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diff --git a/78612-0.txt b/78612-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..de387ca --- /dev/null +++ b/78612-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10643 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78612 *** + + + + + MY DAYS AND DREAMS + + +[Illustration: + + E. C. (1857), AGE THIRTEEN. +] + + + + + MY DAYS AND DREAMS + BEING AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL NOTES + + + BY + + EDWARD CARPENTER + + _Author of “Towards Democracy” “Civilization: its Cause and Cure,” &c._ + + WITH PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS + +[Illustration] + + LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD. + RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET W.C. + + + _First published June 1916_ + _Second Edition October 1916_ + + + (_All rights reserved_) + + + + + PREFACE + + +Old St. Pancras Churchyard even now, though dominated by the huge +gasometers of Wharf Road and backed against the roaring traffic of the +Midland Railway, preserves something of the sylvan beauty which a +hundred years ago made it the frequent trysting-place of Percy Shelley +and Mary Godwin. As it happened, in the summer of 1890, when staying in +London, I used to make the garden my resort for writing purposes; and +one day in July of that year I started some autobiographical notes. In a +very casual way, and with long intervals between, the notes have been +continued down to the present time. The volume therefore to which this +is the Preface has been composed in somewhat disjointed fashion; and the +discerning reader will probably perceive slight differences of style and +outlook in its different portions, and perhaps also experience some +uncertainty as to the proper chronology of the events which it records. +In order to mitigate the latter trouble I have from time to time +inserted in square brackets the date of the year in which the +corresponding portion was written. + +[Illustration: Edward Carpenter signature] + + _May 1916_ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER PAGE + PREFACE 7 + I. BRIGHTON 13 + II. MY PARENTS 36 + III. CAMBRIDGE 45 + IV. UNIVERSITY EXTENSION AND NORTHERN TOWNS 79 + V. BRADWAY AND “TOWARDS DEMOCRACY” 99 + VI. MANUAL WORK AND MARKET-GARDENING 109 + VII. SHEFFIELD AND SOCIALISM 124 + VIII. TRADE AND PHILOSOPHY 137 + IX. MILLTHORPE AND HOUSEHOLD LIFE 147 + X. MILLTHORPIANA 167 + XI. THE STORY OF MY BOOKS 190 + XII. PERSONALITIES—I. 210 + XIII. PERSONALITIES—II. 234 + XIV. LONDON AND LECTURES 254 + XV. TRANSLATIONS AND TRANSLATORS 269 + XVI. RURAL CONDITIONS 282 + XVII. HOW THE WORLD LOOKS AT SEVENTY 301 + APPENDIX I. CONGRATULATORY LETTER AND REPLY 318 + APPENDIX II. BIBLIOGRAPHY 323 + INDEX 333 + + + + + ILLUSTRATIONS + + + E. C. (1857), AGE THIRTEEN _Frontispiece_ + FACING PAGE + MY FATHER, CHARLES CARPENTER 36 + MY MOTHER, SOPHIA WILSON CARPENTER 44 + MY SISTER LIZZIE 71 + SELF, IN ABOUT 1875 79 + ALBERT FEARNEHOUGH AND “BRUNO” 103 + E. C. (1887), AGE FORTY-THREE 109 + G. E. H.—ONE OF THE FIRST “SHEFFIELD SOCIALISTS” 131 + THE HUT AND THE BROOK 146 + GEORGE MERRILL 161 + MILLTHORPE COTTAGE AND ORCHARD 168 + G. M. FEEDING THE FOWLS 176 + SELF IN PORCH (1905). (_Photogravure_) 208 + CARTOON, “SIMPLIFICATION OF LIFE” 257 + LILLY NADLER-NUELLENS WITH HER DAUGHTER 272 + MARCELLE SENARD 280 + E. C. (1910), AGE SIXTY-SIX 304 + + + + + MY DAYS AND DREAMS + + + + + I + BRIGHTON + + +My life hitherto [7th July 1890] divides into four pretty distinct +periods—first, my early life up to the age of twenty, during which time +I lived mainly at Brighton, embedded in a would-be fashionable world +which I hated; secondly, the period from ’64 to about ’74, during which +time I was mostly at Cambridge, in a more or less intellectual +atmosphere; thirdly, from ’74 to ’81, when I carried on the Extension +lectures and made acquaintance with the manufacturing centres and +commercial society of the North of England; and fourthly, for the ten +years from ’80 and ’81 down to the present time, when I have lived +almost entirely among the working masses, and been largely engaged in +manual labour. + +It may seem ungrateful to say so, but my abiding recollection of early +days is one of discomfort. Not but that I had on the whole good times at +school, in the classes and in the games; not but that at home I was +lapped in the ease and attentive service of a well-to-do household, and +had a hundred advantages denied to an ordinary child of the people; but +that after all at home I never felt really at home. Perhaps I was unduly +sensitive; anyhow I felt myself an alien, an outcast, a failure, and an +object of ridicule. + +The social life which encircled us at Brighton was artificial enough; +but it was the standard which we children had to live to. My parents +were the best people in the world, but they could not fly out of the +conditions in which they belonged. I hated the life, was miserable in +it—the heartless conventionalities, silly proprieties—but I never +imagined, it never occurred to me, that there _was_ any other life. To +be pursued by the dread of appearances—what people would say about one’s +clothes or one’s speech—to be always in fear of committing unconscious +trespasses of invisible rules—this seemed in my childhood the normal +condition of existence; so much so that I never dreamed of escaping from +it. I only prayed for a time when grace might be given me to pass by +without reproach. I was never a daring or rumbustious child. Timid and +sensitive, my spirit was sadly lacking in the inestimable virtue of +revolt. I suffered and was