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diff --git a/old/pgjr10h.htm b/old/pgjr10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..80b1fa8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/pgjr10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5318 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Pages from a Journal with Other Papers</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Pages from a Journal with Other Papers, by Mark Rutherford</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pages from a Journal with Other Papers +by Mark Rutherford + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Pages from a Journal with Other Papers + +Author: Mark Rutherford + +Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7053] +[This file was first posted on March 2, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1901 T. Fisher Unwin edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>PAGES FROM A JOURNAL, WITH OTHER PAPERS.</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>Contents:<br /> A Visit to Carlyle in 1868<br /> Early +Morning in January<br /> March<br /> June<br /> August<br /> The +End of October<br /> November<br /> The +Break-up of a Great Drought<br /> Spinoza<br /> Supplementary +Note on the Devil<br /> Injustice<br /> Time +Settles Controversies<br /> Talking about our Troubles<br /> Faith<br /> Patience<br /> An +Apology<br /> Belief, Unbelief, and Superstition<br /> Judas +Iscariot<br /> Sir Walter Scott's Use of the Supernatural<br /> September, +1798<br /> Some Notes on Milton<br /> The +Morality of Byron's Poetry. "The Corsair"<br /> Byron, +Goethe, and Mr. Matthew Arnold<br /> A Sacrifice<br /> The +Aged Three<br /> Conscience<br /> The +Governess's Story<br /> James Forbes<br /> Atonement<br /> My +Aunt Eleanor<br /> Correspondence between George, Lucy, +M.A., and Hermione Russell, B.A.<br /> Mrs. Fairfax</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A VISIT TO CARLYLE IN 1868</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>evenness</i>. +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:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“CHELSEA, <i>9th March</i>, 1850.</p> +<p>“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 <i>you</i> 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: <i>practise</i> 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“I remain, yours very sincerely,</p> +<p>“T. CARLYLE.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>Frederick</i> 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 <i>Frederick</i> again. +No bribe from God or man would tempt me to do it.”</p> +<p>He was re-reading his <i>Frederick</i>, 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 <i>above</i> 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 <i>would</i> 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 . . .</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“The <i>Frederick</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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 <i>Life of Sterling</i> and the <i>Cromwell</i>. +<a name="citation10"></a><a href="#footnote10">{10}</a> Much of +his fierceness is an inverted tenderness.</p> +<p>His greatest book is perhaps the <i>Frederick</i>, 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 <i>Frederick</i> 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 <i>moral</i> +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.”</p> +<p>* * *</p> +<p>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 <i>could</i> 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>EARLY MORNING IN JANUARY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>MARCH</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>JUNE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>AUGUST</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE END OF OCTOBER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>NOVEMBER</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE BREAK-UP OF A GREAT DROUGHT</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>knew</i>, the ocean-begotten aërial current might +forsake the land and it might become a desert.</p> +<p>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!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SPINOZA</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>Imitation of Christ</i> or the <i>Pilgrim’s +Progress</i>, 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 <i>Ethic</i>. +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.</p> +<p>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 <i>thinking</i>. 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 <i>must</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.” +<a name="citation34a"></a><a href="#footnote34a">{34a}</a> “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.” <a name="citation34b"></a><a href="#footnote34b">{34b}</a> +“God, or substance consisting of infinite attributes, each one +of which expresses eternal and infinite essence, necessarily exists.” +<a name="citation34c"></a><a href="#footnote34c">{34c}</a> 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 <i>Ethic</i> 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 <i>circum</i>-prehensible; if +it were it could not be the true conception of Him.</p> +<p>Spinoza declares that “the human mind possesses an adequate +knowledge of the eternal and infinite essence of God” <a name="citation36"></a><a href="#footnote36">{36}</a> +- 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.” <a name="citation37a"></a><a href="#footnote37a">{37a}</a></p> +<p>“Individual things are nothing but affections or modes of God’s +attributes, expressing those attributes in a certain and determinate +manner,” <a name="citation37b"></a><a href="#footnote37b">{37b}</a> +and hence “the more we understand individual objects, the more +we understand God.” <a name="citation37c"></a><a href="#footnote37c">{37c}</a></p> +<p>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.” <a name="citation37d"></a><a href="#footnote37d">{37d}</a></p> +<p>The whole of God is <i>fact</i>, 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,” <a name="citation38"></a><a href="#footnote38">{38}</a> +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 +<i>is.</i></p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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” +<a name="citation39"></a><a href="#footnote39">{39}</a>; 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 <i>Ethic</i> that Spinoza affirms the eternity +of the mind, though not perhaps in the way in which it is usually believed.</p> +<p>Following the order of the <i>Ethic</i> 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,” +<a name="citation40a"></a><a href="#footnote40a">{40a}</a> 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.” +<a name="citation40b"></a><a href="#footnote40b">{40b}</a></p> +<p>“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.” <a name="citation40c"></a><a href="#footnote40c">{40c}</a> +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.” +<a name="citation41a"></a><a href="#footnote41a">{41a}</a> 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.” <a name="citation41b"></a><a href="#footnote41b">{41b}</a> +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.</p> +<p>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.” <a name="citation42a"></a><a href="#footnote42a">{42a}</a> +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.</p> +<p>“By the desire which springs from reason we follow good directly +and avoid evil indirectly” <a name="citation42b"></a><a href="#footnote42b">{42b}</a>: +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 <i>Ethic</i> 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.” <a name="citation43a"></a><a href="#footnote43a">{43a}</a> +This is exactly what the Gospel says to the Law.</p> +<p>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.” <a name="citation43b"></a><a href="#footnote43b">{43b}</a> +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.