whether he was disappointed in love. He said he +was in no trouble; that he was betrothed to a girl to whom he was +devoted, and that they had intended to be married that month. “I am,” he +declared, “the happiest man in the city.” The priest doubted and watched +him that evening, but he saw him walking side by side with this girl, and +the two were joyous as a youth and a maiden ought to be in the height of +their passion. She sat down and sang to him he played to her, and they +embraced one another tenderly at parting. + +The next morning was the day on which he was to be slain. There was an +altar in front of the temple, and a great crowd assembled, ranked round +the open space. At the appointed hour the priest appeared, and with him +was the youth, holding his beloved by the hand, but she was blindfolded. +He let go her hand, knelt down, and in a moment the sacrificial knife was +drawn across his throat. His body was placed upon the wood, and the +priest was about to kindle it when a flash from heaven struck it into a +blaze with such heat that when the fire dropped no trace of the victim +remained. The girl, too, had disappeared, and was never seen again. + +In accordance with the god’s decree, no statue was erected, no poem was +composed, and no entry was made in the city records. But tradition did +not forget that the saviour of the city was he who survived in the great +image on which the name of the god was inscribed. + + + + +THE AGED TREE + + +AN aged tree, whose companions had gone, having still a little sap in its +bark and a few leaves which grew therefrom, prayed it might see yet +another spring. Its prayer was granted: and spring came, but the old +tree had no leaves save one or two near the ground, and a great fungus +fixed itself on its trunk. It had a dull life in its roots, but not +enough to know that its moss and fungus were not foliage. It stood +there, an unlovely mass of decay, when the young trees were all bursting. +“That rotten thing,” said the master, “ought to have been cut down long +ago.” + + + + +CONSCIENCE + + +“CONSCIENCE,” said I, “her conscience would have told her.” + +“Yes,” said my father. “The strongest amongst the many objections to the +Roman Catholic doctrine of confession is that it weakens our dependence +on the conscience. If we seek for an external command to do what ought +to be done in obedience to that inward monitor, whose voice is always +clear if we will but listen, its authority will gradually be lost, and in +the end it will cease to speak.” + +“Conscience,” said my grandmother musingly (turning to my father). “You +will remember Phyllis Eyre? She was one of my best friends, and it is +now two years since she died, unmarried. She was once governess to the +children of Sir Robert Walsh, but remained in the house as companion to +Lady Walsh long after her pupils had grown up. She was, in fact, more +than a companion, for Lady Walsh trusted her and loved her. She was by +birth a lady; she had been well educated, and, like her mistress, she was +devoutly and evangelically pious. She was also very handsome, and this +you may well believe, for, as you know, she was handsome as an old woman, +stately and erect, with beautiful, undimmed eyes. When Evelina Walsh, +the eldest daughter, was about one and twenty, Charles Fysshe, the young +heir to the Fysshe property, came to stay with her brother, and Phyllis +soon discovered, or thought she discovered, that he was in love with +Evelina. He seemed to court her society, and paid her attentions which +could be explained on one hypothesis only. Phyllis was delighted, for +the match in every way was most suitable, and must gladden the hearts of +Evelina’s parents. The young man would one day be the possessor of +twenty thousand acres; he had already taken a position in the county, and +his soul was believed to be touched with Divine grace. Evelina certainly +was in love with him, and Phyllis was not backward in urging his claims. +She congratulated herself, and with justice, that if the marriage should +ever take place, it would be acknowledged that she had had a hand in it. +It might even be doubted whether Evelina, without Phyllis’s approval, +would have permitted herself to indulge her passion, for she was by +nature diffident, and so beset with reasons for and against when she had +to make up her mind on any important matter, that a decision was always +most difficult to her. + +“Charles stayed for about six weeks, and was then called home. He +promised that he would pay another visit of a week in the autumn, when +Sir Robert was to entertain the Lord Lieutenant and there were to be +grand doings at the Hall. Conversation naturally turned upon him during +his absence, and Phyllis, as usual, was warm in his praise. One evening, +after she had reached her own room and had lain down to sleep, a strange +apparition surprised her. It was something more than a suspicion that +she herself loved Charles. She strove to rid herself of this intrusion: +she called to mind the difference in their rank; that she was five years +his senior, and that if she yielded she would be guilty of treachery to +Evelina. It was all in vain; the more she resisted the more vividly did +his image present itself, and she was greatly distressed. What was the +meaning of this outbreak of emotion, not altogether spiritual, of this +loss of self-possession, such as she had never known before? Her usual +remedies against evil thoughts failed her, and, worst of all, there was +the constant suggestion that these particular thoughts were not evil. +Hitherto, when temptation had attacked her, she was sure whence it came, +but she was not sure now. It might be an interposition of Providence, +but how would it appear to Evelina? I myself, my dears, have generally +found that to resist the devil is not difficult if I am quite certain +that the creature before me is the devil, but it does tax my wits +sometimes to find out if he is really the enemy or not. When Apollyon +met Christian he was not in doubt for an instant, for the monster was +hideous to behold: he had scales like a fish, wings like a dragon, feet +like a bear, out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as +the mouth of a lion. After some parleying he cast his dreadful dart, but +Christian, without more ado, put up his shield, drew his sword, and +presently triumphed. If Satan had turned himself, from his head to his +ankles, into a man, and had walked by Christian’s side, and had talked +with him, and had agreed with him in everything he had to say, the bear’s +claws might have peeped out, but Christian, instead of fighting, would +have begun to argue with himself whether the evidence of the face or the +foot was the stronger. He would have been just as likely to trust the +face, and in a few moments he would have been snapped up and carried off +to hell. To go on with my story: the night wore on in sophistry and +struggle, and no inner light dawned with the sun. Phyllis was much +agitated, for in the afternoon Charles was to return, and although amidst +the crowd of visitors she might be overlooked, she could not help seeing +him. She did see him, but did not speak to him. He sat next to Evelina +at dinner, who was happy and expectant. The next day there was a grand +meet of the hounds, and almost all the party disappeared. Phyllis +pleaded a headache, and obtained permission to stay at home. It was a +lovely morning in November, without a movement in the air, calm and +cloudless, one of those mornings not uncommon when the year begins to +die. She went into the woods at the outer edge of the park, and had +scarcely entered them, when lo! to her astonishment, there was Charles. +She could not avoid him, and he came up to her. + +“‘Why, Miss Eyre, what are you doing here?’ + +“‘I had a headache; I could not go with the others, and came out for a +stroll.’ + +“‘I, too, was not very well, and have been left behind.’ + +“They walked together side by side. + +“‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Eyre. I wonder if you have suspected +anything lately.’ + +“‘Suspected? I do not quite comprehend: you are very vague.’ + +“‘Well, must I be more explicit? Have you fancied that I care more for +somebody you know than I care for all the world besides? I suppose you +have not, for I thought it better to hide as much as possible what I +felt.’ + +“‘I should be telling an untruth if I were to say I do not understand +you, and I trust you will pardon me if I tell you that a girl more worthy +of you than Evelina, and one more likely to make you happy, I have never +seen.’ + +“‘Gracious God! what have I done? what a mistake! Miss Eyre, it is you I +mean; it is you I love.’ + +“There was not an instant’s hesitation. + +“‘Sir, I thank you, but I can answer at once. _Never_ can I be yours. +That decision is irrevocable. I admire you, but cannot love you.’ + +“She parted from him abruptly, but no sooner had she left him than she +was confounded, and wondered who or what it was which gave that answer. +She wavered, and thought of going back, but she did not. Later on in the +day she heard that Charles had gone home, summoned by sudden business. +Two years afterwards his engagement with Evelina was announced, and in +three years they were married. It was not what I should call a happy +marriage, although they never quarrelled and had five children. To the +day of her death Phyllis was not sure whether she had done right or +wrong, nor am I.” + + + + +THE GOVERNESS’S STORY + + +IN the year 1850 I was living as governess in the small watering-place +S., on the south coast of England. Amongst my friends was a young +doctor, B., who had recently come to the town. He had not bought a +practice, but his family was known to one or two of the principal +inhabitants, and he had begun to do well. He deserved his success, for +he was skilful, frank, and gentle, and he did not affect that mystery +which in his elder colleagues was already suspected to be nothing but +ignorance. He was one of the early graduates of the University of +London, and representative of the new school of medical science, relying +not so much upon drugs as upon diet and regimen. I was one of his first +patients. I had a severe illness lasting for nearly three months; he +watched over me carefully and cured me. As I grew better he began to +talk on other matters than my health when he visited me. We found that +we were both interested in the same books: he lent me his and I lent him +mine. It is almost impossible, I should think, for a young man and a +young woman to be friends and nothing more, and I confess that my +sympathy with him in his admiration of the Elizabethan poets, and my +gratitude to him for my recovery passed into affection. I am sure also +that he felt affection for me. He became confidential, and told me all +his history and troubles. There was one peculiarity in his conversation +which was new to me: he never talked down to me, and he was not afraid at +times to discuss subjects that in the society to which I had been +accustomed were prohibited. Not a word that was improper ever escaped +his lips, but he treated me in a measure as if I were a man, and I was +flattered that he should put me on a level with himself. It is true that +sometimes I fancied he was so unreserved with me because he was sure he +was quite safe, for I was poor, and although I was not ugly I was not +handsome. However, on the whole, I was very happy in his society, and +there was more than a chance that I should become his wife. + +After six months of our acquaintanceship had passed, M., an old +schoolfellow of mine, took lodgings near me for the summer. She was a +remarkable girl. If she was not beautiful, she was better-looking than I +was, and she possessed a something, I know not what, more powerful than +beauty to fascinate men. Perhaps it was her unconstrained naturalness. +In walking, sitting, standing—whatever she did—her movements and +attitudes were not impeded or unduly masked by artificial restrictions. +I should not have called her profound, but what she said upon the +commonest subjects was interesting, because it was so entirely her own. +If she disliked a neighbour, she almost always disliked her for a reason +which we saw, directly it was pointed out to us, to be just, but it was +generally one which had not been given before. Her talk upon matters +externally trivial was thus much more to me than many discourses upon the +most important topics. On moral questions she expressed herself without +any regard to prejudices. She did not controvert the authenticity of the +ordinary standards, but nevertheless behaved as if she herself were her +only law. The people in R., her little native borough, considered her to +be dangerous, and I myself was once or twice weak enough to wonder that +she held on a straight course with so little help from authority, +forgetting that its support, in so far as it possesses any vital +strength, is derived from the same internal source which supplied +strength to her. + +When she came to S. she was unwell, and consulted my friend B. He did +not at first quite like attending her, and she reported to me with great +laughter how she had been told that he had made some inquiries about her +from one of her neighbours at home with whom he happened to be +acquainted, and how he had manœuvred in his visits to get the servants or +the landlady into the room. I met him soon afterwards, and he informed +me that he had a new patient. When he heard that I knew her—I did not +say how much I knew—he became inquisitive, and at last, after much +beating about the bush, knitting his eyebrows and lowering his voice, he +asked me whether I was aware that she was not quite—quite _above +suspicion_! My goodness, how I flamed up! I defended her with +vehemence: I exaggerated her prudence and her modesty; I declared, what +was the simple truth, that she was the last person in the world against +whom such a scandalous insinuation should be directed, and that she was +singularly inaccessible to vulgar temptation. I added that +notwithstanding her seeming lawlessness she was not only remarkably +sensitive to any accusation of bad manners, but that upon certain matters +she could not endure even a joke. The only quarrel I remember to have +had with her was when I lapsed into some commonplace jest about her +intimacy with a music-master who gave her lessons. The way in which she +took that jest I shall never forget. If I had made it to any other +woman, I should have passed on, unconscious of anything inconsistent with +myself, but she in an instant made me aware with hardly half a dozen +words that I had disgraced myself. I was ashamed, not so much because I +had done what was in the abstract wrong, but because it was something +which was not in keeping with my real character. I hope it will not be +thought that I am prosing if I take this opportunity of saying that the +laws peculiar to each of us are those which we are at the least pains to +discover and those which we are most prone to neglect. We think we have +done our duty when we have kept the commandments common to all of us, but +we may perhaps have disgracefully neglected it. + +Oh, how that afternoon with B. burnt itself into my memory for ever! I +was sitting on my little sofa with books piled round me. He removed a +few of the books, and I removed the others. He sat down beside me, and, +taking my hand, said he hoped I had forgiven him, and that I would +remember that in such a little place he was obliged to be very careful, +and to be quite sure of his patients, if they were women. He trusted I +should believe that there was no other person _in the world_ (the +emphasis on that word!) to whom he would have ventured to impart such a +secret. I was appeased, especially when, after a few minutes’ silence, +he took my hand and kissed it, the first and last kiss. He said nothing +further, and departed. The next time I saw him he was more than usually +deferential, more than ever desirous to come closer to me, and I thought +the final word must soon be spoken. + +M. remained in S. till far into the autumn, but I did not see much of +her. My work had begun again. B. continued to call on me as my health +was not quite re-established. We had agreed to read the same author at +the same time, in order that we might discuss him together whilst our +impressions were still fresh. Somehow his interest in these readings +began to flag; he informed me presently that I had now almost, entirely +recovered, and weeks often passed without meeting him. One afternoon I +was surprised to find M. in my room when I returned from a walk with my +pupils. She had been waiting for me nearly half an hour, and I could not +at first conjecture the reason. Gradually she drew the conversation +towards B. and at last asked me what I thought of him. Instantly I saw +what had happened. What I imagined was once mine had been stolen, stolen +perhaps unconsciously, but nevertheless stolen, my sole treasure. She +was rich, she had a father and mother, she had many friends and would +certainly have been married had she never seen B. I, as I have said, was +almost penniless; I was an orphan, with few friends; he was my first +love, and I knew he would be my last. + +I was condemned, I foresaw, henceforth to solitude, and that most +terrible of all calamities, heart-starvation. What B. had said about M. +came into my mind and rose to my lips. I knew, or thought I knew, that +if I revealed it to her she would be so angry that she would cast him +off. Probably I was mistaken, but in my despair the impulse to disclose +it was almost irresistible. I struggled against it, however, and when +she pressed me, I praised him and strove in my praise to be sincere. +Whether it was something in my tone, quite unintentional, I know not, but +she stopped me almost in the middle of a sentence and said she believed I +had kept something back which I did not wish her to hear; that she was +certain he had talked to me about her, and that she wished to know what +he had said. I protested he had never uttered a word which could be +interpreted as disparaging her, and she seemed to be content. She kissed +me a little more vehemently than usual, and went away. We ought always, +I suppose, to be glad when other people are happy, but God knows that +sometimes it is very difficult to be so, and that their happiness is hard +to bear. + +The Elizabethan studies had now altogether come to an end. In about a +couple of months I heard that M. and B. were engaged. M. went home, and +B. moved into a larger town. In a twelvemonth the marriage took place, +and M. wrote to me after her wedding trip. I replied, but she never +wrote again. I heard that she had said that I had laid myself out to +catch B. and that she was afraid that in so doing I had hinted there was +something against her. I heard also that B. had discouraged his wife’s +correspondence with me, no other reason being given than that he would +rather the acquaintanceship should be dropped. The interpretation of +this reason by those to whom it was given can be guessed. Did he fear +lest I should boast of what I had been to him or should repeat his +calumny? Ah, he little knew me if he dreamed that such treachery was +possible to me! + +I remained at the vicarage for three years. The children grew up and I +was obliged to leave, but I continued to teach in different families till +I was about five-and-forty. After five-and-forty I could not obtain +another situation, and I had to support myself by letting apartments at +Brighton. My strength is now failing; I cannot look after my servant +properly, nor wait upon my lodgers myself. Those who have to get their +living by a lodging-house know what this means and what the end will be. +I have occasionally again wished I could have seen my way partially to +explain myself to M., and have thought it hard to die misrepresented, but +I am glad I have not spoken. I should have disturbed her peace, and I +care nothing about justification or misrepresentation now. With eternity +so near, what does it matter? + + INSCRIPTION ON THE ENVELOPE. + + “TO MY NIECE JUDITH,—You have been so kind to your aunt, the only + human being, at last, who was left to love her, that she could not + refrain from telling you the one passage in her history which is of + any importance or interest.” + + + + +JAMES FORBES + + +“IT is all a lie, and it is hard to believe that people who preach it do +not know it to be a lie.” + +So said James Forbes to Elizabeth Castleton, the young woman to whom he +was engaged. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and James, who had +been brought up at Rugby and Oxford, was now in his last year at a London +hospital, and was going to be a doctor. + +“I am sure my father does not know it to be a lie, and I do not myself +know it to be a lie.” + +“I was not thinking of your father, but of the clergy generally, and you +_do_ know it to be a lie.” + +“It is not true of my brother, and, excepting my father and brother, you +have not been in company with parsons, as you call them, for half an hour +in your life.” + +“Do you mean to tell me you have any doubts about this discredited +rubbish?” + +“If I have I would rather not speak about them now. Jim, dear Jim, let +us drop the subject and talk of something else.” + +He was walking by her side, with his hands in his coat pockets. She drew +out one of his hands; he did not return the pressure, and presently +released himself. + +“I thought you were to be my intellectual companion. I have heard you +say yourself that a marriage which is not a marriage of mind is no +marriage.” + +“But, Jim, is there nothing in the world to think about but this?” + +“There is nothing so important. Are we to be dumb all our lives about +what you say is religion?” + +They separated and soon afterwards the engagement was broken off. Jim +had really loved Elizabeth, but at that time he was furious against what +he called “creeds.” He waited for three or four years till he had +secured a fair practice, and then married a clever and handsome young +woman who wrote poems, and had captivated him by telling him a witty +story from Heine. Elizabeth never married. + +Thirty years passed, and Jim, now a famous physician, had to go a long +distance down the Great Western Railway to attend a consultation. At +Bath an elderly lady entered the carriage carrying a handbag with the +initials “E. C.” upon it. She sat in the seat farthest away from him on +the opposite side, and looked at him steadfastly. He also looked at her, +but no word was spoken for a minute. He then crossed over, fell on his +knees, and buried his head with passionate sobbing on her knees. She put +her hands on him and her tears fell. + +“Five years,” at last he said; “I may live five years with care. She has +left me. I will give up everything and go abroad with you. Five years; +it is not much, but it will be something, everything. I shall die with +your face over me.” + +The train was slackening speed for Bristol; she bent down and kissed him. + +“Dearest Jim,” she whispered, “I have waited a long time, but I was sure +we should come together again at last. It is enough.” + +“You will go with me, then?” + +Again she kissed him. “It must not be.” + +Before he could reply the train was stopping at the platform, and a +gentleman with a lady appeared at the door. Miss Castleton stepped out +and was at once driven away in a carriage with her companions. + +He lived three years and then died almost suddenly of the disease which +he had foreseen would kill him. He had no children, but few relatives, +and his attendant was a hospital nurse. But the day before his death a +lady appeared who announced herself as a family friend, and the nurse was +superseded. It was Elizabeth: she came to his bedside, and he recognised +her. + +“Not till this morning,” she said, “did I hear you were ill.” + +“Happy,” he cried, “though I die to-night.” + +Soon afterwards—it was about sundown—he became unconscious; she sat there +alone with him till the morning broke, and then he passed away, and she +closed his eyes. + + + + +ATONEMENT + + +“YOU ask me how I lost my foot? You I see that dog?”—an unattractive +beast lying before the fire—“well, when I tell you how I came by him you +will know how I lost it;” and he then related the following story:— + +I was in Westmoreland with my wife and children for a holiday and we had +brought our dog with us, for we knew he would be unhappy with the +strangers to whom we had let our house. The weather was very wet and our +lodgings were not comfortable; we were kept indoors for days together, +and my temper, always irritable, became worse. My wife never resisted me +when I was in these moods and the absence of opposition provoked me all +the more. Had she stood up against me and told me I ought to be ashamed +of myself it would have been better for me. One afternoon everything +seemed to go wrong. A score of petty vexations, not one of which was of +any moment, worked me up to desperation. I threw my book across the +room, to the astonishment of my children, and determined to go out, +although it was raining hard. My dog, a brown retriever, was lying on +the mat just outside the door, and I nearly fell over him. “God damn +you!” said I, and kicked him. He howled with pain, but, although he was +the best of house-dogs and would have brought down any thief who came +near him, he did not growl at me, and quietly followed me. I am not +squeamish, but I was frightened directly the oath had escaped my lips. I +felt as if I had created something horrible which I could not annihilate, +and that it would wait for me and do me some mischief. The dog kept +closely to my heels for about a mile and I could not make him go on in +front. Usually the least word of encouragement or even the mere mention +of his name would send him scampering with delight in advance. I began +to think of something else, but in about a quarter of an hour I looked +round and found he was not behind me. I whistled and called, but he did +not come. In a renewed rage, which increased with every step I took, I +turned back to seek him. Suddenly I came upon him lying dead by the +roadside. Never shall I forget that shock—the reproach, the appeal of +that poor lifeless animal! I stroked him, I kissed him, I whispered his +name in his ear, but it was all in vain. I lifted up his beautiful broad +paw which he was wont to lay on my knee, I held it between my hands, and +when I let it go it fell heavily to the ground. I could not carry him +home, and with bitter tears and a kind of dread I drew him aside a little +way up the hill behind a rock. I went to my lodgings, returned towards +dusk with a spade, dug his grave in a lonely spot near the bottom of a +waterfall where he would never be disturbed, and there I buried him, +reverently smoothing the turf over him. What a night that was for me! I +was haunted incessantly by the vivid image of the dead body and by the +terror which accompanies a great crime. I had repaid all his devotion +with horrible cruelty. I had repented, but he would never know it. It +was not the dog only which I had slain; I had slain Divine faithfulness +and love. That _God damn you_ sounded perpetually in my ears. The +Almighty had registered and executed the curse, but it had fallen upon +the murderer and not on the victim. When I rose in the morning I +distinctly felt the blow of the kick in my foot, and the sensation lasted +all day. For weeks I was in a miserable condition. A separate +consciousness seemed to establish itself in this foot; there was nothing +to be seen and no pain, but there was a dull sort of pressure of which I +could not rid myself. If I slept I dreamed of the dog, and generally +dreamed I was caressing him, waking up to the dreadful truth of the +corpse on the path in the rain. I got it into my head—for I was +half-crazy—that only by some expiation I should be restored to health and +peace; but how to make any expiation I could not tell. Unhappy is the +wretch who longs to atone for a sin and no atonement is prescribed to +him! + +One night I was coming home late and heard the cry of “Fire!” I ran down +the street and found a house in flames. The fire-escape was at the +window, and had rescued a man, his wife and child. Every living creature +was safe, I was told, save a dog in the front room on the ground-floor. +I pushed the people aside, rushed in, half-blinded with smoke, and found +him. I could not escape by the passage, and dropped out of the window +into the area with him in my arms. I fell heavily on _that_ foot, and +when I was helped up the steps I could not put it to the ground. “You +may have him for your pains,” said his owner to me; “he is a useless cur. +I wouldn’t have ventured the singeing of a hair for him.” “May I?” I +replied, with an eagerness which must have seemed very strange. He was +indeed not worth half a crown, but I drew him closely to me and took him +into the cab. I was in great agony, and when the surgeon came it was +discovered that my ankle was badly fractured. An attempt was made to set +it, but in the end it was decided that the foot must be amputated. I +rejoiced when I heard the news, and on the day on which the operation was +performed I was calm and even cheerful. Our own doctor who came with the +surgeon told him I had “a highly nervous temperament,” and both of them +were amazed at my fortitude. The dog is a mongrel, as you see, but he +loves me, and if you were to offer me ten thousand golden guineas I would +not part with him. + + + + +LETTERS FROM MY AUNT ELEANOR {180} TO HER DAUGHTER SOPHIA, AND A FRAGMENT +FROM MY AUNT’S DIARY. + + + January 31, 1837. + +MY DEAREST CHILD,—It is now a month since your father died. It was a +sore trial to me that you should have broken down, and that you could not +be here when he was laid in his grave, but I would not for worlds have +allowed you to make the journey. I am glad I forced you away. The +doctor said he would not answer for the consequences unless you were +removed. But I must not talk, not even to you. I will write again soon. + + Your most affectionate mother, + + ELEANOR CHARTERIS. + + * * * * * + + February 5, 1837. + +I have been alone in the library from morning to night every day. How +foolish all the books look! There is nothing in them which can do me any +good. He is _not_: what is there which can alter that fact? Had he died +later I could have borne it better. I am only fifty years old, and may +have long to wait. I always knew I loved him devotedly; now I see how +much I depended on him. I had become so knit up with him that I imagined +his strength to be mine. His support was so continuous and so soft that +I was unconscious of it. How clear-headed and resolute he was in +difficulty and danger! You do not remember the great fire? We were +waked up out of our sleep; the flames spread rapidly; a mob filled the +street, shouting and breaking open doors. The man in charge of the +engines lost his head, but your father was perfectly cool. He got on +horseback, directed two or three friends to do the same; they galloped +into the town and drove the crowd away. He controlled all the operations +and saved many lives and many thousands of pounds. Is there any +happiness in the world like that of the woman who hangs on such a +husband? + + * * * * * + + February 10, 1837. + +I feel as if my heart would break if I do not see you, but I cannot come +to your Aunt’s house just now. She is very kind, but she would be +unbearable to me. Have patience: the sea air is doing you good; you will +soon be able to walk, and then you can return. O, to feel your head upon +my neck! I have many friends, but I have always needed a human being to +whom I was everything. To your father I believe I was everything, and +that thought was perpetual heaven to me. My love for him did not make me +neglect other people. On the contrary, it gave them their proper value. +Without it I should have put them by. When a man is dying for want of +water he cares for nothing around him. Satisfy his thirst, and he can +then enjoy other pleasures. I was his first love, he was my first, and +we were lovers to the end. I know the world would be dark to you also +were I to leave it. Perhaps it is wicked of me to rejoice that you would +suffer so keenly. I cannot tell how much of me is pure love and how much +of me is selfishness. I remember my uncle’s death. For ten days or so +afterwards everybody in the house looked solemn, and occasionally there +was a tear, but at the end of a fortnight there was smiling and at the +end of a month there was laughter. I was but a child then, but I thought +much about the ease and speed with which the gap left by death was +closed. + + * * * * * + + February 20, 1837. + +In a fortnight you will be here? The doctor really believes you will be +able to travel? I am glad you can get out and taste the sea air. I +count the hours which must pass till I see you. A short week, and +then—“the day after to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow of that day,” +and so I shall be able to reach forward to the Monday. It is strange +that the nearer Monday comes the more impatient I am. + + * * * * * + + March 3, 1837. + +With what sickening fear I opened your letter! I was sure it contained +some dreadful news. You have decided not to come till Wednesday, because +your cousin Tom can accompany you on that day. I _know_ you are quite +right. It is so much better, as you are not strong, that Tom should look +after you, and it would be absurd that you should make the journey two +days before him. I should have reproved you seriously if you had done +anything so foolish. But those two days are hard to bear. I shall not +meet you at the coach, nor shall I be downstairs. Go straight to the +library; I shall be there by myself. + + * * * * * + + DIARY. + +January 1, 1838.—Three days ago she died. Henceforth there is no living +creature to whom my existence is of any real importance. Crippled as she +was, she could never have married. I might have held her as long as she +lived. She could have expected no love but mine. God forgive me! +Perhaps I did unconsciously rejoice in that disabled limb because it kept +her closer to me. Now He has taken her from me. I may have been wicked, +but has He no mercy? “I would speak to the Almighty, and I desire to +reason with God.” An answer in anger could better be borne than this +impregnable silence. + + * * * * * + +January 3rd.—A day of snow and bitter wind. There were very few at the +grave, and I should have been better pleased if there had been none. +What claim had they to be there? I have come home alone, and they no +doubt are comforting themselves with the reflection that it is all over +except the half-mourning. Her death makes me hate them. Mr. Maxwell, +our rector, told me when my child was ill to remember that I had no right +to her. “Right!” what did he mean by that stupid word? How trouble +tries words! All I can say is that from her birth I had owned her, and +that now, when I want her most, I am dispossessed. “Self, self”—I know +the reply, but it is unjust, for I would have stood up cheerfully to be +shot if I could have saved her pain. Doubly unjust, for my passion for +her was a blessing to her as well as to me. + + * * * * * + +January 6th.—Henceforth I suppose I shall have to play with people, to +pretend to take an interest in their clothes and their parties, or, with +the superior sort, to discuss politics or books. I care nothing for +their rags or their gossip, for Lord Melbourne, Sir Robert Peel, or Mr. +James Montgomery. I must learn how to take the tip of a finger instead +of a hand, and to accept with gratitude comfits when I hunger for +bread—I, who have known—but I dare say nothing even to myself of my hours +with him—I, who have heard Sophy cry out in the night for me; I, who have +held her hand and have prayed by her bedside. + + * * * * * + +January 10th.