stupid enough to think myself in the wrong. + +There was a curate at one of the churches to which we used to go—a +smooth-haired, carefully shaven, meek young man, probably of feeble +mind; but all I knew was that people praised him: such a good-looking, +well-mannered fellow he was, and preached such nice sermons! “Happy Mr. +Cass,” I used to think, for even now I remember his name—“Oh, happy Mr. +Cass, if only I could be like _you_ when I grow up.” I was then about +fourteen, and I fancy that the mere sight of Cass in his spotless +surplice must have worked upon me, for it was about that time or a +little later that I began to make up my mind to take Orders. No doubt +from the first there was a fatal bias towards religion. I remember +distinctly—and it must have been about the same period—thinking as I lay +awake in bed at night that if the house were on fire I would save my +_prayer-book_! I saw myself in my mind’s eye in heroic attitude rushing +into my mother’s room where the sacred volume lay, and bearing it out +through flames and smoke into the street. It was not my mother or +sisters that I was going to save ... but my prayer-book! Alas! what a +defect of nature, or of teaching, must have been there! + +Curious, the covered underground life that some children lead! I never +remember, all those years at Brighton, till I was nineteen or twenty, a +single person older than myself who was my confidant. I do not remember +a single occasion on which in any trouble or perplexity I was able to go +to any one for help or consolation. My mother, firm, just, and +courageous as she was, and setting her children an heroic example, +belonged to the old school, which thought any manifestation of feeling +unbecoming. We early learned to suppress and control emotion, and to +fight our own battles alone: in some ways a good training, but liable in +the long run to starve the emotional nature. Masters at school in those +days did not “draw boys out”; education was mainly a nipping of buds; +older friends outside the family, who may so often play a useful part in +the development of boy or girl life, never came—that I remember—to the +rescue; and so my abiding recollection of all that time is one of silent +concealment and loneliness. + +Nevertheless of course there were joys. Though a town-house is not a +congenial nursery for a child, yet we were comparatively fortunate. +There was a large space at the back, where we kept, in succession, +endless pets—pigeons, seagulls with clipped wings, rabbits, tortoises, +guinea-pigs, and smaller fry (I was especially fond of an aquarium); +while in front was the large garden of Brunswick Square, overrun, +despite the efforts of the gardener and other authorities, by all the +children of the surrounding houses. A fearfully active family, boys and +girls, we kept a sort of proud superiority over the other children in +running races, prisoners’ base, etc.; while inside the house, and for +wet weather, we had a sport entirely our own, and which consisted in one +pursuing the others up the front stairs and down the back stairs, or +_vice versa_, with endless shrieks and uproar—a terrible affair, which +nothing but the noblest self-sacrifice could have ever nerved our +parents to endure! Also there was hide-and-seek in the dark, a grisly +game, dangerous both to limbs and to furniture; and occasionally a +battle of the giants—as when, on one occasion, an elder sister having +with the greatest care built up a beautiful dummy man round a long +smooth pole, my eldest brother came on the sly and drew the backbone +out! Then there was earth-shaking conflict, which I, quite a small boy, +witnessed from a distance, and with quaking limbs. + +As to school life, I suppose it is a general experience that what one +learns at school does not count for much. At the age of ten I began at +the Brighton College. My eldest sister had taught me a little Latin +grammar before that. My eldest brother Charlie was already at the +College. He was a kind of hero there. At that time (or possibly a year +or two later) he was easily first in _everything_. In mathematics, +classics, foreign languages, in cricket, football, athletics—no matter +what it was—he took all the prizes. Withal he was so friendly, so +sociable, that he was a universal favorite; so generous and so +humorous—so naturally full of fun and comedy—that I really think he +disarmed all jealousy in others—nor felt a spark of jealousy or vanity +in himself. Seldom I should think has there been such a boy; and when at +the age of nineteen or twenty he took his final leave in order to join +the Indian Civil Service, his memory lingered long and long behind him +in the school.[1] + +My reception under those circumstances was naturally favorable. One day, +shortly after my arrival, I was playing by myself in a corner of the +entrance hall, when a big boy with a pleasant face came up to me and, +making a suitable gesture, said, “Sweep up the Chips, sweep up the +Chips.” Then I knew that my nickname was Chips—a family nickname indeed, +since my father and my brothers at different times bore it. + +The College was a large school of 150 or 200 boys—on public school +lines. I went through the classes in due order from the lowest upwards; +and the personality of each master in turn impressed its unconscious +weight upon me. I remember distinctly the agonized effort and the +triumph of passing the “Asses’ Bridge” in Euclid. The name of the master +who got me over was Newton, and for some years I firmly believed that he +was no other than the celebrated Sir Isaac. I joined in the games and +athletics—and not without