</p> +<p>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.” +<a name="citation43c"></a><a href="#footnote43c">{43c}</a> “If +the human mind had none but adequate ideas it would form no notion of +evil.” <a name="citation44a"></a><a href="#footnote44a">{44a}</a> +“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.” +<a name="citation44b"></a><a href="#footnote44b">{44b}</a> <i>They +know not what they do.</i></p> +<p>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 <i>do well</i>, as +we say, and to <i>rejoice</i>.” <a name="citation44c"></a><a href="#footnote44c">{44c}</a> +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.” <a name="citation45a"></a><a href="#footnote45a">{45a}</a></p> +<p>“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.” <a name="citation45b"></a><a href="#footnote45b">{45b}</a> +“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.” <a name="citation46"></a><a href="#footnote46">{46}</a> +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 <i>Ethic</i> 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 <i>Ethic</i> +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.</p> +<p>There is a group of propositions in the last part of the <i>Ethic</i>, +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:- <a name="citation47"></a><a href="#footnote47">{47}</a></p> +<p>“The mind can cause all the affections of the body or the images +of things to be related to the idea of God.”</p> +<p>“He who clearly and distinctly understands himself and his +affects loves God, and loves Him better the better he understands himself +and his affects.”</p> +<p>“This love to God above everything else ought to occupy the +mind.”</p> +<p>“God is free from passions, nor is He affected with any affect +of joy or sorrow.”</p> +<p>“No one can hate God.”</p> +<p>“He who loves God cannot strive that God should love him in +return.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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 <i>is</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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 <i>Short Treatise</i>, which is an +early sketch for the <i>Ethic</i>, 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!” <a name="citation50"></a><a href="#footnote50">{50}</a></p> +<p>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?”</p> +<p>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,” <a name="citation52"></a><a href="#footnote52">{52}</a> +“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>We now come to the final propositions of the <i>Ethic</i>, 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:-</p> +<p>“In God, nevertheless, there necessarily exists an idea which +expresses the essence of this or that human body under the form of eternity.”</p> +<p>“The human mind cannot be absolutely destroyed with the body, +but something of it remains which is eternal.”</p> +<p>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 <i>are</i>, 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; <a name="citation54"></a><a href="#footnote54">{54}</a> “No +love except intellectual love is eternal,” <a name="citation55a"></a><a href="#footnote55a">{55a}</a> +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.” <a name="citation55b"></a><a href="#footnote55b">{55b}</a> +“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.” <a name="citation55c"></a><a href="#footnote55c">{55c}</a> +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.” <a name="citation56a"></a><a href="#footnote56a">{56a}</a></p> +<p>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.” <a name="citation56b"></a><a href="#footnote56b">{56b}</a> +“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.” <a name="citation57a"></a><a href="#footnote57a">{57a}</a> +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.” <a name="citation57b"></a><a href="#footnote57b">{57b}</a></p> +<p>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 <i>extend</i>, 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 <i>acquiescentia +mentis</i> which enables us to live.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<h2>SUPPLEMENTARY NOTE ON THE DEVIL</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Spinoza denies the existence of the Devil, and says, in the <i>Short +Treatise</i>, 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 <i>obedientia</i> +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 <i>Holy War</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>INJUSTICE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>x</i>.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>TIME SETTLES CONTROVERSIES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>TALKING ABOUT OUR TROUBLES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>is</i> 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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>FAITH</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>Gorgias</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>PATIENCE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>AN APOLOGY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>inevitable</i> expression of +the inward conviction.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Myrmdons, race féconde<br />Myrmidons,<br />Enfin nous +commandons:</p> +<p>Jupiter livre le monde<br />Aux Myrmidons, aux Myrmidons.</p> +<p>Voyant qu’ Achille succombe,<br />Ses Myrmidons, hors des rangs,<br />Disent: +Dansons sur sa tombe<br />Ses petits vont être grands.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“ . . . who of men can tell<br />That flowers would bloom, +or that green fruit would swell<br />To melting pulp, that fish would +have bright mail,<br />The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,<br />The +meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,<br />The seed its harvest, or +the lute its tones,<br />Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet<br />If +human souls did never kiss and greet?”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>BELIEF, UNBELIEF, AND SUPERSTITION</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Superstition is a matter of <i>relative</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>JUDAS ISCARIOT - WHAT CAN BE SAID FOR HIM?</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SIR WALTER SCOTT’S USE OF THE SUPERNATURAL IN THE “BRIDE +OF LAMMERMOOR”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The supernatural machinery in Sir Walter Scott’s <i>Monastery</i> +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.</p> +<p>But it is in the <i>Bride of Lammermoor</i> 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SEPTEMBER, 1798. “THE LYRICAL BALLADS.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>In April or May, 1798, the <i>Nightingale</i> was written, and these +are the sights and sounds which were then in young Coleridge’s +eyes and ears:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“No cloud, no relique of the sunken day<br />Distinguishes +the West, no long thin slip<br />Of sullen light, no obscure trembling +hues.<br />Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!<br />You see +the glimmer of the stream beneath,<br />But hear no murmuring: it flows +silently,<br />O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,<br />A +balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim,<br />Yet let us think +upon the vernal showers<br />That gladden the green earth, and we shall +find<br />A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>We happen also to have Dorothy Wordsworth’s journal for April +and May. Here are a few extracts from it:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>April 12th. - “ . . . The spring advances rapidly, multitudes +of primroses, dog-violets, periwinkles, stitchwort.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>May 6th, Sunday. - “Expected the painter <a name="citation101"></a><a href="#footnote101">{101}</a> +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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>Biographia Literaria</i>, 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.