—I must be still. I have learned this lesson before—that +speech even to myself does harm. If I admit no conversation nor debate +with myself, I certainly will not admit the chatter of outsiders. Mr. +Maxwell called again to-day. “Not a syllable on that subject,” said I +when he began in the usual strain. He then suggested that as this house +was too large for me, and must have what he called “melancholy +associations,” I should move. He had suggested this before, when my +husband died. How can I leave the home to which I was brought as a +bride? how can I endure the thought that strangers are in our room, or in +that other room where Sophy lay? Mr. Maxwell would think it sacrilege to +turn his church into an inn, and it is a worse sacrilege to me to permit +the profanation of the sanctuary which has been consecrated by Love and +Death. I do not know what might happen to me if I were to leave. I have +been what I am through shadowy nothings which other people despise. To +me they are realities and a law. I shall stay where I am. “A villa,” +forsooth, on the outskirts of the town! My existence would be fractured: +it will at least preserve its continuity here. Across the square I can +see the house in which I was born, and I can watch the shadow of the +church in the afternoon slowly crossing the churchyard. The townsfolk +stand in the street and go up and down it just as they did forty years +ago—not the same persons, but in a sense the same people. My brother +will call me extravagant if I remain here. He buys a horse and does not +consider it extravagant, and my money is not wasted if I spend it in the +only way in which it is of any value to me. + + * * * * * + +January 12th.—I had thought I could be dumb, but I cannot. My sorrow +comes in rushes. I lift up my head above the waves for an instant, and +immediately I am overwhelmed—“all Thy waves and Thy billows have gone +over me.” My nights are a terror to me, and I fear for my reason. That +last grip of Sophy’s hand is distinctly on mine now, palpable as the +pressure of a fleshly hand could be. It is strange that without any +external circumstances to account for it, she and I often thought the +same things at the same moment. She seemed to know instinctively what +was passing in my mind, so that I was afraid to harbour any unworthy +thought, feeling sure that she would detect it. Blood of my blood was +she. She said “goodbye” to me with perfect clearness, and in a quarter +of an hour she had gone. In that quarter of an hour there could not be +the extinction of so much. Such a creature as Sophy could not +instantaneously _not be_. I cannot believe it, but still the volume of +my life here is closed, the story is at an end; what remains will be +nothing but a few notes on what has gone before. + + * * * * * + +January 21st.—I went to church to-day for the first time since the +funeral. Mr. Maxwell preached a dull, doctrinal sermon. Whilst my +husband and Sophy lived, I was a regular attendant at church, and never +thought of disputing anything I heard. It did not make much impression +on me, but I accepted it, and if I had been asked whether I believed it, +I should have said, “Certainly.” But now a new standard of belief has +been set up in me, and the word “belief” has a different meaning. + + * * * * * + +February 3rd.—Whenever I saw anything beautiful I always asked Tom or +Sophy to look. Now I ask nobody. Early this morning, after the storm in +the night, the sky cleared, and I went out about dawn through the garden +up to the top of the orchard and watched the disappearance of the night +in the west. The loveliness of that silent conquest was unsurpassable. +Eighteen months ago I should have run indoors and have dragged Tom and +Sophy back with me. I saw it alone now, and although the promise in the +slow transformation of darkness to azure moved me to tears, I felt it was +no promise for me. + + * * * * * + +March 1st.—Nothing that is _prescribed_ does me any good. I cannot leave +off going to church, but the support I want I must find out for myself. +Perhaps if I had been born two hundred years ago, I might have been +caught by some strong enthusiastic organisation and have been a private +in a great army. A miserable time is this when each man has to grope his +way unassisted, and all the incalculable toil of founders of churches +goes for little or nothing. . . . I do not pray for any more pleasure: I +ask only for strength to endure, till I can lie down and rest. I have +had more rapture in a day than my neighbours and relations have had in +all their lives. Tom once said to me that he would sooner have had +twenty-four hours with me as his wife than youth and manhood with any +other woman he ever knew. He said that, not when we were first married, +but a score of years afterwards. I remember the place and the hour. It +was in the garden one morning in July, just before breakfast. It was a +burning day, and massive white clouds were forming themselves on the +horizon. The storm on that day was the heaviest I recollect, and the +lightning struck one of our chimneys and dashed it through the roof. His +passion was informed with intellect, and his intellect glowed with +passion. There was nothing in him merely animal or merely rational. . . . +To endure, to endure! Can there be any endurance without a motive? I +have no motive. + + * * * * * + +March 10th.—My sister and my brother-in-law came to-day and I wished them +away. Now that my husband is dead I discover that the frequent visitors +to our house came to see him and not me. There must be something in me +which prevents people, especially women, from being really intimate with +me. To be able to make friends is a talent which I do not possess, and +if those who call on me are prompted by kindness only, I would rather be +without them. The only attraction towards me which I value is that which +is irresistible. Perhaps I am wrong, and ought to accept with +thankfulness whatever is left to me if it has any savour of goodness in +it. I have no right to compare and to reject. . . I provide myself with +little maxims, and a breath comes and sweeps them away. What is +permanent behind these little flickerings is black night: that is the +real background of my life. + + * * * * * + +April 24th.—I have been to London, and on Easter Sunday I went to High +Mass at a Roman Catholic Church. I was obliged to leave, for I was +overpowered and hysterical. Were I to go often my reason might be +drowned, and I might become a devotee. And yet I do not think I should. +If I could prostrate myself at a shrine I should want an answer. When I +came out into the open air I saw again the _plainness_ of the world: the +skies, the sea, the fields are not in accord with incense or gorgeous +ceremonies. Incense and ceremonies are beyond the facts, and to the +facts we must cleave, no matter how poor and thin they may be. + + * * * * * + +May 5th.—If I am ill, I shall depend entirely on paid service. God grant +I may die suddenly and not linger in imbecility. So much of me is dead +that what is left is not worth preserving. Nearly everything I have done +all my life has been done for love. I shall now have to act for duty’s +sake. It is an entire reconstruction of myself, the insertion of a new +motive. I do not much believe in duty, nor, if I read my New Testament +aright, did the Apostle Paul. For Jesus he would do anything. That +sacred face would have drawn me whither the Law would never have driven +me. + + * * * * * + +May 7th.—It is painful to me to be so completely set aside. When Tom was +alive I was in the midst of the current of affairs. Few men, except +Maxwell, come to the house now. My property is in the hands of trustees. +Tom continually consulted me in business matters. I have nothing to look +after except my house, and I sit at my window and see the stream of life +pass without touching me. I cannot take up work merely for the sake of +taking it up. Nobody would value it, nor would it content me. How I +used to pity my husband’s uncle, Captain Charteris! He had been a +sailor; he had fought the French; he had been in imminent danger of +shipwreck, and from his youth upwards perpetual demands had been made +upon his resources and courage. At fifty he retired, a strong, active +man; and having a religious turn, he helped the curate with school-treats +and visiting. He pined away and died in five years. The bank goes on. +I have my dividends, but not a word reaches me about it. + + * * * * * + +October 10th.—Five months, I see, have passed since I made an entry in my +diary. What a day this is! The turf is once more soft, the trees and +hedges are washed, the leaves are turning yellow and are ready to fall. +I have been sitting in the garden alone, reading the forty-ninth chapter +of Genesis. I must copy the closing verses. It does me good to write +them. + +“And Jacob charged them, and said unto them, I am to be gathered unto my +people: bury me with my fathers in the cave that is in the field of +Ephron the Hittite, in the cave that is in the field of Machpelah, which +is before Mamre, in the land of Canaan, which Abraham bought with the +field of Ephron the Hittite for a possession of a burying-place. There +they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac and +Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah. The purchase of the field and +of the cave that is therein was from the children of Heth. And when +Jacob had made an end of commanding his sons, he gathered up his feet +into the bed, and yielded up the ghost, and was gathered unto his +people.” There is no distress here: he gathers up his feet and departs. +Perhaps our wild longings are unnatural, and yet it seems but nature +_not_ to be content with what contented the patriarch. Anyhow, wherever +and whatever my husband and Sophy are I shall be. This at least is +beyond dispute. + + * * * * * + +October 12th.—I do not wish to forget past joys, but I must simply +remember them and not try to paint them. I must cut short any yearning +for them. + + * * * * * + +October 20th.—We do not say the same things to ourselves with sufficient +frequency. In these days of book-reading fifty fine thoughts come into +our heads in a day, and the next morning are forgotten. Not one of them +becomes a religion. In the Bible how few the thoughts are, and how +incessantly they are repeated! If my life could be controlled by two or +three divine ideas, I would burn my library. I often feel that I would +sooner be a Levitical priest, supposing I believed in my office, than be +familiar with all these great men whose works are stacked around me. + + * * * * * + +October 22nd.—Sometimes, especially at night, the thought not only that I +personally have lost Tom and Sophy, but that the exquisite fabric of +these relationships, so intricate, so delicate, so highly organised, +could be cast aside, to all appearance so wastefully, is almost +unendurable. . . . I went up to the moor on the top of the hill this +morning, where I could see, far away, the river broaden and lose itself +in the Atlantic. I lay on the heather looking through it and listening +to it. + + * * * * * + +October 23rd.—The 131st Psalm came into my mind when I was on the moor +again. “Neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too +high for me. Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that +is weaned of its mother: my soul is even as a weaned child.” + + * * * * * + +October 28th—Tom once said to me that reasoning is often a bad guide for +us, and that loyalty to the silent Leader is true wisdom. Wesley, when +he was in trouble, asked himself “whether he should fight against it by +thinking, or by not thinking of it,” and a wise man told him “to be still +and go on.” A certain blind instinct seems to carry me forward. What is +it? an indication of a purpose I do not comprehend? an order given by the +Commander-in-Chief which is to be obeyed although the strategy is not +understood? + + * * * * * + +November 3rd.—Palmer, my maid, who has been with me ever since I began to +keep house, was very good-looking at one-and-twenty. When she had been +engaged to be married about a twelvemonth, she burned her face and the +burn left a bad scar. Her lover found excuses for breaking off the +engagement. He must have been a scoundrel, and I should like to have had +him whipped with wire. She was very fond of him. She had an offer of +marriage ten years afterwards, but she refused. I believe she feared +lest the scar, seen every day, would make her husband loathe her. Her +case is worse than mine, for she never knew such delights as mine. She +has subsisted on mere friendliness and civility. “Oh,” it is suggested +at once to me, “you are more sensitive than she is.” How dare I say +that? How hateful is the assumption of superior sensitiveness as an +excuse for want of endurance! + + * * * * * + +November 4th.—Ellen Charteris, my husband’s cousin, belongs to a Roman +Catholic branch of the family, and is an abbess. I remember saying to +her that I wondered that she and her nuns could spend such useless lives. +She replied that although she and all good Catholics believe in the +atonement of Christ, they also believe that works of piety in excess of +what may be demanded of us, even if they are done in secret, are a +set-off against the sins of the world. In this form the doctrine has not +much to commend itself to me, and it is assumed that the nuns’ works are +pious. But in a sense it is true. “The very hairs of your head are all +numbered.” The fall of a grain of dust is recorded. + + * * * * * + +November 7th—A kind of peace occasionally visits me. It is not the +indifference begotten of time, for my husband and my child are nearer and +dearer than ever to me. I care not to analyse it. I return to my +patriarch. With Joseph before him, the father, who had refused to be +comforted when he thought his son was dead, gathered up his feet into the +bed and slept. + + + + +CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN GEORGE LUCY M.A., AND HIS GODCHILD, HERMIONE +RUSSELL, B.A. + + +MY DEAR HERMIONE,—I have sent you my little volume of verse translations +into English, and you will find appended a few attempts at Latin and +Greek renderings of favourite English poems. You must tell me what you +think of them, and you must not spare a single blunder or inelegance. I +do not expect any reviews, and if there should be none it will not +matter, for I proposed to myself nothing more than my own amusement and +that of my friends. I would rather have thoroughly good criticism from +you than a notice, even if it were laudatory, from a magazine or a +newspaper. You have worked hard at your Latin and Greek since we read +Homer and Virgil, and you have had better instruction than I had at +Winchester. These trifles were published about three months ago, but I +purposely did not send you a copy then. You are enjoying your holiday +deep in the country, and may be inclined to pardon that incurable old +idler, your godfather and former tutor, for a waste of time which perhaps +you would not forgive when you are teaching in London. Verse-making is +out of fashion now. Goodbye. I should like to spend a week with you +wandering through those Devonshire lanes if I could carry my two rooms +with me and stick them in a field. + + Affectionately, + G. L. + +MY DEAR GODFATHER,—The little _Musæ_ came safely. My love to you for +them, and for the pretty inscription. I positively refuse to say a +single syllable on your scholarship. I have deserted my Latin and Greek, +and they were never good enough to justify me in criticising yours. I +have latterly turned my attention to Logic, History, and Moral +Philosophy, and with the help of my degree I have obtained a situation as +teacher of these sciences. I confess I do not regret the change. They +are certainly of supreme importance. There is something to be learned +about them from Latin and Greek authors, but this can be obtained more +easily from modern writers or translations than by the laborious study of +the originals. Do not suppose I am no longer sensible to the charm of +classical art. It is wonderful, but I have come to the conclusion that +the time spent on the classics, both here and in Germany, is mostly +thrown away. Take even Homer. I admit the greatness of the Iliad and +the Odyssey, but do tell me, my dear godfather, whether in this +nineteenth century, when scores of urgent social problems are pressing +for solution, our young people ought to give themselves up to a study of +ancient legends? What, however, are Horace, Catullus, and Ovid compared +with Homer? Much in them is pernicious, and there is hardly anything in +them which helps us to live. Besides, we have surely enough in Chaucer, +Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton, to say nothing of the poets of this +century, to satisfy the imagination of anybody. Boys spend years over +the _Metamorphoses_ or the story of the wars of Æneas, and enter life +with no knowledge of the simplest facts of psychology. I look forward to +a time not far distant, I hope, when our whole pædagogic system will be +remodelled. Greek and Latin will then occupy the place which Assyrian or +Egyptian hieroglyphic occupies now, and children will be directly +prepared for the duties which await them. + +I have in preparation a book which I expect soon to publish, entitled +_Positive Education_. It will appear anonymously, for society being +constituted as it is, I am afraid that my name on the title-page would +prevent me from finding employment. My object is to show how the moral +fabric can be built up without the aid of theology or metaphysics. I +profess no hostility to either, but as educational instruments I believe +them to be useless. I begin with Logic as the