success, though I was never very partial to +cricket; I climbed slowly up through the classes; I rubbed shoulders +with all the queer, red-haired, pock-marked, fat, lean, mean, generous, +handsome, clever, tyrannical, cross-eyed, gentle, good-natured, +specimens of fellow humanity—the other boys—whose influence on one at +that age is so strange and incalculable, and whose characters and deeds +appear at the time so mysterious and inexplicable; though when one looks +back upon them at a later date, they seem transparently clear and +simple. I cannot remember anything very heroic that I did, though I can +remember some mean things. I remember joining with the others in teasing +the French master—that ever defenceless quarry; and I remember what was +much worse, taking a kind of delight in privately tormenting an idiot +boy. That was indeed a strange experience. I don’t know why the boy was +allowed in the school; he was certainly quite weak-minded and incapable; +and besides there exhaled from him an odd and fearsome odour. That boy +convulsed me with alternate rage and pity. At one moment I was seized +with the greatest sympathy for his weakness, and the next I was filled +with wrath at his odour and his idiocy, and found or invented excuses +for slapping him! Then after that I would sometimes lie awake at night +remorseful over my conduct, and planning little schemes of reparation; +but in the morning the sight of him would launch me on the waves of +irritation again. It was quite a little tragedy to me—and I mention it +because this savage and instinctive dislike of anything malformed, which +is so very marked in boys, no doubt accounts for much of their cruelty. +It remains in the mind of course to a much later age, but is gradually +covered over by the growth of sympathy and understanding. As a rule my +better deeds were done in defence of the weak. Timid for the most part, +I regained my courage on these occasions—as in delivering a small boy +from a big bully; or once in sticking up for two brothers, the dirtiest +and most stupid boys in the class, against the gibes of the master; or +another time in helping a poor man in the street with his bundle—on +which last occasion the said Sir Isaac Newton passing by, instead of +scolding me as I expected, actually said, “That’s right, my boy”—a +remark for which I felt ever so grateful to him—for indeed I was feeling +rather ashamed of myself. + +I think that was about the only occasion on which a master exercised any +directly helpful influence. Schools were odd places in those days. The +idea of really reaching the boy and drawing out his interest seems never +to have occurred to the masters. When I arrived in the Sixth Form, the +Headmaster was a certain Dr. Griffith—a burly, headstrong, +muddle-headed, perhaps rather good-natured man. As often as not he would +arrive in the class-room late, with his hair a-tumble, and looking as if +he had not slept all night, would complain that some naughty boy in the +Fourth Form was preoccupying his mind, and would leave us again alone +with our books. Then presently his study door would open, and he would +push the said boy into the room, saying, “I wish one of you gentlemen +would _cane_ this boy,” and throwing a cane in over the boy’s head would +close the door again. Once, drawing a handful of silver and gold out of +his pocket, he asked me to cane a boy for him—and afterwards I felt +sorry I had not accepted the bargain. I think he must have been a little +touched in the head. It is certainly aggravating to think that we used +to read Homer and Virgil and the Greek plays, and _never_ that I +remember was any attempt made to make us understand the subject or the +plot or the literary interest of these works—nothing but grammar and +syntax. As to mathematics the neglect was worse—and I left school at +eighteen or nineteen having done nothing beyond Euclid and Algebra. + +My record in the classes was on the whole, I suppose, good—though +nothing remarkable. I gained the usual number of prizes, and kept about +an equal interest in classics and mathematics. With regard to the +former, my father—who had progressive ideas on such subjects—gave me a +word for word _crib_ to Horace, saying that the best way to learn a +language was to use such a crib. Naturally after that I rejoiced in it +freely in my preparation-work at home of an evening. But one day I could +not resist taking it to school and showing it to some of my class-mates. +Of course we were pounced upon, and the crib confiscated. The +form-master at that time was E. C. Hawkins—a really fine type of man, +father of Anthony Hope Hawkins the novelist. But when he asked me where +I got the crib from, and I replied quite truthfully and simply “My +father gave it me,” he was struck dumb! He certainly thought I was +lying, but could make no reply. And for a long time after that would +hardly speak to me. + +Cricket I never took to much. Being a bad player I voted it ‘slow.’ +Probably it gave too much rope to my dreamy tendencies, and I got into +trouble missing unexpected catches. But hockey and football I was fond +of, and fives, as being more lively. + +When I was about thirteen an event important to us children happened, +which I must not pass by. My parents determined to spend a year in +France, and they actually transported the whole household, nine children +(i.e. all except my brother Charlie) and two servants, to Versailles. I +remember only too well that awful night journey by Newhaven and Dieppe, +the raging sea, the arrival drenched, the dim lights of the Customhouse, +the cries of lost children, the journey by train to Paris and onwards. +How my mother survived it I do not know. We settled in a house in the +Avenue de Sceaux, amid barracks, and continual fanfaronades and +trampings of military, near the great Palace with its endless galleries, +and the Park with its fountains and music. All very exciting and +delightful. And we found some good and friendly French neighbours. At +first they did not the least understand our household. It never occurred +to them for a moment that it was all one family, and for some time it +was supposed that my father and mother kept a school! But when the truth +at last dawned upon them, their delight and amazement knew no bounds, +and we became the centre of the greatest interest. I and my younger +brother, Alfred, went as day-boys to school at the Lycée Hoche (then +Imperiale)—a great place of five hundred boys—where we learned French by +sheer necessity. I do not think we learned much else. In the matter of +lessons the instruction was much on a par with that at the Brighton +school, and the playground life and social organization of the boys were +far less pregnant of good influences. + +I don’t know how the Lycées are now, but at that time the school methods +were only poor. The boys sat an outrageously long time at their +desks—ten hours a day or more—either construing or preparing lessons; +but got through very little work, spending most of their time in furtive +games or conversations with each other. Everything was done in set and +military style—marchings along corridors from class-room to class-room, +or from class-room to refectory, or from refectory to playground. In the +latter a master (always called ‘pion’) was present to see that there was +no bullying, or to disperse knots of boys (who might of course be +talking sedition) or to prevent individuals approaching the playground +wall within a set distance (lest they should escape). The games were +limited and regulated. Everything was regulated. It was said that the +Minister of Education at Paris could at any hour of the day place his +finger on the line of Virgil that was being translated, or the +proposition of Geometry that was being proved at that moment in all the +Lycées alike over the face of the land. One very curious custom +prevailed, which has probably now gone out of date, but which had a +strong suggestion about it of the Church system of Indulgences. At the +end of the week the marks gained by each boy during the week were added +up and announced by the master. Then those boys who were credited with +more than a certain number of marks were told they might write out for +themselves a certificate of satisfaction, good for exemption from one, +two, or even three hours’ punishment, according to circumstances! Great +excitement prevailed. You cut yourself a neat square of paper, adorned +it with lines and flourishes, and inscribed on it “Témoignage de +Satisfaction—Elève Carpenter—bonne à une heure”—and left a space at foot +for the signature of the master. When signed you treasured this up in +your desk—and at some later date when the hour of punishment came, +produced it, and unless your crime was very heinous were duly let off! +It was a curious arrangement, but one which had perhaps the advantage of +discouraging a boy from being _too_ good—since obviously it would be a +mistake to collect a greater number of such tickets than you were likely +to make use of. + +My brother and I, as day-boys, escaped a good deal of the general school +routine and regulation, and on the whole had not a bad time. The boys +received us decently, and as we could play leap-frog or prisoners’ base +(Les Barres) as well as any of them, paid us due respect; and one of the +masters, Llandais by name, was quite kind and thoughtful towards me. Out +of hours we careered through the woods of Satory, watched military +evolutions on the plain above, or at dusk chased and caught the great +stag-beetles—a thrilling joy. We wandered through the huge +statue-adorned Park and the shady Bosquets of diamond-necklace +celebrity, and learned swimming—as did also my sisters—in the fine +open-air swimming bath, which used to be the bath of the pages of Louis +XIV’s Court. After a year thus spent, the family returned to England, +and we boys to the Brighton College. + +As I say, it is probably a common experience that mere school teaching +does not leave a very deep impression. Probably a good deal really _is_ +learned—but these are the more indirect things which slip into the +background or foundation of the mind and character and so pass +comparatively unobserved. Only three or four subjects of interest stand +out in my memory as belonging to my school-days, and these all lay +outside school proper. The earliest of these was music. At the age of +ten I desired mightily to learn the piano; but music was not considered +appropriate for a boy—besides there were six sisters who had to be +taught, poor things, whether they liked it or not—and so my appearance +on the music stool was treated rather as an intrusion, and I was +generally hustled off again forthwith. However I got my way by playing +late of an evening, when they were all upstairs in the drawing-room; I +never had any regular teaching, but my mother took pity on me and taught +me my notes; and from that time I stumbled through the “Marche des +Croates” and the “Nun’s Prayer” till at last I emerged on the far +borderland of Beethoven’s Sonatas. This hour of piano practice to myself +was for a long time one of the chief events of my day. Indeed, it is +curious, but I took to composing, or attempting to compose, music before +ever I thought of