</p> +<p>“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 +<i>analogous to the supernatural</i>, <a name="citation103"></a><a href="#footnote103">{103}</a> +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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Coleridge, when he wrote to Cottle offering him the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>, +affirms that “the volumes offered to you are, to a certain degree, +<i>one work in kind</i>” <a name="citation104a"></a><a href="#footnote104a">{104a}</a> +(<i>Reminiscences</i>, 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 <i>have the same tendency +as my own</i>, <a name="citation104b"></a><a href="#footnote104b">{104b}</a> +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 <i>Lyrical +Ballads</i>, 1800).</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>There are difficulties in the way of believing that <i>The Ancient +Mariner</i> was written for the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>. It was +planned in 1797 and was originally intended for a magazine. Nevertheless, +it may be asserted that the purpose of <i>The Ancient Mariner</i> and +of <i>Christabel</i> (which was originally intended for the <i>Ballads</i>) +was, as their author said, <i>truth</i>, 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:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Alone, alone, all, all alone,<br />Alone on a wide wide sea!<br />And +never a saint took pity on<br />My soul in agony.</p> +<p>The many men, so beautiful!<br />And they all dead did lie:<br />And +a thousand thousand slimy things<br />Lived on; and so did I.</p> +<p><i>* * * *</i></p> +<p>The self-same moment I could pray:<br />And from my neck so free<br />The +Albatross fell off, and sank<br />Like lead into the sea.</p> +<p><i>* * *</i> *</p> +<p>And the hay was white with silent light<br />Till rising from the +same,<br />Full many shapes, that shadows were,<br />In crimson colours +came.</p> +<p>A little distance from the prow<br />Those crimson shadows were:<br />I +turned my eyes upon the deck -<br />Oh, Christ! what saw I there!</p> +<p>Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,<br />And, by the holy rood!<br />A +man all light, a seraph-man,<br />On every corse there stood.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Coleridge’s marginal gloss to these last stanzas is “The +angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, and appear in their own forms +of light.”</p> +<p>Once more from <i>Christabel</i>:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,<br />She nothing sees +- no sight but one!<br />The maid, devoid of guile and sin,<br />I know +not how, in fearful wise,<br />So deeply had she drunken in<br />That +look, those shrunken serpent eyes,<br />That all her features were resigned<br />To +this sole image in her mind:<br />And passively did imitate<br />That +look of dull and treacherous hate.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>The Ancient Mariner</i> +and <i>Simon Lee</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>The reviews which followed the publication of the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> +were nearly all unfavourable. Even Southey discovered nothing +in <i>The Ancient Mariner</i> 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 <i>Ballads</i> are alive to this day.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SOME NOTES ON MILTON</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>respectable</i>, 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” +(<i>Sesame and Lilies</i>, section iii.).</p> +<p>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 <i>Paradise +Lost</i>, as in <i>Paradise Regained</i> and <i>Samson</i>, Milton felt +himself to be standing on the sure ground of fact and reality” +(<i>English Men of Letters</i> - Milton, p. 186, ed. 1879).</p> +<p>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, <i>believed</i> 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.</p> +<p>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 <i>Paradise Lost</i>, +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.</p> +<p>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 <i>Paradise Lost</i> is not, as Johnson affirms, +its lack of human interest, for the <i>Prometheus Bound</i> 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 <i>Paradise Lost</i> 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.</p> +<p><i>Paradise Regained</i> comes, perhaps, closer to us than <i>Paradise +Lost</i> 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 <i>Paradise Regained</i> 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 <i>Paradise Regained</i> +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.</p> +<p>He who has now become incarnated for our redemption is that same +Messiah who, when He rode forth against the angelic rebels,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “into terror chang’d<br />His count’nance +too severe to be beheld,<br />And full of wrath bent on his enemies.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>It is He who</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “on his impious foes right onward drove,<br />Gloomy +as night:”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>whose right hand grasped</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “ten thousand thunders, which he sent <br />Before +him, such as in their souls infix’d<br />Plagues.”<br />(<i>P. +L</i>. vi. 824-38.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Why dost thou then suggest to me distrust,<br />Knowing who +I am, as I know who thou art?”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. i. 355-6.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Finding his enemy steadfast, Satan disappears,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “bowing low<br />His gray dissimulation,”<br />(<i>P. +R</i>. i. 497-8.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “such as have more shew<br />Of worth, of +honour, glory, and popular praise,<br />Rocks whereon greatest men have +oftest wreck’d;<br />Or that which only seems to satisfy<br />Lawful +desires of Nature, not beyond.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. ii. 226-30.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The former appeal is first of all renewed. “Tell me,” +says Satan,</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “‘if food were now before thee set<br />Would’st +thou not eat?’ ‘Thereafter as I like<br />The giver,’ +answered Jesus.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. ii. 320-22.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>A banquet is laid, and Satan invites Jesus to partake of it.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“What doubts the Son of God to sit and eat?<br />These are +not fruits forbidd’n.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. ii. 368-9.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>But Jesus refuses to touch the devil’s meat -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Thy pompous delicacies I contemn,<br />And count thy specious +gifts no gifts, but guiles.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. ii. 390-1.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>So they were, for at a word</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Both table and provision vanish’d quite, <br />With +sound of harpies’ wings and talons heard.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. +ii. 402-3.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “Yet this not all<br />To which my spirit +aspir’d: victorious deeds <br />Flam’d in my heart, heroic +acts.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. i. 214-16.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>But he denies that the glory of mob-applause is worth anything.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “What is glory but the blaze of fame,<br />The +people’s praise, if always praise unmixt?<br />And what the people +but a herd confus’d,<br />A miscellaneous rabble, who extol<br />Things +vulgar, and, well weigh’d, scarce worth the praise?”<br />(<i>P. +R</i>. iii. 47-51.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal<br />And duty; +zeal and duty are not slow;<br />But on occasion’s forelock watchful +wait.