foundation of all science, +and then advance by easy steps (_a_) to the laws of external nature +commencing with number, and (_b_) to the rules of conduct, reasons being +given for them, with History and Biography as illustrations. One modern +foreign language, to be learned as thoroughly as it is possible to learn +it in this country, will be included. I desire to banish all magic in +school training. Everything taught shall be understood. It is easier, +and in some respects more advantageous, not to explain, but the mischief +of habituating children to bow to the unmeaning is so great that I would +face any inconvenience in order to get rid of it. All kinds of +objections, some of them of great weight, may be urged against me, but +the question is on which side do they preponderate? Is it no objection +to our present system that the simple laws most necessary to society +should be grounded on something which is unintelligible, that we should +be brought up in ignorance of any valid obligation to obey moral +precepts, that we should be unable to give any account of the commonest +physical phenomena, that we should never even notice them, that we should +be unaware, for example, of the nightly change in the position of planets +and stars, and that we should nevertheless busy ourselves with niceties +of expression in a dead tongue, and with tales about Jupiter and Juno? +For what glorious results may we not look when children from their +earliest years learn that which is essential, but which now, alas! is +picked up unmethodically and by chance? I cannot help saying all this to +you, for your _Musæ_ arrived just as my youngest brother came home from +Winchester. He was delighted with it, for he is able to write very fair +Latin and Greek. That boy is nearly eighteen. He does not know why the +tides rise and fall, and has never heard that there has been any +controversy as to the basis of ethics. + + Your affectionate godchild, + HERMIONE. + +MY DEAR HERMIONE,—Your letter was something like a knock-down blow. I am +sorry you have abandoned your old friends, and I felt that you intended +to rebuke me for trifling. A great deal of what you say I am sure is +true, but I cannot write about it. Whether Greek and Latin ought to be +generally taught I am unable to decide. I am glad I learned them. My +apology for my little _Musæ_ must be that it is too late to attempt to +alter the habits in which I was brought up. Remember, my dear child, +that I am an old bachelor with seventy years behind me last Christmas, +and remember also my natural limits. I am not so old, nevertheless, that +I cannot wish you God-speed in all your undertakings. + + Your affectionate godfather, + G. L. + +MY DEAR GODFATHER,—What a blunderer I am! What deplorable want of tact! +If I wanted your opinion on classical education or my scheme I surely +might have found a better opportunity for requesting it. It is always +the way with me. I get a thing into my head, and out it comes at the +most unseasonable moment. It is almost as important that what is said +should be relevant as that it should be true. Well, the mistake is made, +and I cannot unmake it. I will not trouble you with another +syllable—directly at any rate—about Latin and Greek, but I do want to +know what you think about the exclusion of theology and metaphysics from +the education of the young. I must have _debate_, so that before +publication my ideas may become clear and objections may be anticipated. +I cannot discuss the matter with my father. You were at college with +him, and you will remember his love for Aristotle, who, as I think, has +enslaved him. If I may say so without offence, you are not a +philosopher. You are more likely, therefore, to give a sound, +unprofessional opinion. You have never had much to do with children, but +this does not matter; in fact, it is rather an advantage, for actual +children would have distorted your judgment. What has theology done? It +is only half-believed, and its rewards and punishments are too remote to +be of practical service. They are not seen when they are most required. +As to metaphysics, its propositions are too loose. They may with equal +ease be affirmed or denied. Conduct cannot be controlled by what is +shadowy and uncertain. We have been brought up on theology and +metaphysics for centuries, and we are still at daggers drawn upon matters +of life and death. We are as warlike as ever, and not a single social +problem has been settled by bishops or professors. I wish to try a more +direct and, as I believe, a more efficient method. I wish to see what +the effect will be of teaching children from their infancy the lesson +that morality and the enjoyment of life are identical; that if, for +example, they lie, they lose. I should urge this on them perpetually, +until at last, by association, lying would become impossible. Restraint +which is exercised in accordance with rational principles, inasmuch as it +proceeds from Nature, must be more efficacious than an external +prohibition. So with other virtues. I should deduce most of them in the +same way. If I could not, I should let them go, assured that we could do +without them. Now, my dear godfather, do open out to me, and don’t put +me off. + + Your affectionate godchild, + HERMIONE. + +MY DEAR HERMIONE,—You terrify me. These matters are really not in my +way. I have never been able to tackle big questions. Unhappily for me, +all questions nowadays are big. I do not see many people, as you know, +and potter about in my garden from morning to night, but Mrs. Lindsay +occasionally brings down her friends from London, and the subjects of +conversation are so immense that I am bewildered. I admit that some +people are too rich and others are too poor, and that if I could give you +a vote you should have one, and that boys and girls might be better +taught, but upon Socialism, Enfranchisement of Women, and Educational +Reform, I have not a word to say. Is not this very unsatisfactory? +Nobody is more willing to admit it than I am. It is so disappointing in +talking to myself or to others to stop short of generalisation and to be +obliged to confess that _sometimes it is and sometimes it is not_. I +bless my stars that I am not a politician or a newspaper writer. When I +was young these great matters, at least in our village, were not such +common property as they are now. A man, even if he was a scholar, +thought he had done his duty by living an honest and peaceable life. He +was justified if he was kind to his neighbours and amused himself with +his bees and flowers. He had no desire to be remembered for any +achievement, and was content to be buried with a few tears and then to be +forgotten. All Mrs. Lindsay’s folk want to do something outside their +own houses or parishes which shall make their names immortal. . . . I +was interrupted by a tremendous thunderstorm and hail. That wonderful +rose-bush which, you will recollect, stood on the left-hand side of the +garden door, has been stripped just as if it had been scourged with +whips. If you have done, quite done with the Orelli you borrowed about +two years ago, please let me have it. Why could you not bring it? Mrs. +Lindsay was saying only the other day how glad she should be if you would +stay with her for a fortnight before you return to town. + + Your affectionate godfather, + G. L. + +MY DEAR GODFATHER,—I have sent back the Orelli. How I should love to +come and to wander about the meadows with you by the river or sit in the +boat with you under the willows. But I cannot, for I have promised to +speak at a Woman’s Temperance Meeting next week, and in the week +following I am going to read a paper called “An Educational Experiment,” +before our Ethical Society. This, I think, will be interesting. I have +placed my pupils in difficult historical positions, and have made them +tell me what they would have done, giving the reasons. I am thus enabled +to detect any weakness and to strengthen character on that side. Most of +the girls are embarrassed by the conflict of motives, and I have to +impress upon them the necessity in life of disregarding those which are +of less importance and of prompt action on the stronger. I have +classified my results in tables, so that it may be seen at a glance what +impulses are most generally operative. + +But to go back to your letter. I will not have you shuffle. You can say +so much if you like. Talk to me just as you did when we last sat under +the cedar-tree. I _must_ know your mind about theology and metaphysics. + + Your affectionate godchild, + HERMIONE. + +MY DEAR HERMIONE,—I am sorry you could not come. I am sorry that what +people call a “cause” should have kept you away. If any of your friends +had been ill; if it had been a dog or a cat, I should not have cared so +much. You are dreadful! Theology and metaphysics! I do not understand +what they are as formal sciences. Everything seems to me theological and +metaphysical. What Shakespeare says now and then carries me further than +anything I have read in the system-books into which I have looked. I +cannot take up a few propositions, bind them into faggots, and say, “This +is theology, and that is metaphysics.” There is much “discourse of God” +in a May blossom, and my admiration of it is “beyond nature,” but I am +not sure upon this latter point, for I do not know in the least what +φυσις or Nature is. We love justice and generosity, and hate injustice +and meanness, but the origin of virtue, the life of the soul, is as much +beyond me as the origin of life in a plant or animal, and I do not bother +myself with trying to find it out. I do feel, however, that justice and +generosity have somehow a higher authority than I or any human being can +give them, and if I had children of my own this is what I should try, not +exactly to teach them, but to breathe into them. I really, my dear +child, dare not attempt an essay on the influence which priests and +professors have had upon the world, nor am I quite clear that “shadowy” +and “uncertain” mean the same thing. All ultimate facts in a sense are +shadowy, but they are not uncertain. When you try to pinch them between +your fingers they seem unsubstantial, but they are very real. Are you +sure that you yourself stand on solid granite? + + Your affectionate godfather, + G. L. + +MY DEAR GODFATHER,—You are most disappointing and evasive. I gave up the +discussion on Latin and Greek, but I did and do want your reply to a most +simple question. If you had to teach children—you surely can imagine +yourself in such a position—would you teach them _what are generally +known as theology and metaphysics_?—excuse the emphasis. You have an +answer, I am certain, and you may just as well give it me. I know that +you had rather, or affect you had rather, talk about Catullus, but I also +know that you think upon serious subjects sometimes. These matters +cannot now be put aside. We live in a world in which certain problems +are forced upon us and we are compelled to come to some conclusion upon +them. I cannot shut myself up and determine that I will have no opinion +upon Education or Socialism or Women’s Rights. The fact that these +questions are here is plain proof that it is my duty not to ignore them. +You hate large generalisations, but how can we exist without them? They +may never be entirely true, but they are indispensable, and, if you never +commit yourself to any, you are much more likely to be practically wrong +than if you use them. + +Take, for example, the Local Veto. I admitted in my speech that there is +much to be urged against it. It might act harshly, and it is quite true +that poor men in large towns cannot spend their evenings in their filthy +homes; but I _must_ be for it or against it, and I am enthusiastically +for it, because on the whole it will do good. So with Socialism. The +evils of Capitalism are so monstrous that any remedy is better than none. +Socialism may not be the direct course: it may be a tremendously awkward +tack, but it is only by tacking that we get along. So with positive +education, but I have enlarged upon this already. What a sermon to my +dear godfather! Forgive me, but you will have to take sides, and do, +please, be a little more definite about my book. + + Your affectionate godchild, + HERMIONE. + +MY DEAR HERMIONE,—I haven’t written for some time, for I was unwell for +nearly a month. The doctor has given me physic, but my age is really the +mischief, and it is incurable. I caught cold through sitting out of +doors after dinner with the rector, a good fellow if he would not smoke +on my port. To smoke on good port is a sin. He knows my infirmity, that +I cannot sit still long, and he excuses my attendance at church. Would +you believe it? When I was very bad, and thought I might die, I read +Horace again, whom you detest. I often wonder what he really thought +upon many things when he looked out on the + + “taciturna noctis + signa.” + +Justice is not often done to him. He saw a long way, but he did not make +believe he saw beyond his limit, and was content with it. A rare virtue +is intellectual content! + + “Tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi + Finem dî dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios + Tentaris numeros.” + +The rector was telling me about Tom Pavenham’s wedding. He has married +Margaret Loxley, as you may perhaps have seen in the paper I sent you. +Mrs. Loxley, her mother, was a Barfield, and old Pavenham, when he was a +youth, fell in love with her. She was also in love with him. He was +well-to-do, and farmed about seven hundred acres, but he was not thought +good enough by the elder Barfields, who lived in what was called a park. +They would not hear of the match. She was sent to France, and he went to +Buenos Ayres. After some years had passed he married out there, and she +married. His wife died when her first child, a boy, was born. Loxley +also died, leaving his wife with an only daughter. Pavenham retired from +business in South America, and came back with his son to his native +village, where he meant to spend the rest of his days. Tom and Margaret +were at once desperately smitten with one another. The father and mother +have kept their own flame alive, and I believe it is as bright as it ever +was. It is delightful to see them together. They called on me with the +children after the betrothal. He was so courteous and attentive to her, +and she seemed to bask in his obvious affection. I noticed how they +looked at one another and smiled happily as the boy and girl wandered off +together towards the filbert walk. The rector told me that he was +talking to old Pavenham one evening, and said to him: “Jem, aren’t you +sometimes sad when you think of what ought to have happened?” His voice +shook a bit as he replied gently: “God be thanked for what we have! +Besides, it has all come to pass in Tom and Margaret.” + +You must not be angry with me if I say nothing more about Positive +Education. It is a great strain on me to talk upon such matters, and +when I do I always feel afterwards that I have said much which is mere +words. That is a sure test; I must obey my dæmon. I wish I could give +you what you want for what you have given me; but when do we get what we +want in exchange for what we give? Our trafficking is a clumsy barter. +A man sells me a sheep, and I pay him in return with my grandfather’s old +sextant. This is not quite true for you and me. Love is given and love +is returned. À Dieu—not adieu. Remember that the world is very big, and +that there may be room in it for a few creatures like + + Your affectionate godfather, + G. L. + + + + +MRS. FAIRFAX + + +THE town of Langborough in 1839 had not been much disturbed since the +beginning of the preceding century. The new houses were nearly all of +them built to replace others which had fallen into decay; there were no +drains; the drinking-water came from pumps; the low fever killed thirty +or forty people every autumn; the Moot Hall still stood in the middle of +the High Street; the newspaper came but once a week; nobody read any +books; and the Saturday market and the annual fair were the only events +in public local history. Langborough, being seventy miles from London +and eight from the main coach-road, had but little communication with the +outside world. Its inhabitants intermarried without crossing from other +stocks, and men determined their choice mainly by equality of fortune and +rank. The shape of the nose and lips and colour of the eyes may have had +some influence in masculine selection, but not much: the doctor took the +lawyer’s daughter, the draper took the grocer’s, and the carpenter took +the blacksmith’s. Husbands and wives, as a rule, lived comfortably with +one another; there was no reason why they should quarrel. The air of the +place was sleepy; the men attended to their business, and the women were +entirely apart, minding their household affairs and taking tea with one +another. In Langborough, dozing as it had dozed since the days of Queen +Anne, it was almost impossible that any woman should differ so much from +another that she could be the cause of passionate preference. + +One day in the spring of 1839 Langborough was stirred to its depths. No +such excitement had been felt in the town since the run upon the bank in +1825, when one of the partners went up to London, brought down ten +thousand pounds in gold with him by the mail, and was met at Thaxton +cross-roads by a post-chaise, which was guarded into Langborough by three +men with pistols. A circular printed in London was received on that +spring day in 1839 by all the respectable ladies in the town stating that +a Mrs. Fairfax was about to begin business in Ferry Street as a +dressmaker. She had taken the only house to be let in Ferry Street. It +was a cottage with a front and back sitting-room, and belonged to an old +lady in Lincoln, who inherited it from her