composing or attempting to compose poetry. Of course +with a juvenile mind, and no musical training, nor even a particularly +keen ear, my compositions were of no value, and I hardly ever troubled +to write them out; still the habit of making up pianoforte pieces, and +the love of doing so, continued all my life, and forced its way out from +time to time. It is only in quite late years that, with more technical +knowledge, I have written some of these down—perhaps twelve or twenty in +all—and even occasionally thought of printing them. + +I was also fortunate enough, when I was about fifteen, to come in for +the reversion of a cupboard full of chemical apparatus, which had +belonged to my eldest brother, and here in a little room with retorts +and test-tubes I spent many a half-holiday, carrying out important +experiments and prosecuting valuable inventions, which ended almost +invariably in bad smells and worse headaches. Perpetual motion, as usual +in such cases, was one of my chief objects; and I could not for the life +of me tell why a solid cylinder of wood, placed with its axis horizontal +in the side of a box containing water, and so carefully fitted that it +would turn on its axis without allowing the water to run out, would not +revolve perpetually—seeing indeed that the one half of it which was in +the water, being lighter than water, would continually tend to rise, and +the other half of it which was in the air would continually tend to +fall. I invented an arrangement for the pianoforte after the Morse +telegraphic system, by which extemporaneous effusions could be written +down in the act of playing—an invention which luckily has not been +generally adopted; and was engaged on various other little patents at +different times. Sometimes I gave a lecture—though it must be confessed +that it was with difficulty that any of the household could be induced +to attend! The lecture was small, but the danger from explosions and +horrible smells was great. My remarks were not very lucid or +explanatory, but consisted mainly of expressions like “Now I will show +you something else” or “You needn’t be frightened, there is no danger.” +These investigations were however very absorbing and excited far more +interest in my mind than anything I learned at school; and I remember +that they led me to think quite seriously about being a doctor (I +suppose from some vague notion about the connection between chemicals +and medicine)—a profession which my father was inclined to recommend to +me, and which I have sometimes regretted that I did not adopt. + +Towards the later part of my time at Brighton the natural _épanchement_ +of youth led me often to seek consolation and an escape from the wounds +of daily life in intercourse with Nature. The Brighton social life—with +its greetings where no kindness is—was to me chilly in the extreme, and +I often used in later years to feel that I “caught cold” (morally +speaking) whenever I returned to it. The scenery and surroundings of +Brighton are also bare and chilly enough; and trees, whose friendly +covert I have always loved, do not exist there; but the place has two +Nature-elements in it—and these two singularly wild and untampered—the +Sea and the Downs. We lived within two hundred yards of the sea, and its +voice was in our ears night and day. On terrific stormy nights it was a +“grisly joy” to go down to the water’s edge at 10 or 11 p.m.—pitchy +darkness—feeling one’s way with feet or hands, over the stony beach, +hardly able to stand for the wind—and to watch the white breakers +suddenly leap out of the gulf close upon one—the “scream of the madden’d +beach dragged down by the wave,” the booming of the wind, like distant +guns, and the occasional light of some vessel laboring for its life in +the surge. + +But the Downs were my favorite refuge. On sunny days I would wander on +over them for miles, not knowing very clearly where I was going—in a +strange broody moony state—glad to find some hollow (like that described +in Jefferies’ _Story of my Heart_) where one could lie secluded for any +length of time and see only the clouds and the grasses and an occasional +butterfly, or hear the distant bark of a dog or the far rumble of a +railway train. The Downs twined themselves with all my thought and +speculations of that time. Their chaste subdued gracious outlines and +quiet colour have a peculiar charm. Their strongest line is generally +some white edge of cliffs or curve of the shore itself, their deepest +tint the blue of the sea or occasionally a field of red clover or one +overgrown with charlock. For the rest they wear the faint blue-green +colour of thin turf through which the chalk almost shows. Over the +velvety sward and among the fine herbage cropped by plentiful sheep run +innumerable tiny flowers dwarfed by salt wind and scanty soil—thistles, +whose chins rest on the ground out of which they grow; patches of sweet +thyme which the wild bees love, of pink centaury and thrift and madder +and dwarf-broom, and that sweet yellow lotus or bird’s-foot trefoil, +which runs all over the world, in Siberia and Alps and Himalayas the +same, one of the commonest and friendliest of all the flowers that grow. +Overhead the lark sings, the clouds drift through the untampered blue, +the bee and the butterfly sweep past on the breeze. Three or four miles +from Brighton, and one is in a world remote from man. Except an +occasional shepherd there is hardly a human to be seen. Here and there +in a hollow nestles the tiniest hamlet—an old farmhouse, one or two +cottages, a dwarf church faced with rough work of flints, a few trees +and a