<br />They themselves rather are occasion best,<br />Zeal of thy +father’s house, duty to free<br />Thy country from her heathen +servitude.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. iii. 171-6.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>But zeal and duty, the endeavour to hurry that which cannot and must +not be hurried may be a suggestion from hell.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“If of my reign prophetic writ hath told<br />That it shall +never end, so when begin<br />The Father in His purpose hath decreed.”<br />(<i>P. +R</i>. iii. 184-6.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent<br />At home, +scarce view’d the Galilean towns, <br />And once a year Jerusalem.”<br />(<i>P. +R</i>. iii. 232-4.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “projects deep<br />Of enemies, of aids, +battles and leagues, <br />Plausible to the world”<br />(<i>P. +R</i>. iii. 395-3.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “expel this monster from his throne<br />Now +made a sty, and in his place ascending, <br />A victor people free from +servile yoke!”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. iv. 100-102.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>And with my help thou may’st</i>.” 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“The kingdoms of the world, to thee I give;<br />For, giv’n +to me, I give to whom I please,<br />No trifle; yet with this reserve, +not else,<br />On this condition, if thou wilt fall down<br />And worship +me as thy superior lord.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. iv. 163-7.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>This, then, is the drift and meaning of it all. The answer +is taken verbally from the gospel.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “‘Thou shalt worship<br />The Lord +thy God, and only Him shalt serve.’”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. +iv. 176-7.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>That is to say, Thou shalt submit thyself to God’s commands +and God’s methods and thou shalt submit thyself to <i>no other.</i></p> +<p>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</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “till morning fair<br />Came forth with pilgrim +steps in amice gray,<br />Who with her radiant finger still’d +the roar<br />Of thunder, chas’d the clouds, and laid the winds,<br />And +grisly spectres, which the Fiend had rais’d<br />To tempt the +Son of God with terrors dire.<br />But now the sun with more effectual +beams<br />Had cheer’d the face of earth, and dri’d the +wet<br />From drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birds,<br />Who +all things now beheld more fresh and green,<br />After a night of storm +so ruinous,<br />Clear’d up their choicest notes in bush and spray<br />To +gratulate the sweet return of morn.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. iv. 426-38.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>There is nothing perhaps in <i>Paradise Lost</i> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Now show thy progeny; if not to stand,<br />Cast thyself down; +safely, if Son of God;<br />For it is written, ‘He will give command<br />Concerning +thee to His angels; in their hands<br />They shall uplift thee, lest +at any time<br />Thou chance to dash thy foot against a stone.’”<br />(<i>P. +R</i>. iv. 554-9.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The promise of Divine aid is made in mockery.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“To whom thus Jesus: ‘Also it is written,<br />Tempt +not the Lord thy God.’ He said, and stood:<br />But Satan, +smitten with amazement, fell.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. iv. 560-2.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>It is not meant, “thou shalt not tempt <i>me</i>,” 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</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “the Son of God, our Saviour meek, <br />Sung +victor, and from heavenly feast refresh’t, <br />Brought on His +way with joy; He unobserv’d, <br />Home to His mother’s +house private return’d.”<br />(<i>P. R</i>. iv. 636-9.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE MORALITY OF BYRON’S POETRY. “THE CORSAIR.”</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>Conrad is not a debauched buccaneer. He was not -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “by Nature sent<br />To lead the guilty - +guilt’s worst instrument.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>He had been betrayed by misplaced confidence.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Doom’d by his very virtues for a dupe,<br />He cursed +those virtues as the cause of ill,<br />And not the traitors who betray’d +him still;<br />Nor deem’d that gifts bestow’d on better +men<br />Had left him joy, and means to give again,<br />Fear’d +- shunn’d - belied - ere youth had lost her force,<br />He hated +man too much to feel remorse,<br />And thought the voice of wrath a +sacred call,<br />To pay the injuries of some on all.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Conrad was not, and could not be, mean and selfish. A selfish +Conrad would be an absurdity. His motives are not gross -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “he shuns the grosser joys of sense,<br />“His +mind seems nourished by that abstinence.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>He is protected by a charm against undistinguishing lust -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Though fairest captives daily met his eye,<br />He shunn’d, +nor sought, but coldly pass’d them by;”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and even Gulnare, his deliverer, fails to seduce him.</p> +<p>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 -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“A conqueror’s more than captive’s air is seen,”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and he is not insensible to all fear.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Each has some fear, and he who least betrays, <br />The only +hypocrite deserving praise.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>One thought alone he could not - dared not meet - <br />‘Oh, +how these tidings will Medora greet?’”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Gulnare announces his doom to him, hut 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer <br />Wrung +from the coward crouching of despair;<br />It is enough - I breathe +- and I can bear.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“To count the hours that struggle to thine end, <br />With +not a friend to animate, and tell<br />To other ears that death became +thee well,”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>but he does not break down.</p> +<p>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 -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Who spares a woman’s seeks not slumber’s life” +-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“But ne’er from strife - captivity - remorse - <br />From +all his feelings in their inmost force - <br />So thrill’d - so +shudder’d every creeping vein,<br />As now they froze before that +purple stain.<br />That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak,<br />Had +banish’d all the beauty from her cheek!”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Yes, it was Love - unchangeable - unchanged, <br />Felt but +for one from whom he never ranged;”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>and she was worthy of him, the woman who could sing -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,<br />Lonely and +lost to light for evermore, <br />Save when to thine my heart responsive +swells, <br />Then trembles into silence as before.</p> +<p>There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp<br />Burns the slow flame, +eternal - but unseen;<br />Which not the darkness of despair can damp,<br />Though +vain its ray as it had never been.