brother, who once lived in it +but had been dead forty years. Before a week had gone by four-fifths of +the population of Langborough had re-inspected it. The front room was +the shop, and in the window was a lay-figure attired in an evening robe +of rose-coloured silk, the like of which for style and fit no native lady +had ever seen. Underneath it was a card—“Mrs. Fairfax, Milliner and +Dressmaker.” The circular stated that Mrs. Fairfax could provide +materials or would make up those brought to her by her customers. + +Great was the debate which followed this unexpected apparition. Who Mrs. +Fairfax was could not be discovered. Her furniture and the lay-figure +had come by the waggon, and the only information the driver could give +was that he was directed at the “George and Blue Boar” in Holborn to +fetch them from Great Ormond Street. After much discussion it was agreed +that Mrs. Bingham, the wife of the wine merchant, should call on Mrs. +Fairfax and inquire the price of a gown. Mrs. Bingham was at the head of +society in Langborough, and had the reputation of being very clever. It +was hoped, and indeed fully expected, that she would be able to penetrate +the mystery. She went, opened the door, a little bell sounded, and Mrs. +Fairfax presented herself. Mrs. Bingham’s eyes fell at once upon Mrs. +Fairfax’s dress. It was black, with no ornament, and constructed with an +accuracy and grace which proved at once to Mrs. Bingham that its maker +was mistress of her art. Mrs. Bingham, although she could not entirely +desert the linendraper’s wife, whose husband was a good customer for +brandy, had some of her clothes made in London when she stayed with her +sister in town, and, to use her own phrase, “knew what was what.” + +“Mrs. Fairfax?” + +A bow. + +“Will you please tell me what a gown would cost made somewhat like that +in the window?” + +“For yourself, madam?” + +“Yes.” + +“Pardon me; I am afraid that colour would not suit you.” + +Mrs. Bingham was a stout woman with a ruddy complexion. + +“One colour costs no more than another?” + +“No, madam: twelve guineas; that silk is expensive. Will you not take a +seat?” + +“I am afraid you will find twelve guineas too much for anybody here. +Have you nothing cheaper?” + +Mrs. Fairfax produced some patterns and fashion-plates. + +“I suppose the gown in the window is your own make?” + +“My own make and design.” + +“Then you are not beginning business?” + +“I hope I may say that I thoroughly understand it.” + +The door leading into the back parlour opened, and a little girl about +nine or ten years old entered. + +“Mother, I want—” + +Mrs. Fairfax, without saying a word, gently led the child into the +parlour again. + +“Dear me, what a pretty little girl! Is that yours?” + +“Yes, she is mine.” + +Mrs. Bingham noticed that Mrs. Fairfax did not wear a widow’s cap, and +that she had a wedding-ring on her finger. + +“You will find it rather lonely here. Have you been accustomed to +solitude?” + +“Yes. That silk, now, would suit you admirably. With less ornament it +would be ten guineas.” + +“Thank you: I must not be so extravagant at present. May I look at +something which will do for walking? You would not, I suppose, make a +walking-dress for Langborough exactly as you would have made it in +London?” + +“If you mean for walking about the roads here, it would differ slightly +from one which would be suitable for London.” + +“Will you show me what you have usually made for town?” + +“This is what is worn now.” + +Mrs. Bingham was baffled but not defeated. She gave an order for a +walking-dress, and hoped that Mrs. Fairfax might be more communicative. + +“Have you any introductions here?” + +“None whatever.” + +“It is rather a risk if you are unknown.” + +“Perhaps you have been exempt from risks: some people are obliged +constantly to encounter them.” + +“‘Exempt,’ ‘encounter,”’ thought Mrs. Bingham: “she must have been to a +good school.” + +“When will you be ready to try on?” + +“On Friday,” and Mrs. Fairfax opened the door. + +As Mrs. Bingham went out she noticed a French book lying on a side table. + +The day following was Sunday, and Mrs. Fairfax and her daughter were at +church. They sat at the back, and all the congregation turned on +entering, looked at them, and thought about them during the service. +They went out as soon as it was over, but Mrs. Harrop, wife of the +ironmonger, and Mrs. Cobb, wife of the coal merchant, escaped with equal +promptitude and were close behind them. + +“There isn’t a crease in that body,” said Mrs. Harrop. + +On Monday Mrs. Bingham was at the post-office. She took care to be there +at the dinner hour, when the postmaster’s wife generally came to the +counter. + +“A newcomer, Mrs. Carter. Have you seen Mrs. Fairfax?” + +“Once or twice, ma’am.” + +“Has she many letters?” + +The door between the office and the parlour was open. + +“I’ve no doubt she will have, ma’am, if her business succeeds.” + +“I wonder where she lived before she came here. It is curious, isn’t it, +that nobody knows her? Did you ever notice how her letters are stamped?” + +“Can’t say as I have, ma’am.” + +Mrs. Carter shut the parlour door. “The smell of those onions,” she +whispered to her husband, “blows right in here.” She then altered her +tone a trifle. + +“One of ’em, Mrs. Bingham, had the Portsmouth postmark on it; but this is +in the strictest confidence, and I should never dream of letting it out +to anybody but you, but I don’t mind you, because I know you won’t repeat +it, and if my husband was to hear me he’d be in a fearful rage, for there +was a dreadful row when I told Lady Caroline at Thaxton Manor about the +letters Miss Margaret was getting, and it was found out that it was me as +told her, and some gentleman in London wrote to the Postmaster-General +about it.” + +“You may depend upon me, Mrs. Carter.” Mrs. Bingham considered she had +completely satisfied her conscience when she imposed an oath of secrecy +on Mrs. Harrop, who was also self-exonerated when she had imposed a +similar oath on Mrs. Cobb. + +A fortnight after the visit to the post-office there was a tea-party. +Mrs. Harrop, Mrs. Cobb, Mrs. Sweeting, the grocer’s wife, and Miss +Tarrant, an elderly lady, living on a small annuity, but most genteel, +were invited to Mrs. Bingham’s. They began to talk of Mrs. Fairfax +directly they had tasted the hot buttered toast. They had before them +the following facts: the carrier’s deposition that the goods came from +Great Ormond Street; the lay-figure and what it wore; Mrs. Fairfax’s +prices; the little girl; the wedding-ring but no widow’s weeds; the +Portsmouth postmark; the French book; Mrs. Bingham’s new gown, and +lastly—a piece of information contributed by Mrs. Sweeting and considered +to be of great importance, as we shall see presently—that Mrs. Fairfax +bought her coffee whole and ground it herself. On these facts, nine in +all, the ladies had to construct—it was imperative that they should +construct it—an explanation of Mrs. Fairfax, and it must be confessed +that they were not worse equipped than many a picturesque and successful +historian. At the request of the company, Mrs. Bingham went upstairs and +put on the gown. + +“Do you mind coming to the window, Mrs. Bingham?” asked Mrs. Harrop. + +Mrs. Bingham rose and went to the window. Her guests also rose. She +held her arms down and then held them up, and was surveyed from every +point of the compass. + +“I thought it was a pucker, but it’s only the shadow,” observed Mrs. +Harrop. + +Mrs. Cobb stroked the body and shook the skirt. Not a single +depreciatory criticism was ventured. Excepting the wearer, nobody +present had seen such a masterpiece. But although for half a lifetime we +may have beheld nothing better than an imperfect actual, we recognise +instantly the superiority and glory of the realised Ideal when it is +presented to us. Mrs. Harrop, Mrs. Cobb, Mrs. Sweeting, and Miss Tarrant +became suddenly aware of possibilities of which they had not hitherto +dreamed. Mrs. Swanley, the linendraper’s wife, was degraded and deposed. + +“She must have learned that in London,” said Mrs. Harrop. + +“London! my dear Mrs. Harrop,” replied Mrs. Bingham, “I know London +pretty well, and how things are cut there. I told you there was a French +book on the table. Take my word for it, she has lived in Paris. She +_must_ have lived there.” + +“Where is Great Ormond Street, Mrs. Bingham?” inquired Mrs. Sweeting. + +“A great many foreigners live there; it is somewhere near Leicester +Square.” + +Mrs. Bingham knew nothing about the street, but having just concluded a +residence in Paris from the French book, that conclusion led at once to a +further conclusion, clear as noonday, as to the quality of the people who +inhabited Great Ormond Street, and consequently to the final deduction of +its locality. + +“Did you not say, Mrs. Sweeting, that she buys her coffee whole?” added +Mrs. Bingham, as if inspiration had flashed into her. “If you want +additional proof that she is French, there it is.” + +“Portsmouth,” mused Mrs. Cobb. “You say, Mrs. Bingham, there are a good +many officers there. Let me see—1815—it’s twenty-four years ago since +the battle. A captain may have picked her up in Paris. I’ll be bound +that, if she ever was married, she was married when she was sixteen or +seventeen. They are always obliged to marry those French girls when they +are nothing but chits, I’ve been told—those of them, leastways, that +don’t live with men without being married. That would make her about +forty, and then he found her out and left her, and she went back to Paris +and learned dressmaking.” + +“But he writes to her from Portsmouth,” said Mrs. Bingham, who had not +been told that the solitary letter from Portsmouth was addressed in a +man’s handwriting. + +“He may not have broken with her altogether,” replied Mrs. Cobb. “If he +isn’t a downright brute he’ll want to hear about his daughter.” + +“Well,” said Mrs. Sweeting, twitching her eyes as she was wont to do when +she was about to give an opinion which she knew would disturb any of her +friends, “you may talk as you like, but the last thing Swanley made for +me looked as if it had been to the wash and hung on me to dry. French or +English, captain or no captain, I shall go to Mrs. Fairfax. Her +character’s got nothing to do with her cut. Suppose she _is_ divorced; +judging from that body of yours, Mrs. Bingham, I shan’t have to send back +a pelisse half a dozen times to get it altered. When it comes to that +you get sick of the thing, and may just as well give it away.” + +Mrs. Sweeting occupied the lowest rank in this particular section of +Langborough society. As a grocer Mr. Sweeting was not quite on a level +with the coal dealer, who was a merchant, nor with the ironmonger, who +repaired ploughs, and he was certainly below Mr. Bingham. Miss Tarrant, +never having been “connected with trade”—her father was chief clerk in +the bank—considered herself superior to all her acquaintances, but her +very small income prevented her from claiming her superiority so +effectively as she desired. + +“Mrs. Sweeting,” she said, “I am surprised at you! You do not consider +what the moral effect on the lower orders of patronising a female of this +kind will be, probably an abandoned woman. The child, no doubt, was not +born in wedlock. We are sinners ourselves if we support sinners.” + +“Miss Tarrant,” retorted Mrs. Sweeting, “I’m the respectable mother of +five children, and I don’t want any sermons on sin except in church. If +it wasn’t a sin of Swanley to charge me three guineas for that pelisse, +and wouldn’t take it back, I don’t know what sin.” + +Mrs. Bingham, although she was accustomed to tea-table disputes, and even +enjoyed them, was a little afraid of Mrs. Sweeting’s tongue, and thought +it politic to interfere. + +“I agree with you entirely, Mrs. Sweeting, about the inferiority of Mrs. +Swanley to this newcomer, but we must consider Miss Tarrant’s position in +the parish and her responsibilities. She is no doubt right from her +point of view.” + +So the conversation ended, but Mrs. Fairfax’s biography, which was to be +published under authority in Langborough, was now rounded off and +complete. She was a Parisian, father and mother unknown, was found in +Paris in 1815 by Captain Fairfax, who, by her intrigues and threats of +exposure, was forced into a marriage with her. A few years afterwards he +had grounds for a divorce, but not wishing a scandal, consented to a +compromise and voluntary separation. He left one child in her custody, +as it showed signs of resemblance to its mother, to whom he gave a small +monthly allowance. She had been apprenticed as a dressmaker in Paris, +had returned thither in order to master her trade, and then came back to +England. In a very little time, so clever was she that she learned to +speak English fluently, although, as Mrs. Bingham at once noticed, the +French accent was very perceptible. It was a good, intelligible, working +theory, and that was all that was wanted. This was Mrs. Fairfax so far +as her female neighbours were concerned. To the men in Langborough she +was what she was to the women, but with a difference. When she went to +Mr. Sweeting’s shop to order her groceries, Mr. Sweeting, notwithstanding +the canonical legend of her life, served her himself, and was much +entangled by her dark hair, and was drawn down by it into a most polite +bow. Mr. Cobb, who had a little cabin of an office in his coal-yard, +hastened back to it from superintending the discharge of a lighter, when +Mrs. Fairfax called to pay her little bill, actually took off his hat, +begged her to be seated, and hoped she did not find the last lot of coals +dusty. He was now unloading some of the best Wallsend that ever came up +the river, and would take care that the next half ton should not have an +ounce of small in it. + +“You’ll find it chilly where you are living, ma’am, but it isn’t damp, +that’s one comfort. The bottom of your street is damp, and down here in +a flood anything like what we had fourteen years ago, we are nearly +drowned. If you’ll step outside with me I’ll show you how high the water +rose.” He opened the door, and Mrs. Fairfax thought it courteous not to +refuse. He walked to the back of his cabin bareheaded, although the +morning was cold, and pointed out to her the white paint mark on the +wall. She, dropped her receipted bill in the black mud and stooped to +pick it up. Mr. Cobb plunged after it and wiped it carefully on his silk +pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Cobb’s bay window commanded the whole length +of the coal-yard. In this bay window she always sat and worked and +nodded to the customers, or gossiped with them as they passed. She +turned her back on Mrs. Fairfax both when she entered the yard and when +she left it, but watched her carefully. Mr. Cobb came into dinner, but +his wife bided her time, knowing that, as he took snuff, the handkerchief +would be used. It was very provoking, he was absent-minded, and forgot +his usual pinch before he sat down to his meal. For three-quarters of an +hour his wife was afflicted with painfully uneasy impatience, and found +it very difficult to reply to Mr. Cobb’s occasional remarks. At last the +cheese was finished, the snuff-box appeared, and after it the +handkerchief. + +“A pretty mess that handkerchief is in, Cobb.” She always called him +simply “Cobb.” + +“Yes, it was an a-a-accident. I must have a clean one. I didn’t think +it was so dirty.” + +“The washing of your snuffy handkerchiefs costs quite enough as it is, +Cobb, without using them in that way.” + +“What way?” said Mr. Cobb weakly. + +“Oh, I saw it all, going out without your hat and standing there like a +silly fool cleaning that bit of paper. I wonder what the lightermen +thought of you.” + +It will already have been noticed that the question what other people +thought was always the test which was put in Langborough whenever +anything was done or anything happened not in accordance with the usual +routine, and Mrs. Cobb struck at her husband’s conscience by referring +him to his lightermen. She continued— + +“And you know what she is as well as I do, and if she’d been respectable +you’d have been rude to her, as you generally are.” + +“You bought that last new gown of her, and you never had one as fitted +you so well.” + +“What’s that got to do with it? You may be sure I knew my place when I +went there. Fit? Yes, it did fit; them sort of women, it stands to +reason, are just the women to fit you.” + +Mr. Cobb was silent. He was a mild man, and he knew by much experience +how unprofitable controversy with Mrs. Cobb was. He could not forget +Mrs. Fairfax’s stooping figure when she was about to pick up the bill. +She caused in all the Langborough males an unaccustomed quivering and +warmth, the same in each, physical, perhaps, but salutary, for the +monotony of life was relieved thereby and a deference and even a grace +were begotten which did not usually distinguish Langborough manners. Not +one of Mrs. Fairfax’s admirers, however, could say that she showed any +desire for conversation with him, nor could any direct evidence be +obtained as to what she thought of things in general. There was, to be +sure, the French book, and there were other circumstances already +mentioned from which suspicion or certainty (suspicion, as we have seen, +passing immediately into certainty in Langborough) of infidelity or +disreputable conduct followed, but no corroborating word from her could +be adduced. She attended to her business, accepted orders with thanks +and smiles, talked about the weather and the accident to the coach, was +punctual in her attendance at church, calm and inscrutable as the Sphinx. +The attendance at church was, of course, set down to “business +considerations,” and was held to be quite consistent with the scepticism +and loose morality deducible from the French book and the unground +coffee. + + * * * * * + +In speaking of the male creatures of the town we have left out Dr. +Midleton. He was forty-eight years old, and had been rector twenty +years. He had obtained high mathematical honours at Cambridge, and +became a tutor in a grammar school, but was soon presented by his college +with the living of Langborough. He was tall, spare, clean-shaven, +grey-eyed, dark-haired, thin-faced, his lips were curved and compressed, +and he stooped slightly. He was a widower with no children, and the +Rectory was efficiently kept in order by an aged housekeeper. +Tractarianism had not arisen in 1839, but he was High Church and an enemy +to all kinds of fanaticism, apt to be satirical, even in his sermons, on +the right of private judgment to interpret texts as it pleased in +ignorance of Hebrew and Greek. He was respected and feared more than any +other man in the parish. He had a great library, and had taken up +archæology as a hobby. He knew the history of every church in the +county, and more about the Langborough records than was known by the town +clerk. He was chairman of a Board of Governors charged with the +administration of wealthy trust for alms and schools. When he first took +office he found that this trust was controlled almost entirely by a man +named Jackson, a local solicitor, whose salary as clerk was £400 a year +and who had a large private practice. The alms were allotted to serve +political purposes, and the headmaster of the school enjoyed a salary of +£800 a year for teaching forty boys, of whom twenty were boarders. Mr. +Midleton—he was Mr. Midleton then—very soon determined to alter this +state of things. Jackson went about sneering at the newcomer who was +going to turn the place upside down, and having been accustomed to +interfere in the debates in the Board-room, interrupted the Rector at the +third or fourth meeting. + +“You’ll get yourself in a mess if you do that, Mr. Chairman.” + +“Mr. Jackson,” replied the Rector, rising slowly, “it may perhaps save +trouble if I remind you now, once for all, that I am chairman and you are +the clerk. Mr. Bingham, you were about to speak.” + +It was Dr. Midleton who obtained the new Act of Parliament remodelling +the trust, whereby a much larger portion of its funds was devoted to +education. Jackson died, partly from drink and partly from spite and +vexation, and the headmaster was pensioned. The Rector was not popular +with the middle class. He was not fond of paying visits, but he never +neglected his duty, and by the poor was almost beloved, for he was +careless and intimate in his talk with them and generous to real +distress. Everybody admired his courage. The cholera in 1831 was very +bad in Langborough, and the people were in a panic at the new disease, +which was fatal in many cases within six hours after the first attack. +The Rector through that dark time was untouched by the contagious dread +which overpowered his parishioners, and his presence carried confidence +and health. On the worst day, sultry, stifling, with no sun, an +indescribable terror crept abroad, and Mr. Cobb, standing at his gate, +was overcome by it. In five minutes he had heard of two deaths, and he +began to feel what were called “premonitory symptoms.” He carried a +brandy flask in his pocket, brandy being then considered a remedy, and he +drank freely, but imagined himself worse. He was about to rush indoors +and tell Mrs. Cobb to send for the surgeon, when the Rector passed. + +“Ah, Mr. Cobb! I was just about to call on you; glad to see you looking +so well when there’s so much sickness. We shall want you on the School +Committee this evening,” and then he explained some business which was to +be discussed. Mr. Cobb afterwards was fond of telling the story of this +interview. + +“Would you believe it?” said he. “He spoke to me about nothing much but +the trust, but somehow my stomach seemed quieter at once. The +sinking—just _here_, you know—was dreadful before he came up, and the +brandy was no good. It was a something in his way that did it.” + +Dr. Midleton was obliged to call on Mrs. Fairfax as a newcomer. He found +Mrs. Harrop there, and Mrs. Fairfax asked him to step into the back +parlour, into which no one in Langborough had hitherto been admitted. +Gowns were tried on in the shop, the door being bolted and the blind +drawn. Dr. Midleton found four little shelves of books on the cupboard +by the side of the fireplace. Some were French, but most of them were +English. Although it was such a small collection, his book-lover’s +instinct compelled him to look at it. His eyes fell upon a _Religio +Medici_, and he opened it hastily. On the fly-leaf was written “Mary +Leighton, from R. L.” He had just time, before its owner entered, to +replace it and to muse for an instant. + +“Richard Leighton of Trinity: it is not a common name, but it cannot be +he—have lost sight of him for years; heard he was married, and came to no +good.” + +He was able to watch her for a minute as she stood by the table giving +some directions to her child, who was sent on an errand. In that minute +he saw her as she had not been seen by anybody in Langborough. To Mrs. +Bingham and her friends Mrs. Fairfax was the substratum of a body and +skirt, with the inestimable advantage over a substratum of cane and +padding that a scandalous history of it could be invented and believed. +To Langborough men, married and single, she was a member of “the sex,” as +women were called in those days, who possessed in a remarkable degree the +power of exciting that quivering and warmth we have already observed. +Dr. Midleton saw before him a lady, tall but delicately built, with +handsome face and dark brown hair just streaked with grey, and he saw +also diffused over every feature a light which in her eyes, +forward-looking and earnest, became concentrated into a vivid, steady +flame. The few words she spoke to her daughter were sharply cut, a +delightful contrast in his ear to the dialect to which he was accustomed, +distinguished by its universal vowel and suppression of the consonants. +How he inwardly rejoiced to hear the sound of the second “t” in the word +“distinct,” when she told her little messenger that Mr. Cobb had been +“distinctly” ordered to send the coals yesterday. He remained standing +until the child had gone. + +“Pray be seated,” she said. She went to the fireplace, leaned on the +mantelpiece, and poked the fire. The attitude struck him. She was about +to put some coals in the grate, but he interfered with an “Allow me,” and +performed the office for her. She thanked him simply, and sat down +opposite to him, facing the light. She began the conversation. + +“It is good of you to call on me; calling on people, especially on +newcomers must be an unpleasant part of a clergyman’s duty.” + +“It is so, madam, sometimes—there are not many newcomers.” + +“It is an advantage in your profession that you must generally be +governed by duty. It is often easier to do what we are obliged to do, +even if it be disagreeable, than to choose our path by our likes and +dislikes.” + +The bell rang, and Mrs. Fairfax went into the shop. + +“Who can she be?” said the Doctor to himself. Such an experience as this +he had not known since he had been rector. Langborough did not deal in +ideas. It was content to affirm that Miss Tarrant now and then gave +herself airs, that Mrs. Sweeting had a way of her own, that Mr. Cobb +lacked spirit and was downtrodden by his wife. + +She returned and sat down again. + +“You know nobody in these parts, Mrs. Fairfax?” + +“Nobody.” + +“Yours is a bold venture, is it not?” + +“It is—certainly. A good many plans were projected, of which this was +one, and there were equal difficulties in the way of all. When that is +the case we may almost as well draw lots.” + +“Ah, that is what I often say to some of the weaker sort among my +parishioners. I said it to poor Cobb the other day. He did not know +whether he should do this or do that. ‘It doesn’t matter much,’ said I, +‘what you do, but do something. _Do_ it, with all your strength.’” + +The Doctor was thoroughly Tory, and he slid away to his favourite +doctrine. + +“Our ancestors, madam, were not such fools as we often take them to be. +They consulted the _sortes_ or lots, and at the last election—we have a +potwalloping constituency here—three parts of the voters would have done +better if they had trusted to the toss-up of a penny instead of their +reason.” + +Mrs. Fairfax leaned back in her chair. Dr. Midleton noticed her +wedding-ring, and also a handsome sapphire ring. She spoke rather slowly +and meditatively. + +“Life is so complicated; so few of the consequences of many actions of +the greatest moment can be foreseen, that the belief in the lot is not +unnatural.” + +“You have some books, I see—Sir Thomas Browne.” He took down the volume. + +“Leighton! Leighton! how odd! Was it Richard Leighton?” + +“Yes.” + +“Really; and you knew him?” + +“He was a friend of my brother.” + +“Do you know what has become of him? He was at Cambridge with me, but +was younger.” + +“I have not seen him for some time. Do you mind if I open the window a +little?” + +“Certainly not.” + +She stood at the window for a moment, looking out on the garden, with her +hand on the top of the sash. The Doctor had turned his chair a little +and his eyes were fixed on her there with her uplifted arm. A picture +which belonged to his father instantly came back to him. He recollected +it so well. It represented a woman watching a young man in a courtyard +who is just mounting his horse. We are every now and then reminded of +pictures by a group, an attitude, or the arrangement of a landscape +which, thereby, acquires a new charm. + +Suddenly the shop bell rang again, and Mrs. Fairfax’s little girl rushed +into the parlour. She had fallen down and cut her wrist terribly with a +piece of a bottle containing some hartshorn which she had to buy at the +druggist’s on her way home from Mr. Cobb’s. The blood flowed freely, but +Mrs. Fairfax, unbewildered, put her thumb firmly on the wrist just above +the wound and instructed the doctor how to use his pocket-handkerchief as +a tourniquet. As he was tying it, although such careful attention to the +operation was necessary, he noticed Mrs. Fairfax’s hands, and he almost +forgot himself and the accident. + +“There is glass in the wrist,” she said. “Will you kindly fetch the +surgeon? I do not like to leave.” + +He went at once, and fortunately met him in his gig. + +On the third day after the mishap Dr. Midleton thought he ought to +inquire after the child. The glass had been extracted and she was doing +well. Her mother was at work in the back-parlour. She made no apology +for her occupation, but laid down her tools. + +“Pray go on, madam.” + +“Certainly not. I am afraid I might make a mistake with my scissors if I +were to listen to you; or, worse, if I were to pay attention to them I +should not pay attention to you.” + +He smiled. “It is an art, I should think, which requires not only much +attention but practice.” + +She evaded the implied question. “It is difficult to fit, but it is more +difficult to please.” + +“That is true in my own profession.” + +“But you are not obliged to please.” + +“No, not obliged, I am happy to say. If my parishioners do not hear the +truth I have no excuse. It must be rather trying to the temper of a lady +like yourself to humour the caprices of the vulgar.” + +“No; they are my customers, and even if they are unpleasant they are so +not to me personally but to their servant, who ceases to be their servant +when she ceases to be employed upon their clothes.” + +“You are a philosopher, madam; that sentiment is worthy of Epictetus.” + +“I have read Epictetus in Mrs. Carter’s translation.” + +“You have read Epictetus? That is remarkable! I should think no other +woman in the county has read him.” He leaned forward a little and his +face was lighted up. “I have a library, madam, a large library; I should +like to show it to you, if—if it can be managed without difficulty.” + +“It will give me great pleasure to see it some day. It must be a +delightful solace to you in a town like this, in which I daresay you have +but few friends. I suppose, though, you visit a good deal?” + +“No; I do not visit much. I differ from my brother Sinclair in the next +parish. He is always visiting. What is the consequence?—gossip and, as +I conceive, a loss of dignity and self-respect. I will go wherever there +is trouble or wherever I am wanted, but I will not go anywhere for idle +talk.” + +“I think you are right. A priest should not make himself cheap and +common. He should be representative of sacred interests superior to the +ordinary interests of life.” + +“I am grateful to you, madam, very grateful to you for these +observations. They are as just as they are unusual. I sincerely hope +that we—” But there was a knock at the door. + +“Come in.” It was Mrs. Harrop. “Your bell rang, Mrs. Fairfax, but maybe +you didn’t hear it as you were engaged in conversation. Good morning, +Dr. Midleton. I hope I don’t intrude?” + +“No, you do not.” + +He bowed to the ladies, and as he went out, the parlour-door being open, +he moved the outer door backwards and forwards. + +“It would be as well, Mrs. Fairfax, to have a bell hung there which would +act properly.” + +“I don’t know quite what Dr. Midleton means,” said Mrs. Harrop when he +had gone. “The bell did ring, loud enough for most people to have heard +it, and I waited ever so long.” + +He walked down the street with his customary firm step, and met Mr. +Bingham who stopped him, half smiling and not quite at his ease. + +“We are sorry, Doctor, you did not give Hutchings your vote for the +almshouse last Thursday; we expected you would have gone with us.” + +“You expected? Why?” + +“Well, you see, sir, Hutchings has always worked hard for our side.” + +“I am astonished, Mr. Bingham, that you should suppose that I will ever +consent to divert the funds of a trust for party purposes.” + +Mr. Bingham, although he had just determined to give the Doctor a bit of +his mind, felt his strength depart from him. His sentences lacked power +to stand upright and fell sprawling. “No offence, Doctor, I merely +wanted you to know—not so much my own views—difficulty to keep our +friends together. Short—you know Tom Short—was saying to me he was +afraid—” + +“Pay no attention to fools. Good morning.” + +The Doctor came in that night from a vestry meeting to which he went +after dinner. The clock was striking nine, the chimes played their tune, +and as the last note sounded the housekeeper and servants filed into the +study for prayers. Prayers over they rose and went out, and he sat down. +His habits were becoming fixed and for some years he had always read in +the evening the friends of his youth. No sermon was composed then; no +ecclesiastical literature was studied. Pope and Swift were favourites +and, curiously enough, Lord Byron. His case is not uncommon, for it +often happens that men who are forced into reserve or opposition preserve +a secret, youthful, poetic passion and are even kept alive by it. On +this particular evening, however, Pope, Byron, and Swift remained on his +shelves. He meditated. + +“A wedding-ring on her finger; no widow’s weeds; he may nevertheless be +dead—I believe I heard he was—and she has discontinued that frightful +disfigurement. Leighton had the thickest crop of black hair I ever saw +on a man: what thick, black hair that child has! A lady; a reader of +books; nobody to be compared with her here.” At this point he rose and +walked about the room for a quarter of an hour. He sat down again and +took up an important paper about the Trust. He had forgotten it and it +was to be discussed the next day. His eyes wandered over it but he paid +no attention to it; and somewhat disgusted with himself he went to bed. + +Mrs. Fairfax had happened to tell him that she was fond of walking soon +after breakfast before she opened her shop, and generally preferred the +lane on the west side of the Common. From his house the direct road to +the lane lay down the High Street, but about a fortnight after that +evening in his study he found himself one morning in Deadman’s Rents, a +narrow, dirty alley which led to the east side of the Common. Deadman’s +Rents was inhabited by men who worked in brickyards and coalyards, who +did odd jobs, and by washerwomen and charwomen. It contained also three +beershops. The dwellers in the Rents were much surprised to see the +Doctor amongst them at that early hour, and conjectured he must have come +on a professional errand. Every one of the Deadman ladies who was at her +door—and they were generally at their doors in the daytime—vigilantly +watched him. He went straight through the Rents to the Common, whereupon +Mrs. Wiggins, who supported herself by the sale of firewood, jam, +pickles, and peppermints, was particularly disturbed and was obliged to +go over to the “Kicking Donkey,” partly to communicate what she had seen +and partly to ward off by half a quartern of rum the sinking which always +threatened her when she was in any way agitated. When he reached the +common it struck him that for the first time in his life he had gone a +roundabout way to escape being seen. Some people naturally take to +side-streets; he, on the contrary, preferred the High Street; it was his +quarter-deck and he paraded it like a captain. “Was he doing wrong?” he +said to himself. Certainly not; he desired a little intelligent +conversation and there was no need to tell everybody what he wanted. It +was unfortunate, nevertheless, that it was necessary to go through +Deadman’s Rents in order to get it. He soon saw Mrs. Fairfax and her +little girl in front of him. He overtook her, and she showed no surprise +at seeing him. + +“I have been thinking,” said he, “about what you told me”—this was a +reference to an interview not recorded. “I am annoyed that Mrs. Harrop +should have been impertinent to you.” + +“You need not be annoyed. The import of a word is not fixed. If +anything annoying is said to me, I always ask myself what it means—not to +me but to the speaker. Besides, as I have told you before, shop +insolence is nothing.” + +“You may be justified in not resenting it, but Mrs. Harrop cannot be +excused. I am not surprised to find that she can use such language, but +I am astonished that she should use it to you. It shows an utter lack of +perception. Your Epictetus has been studied to some purpose.” + +“I have quite forgotten him. I do not recollect books, but I never +forget the lessons taught me by my own trade.” + +“You have had much trouble?” + +“I have had my share: probably not in excess. It is difficult for +anybody to know whether his suffering is excessive: there is no means of +measuring it with that of others.” + +“Have you no friends with whom you can share it?” + +“I have known but one woman intimately, and she is now dead. I have +known two or three men whom I esteemed, but close friendship between a +woman and a man, unless he is her husband, as a rule is impossible.” + +“Do you really think so?” + +“I am certain of it. I am speaking now of a friendship which would +justify a demand for sympathy with real sorrows.” + +They continued their walk in silence for the next two or three minutes. + +“We are now near the end of the lane. I must turn and go back.” + +“I will go with you.” + +“Thank you: I should detain you: I have to make a call on business at the +White House. Good morning.” + +They parted. + +Dr. Midleton presently met Mrs. Jenkins of Deadman’s Rents, who was going +to the White House to do a day’s washing. A few steps further he met Mr. +Harrop in his gig, who overtook Mrs. Fairfax. Thus it came to pass that +Deadman’s Rents and the High Street knew before nightfall that Dr. +Midleton and Mrs. Fairfax had been seen on the Common that morning. Mrs. +Jenkins protested, that “if she was to be burnt alive with fuz-faggits +and brimstone, nothink but what she witnessed with her own eyes should +pass her lips, whatsomever she might think, and although they were +a-walkin’—him with his arm round her waist—she did _not_ see him +a-kissin’ of her—how could she when they were a hundred yards off?” + +The Doctor prolonged his stroll and reached home about half-past eleven. +A third of his life had been spent in Langborough. He remembered the day +he came and the unpacking of his books. They lined the walls of his +room, some of them rare, all of them his friends. Nobody in Langborough +had ever asked him to lend a single volume. The solitary scholar never +forsook his studies, but at times he sighed over them and they seemed a +little vain. They were not entirely without external effect, for Pope +and Swift in disguise often spoke to the vestry or the governors, and the +Doctor’s manners even in the shops were moulded by his intercourse with +the classic dead. Their names, however, in Langborough were almost +unknown. He had now become hardened by constant unsympathetic contact. +Suddenly a stranger had appeared who was an inhabitant of his own world +and talked his own tongue. The prospect of genuine intercourse disclosed +itself. None but those who have felt it can imagine the relief, the +joyous expansion, which follow the discovery after long years of +imprisonment with decent people of a person before whom it is unnecessary +to stifle what we most care to express. No wonder he was excited! + +But the stranger was a woman. He meditated much that morning on her +singular aptitude for reflection, but he presently began to dream over +figure, hair, eyes, hands. A picture in the most vivid colours painted +itself before him, and he could not close his eyes to it. He was +distressed to find himself the victim of this unaccustomed tyranny. He +did not know that it is impossible for a man to love a woman’s soul +without loving her body. There is no such thing as a spiritual love +apart from a corporeal love, the one celestial and the other earthly, and +the spiritual love begets a passion peculiar in its intensity. He was +happily diverted by Mr. Bingham, who called about a coming contested +election for the governorships. + +Next week there was another tea-party at Mrs. Cobb’s. The ladies were in +high spirits, for a subject of conversation was assured. If there had +been an inquest, or a marriage, or a highway robbery before one of these +parties, or if the contents of a will had just been made known, or still +better, if any scandal had just come to light, the guests were always +cheerful. Now, of course, the topic was Dr. Midleton and Mrs. Fairfax. + +“When I found him in that back parlour,” said Mrs. Harrop, “I thought he +wasn’t there to pay the usual call. Somehow it didn’t seem as if he was +like a clergyman. I felt quite queer: it came over me all of a sudden. +And then we know he’s been there once or twice since.” + +“I don’t wonder at your feeling queer, Mrs. Harrop,” quoth Mrs. Cobb. +“I’m sure I should have fainted; and what brazen boldness to walk out +together on the Common at nine o’clock in the morning. That girl who +brought in the tea—it’s my belief that a young man goes after her—but +even they wouldn’t demean themselves to be seen at it just after +breakfast.” + +“You don’t mean to say as your Deborah encourages a man, Mrs. Cobb! I +don’t know what we are a-comin’ to. You’ve always been so particular, +and she seemed so respectable. I _am_ sorry.” + +Mrs. Cobb did not quite relish Mrs. Harrop’s pity. + +“You may be sure, Mrs. Harrop, she was respectable when I took her, and +if she isn’t I shan’t keep her. I _am_ particular, more so than most +folk, and I don’t mind who knows it.” Mrs. Cobb threw back her cap +strings. The denial that she minded who knew it may not appear relevant, +but desiring to be spiteful she could not at the moment find a better way +of showing her spite than by declaring her indifference to the +publication of her virtues. If there was no venom in the substance of +the declaration there was much in the manner of it. Mrs. Bingham brought +back the conversation to the point. + +“I suppose you’ve heard what Mrs. Jenkins says? Your husband also, Mrs. +Harrop, met them both.” + +“Yes he did. He was not quite in time to see as much as Mrs. Jenkins +saw, and I’m glad he didn’t. I shouldn’t have felt comfortable if I’d +known he had. A clergyman, too! it is shocking. A nice business, this, +for the Dissenters.” + +“Well,” said Mrs. Bingham, “what are we to do? I had thought of going to +her and giving her a bit of my mind, but she has got that yellow gown to +make. What is your opinion, Miss Tarrant?” + +“I would not degrade myself, Mrs. Bingham, by any expostulations with +her. I would have nothing more to do with her. Could you not relieve +her of the unfinished gown? Mrs. Swanley, I am sure, under the +circumstances would be only too happy to complete it for you.” + +“Mrs. Swanley cannot come near her. I should look ridiculous in her body +and one of Swanley’s skirts.” + +“As to the Doctor,” continued Miss Tarrant, “I wonder that he can expect +to maintain any authority in matters of religion if he marries a +dressmaker of that stamp. It would be impossible even if her character +were unimpeachable. I am astonished, if he wishes to enter into the +matrimonial state, that he does not seek some one who would be able to +support him in his position and offer him the sympathy which a man who +has had a University education might justifiably demand.” + +Mrs. Sweeting had hitherto listened in silence. Miss Tarrant provoked +her. + +“It’s all a fuss about nothing, that’s my opinion. What has she done +that you know to be wrong? And as to the Doctor, he’s got a right to +please himself. I’m surprised at you, Miss Tarrant, for _you’ve_ always +stuck for him through thick and thin. As for that Mrs. Jenkins, I’ll +take my Bible oath that the last time she washed for me she stunk of gin +enough to poison me, and went away with two bits of soap in her pocket. +You may credit what she says: _I_ don’t, and never demean myself to +listen to her.” + +The ladies came to no conclusion. Mrs. Bingham said that she had +suggested a round robin to Dr. Midleton, but that her husband decidedly +“discountenanced the proposal.” Within a fortnight the election of +governors was to take place. There was always a fight at these +elections, and this year the Radicals had a strong list. The Doctor, +whose term of office had expired, was the most prominent of the Tory and +Church candidates, and never doubted his success. He was ignorant of all +the gossip about him. One day in that fortnight he might have been seen +in Ferry Street. He went into Mrs. Fairfax’s shop and was invited as +before into the back parlour. + +“I have brought you a basket of pears, and the book I promised you, the +_Utopia_.” He sat down. “I am afraid you will think my visits too +frequent.” + +“They are not too frequent for me: they may be for yourself.” + +“Ah! since I last entered your house I have not seen any books excepting +my own. You hardly know what life in Langborough is like.” + +“Does nobody take any interest in archæology?” + +“Nobody within five miles. Sinclair cares nothing about it: he is Low +Church, as I have told you.” + +“Why does that prevent his caring about it?” + +“Being Low Church he is narrow-minded, or, perhaps it would be more +correct to say, being narrow-minded he is Low Church. He is an +indifferent scholar, and occupies himself with his religious fancies and +those of his flock. He can reign supreme there. He is not troubled in +that department by the difficulties of learning and is not exposed to +criticism or contradiction.” + +“I suppose it is a fact of the greatest importance to him that he and his +parishioners have souls to be saved, and that in comparison with that +fact others are immaterial.” + +“We all believe we have souls to be saved. Having set forth God’s way of +saving them we have done all we ought to do. God’s way is not sufficient +for Sinclair. He enlarges it out of his own head, and instructs his +silly, ignorant friends to do the same. He will not be satisfied with +what God and the Church tell him.” + +“God and the Church, according to Dr. Midleton’s account, have not been +very effective in Langborough.” + +“They hear from me, madam, all I am commissioned to say, and if they do +not attend I cannot help it.” + +“I have read your paper in the Archæological Transactions on the history +of Langborough Abbey. It excited my imagination, which is never excited +in reading ordinary histories. In your essay I am in company with the +men who actually lived in the time of Henry the Second and Henry the +Eighth. I went over the ruins again, and found them much more beautiful +after I understood something about them.” + +“Yes: exactly what I have said a hundred times: knowledge is +indispensable.” + +“If you had not pointed it out, I should never have noticed the Early +English doorway in the Chapter-house, so distinct in style from the +Refectory.” + +“You noticed the brackets of that doorway: you noticed the quatrefoils in +the head? The Refectory is later by three centuries, and is exquisite, +but is not equal to the Chapter-house.” + +“Yes, I noticed the brackets and quatrefoils particularly. If knowledge +is not necessary in order that we may admire, its natural tendency is to +deepen our admiration. Without it we pass over so much. In my own small +way I have noticed how my slight botanical knowledge of flowers by the +mere attention involved increases my wonder at their loveliness.” + +There was the usual interruption by the shop-bell. How he hated that +bell! Mrs. Fairfax answered it, closing the parlour door. The customer +was Mrs. Bingham. + +“I will not disturb you now, Mrs. Fairfax. I was going to say something +about the black trimming you recommended. I really think red would suit +me better, but, never mind, I will call again as I saw the Doctor come +in. He is rather a frequent visitor.” + +“Not frequent: he comes occasionally. We are both interested in a +subject which I believe is not much studied in Langborough.” + +“Dear me! not dressmaking?” + +“No, madam, archæology.” + +Mrs. Bingham went out once more discomfited, and Mrs. Fairfax returned to +the parlour. + +“I am sure I am taking up too much of your time,” said the Doctor, “but I +cannot tell you what a privilege it is to spend a few minutes with a lady +like yourself.” + +Mrs. Fairfax was silent for a minute. + +“Mrs. Bingham has been here, and I think I ought to tell you that she has +made some significant remarks about you. Forgive me if I suggest that we +should partially, at any rate, discontinue our intercourse. I should be +most unhappy if your friendship with me were to do you any harm.” + +The Doctor rose in a passion, planting his stick on the floor. + +“When the cackling of the geese or the braying of the asses on +Langborough Common prevent my crossing it, then, and not till then, will +my course be determined by Mrs. Bingham and her colleagues.” + +He sat down again with his elbow on the arm of the chair and half shading +his eyes with his hand. His whole manner altered. Not a trace of the +rector remained in him: the decisiveness vanished from his voice; it +became musical, low, and hesitating. It was as if some angel had touched +him, and had suddenly converted all his strength into tenderness, a +transformation not impossible, for strength is tenderness and tenderness +is strength. + +“I shall be forty-nine years old next birthday,” he said. “Never until +now have I been sure that I loved a woman. I was married when I was +twenty-five. I had seen two or three girls whom I thought I could love, +and at last chose one. It was the arbitrary selection of a weary will. +My wife died within two years of her marriage. After her death I was +thrown in the way of women who attracted me, but I wavered. If I made up +my mind at night, I shrank back in the morning. I thought my +irresolution was mere cowardice. It was not so. It was a warning that +the time had not come. I resolved at last that there was to be no change +in my life, that I would resign myself to my lot, expect no affection, +and do the duty blindly which had been imposed upon me. But a miracle +has been wrought, and I have a perfectly clear direction: with you for +the first time in my life I am _sure_. You have known what it is to be +in a fog, unable to tell which way to turn, and all at once the cold, wet +mist was lifted, the sun came out, the fields were lighted up, the sea +revealed itself to the horizon, and your road lay straight before you +stretching over the hill. I will not shame myself by apologies that I am +no longer young. My love has remained with me. It is a passion for you, +and it is a reverence for a mind to which it will be a perpetual joy to +submit.” + +“God pardon me,” she said after a moment’s pause, “for having drawn you +to this! I did not mean it. If you knew all you would forgive me. It +cannot, cannot be! Leave me.” He hesitated. “Leave me, leave me at +once!” she cried. + +He rose, she took his right hand in both of hers: there was one look +straight into his eyes from her own which were filling with tears, a half +sob, her hands after one more grasp fell, and he found that he had left +the house. He went home. How strange it is to return to a familiar +chamber after a great event has happened! On his desk lay a volume of +Cicero’s letters. The fire had not been touched and was almost out: the +door leading to the garden was open: the self of two hours before seemed +to confront him. When the tumult in him began to subside he was struck +by the groundlessness of his double assumption that Mrs. Fairfax was Mrs. +Leighton and that she was free. He had made no inquiry. He had noticed +the wedding-ring, and he had come to some conclusion about it which was +supported by no evidence. Doubtless she could not be his: her husband +was still alive. At last the hour for which unconsciously he had been +waiting had struck, and his true self, he not having known hitherto what +it was, had been declared. But it was all for nothing. It was as if +some autumn-blooming plant had put forth on a sunny October morning the +flower of the year, and had been instantaneously blasted and cut down to +the root. The plant might revive next spring, but there could be no +revival for him. There could be nothing now before him but that same +dull duty, duty to the dull, duty without enthusiasm. He had no example +for his consolation. The Bible is the record of heroic suffering: there +is no story there of a martyrdom to monotony and life-weariness. He was +a pious man, but loved prescription and form: he loved to think of +himself as a member of the great Catholic Church and not as an isolated +individual, and he found more relief in praying the prayers which +millions had before him than in extempore effusion; humbly trusting that +what he was seeking in consecrated petitions was all that he really +needed. “In proportion as your prayers are peculiar,” he once told his +congregation in a course of sermons on Dissent, “they are worthless.” +There was nothing, though, in the prayer-book which met his case. He was +in no danger from temptation, nor had he trespassed. He was not in want +of his daily bread, and although he desired like all good men to see the +Kingdom of God, the advent of that celestial kingdom which had for an +instant been disclosed to him was for ever impossible. + +The servant announced Mrs. Sweeting, who was asked to come in. + +“Sit down, Mrs. Sweeting. What can I do for you?” + +“Well, sir, perhaps you may remember—and if you don’t, I do—how you +helped my husband in that dreadful year 1825. I shall never forget that +act of yours, Dr. Midleton, and I’d stick up for you if Mrs. Bingham and +Mrs. Harrop and Mrs. Cobb and Miss Tarrant were to swear against you and +you a-standing in the