well. Taking its character from the sky—as all chalk and limestone +countries largely do—this land has an ethereal beauty in summer weather; +but on wintry and gray days it is monotonous and sad. The shepherd then +huddles himself in his cloak in the lee of the gorse-bush, the cloudy +rack drives over the backs of his sheep, line behind line the Downs +stretch, colorless, unbroken by any hint of tree or habitation; the wind +whistles among the thin grass stems with a peculiar shrill and mournful +pipe, and in its pauses the sullen and distant roar of the sea is heard. + +How can I describe, how shall I not recall, the thoughts which came to +me as I wandered, towards the close of my school time, over these same +hills—the brooding ill-defined, half-shapen thoughts? The Downs were my +escape; even in their most chill and lonely moods they were my escape +from a worse coldness and loneliness, which, except for a few boyfriends +at school, I somehow experienced during all that time. Nature was more +to me, I believe, than any human attachment, and the Downs were my +Nature. It was among them at a later time that I first began to write a +few verses. But at the time I mention, and till quite the end of my +school days, I never wrote anything at all. If the thought of writing +had occurred to me I should have deemed it, in my then state of mind, +monstrous presumption—but I doubt whether the thought ever did occur to +me. I did not even read poetry. Mozart and Beethoven were familiar to +me, but I must have been eighteen years old before I was roused to any +interest in Tennyson (the poet of the day) by a lecture at school on “In +Memoriam.” After that I read “In Memoriam” and loved it well. This was +followed (at Cambridge) by Wordsworth; and then by Shelley, who excited +in me the same passionate attachment that he has excited in so many +others. After that Whitman dominated me. I do not think any others of +the poets—unless Plato should bear that name—have deeply influenced me. + +As to friends—that absorbing subject—I can trace the desire for a +passionate attachment in my earliest boyhood. But the desire had no +expression, no chance of expression. Such things as affection were never +spoken about either at home or at school, and I naturally concluded that +there was no room for them in the scheme of creation! The glutinous +boyfriendships that one formed in class-room or playground were of the +usual type: they staved off a greater hunger, but they did not satisfy. +On the other hand I worshipped the very ground on which some, generally +elder, boys stood; they were heroes for whom I would have done anything. +I dreamed about them at night, absorbed them with my eyes in the day, +watched them at cricket, loved to press against them unnoticed in a +football melly, or even to get accidentally hurt by one of them at +hockey, was glad if they just spoke to me or smiled; but never got a +word farther with it all. What could I say? Even to one of the masters, +I remember, who was a little kind to me, I felt this unworded devotion; +but he never helped me over the stile, and so I remained on the farther +side. + +I often think what a fund of romance, and of intense feeling, there is +in this direction latent in so many boys and capable even of heroic +expression—and how much will have to be done some day in the matter of +directing and giving a constructive outlet to it. Already however there +is a great difference in the tone of the public schools themselves on +this subject, from what there was twenty-five or thirty years ago. The +trouble in schools from bad sexual habits and frivolities arises +greatly—though of course not altogether—from the suppression and +misdirection of the natural emotions of boy-attachment. I, as a day boy, +and one who happened to be rather pure-minded than otherwise, grew up +quite free from these evils: though possibly it would have been a good +thing if I had had a little more experience of them than I had. As it +was, no elder person _ever_ spoke to me about sexual matters—no mother, +father, brother, monitor or master ever said a word. I picked up the +usual information from the talk of my companions, and made up my own +mind unbiased by any person or book. I suppose it was in consequence of +this that I never saw anything repellent or shameful in sexual acts +themselves. From the earliest time when I thought about these things +they seemed to me natural—like digestion or any other function—and I +remember wondering why people made such a fuss about the mention of +them—why they told lies rather than speak the truth, why they were +shocked, or why they giggled and stuffed handkerchiefs in their mouths. +It was not till (at the age of twenty-five) I read Whitman—and then with +a great leap of joy—that I met with the treatment of sex which accorded +with my own sentiments. + +Nevertheless though these desires were never to me unclean, yet during +all that time of later boyhood and early university life they were +strangely discounted by that other desire of the heart. I could not +think much of sex while the hunger of the heart was unsatisfied—and +_that_ for the time being occupied all the foreground of my life. Indeed +at times it threatened to paralyse my mental and physical faculties. It +was like an open wound continually bleeding. I felt starved and unfed, +and unable to rest in the chilling contacts of ordinary life. As to the +usual attractions set before the eyes of middle-class youth, the +hopeless, helpless young ladyisms, or the bolder beauties of the gutter, +they were both a detestable boredom to me. + +For indeed the life, and