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>He finds Medora dead, and -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> “his mother’s softness crept<br />To +those wild eyes, which like an infant’s wept.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>people</i> lofty +emotions which, without him, would have slept. The cultivated +critics, and the refined persons who have <i>schrecklich viel gelesen</i>, +are not competent to estimate the debt we owe to Byron.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>BYRON, GOETHE, AND MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(<i>Reprinted, with corrections, by permission from the</i> “<i>Contemporary +Review</i>,” <i>August</i>, 1881.)</p> +<p>Mr. Matthew Arnold has lately published a remarkable essay <a name="citation133"></a><a href="#footnote133">{133}</a> +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.”</p> +<p>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: “<i>so bald er reflectirt ist er ein Kind</i>” +- <i>as soon as he reflects he is a child.</i></p> +<p>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 <i>Eckermann +Conversations</i>, vol. i. p. 198 (edition 1850):-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“‘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.’”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>We will, however, continue the quotations from the <i>Eckermann</i>:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“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).</p> +<p>“The world to him was transparent, and he could paint by way +of anticipation” (vol. i. p. 140).</p> +<p>“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).</p> +<p>“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).</p> +<p>We see now what Goethe means by “reflection.” It +is the faculty of self-separation, or conscious <i>consideration</i>, +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.</p> +<p>But again - </p> +<p>“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).</p> +<p>This passage is one which Mr. Arnold quotes, and he strives to diminish +its importance by translating <i>der ihm zu vergleichen wäre</i>, +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 <i>der ihm zu vergleichen wäre</i> simply indicates parallelism, +it has no point, for in that sense it might have been applied to Scott +or to Southey.</p> +<p>“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 <i>invention and thought</i> [italics +mine]. Were it not for his hypochondriacal negative turn, he would +be as great as Shakespeare and the ancients” (vol. i. p. 294).</p> +<p>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 <i>talent</i>, +and I will not dispute with so accomplished a German scholar as Mr. +Arnold as to what is the precise meaning of <i>talent</i>. 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.</p> +<p>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:-</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.” <a name="citation143"></a><a href="#footnote143">{143}</a></p> +<p>We have now heard enough from Goethe to prove that Mr. Arnold’s +interpretation of “<i>so bald er reflectirt ist er ein Kind</i>” +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.</p> +<p>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 <i>is</i> his strength, and +his strength <i>is</i> his weakness.</p> +<p>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 -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“the intense<br />Reply of <i>hers</i> to our intelligence.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>His success is equally marked when he portrays men or women whose +character attracts him. Take, for example, the girl in “The +Island”:-</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“The sunborn blood suffused her neck, and threw<br />O’er +her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue,<br />Like coral reddening through +the darken’d wave,<br />Which draws the diver to the crimson cave.<br />Such +was this daughter of the southern seas,<br /><i>Herself a billow in +her energies</i>.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Her smiles and tears had pass’d, as light winds pass<br />O’er +lakes to ruffle, not destroy, their glass,<br /><i>Whose depths unsearch’d, +and fountains from the hill,<br />Restore their surface, in itself so +still</i>.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 +ευφυης, as Mr. Matthew Arnold +affirms, but he was <i>great</i>. 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 -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Strip off this fond and false identity;”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>der +ihm zu vergleichen wäre.</i></p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>A SACRIFICE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE AGED TREE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CONSCIENCE</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Conscience,” said I, “her conscience would have +told her.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“‘Why, Miss Eyre, what are you doing here?’</p> +<p>“‘I had a headache; I could not go with the others, and +came out for a stroll.’</p> +<p>“‘I, too, was not very well, and have been left behind.’</p> +<p>“They walked together side by side.</p> +<p>“‘I wanted to speak to you, Miss Eyre. I wonder +if you have suspected anything lately.’</p> +<p>“‘Suspected? I do not quite comprehend: you are +very vague.’</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“‘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.’</p> +<p>“‘Gracious God! what have I done? what a mistake! +Miss Eyre, it is you I mean; it is you I love.’</p> +<p>“There was not an instant’s hesitation.</p> +<p>“‘Sir, I thank you, but I can answer at once. <i>Never</i> +can I be yours. That decision is irrevocable. I admire you, +but cannot love you.’</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE GOVERNESS’S STORY</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>above suspicion</i>! 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.</p> +<p>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 +<i>in the world</i> (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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>INSCRIPTION ON THE ENVELOPE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>JAMES FORBES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“It is all a lie, and it is hard to believe that people who +preach it do not know it to be a lie.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I am sure my father does not know it to be a lie, and I do +not myself know it to be a lie.”</p> +<p>“I was not thinking of your father, but of the clergy generally, +and you <i>do</i> know it to be a lie.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Do you mean to tell me you have any doubts about this discredited +rubbish?”</p> +<p>“If I have I would rather not speak about them now. Jim, +dear Jim, let us drop the subject and talk of something else.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But, Jim, is there nothing in the world to think about but +this?”</p> +<p>“There is nothing so important. Are we to be dumb all +our lives about what you say is religion?”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The train was slackening speed for Bristol; she bent down and kissed +him.</p> +<p>“Dearest Jim,” she whispered, “I have waited a +long time, but I was sure we should come together again at last. +It is enough.”</p> +<p>“You will go with me, then?”</p> +<p>Again she kissed him. “It must not be.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Not till this morning,” she said, “did I hear +you were ill.”</p> +<p>“Happy,” he cried, “though I die to-night.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>ATONEMENT</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“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:-</p> +<p>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 <i>God damn +you</i> 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!</p> +<p>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 <i>that</i> 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>LETTERS FROM MY AUNT ELEANOR <a name="citation180"></a><a href="#footnote180">{180}</a> +TO HER DAUGHTER SOPHIA, AND A FRAGMENT FROM MY AUNT’S DIARY.