dock. As for that Miss Tarrant, there’s that +a-rankling in her that makes her worse than any of them, and if you don’t +know what it is, being too modest, forgive me for saying so, I do.” + +“But what’s the matter, Mrs. Sweeting?” + +“Matter, sir! Why, I can hardly bring it out, seeing that I’m only the +wife of a tradesman, but one thing I will say as I ain’t like the serpent +in Genesis, a-crawling about on its belly and spitting poison and biting +people by their heels.” + +“You have not yet told me what is wrong.” + +“Dr. Midleton, you shall have it, but recollect I come here as your +friend: leastways I hope you’ll forgive me if I call myself so, for if +you were ill and you were to hold up your finger for me not another soul +should come near you night nor day till you were well again or it had +pleased God Almighty to take you to Himself. Dr. Midleton, there’s a +conspiracy.” + +“A what?” + +“A conspiracy: that’s right, I believe. You are acquainted with Mrs. +Fairfax. To make a long and a short of it, they say you are always going +there, more than you ought, leastways unless you mean to marry her, and +that she’s only a dressmaker, and nobody knows where she comes from, and +they ain’t open and free: they won’t come and tell you themselves; but +you’ll be turned out at the election the day after to-morrow.” + +“But what do you say yourself?” + +“Me, Dr. Midleton? Why, I’ve spoke up pretty plainly. I told Mrs. Cobb +it would be a good thing if you were married, provided you wouldn’t be +trod upon as some people’s husbands are, and I was pretty well sure you +never would be, and that you knew a lady when you saw her better than +most folk; and as for her being a dressmaker what’s that got to do with +it?” + +“You are too well acquainted with me, Mrs. Sweeting, to suppose I should +condescend to notice this contemptible stuff or alter my course to please +all Langborough. Why did you take the trouble to report it to me?” + +“Because, sir, I wouldn’t for the world you should think I was mixed up +with them; and if my husband doesn’t vote for you my name isn’t +Sweeting.” + +“I am much obliged to you. I see your motives: you are straightforward +and I respect you.” + +Mrs. Sweeting thanked him and departed. His first feeling was wrath. +Never was there a man less likely to be cowed. He put on his hat and +walked to his committee-room, where he found Mr. Bingham. + +“No doubt, I suppose, Mr. Bingham?” + +“Don’t know, Doctor; the Radicals have got a strong candidate in Jem +Casey. Some of our people will turn, I’m afraid, and split their votes.” + +“Split votes! with a fellow like that! How can there be any splitting +between an honest man and a rascal?” + +“There shouldn’t be, sir, but—” Mr. Bingham hesitated—“I suppose there +may be personal considerations.” + +“Personal considerations! what do you mean? Let us have no more of these +Langborough tricks. Out with it, Bingham! Who are the persons and what +are the considerations?” + +“I really can’t say, Doctor, but perhaps you may not be as popular as you +were. You’ve—” but Mr. Bingham’s strength again completely failed him, +and he took a sudden turn—“You’ve taken a decided line lately at several +of our meetings.” + +The Doctor looked steadily at Mr. Bingham, who felt that every corner of +his pitiful soul was visible. + +“The line I have taken you have generally supported. That is not what +you mean. If I am defeated I shall be defeated by equivocating +cowardice, and I shall consider myself honoured.” + +The Doctor strode out of the room. He knew now that he was the common +property of the town, and that every tongue was wagging about him and a +woman, but he was defiant. The next morning he saw painted in white +paint on his own wall— + + “My dearly beloved, for all you’re so bold, + To-morrow you’ll find you’re left out in the cold; + And, Doctor, the reason you need not to ax, + It’s because of a dressmaker—Mrs. F—fax.” + +He was going out just as the gardener was about to obliterate the +inscription. + +“Leave it, Robert, leave it; let the filthy scoundrels perpetuate their +own disgrace.” + +The result of the election was curious. Two of the Church candidates +were returned at the top of the poll. Jem Casey came next. Dr. Midleton +and the other two Radical and Dissenting candidates were defeated. There +were between seventy and eighty plumpers for the two successful +Churchmen, and about five-and-twenty split votes for them and Casey, who +had distinguished himself by his coarse attacks on the Doctor. Mr. +Bingham had a bad cold, and did not vote. On the following Sunday the +church was fuller than usual. The Doctor preached on behalf of the +Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. He did not allude directly to +any of the events of the preceding week, but at the close of his sermon +he said—“It has been frequently objected that we ought not to spend money +on missions to the heathen abroad as there is such a field of labour at +home. The answer to that objection is that there is more hope of the +heathen than of many of our countrymen. This has been a nominally +Christian land for centuries, but even now many deadly sins are not +considered sinful, and it is an easier task to save the savage than to +convince those, for example, whose tongue, to use the words of the +apostle, is set on fire of hell, that they are in danger of damnation. I +hope, therefore, my brethren, that you will give liberally.” + +On Monday Langborough was amazed to find Mrs. Fairfax’s shop closed. She +had left the town. She had taken a post-chaise on Saturday and had met +the up-mail at Thaxton cross-roads. Her scanty furniture had +disappeared. The carrier could but inform Langborough that he had orders +to deliver her goods at Great Ormond Street whence he brought them. Mrs. +Bingham went to London shortly afterwards and called at Great Ormond +Street to inquire for Mrs. Fairfax. Nobody of that name lived there, and +the door was somewhat abruptly shut in her face. She came back convinced +that Mrs. Fairfax was what Mrs. Cobb called “a bad lot.” + +“Do you believe,” said she, “that a woman who gives a false name can be +respectable? We want no further proof.” + +Nobody wanted further proof. No Langborough lady needed any proof if a +reputation was to be blasted. + +“It’s an _alibi_,” said Mrs. Harrop. “That’s what Tom Cranch the poacher +did, and he was hung.” + +“An _alias_, I believe, is the correct term,” said Miss Tarrant. “It +means the assumption of a name which is not your own, a most +discreditable device, one to which actresses and women to whose +occupation I can only allude, uniformly resort. How thankful we ought to +be that our respected Rector’s eyes must now be opened and that he has +escaped the snare! It was impossible that he could be permanently +attracted by vice and vulgarity. It is singular how much more acute a +woman’s perception often is than a man’s. I saw through this creature at +once.” + + * * * * * + +Eighteen months passed. The doctor one day was unpacking a book he had +bought at Peterborough. Inside the brown paper was a copy of the +_Stamford Mercury_, a journal which had a wide circulation in the +Midlands. He generally read it, but he must have omitted to see this +number. His eye fell on the following announcement—“On the 24th June +last, Richard Leighton, aged 44 years.” The notice was late, for the +date of the paper was the 18th November. The next afternoon he was in +London. He had been to Great Ormond Street before and had inquired for +Mrs. Fairfax, but could find no trace of her. He now called again. + +“You will remember,” he said, “my inquiry about Mrs. Fairfax: can you +tell me anything about Mrs. Leighton?” He put his hand in his pocket and +pulled out five shillings. + +“She isn’t here: she went away when her husband died.” + +“He died abroad?” + +“Yes.” + +“Where has she gone?” + +“Don’t know quite: her friends wouldn’t have anything to do with her. +She said she was going to Plymouth. She had heard of something in the +dressmaking line there.” + +He handed over his five shillings, procured a substitute for next Sunday, +and went to Plymouth. He wandered through the streets but could see no +dressmaker’s shop which looked as if it had recently changed hands. He +walked backwards and forwards on the Hoe in the evening: the Eddystone +light glimmered far away on the horizon; and the dim hope arose in him +that it might be a prophecy of success, but his hope was vain. It came +into his mind that it was not likely that she would be there after dusk, +and he remembered her preference for early exercise. The first morning +was a failure, but on the second—it was sunny and warm—he saw her sitting +on a bench facing the sea. He went up unobserved and sat down. She did +not turn towards him till he said “Mrs. Leighton!” She started and +recognised him. Little was spoken as they walked home to her lodgings, a +small private house. On her way she called at a large shop where she was +employed and obtained leave of absence until after dinner. + +“At last!” said the doctor when the door was shut. + +She stood gazing in silence at the dull red cinder of the dying fire. + +“You put the advertisement in the _Stamford Mercury_?” he said. + +“Yes.” + +“I did not see it until a day or two ago.” + +“I had better tell you at once. My husband, whom you knew, was convicted +of forgery, and died at Botany Bay.” Her eyes still watched the red +cinders. + +The Doctor’s countenance showed no surprise, for no news could have had +any power over the emotion which mastered him. The long, slow years were +fulfilled. Long and slow and the fulfilment late, but the joy it brought +was the greater. Youthful passion is sweet, but it is not sweeter than +the discovery when we begin to count the years which are left to us, and +to fear there will be nothing in them better than in those which preceded +them that for us also love is reserved. + +Mrs. Leighton was obliged to go back to her work in the afternoon, but +she gave notice that night to leave in a week. + +In a couple of months Langborough was astounded at the news of the +Rector’s marriage with a Mrs. Leighton whom nobody in Langborough knew. +The advertisement in the _Stamford Mercury_ said that the lady was the +widow of Richard Leighton, Esq., and eldest daughter of the late +Marmaduke Sutton, Esq. Langborough spared no pains to discover who she +was. Mrs. Bingham found out that the Suttons were a Devonshire family, +and she ascertained from an Exeter friend that Mr. Marmaduke Sutton was +the son of an Honourable, and that Mrs. Leighton was consequently a +high-born lady. She had married as her first husband a man who had done +well at Cambridge, but who took to gambling and drink, and treated her +with such brutality that they separated. At last he forged a signature +and was transported. What became of his wife afterwards was not known. +Langborough was not only greatly moved by this intelligence, but was much +perplexed. Miss Tarrant’s estimate of the Doctor was once more reversed. +She was decidedly of opinion that the marriage was a scandal. A woman +who had consented to link herself with such a reprobate as the convict +must have been from the beginning could not herself have possessed any +reputation. Living apart, too, was next door to divorce, and who could +associate with a creature who had been divorced? No doubt she was +physically seductive, and the doctor had fallen a victim to her snares. +Miss Tarrant, if she had not known so well what men are, would never have +dreamed that Dr. Midleton, a scholar and a divine, could surrender to +corporeal attractions. She declared that she could no longer expect any +profit from his ministrations, and that she should leave the parish. +Miss Tarrant’s friends, however, did not go quite so far, and Mrs. Harrop +confessed to Mrs. Cobb that “she for one wouldn’t lay it down like Medes +and Persians, that we should have nothing to do with a woman because her +husband had made a fool of himself. I’m not a Mede nor a Persian, Mrs. +Cobb. I say let us wait and see what she is like.” + +Mrs. Bingham was of the same mind. She dwelt much to herself on the fact +that Mrs. Midleton’s great-grandfather must have been a lord. She +secretly hoped that as a wine merchant’s wife she might obtain admission +into a “sphere,” as she called it, from which the other ladies in the +town might be excluded. Mrs. Bingham already foretasted the bliss of an +invitation to the rectory to meet Lady Caroline from Thaxton Manor; she +already foretasted the greater bliss of not meeting her intimate friends +there, and that most exquisite conceivable bliss of telling them +afterwards all about the party. + +Mrs. Midleton and her husband returned on a Saturday afternoon. The road +from Thaxton cross-roads did not lie through the town: the carriage was +closed and nobody saw her. When they came to the rectory the Doctor +pointed to the verse in white paint on the wall, “It shall be taken out,” +he said, “before to-morrow morning: to-morrow is Sunday.” He was +expected to preach on that day and the church was crammed a quarter of an +hour before the service began. At five minutes to eleven a lady and +child entered and walked to the rector’s pew. The congregation was +stupefied with amazement. Mouths were agape, a hum of exclamations +arose, and people on the further side of the church stood up. + +It was Mrs. Fairfax! Nobody had conjectured that she and Mrs. Leighton +were the same person. It was unimaginable that a dressmaker should have +had near ancestors in the peerage. It was more than a year and a half +since she left the town. Mrs. Carter was able to say that not a single +letter had been addressed to her, and she was almost forgotten. + +A few days afterwards Mrs. Sweeting had a little note requesting her to +take tea with the Rector and his wife. Nobody was asked to meet her. +Mrs. Bingham had called the day before, and had been extremely +apologetic. + +“I am afraid, Mrs. Midleton, you must have thought me sometimes very rude +to you.” + +To which Mrs. Midleton replied graciously, “I am sure if you had been it +would have been quite excusable.” + +“Extremely kind of you to say so, Mrs. Midleton.” + +Mrs. Cobb also called. “I’ll just let her see,” said Mrs. Cobb to +herself; and she put on a gown which Mrs. Midleton as Mrs. Fairfax had +made for her. + +“You’ll remember this gown, Mrs. Midleton?” + +“Perfectly well. It is not quite a fit on the shoulders. If you will +let me have it back again it will give me great pleasure to alter it for +you.” + +By degrees, however, Mrs. Midleton came to be loved by many people in +Langborough. Mr. Sweeting not long afterwards died in debt, and Mrs. +Sweeting, the old housekeeper being also dead, was taken into the rectory +as her successor, and became Mrs. Midleton’s trusted friend. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{10} Since 1868 the _Reminiscences_ and his _Life_ have been published +which put this estimate of him beyond all doubt. It is much to be +regretted that a certain theory, a certain irresistible tendency to +arrange facts so as to prove preconceived notions, a tendency more +dangerous and unhistorical even than direct suppression of the truth or +invention of what is not true, should have ruined Carlyle’s biography. +Professor Norton’s edition of the _Reminiscences_ should be compared with +Mr. Froude’s. + +{34a} _Ethic_ pt. 1, def. 3. + +{34b} Ibid., pt. 1, def. 6. + +{34c} Ibid., pt. 1, prop. 11. + +{36} _Ethic_, pt. 2, prop. 47. + +{37a} Letter 56 (Van Vloten and Land’s ed.). + +{37b} _Ethic_, pt. 1, coroll. prop. 25. + +{37c} Ibid., pt. 5, prop. 24. + +{37d} Ibid., pt. 1, schol. to prop. 17. + +{38} _Ethic_, pt. 1, schol. to prop. 17. + +{39} _Ethic_, pt. 2, prop. 13. + +{40a} _Ethic_, pt. 1, coroll. 1, prop. 32. + +{40b} Ibid., pt. 1, prop. 33. + +{40c} Letter 56 + +{41a} Letter 21. + +{41b} Letter 58. + +{42a} _Ethic_, pt. 2, schol. prop. 49. + +{42b} Ibid., pt. 4, coroll. prop. 63. + +{43a} _Ethic_, pt. 5, or pp. 42. + +{43b} “Agis being asked on a time how a man might continue free all his +life; he answered, ‘By despising death.’” (Plutarch’s “Morals.” Laconic +Apophthegms.) + +{43c} _Ethic_, pt. 5, schol. prop. 4. + +{44a} _Ethic_, pt. 4, coroll. prop. 64. + +{44b} Ibid., pt. 4, schol. prop. 66. + +{44c} Ibid., pt. 4, schol. prop. 50. + +{45a} _Ethic_, pt. 4, prop. 46 and schol. + +{45b} Ibid., pt. 3, schol. prop. 11. + +{46} _Ethic_, pt. 4, schol. prop. 45. + +{47} _Ethic_, pt. 5, props. 14–20. + +{50} _Short Treatise_, pt. 2, chap. 22. + +{52} _Ethic_, pt. 1, Appendix. + +{54} _Ethic_, pt. 2, schol. 2, prop. 40. + +{55a} _Ethic_, pt. 5, coroll. prop. 34. + +{55b} Ibid., pt. 5, prop. 36. + +{55c} Ibid., pt. 5, prop. 36, coroll. + +{56a} _Ethic_, pt. 5, prop. 38. + +{56b} _Short Treatise_, pt. 2, chap. 23. + +{57a} Aristotle’s _Psychology_ (Wallace’s translation), p. 161. + +{57b} Rabelais, _Pantagruel_, book 4, chap. 27. + +{101} Hazlitt. + +{103} Italics mine.—M. R. + +{104a} Italics mine.—M. R. + +{104b} Italics mine.—M. R. + +{133} _Poetry of Byron chosen and arranged by Matthew Arnold_—1881. + +{143} “_Adah_.—Peace be with him (Abel). + +_Cain_.—But with _me_!” + +{180} My aunt Eleanor was thought to be a bit of a pagan by the +evangelical part of our family. My mother when speaking of her to me +used to say, “Your heathen aunt.” She was well-educated, but the better +part of her education she received abroad after her engagement, which +took place when she was eighteen years old. She was the only member of +our family in the upper middle class. Her husband was Thomas Charteris, +junior partner in a bank. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAGES FROM A JOURNAL*** + + +******* This file should be named 7053-0.txt or 7053-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/0/5/7053 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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