with it the character, of the ordinary “young +lady” of that period, and of the sixties generally, was tragic in its +emptiness. The little household duties for women, encouraged in an +earlier and simpler age, had now gone out of date, while the modern idea +of work in the great world was not so much as thought of. In a place +like Brighton there were hundreds, perhaps, of households, in which +girls were growing up with but one idea in life, that of taking their +“proper place in society.” A few meagre accomplishments—plentiful balls +and dinner-parties, theatres and concerts—and to loaf up and down the +parade, criticizing each other, were the means to bring about this +desirable result! There was absolutely nothing else to do or live for. +It is curious—but it shows the state of public opinion of that time—to +think that my father, who was certainly quite advanced in his ideas, +never for a moment contemplated that any of his daughters should learn +professional work with a view to their living—and that in consequence he +more than once drove himself quite ill with worry. Occasionally it +happened that, after a restless night of anxiety over some failure among +his investments, and of dread lest he should not be able at his death to +leave the girls a competent income, he would come down to breakfast +looking a picture of misery. After a time he would break out. “Ruin +impended over the family,” securities were falling, dividends +disappearing; there was only one conclusion—“the girls would have to go +out as governesses.” Then silence and gloom would descend on the +household. It was true; that was the only resource. There was only one +profession possible for a middle-class woman—to be a governess—and to +adopt that was to become a _pariah_. But in a little time affairs would +brighten up again. Stocks went up, the domestic panic subsided; and +dinner-parties and balls were resumed as usual. + +As time went by, and I gradually got to know what life really meant, and +to realize the situation, it used to make me intensely miserable to +return home and see what was going on there. My parents of course were +fully occupied, but for the rest there were six or seven servants in the +house, and my six sisters had absolutely nothing to do except dabble in +paints and music as aforesaid, and wander aimlessly from room to room to +see if by any chance “anything was going on.” Dusting, cooking, sewing, +darning—all light household duties were already forestalled; there was +no private garden, and if there had been it would have been “unladylike” +to do anything in it; _every_ girl could not find an absorbing interest +in sol-fa or water-colours; athletics were not invented; every +aspiration and outlet, except in the direction of dress and dancing, was +blocked; and marriage, with the growing scarcity of men, was becoming +every day less likely, or easy to compass. More than once girls of whom +I least expected it told me that their lives were miserable “with +nothing on earth to do.” Multiply this picture by thousands and hundreds +of thousands all over the country, and it is easy to see how, when the +causes of the misery were understood, it led to the powerful growth of +the modern “Women’s Movement.” + +During my school-days, however, this tragedy had, so far as our +household was concerned, hardly developed itself, or at any rate become +at all serious; and a charming recollection of that period is that of my +companionship with two of my elder sisters. With one of these—my sister +Ellen, afterwards Mrs. Hyett—I used to go long country walks. She had an +eye for landscape and animal painting, and sometimes brought her +sketch-book with her. Occasionally on hired hacks we rode together over +the Downs. Her mind had an adventurous outdoor quality about it; and our +conversation turned mainly on what we saw on our explorations, and on +speculations about foreign lands. The other sister (Lizzie, afterwards +Lady Daubeney) was never much of a walker; but she stayed at home and +played Beethoven’s Sonatas, and these were a continual delight to me. I +stood quietly by and turned over the pages by the hour. The “Sonata +Appassionata” was a dream of wonder. This sister had a highly poetic, +sensitive temperament. When the younger ones of the family were children +she told us absorbing fairy-tales. At the time I speak of she was the +one in the household who gave to the atmosphere a touch of sympathy, +tenderness and romance; which was of priceless value. As my mind +expanded we even talked a little poetic philosophy together, and +discussed Tennyson and Shakespeare. + +My younger brother, Alfred, who was my schoolfellow at the Lycée at +Versailles, went to the Brighton College with me (I joining for the +second time) when the family returned to Brighton in 1858. But at an +early age (fourteen) he joined the Navy, and after a preliminary year on +board the _Britannia_ training-ship, went away to sea. Consequently he +was not so much at home during those early years. The sea-life suited +him, I think. With a rather dare-devil temperament as a boy he was +always getting into scrapes at school. [Once, I remember, he had the +brilliant idea of lighting a fire in his locker in the schoolroom, and +then sitting, all innocence, on the seat—until the crackling of sticks +and the curling smoke drew all eyes that way, and he was discovered like +the phœnix in apparent peril of being consumed!] In the Navy, at an +early period, he distinguished himself by saving life under risky +circumstances. In one case a man had fallen overboard at night in the +Tagus from another ship, and in the