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>January 31, 1837.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Your most affectionate mother,</p> +<p>ELEANOR CHARTERIS.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>February 5, 1837.</p> +<p>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 <i>not</i>: 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?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>February 10, 1837.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>February 20, 1837.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>March 3, 1837.</p> +<p>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 <i>know</i> 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>DIARY.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>not be</i>. 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>March 1st. - Nothing that is <i>prescribed</i> 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>plainness</i> 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>not</i> 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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN GEORGE LUCY M.A., AND HIS GODCHILD, HERMIONE +RUSSELL, B.A.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Affectionately,<br />G. L.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>My Dear Godfather, - The little <i>Musæ</i> 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 <i>Metamorphoses</i> +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.</p> +<p>I have in preparation a book which I expect soon to publish, entitled +<i>Positive Education</i>. 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 (<i>a</i>) +to the laws of external nature commencing with number, and (<i>b</i>) +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 <i>Musæ</i> +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.</p> +<p>Your affectionate godchild,<br />HERMIONE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>Musæ</i> +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.</p> +<p>Your affectionate godfather,<br />G. L.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>debate</i>, 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.</p> +<p>Your affectionate godchild,<br />HERMIONE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>sometimes +it is and sometimes it is not</i>. 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.</p> +<p>Your affectionate godfather,<br />G. L.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <i>must</i> know your mind +about theology and metaphysics.</p> +<p>Your affectionate godchild,<br />HERMIONE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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?</p> +<p>Your affectionate godfather,<br />G. L.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>what are generally known as theology and metaphysics</i>? - +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.</p> +<p>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 <i>must</i> 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.</p> +<p>Your affectionate godchild,<br />HERMIONE.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p> taciturna noctis<br />signa.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“Tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi<br />Finem +dî dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios<br />Tentaris numeros.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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</p> +<p>Your affectionate godfather,<br />G. L.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>MRS. FAIRFAX</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“Mrs. Fairfax?”</p> +<p>A bow.</p> +<p>“Will you please tell me what a gown would cost made somewhat +like that in the window?”</p> +<p>“For yourself, madam?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Pardon me; I am afraid that colour would not suit you.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Bingham was a stout woman with a ruddy complexion.</p> +<p>“One colour costs no more than another?”</p> +<p>“No, madam: twelve guineas; that silk is expensive. Will +you not take a seat?”</p> +<p>“I am afraid you will find twelve guineas too much for anybody +here. Have you nothing cheaper?”</p> +<p>Mrs. Fairfax produced some patterns and fashion-plates.</p> +<p>“I suppose the gown in the window is your own make?”</p> +<p>“My own make and design.”</p> +<p>“Then you are not beginning business?”</p> +<p>“I hope I may say that I thoroughly understand it.”</p> +<p>The door leading into the back parlour opened, and a little girl +about nine or ten years old entered.</p> +<p>“Mother, I want - ”</p> +<p>Mrs. Fairfax, without saying a word, gently led the child into the +parlour again.</p> +<p>“Dear me, what a pretty little girl! Is that yours?”</p> +<p>“Yes, she is mine.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Bingham noticed that Mrs. Fairfax did not wear a widow’s +cap, and that she had a wedding-ring on her finger.</p> +<p>“You will find it rather lonely here. Have you been accustomed +to solitude?”</p> +<p>“Yes. That silk, now, would suit you admirably. +With less ornament it would be ten guineas.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“If you mean for walking about the roads here, it would differ +slightly from one which would be suitable for London.”</p> +<p>“Will you show me what you have usually made for town?”</p> +<p>“This is what is worn now.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Bingham was baffled but not defeated. She gave an order +for a walking-dress, and hoped that Mrs. Fairfax might be more communicative.</p> +<p>“Have you any introductions here?”</p> +<p>“None whatever.”</p> +<p>“It is rather a risk if you are unknown.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps you have been exempt from risks: some people are obliged +constantly to encounter them.”</p> +<p>“‘Exempt,’ ‘encounter,”’ thought +Mrs. Bingham: “she must have been to a good school.”</p> +<p>“When will you be ready to try on?”</p> +<p>“On Friday,” and Mrs. Fairfax opened the door.</p> +<p>As Mrs. Bingham went out she noticed a French book lying on a side +table.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“There isn’t a crease in that body,” said Mrs. +Harrop.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“A newcomer, Mrs. Carter. Have you seen Mrs. Fairfax?”</p> +<p>“Once or twice, ma’am.”</p> +<p>“Has she many letters?”</p> +<p>The door between the office and the parlour was open.</p> +<p>“I’ve no doubt she will have, ma’am, if her business +succeeds.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“Can’t say as I have, ma’am.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Do you mind coming to the window, Mrs. Bingham?” asked +Mrs. Harrop.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I thought it was a pucker, but it’s only the shadow,” +observed Mrs. Harrop.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“She must have learned that in London,” said Mrs. Harrop.</p> +<p>“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 <i>must</i> have lived there.”</p> +<p>“Where is Great Ormond Street, Mrs. Bingham?” inquired +Mrs. Sweeting.</p> +<p>“A great many foreigners live there; it is somewhere near Leicester +Square.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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, least-ways, 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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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 <i>is</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“A pretty mess that handkerchief is in, Cobb.” +She always called him simply “Cobb.”</p> +<p>“Yes, it was an a-a-accident. I must have a clean one. +I didn’t think it was so dirty.”</p> +<p>“The washing of your snuffy handkerchiefs costs quite enough +as it is, Cobb, without using them in that way.”</p> +<p>“What way?” said Mr. Cobb weakly.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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 -</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You bought that last new gown of her, and you never had one +as fitted you so well.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You’ll get yourself in a mess if you do that, Mr. Chairman.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>here</i>, you know - was +dreadful before he came up, and the brandy was no good. It was +a something in his way that did it.”</p> +<p>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 <i>Religio Medici</i>, 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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“It is so, madam, sometimes - there are not many newcomers.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The bell rang, and Mrs. Fairfax went into the shop.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>She returned and sat down again.</p> +<p>“You know nobody in these parts, Mrs. Fairfax?”</p> +<p>“Nobody.”</p> +<p>“Yours is a bold venture, is it not?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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. +<i>Do</i> it, with all your strength.’”</p> +<p>The Doctor was thoroughly Tory, and he slid away to his favourite +doctrine.</p> +<p>“Our ancestors, madam, were not such fools as we often take +them to be. They consulted the <i>sortes</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You have some books, I see - Sir Thomas Browne.” +He took down the volume.</p> +<p>“Leighton! Leighton! how odd! Was it Richard Leighton?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Really; and you knew him?”</p> +<p>“He was a friend of my brother.”</p> +<p>“Do you know what has become of him? He was at Cambridge +with me, but was younger.”</p> +<p>“I have not seen him for some time. Do you mind if I +open the window a little?”</p> +<p>“Certainly not.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 harts-horn 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.</p> +<p>“There is glass in the wrist,” she said. “Will +you kindly fetch the surgeon? I do not like to leave.”</p> +<p>He went at once, and fortunately met him in his gig.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Pray go on, madam.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>He smiled. “It is an art, I should think, which requires +not only much attention but practice.”</p> +<p>She evaded the implied question. “It is difficult to +fit, but it is more difficult to please.”</p> +<p>“That is true in my own profession.”</p> +<p>“But you are not obliged to please.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You are a philosopher, madam; that sentiment is worthy of +Epictetus.”</p> +<p>“I have read Epictetus in Mrs. Carter’s translation.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“No, you do not.”</p> +<p>He bowed to the ladies, and as he went out, the parlour-door being +open, he moved the outer door backwards and forwards.</p> +<p>“It would be as well, Mrs. Fairfax, to have a bell hung there +which would act properly.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“We are sorry, Doctor, you did not give Hutchings your vote +for the almshouse last Thursday; we expected you would have gone with +us.”</p> +<p>“You expected? Why?”</p> +<p>“Well, you see, sir, Hutchings has always worked hard for our +side.”</p> +<p>“I am astonished, Mr. Bingham, that you should suppose that +I will ever consent to divert the funds of a trust for party purposes.”</p> +<p>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 - ”</p> +<p>“Pay no attention to fools. Good morning.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I have quite forgotten him. I do not recollect books, +but I never forget the lessons taught me by my own trade.”</p> +<p>“You have had much trouble?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Have you no friends with whom you can share it?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Do you really think so?”</p> +<p>“I am certain of it. I am speaking now of a friendship +which would justify a demand for sympathy with real sorrows.”</p> +<p>They continued their walk in silence for the next two or three minutes.</p> +<p>“We are now near the end of the lane. I must turn and +go back.”</p> +<p>“I will go with you.”</p> +<p>“Thank you: I should detain you: I have to make a call on business +at the White House. Good morning.”</p> +<p>They parted.</p> +<p>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 <i>not</i> see him a-kissin’ +of her - how could she when they were a hundred yards off?”</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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 <i>am</i> sorry.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Cobb did not quite relish Mrs. Harrop’s pity.</p> +<p>“You may be sure, Mrs. Harrop, she was respectable when I took +her, and if she isn’t I shan’t keep her. I <i>am</i> +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.</p> +<p>“I suppose you’ve heard what Mrs. Jenkins says? +Your husband also, Mrs. Harrop, met them both.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Mrs. Swanley cannot come near her. I should look ridiculous +in her body and one of Swanley’s skirts.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Sweeting had hitherto listened in silence. Miss Tarrant +provoked her.</p> +<p>“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 <i>you’ve</i> 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>I</i> don’t, and never demean +myself to listen to her.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I have brought you a basket of pears, and the book I promised +you, the <i>Utopia</i>.” He sat down. “I am +afraid you will think my visits too frequent.”</p> +<p>“They are not too frequent for me: they may be for yourself.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Does nobody take any interest in archæology?”</p> +<p>“Nobody within five miles. Sinclair cares nothing about +it: he is Low Church, as I have told you.”</p> +<p>“Why does that prevent his caring about it?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“God and the Church, according to Dr. Midleton’s account, +have not been very effective in Langborough.”</p> +<p>“They hear from me, madam, all I am commissioned to say, and +if they do not attend I cannot help it”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Yes: exactly what I have said a hundred times: knowledge is +indispensable.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Not frequent: he comes occasionally. We are both interested +in a subject which I believe is not much studied in Langborough.”</p> +<p>“Dear me! not dressmaking?”</p> +<p>“No, madam, archæology.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Bingham went out once more discomfited, and Mrs. Fairfax returned +to the parlour.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Fairfax was silent for a minute.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The Doctor rose in a passion, planting his stick on the floor.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“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 <i>sure</i>. 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.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>The servant announced Mrs. Sweeting, who was asked to come in.</p> +<p>“Sit down, Mrs. Sweeting. What can I do for you?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But what’s the matter, Mrs. Sweeting?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“You have not yet told me what is wrong.”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“A what?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“But what do you say yourself?”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“I am much obliged to you. I see your motives: you are +straightforward and I respect you.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“No doubt, I suppose, Mr. Bingham?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>“Split votes! with a fellow like that! How can there +be any splitting between an honest man and a rascal?”</p> +<p>“There shouldn’t be, sir, but - ” Mr. Bingham hesitated +- “I suppose there may be personal considerations.”</p> +<p>“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?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>The Doctor looked steadily at Mr. Bingham, who felt that every corner +of his pitiful soul was visible.</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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 -</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“My dearly beloved, for all you’re so bold,<br />To-morrow +you’ll find you’re left out in the cold;<br />And, Doctor, +the reason you need not to ax,<br />It’s because of a dressmaker +- Mrs. F---fax.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>He was going out just as the gardener was about to obliterate the +inscription.</p> +<p>“Leave it, Robert, leave it; let the filthy scoundrels perpetuate +their own disgrace.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>“Do you believe,” said she, “that a woman who gives +a false name can be respectable? We want no further proof.”</p> +<p>Nobody wanted further proof. No Langborough lady needed any +proof if a reputation was to be blasted.</p> +<p>“It’s an <i>alibi</i>,” said Mrs. Harrop. +“That’s what Tom Cranch the poacher did, and he was hung.”</p> +<p>“An <i>alias</i>, 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.”</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>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 <i>Stamford Mercury</i>, 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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“She isn’t here: she went away when her husband died.”</p> +<p>“He died abroad?”</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“Where has she gone?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“At last!” said the doctor when the door was shut.</p> +<p>She stood gazing in silence at the dull red cinder of the dying fire.</p> +<p>“You put the advertisement in the <i>Stamford Mercury</i>?” +he said.</p> +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p>“I did not see it until a day or two ago.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Mrs. Leighton was obliged to go back to her work in the afternoon, +but she gave notice that night to leave in a week.</p> +<p>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 <i>Stamford Mercury</i> 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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“I am afraid, Mrs. Midleton, you must have thought me sometimes +very rude to you.”</p> +<p>To which Mrs. Midleton replied graciously, “I am sure if you +had been it would have been quite excusable.”</p> +<p>“Extremely kind of you to say so, Mrs. Midleton.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“You’ll remember this gown, Mrs. Midleton?”</p> +<p>“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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Footnotes:</p> +<p><a name="footnote10"></a><a href="#citation10">{10}</a> Since +1868 the <i>Reminiscences</i> and his <i>Life</i> 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 <i>Reminiscences</i> +should be compared with Mr. Froude’s.</p> +<p><a name="footnote34a"></a><a href="#citation34a">{34a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i> pt. 1, def. 3.</p> +<p><a name="footnote34b"></a><a href="#citation34b">{34b}</a> +Ibid., pt. 1, def. 6.</p> +<p><a name="footnote34c"></a><a href="#citation34c">{34c}</a> +Ibid., pt. 1, prop. 11.</p> +<p><a name="footnote36"></a><a href="#citation36">{36}</a> <i>Ethic</i>, +pt. 2, prop. 47.</p> +<p><a name="footnote37a"></a><a href="#citation37a">{37a}</a> +Letter 56 (Van Vloten and Land’s ed.).</p> +<p><a name="footnote37b"></a><a href="#citation37b">{37b}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 1, coroll. prop. 25.</p> +<p><a name="footnote37c"></a><a href="#citation37c">{37c}</a> +Ibid., pt. 5, prop. 24.</p> +<p><a name="footnote37d"></a><a href="#citation37d">{37d}</a> +Ibid., pt. 1, schol. to prop. 17.</p> +<p><a name="footnote38"></a><a href="#citation38">{38}</a> <i>Ethic</i>, +pt. 1, schol. to prop. 17.</p> +<p><a name="footnote39"></a><a href="#citation39">{39}</a> <i>Ethic</i>, +pt. 2, prop. 13.</p> +<p><a name="footnote40a"></a><a href="#citation40a">{40a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 1, coroll. 1, prop. 32.</p> +<p><a name="footnote40b"></a><a href="#citation40b">{40b}</a> +Ibid., pt. 1, prop. 33.</p> +<p><a name="footnote40c"></a><a href="#citation40c">{40c}</a> +Letter 56</p> +<p><a name="footnote41a"></a><a href="#citation41a">{41a}</a> +Letter 21.</p> +<p><a name="footnote41b"></a><a href="#citation41b">{41b}</a> +Letter 58.</p> +<p><a name="footnote42a"></a><a href="#citation42a">{42a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 2, schol. prop. 49.</p> +<p><a name="footnote42b"></a><a href="#citation42b">{42b}</a> +Ibid., pt. 4, coroll. prop. 63.</p> +<p><a name="footnote43a"></a><a href="#citation43a">{43a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 5, or pp. 42.</p> +<p><a name="footnote43b"></a><a href="#citation43b">{43b}</a> +“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.)</p> +<p><a name="footnote43c"></a><a href="#citation43c">{43c}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 5, schol. prop. 4.</p> +<p><a name="footnote44a"></a><a href="#citation44a">{44a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 4, coroll. prop. 64.</p> +<p><a name="footnote44b"></a><a href="#citation44b">{44b}</a> +Ibid., pt. 4, schol. prop. 66.</p> +<p><a name="footnote44c"></a><a href="#citation44c">{44c}</a> +Ibid., pt. 4, schol. prop. 50.</p> +<p><a name="footnote45a"></a><a href="#citation45a">{45a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 4, prop. 46 and schol.</p> +<p><a name="footnote45b"></a><a href="#citation45b">{45b}</a> +Ibid., pt. 3, schol. prop. 11.</p> +<p><a name="footnote46"></a><a href="#citation46">{46}</a> <i>Ethic</i>, +pt. 4, schol. prop. 45.</p> +<p><a name="footnote47"></a><a href="#citation47">{47}</a> <i>Ethic</i>, +pt. 5, props. 14-20.</p> +<p><a name="footnote50"></a><a href="#citation50">{50}</a> <i>Short +Treatise</i>, pt. 2, chap. 22.</p> +<p><a name="footnote52"></a><a href="#citation52">{52}</a> <i>Ethic</i>, +pt. 1, Appendix.</p> +<p><a name="footnote54"></a><a href="#citation54">{54}</a> <i>Ethic</i>, +pt. 2, schol. 2, prop. 40.</p> +<p><a name="footnote55a"></a><a href="#citation55a">{55a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 5, coroll. prop. 34.</p> +<p><a name="footnote55b"></a><a href="#citation55b">{55b}</a> +Ibid., pt. 5, prop. 36.</p> +<p><a name="footnote55c"></a><a href="#citation55c">{55c}</a> +Ibid., pt. 5, prop. 36, coroll.</p> +<p><a name="footnote56a"></a><a href="#citation56a">{56a}</a> +<i>Ethic</i>, pt. 5, prop. 38.</p> +<p><a name="footnote56b"></a><a href="#citation56b">{56b}</a> +<i>Short Treatise</i>, pt. 2, chap. 23.</p> +<p><a name="footnote57a"></a><a href="#citation57a">{57a}</a> +Aristotle’s <i>Psychology</i> (Wallace’s translation), p. +161.</p> +<p><a name="footnote57b"></a><a href="#citation57b">{57b}</a> +Rabelais, <i>Pantagruel</i>, book 4, chap. 27.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101"></a><a href="#citation101">{101}</a> +Hazlitt.</p> +<p><a name="footnote103"></a><a href="#citation103">{103}</a> +Italics mine. - M. R.</p> +<p><a name="footnote104a"></a><a href="#citation104a">{104a}</a> +Italics mine. - M. R.</p> +<p><a name="footnote104b"></a><a href="#citation104b">{104b}</a> +Italics mine. - M. R.</p> +<p><a name="footnote133"></a><a href="#citation133">{133}</a> +<i>Poetry of Byron chosen and arranged by Matthew Arnold</i> - 1881.</p> +<p><a name="footnote143"></a><a href="#citation143">{143}</a> +“<i>Adah</i>. - Peace be with him (Abel).<br /><i>Cain</i>. - +But with <i>me</i>!”</p> +<p><a name="footnote180"></a><a href="#citation180">{180}</a> +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.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, PAGES FROM A JOURNAL ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named pgjr10h.htm or pgjr10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, pgjr11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, pgjr10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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