darkness was being swept by the +current seawards past the _Warrior_, on which ship my brother was—when +the latter, who was on deck at the time, jumped in to the rescue, at the +same time calling to some of the bluejackets to man a boat and follow. +Of course he and the drowning man were immediately lost to sight in the +gloom, and when the boat did get under weigh it was only by his distant +shouts that its crew could be guided. The two men had drifted half a +mile or more before they were picked up; but it was not too late, and +their rescue was safely effected. In another case off the Falkland Isles +he swam to the rescue of an ordinary seaman under even more perilous +conditions, and for this act gained the Albert medal—which may be called +the V.C. of life-saving medals. + +At a later period [1875–76] my brother Alfred was lieutenant on board +H.M.S. _Challenger_, and it was under his management that the deepest +sounding effected up to that period was taken. He obtained 4,475 +fathoms, or nearly 27,000 feet in the vicinity of the Ladrone Islands. +After the _Challenger_ he had several commands in China and elsewhere, +including charge of the Marine Survey of India; and as commander of the +_Investigator_ he spent several years surveying and making charts of the +coasts of India and the Andaman Islands. In 1885, in connection with the +Burmese expedition against King Thebaw, the important duty was assigned +to him of leading the War Flotilla up the river Irrawaddy. As an officer +he was well liked, being considerate of the men under him, but firm in +their management, and in moments of danger plucky and reliable.[2] + +In later years he published not a few papers on nautical and +astronomical matters, and in 1915 a more popular illustrated handbook +for travellers, entitled _Nature Notes for Ocean Voyagers_ (Griffin, +5s.). + + +Such, roughly summed together, are the main outlines of my early +days—full after all of tenderest recollections. A large family is a +roughish training school, but it is a valuable one. Over-sensitive and +of a clinging disposition by nature, I early learned the profound +lessons of suffering and of self-dependence. My spirit concentrated +itself, and partially overcame its inherent vagueness and weakness in +years of silence. The tension of those early days, the unexpressed +hatred which I felt, though I did not understand it, for the social +conditions in which I was born, was destined, when its meaning gradually +realized itself in my consciousness, to become one of the great +directing forces of my after life. + + + + + II + MY PARENTS + + +My father (born in 1797) had a curious early life. He came of a family +which had lived in Cornwall (Launceston) for some generations. He was +the eldest son—though he had three sisters—of an Admiral in the Navy, +and appears to have taken to his father’s profession, when a boy, as a +matter of course. He was not, however, at all suited to it, for he was +of a rather studious temperament, and the rough life of the Navy of +those days was probably very distasteful to him. He was in one or two +skirmishes with the French off the American coast, and I remember his +telling me of the painful feeling which he experienced once when being +in a small boat and coming across some French sailors in another small +boat he had to take aim and fire at them. To his relief, however, no one +was hurt! + +[Illustration: + + MY FATHER: CHARLES CARPENTER. +] + +When he was twenty-three or twenty-four my father began to learn German +and read philosophy in his spare hours, which did not look as though he +were destined to remain long on board ship! As a matter of fact he left +the Navy when he was about twenty-five. The bad climate of Trincomalee, +where he was stationed for two years, damaged his health. He came to +London and set about reading for the Chancery Bar. In due course he was +called and for some years practised with success—so much so indeed that +on his retirement he was greatly complimented by the presiding judge. In +1833 he married; and this it was which, curiously enough, led to his +retirement from the Bar. For his father-in-law—Thomas Wilson—who had +also been in the Navy, and who was then a widower, only consented to the +marriage on condition that his daughter should remain at home, and that +the married couple should therefore take up their abode at his house at +Walthamstow. This they did, and the distance from London, a considerable +matter in those days, combined perhaps with a little anxiety about my +father’s health, which still remained unsatisfactory, brought about the +abandonment of his profession—a great mistake as it appeared, for of +course as soon as he lost his regular occupation he began to worry +badly. Then, when Mr. Wilson died, in 1843, a move to Brighton (which +just then was growing into importance, and yet retained some of its +old-world character) was thought advisable, both for my father’s sake +and for that of the little family which now had to be considered. But as +far as my father was concerned this did not mend matters, and my mother +has often told me that this was the worst period of their married life. + +He got more and more anxious and restless—to a degree which seemed +almost a danger to his mind—till at last my mother induced him to let +himself be appointed magistrate and take his seat on the Brighton bench; +after which his serenity returned, and he remained one of the most +active and probably the most public spirited of the members of the +Brighton and afterwards of the Hove magistracy till a year or two before +his death. The death of his own father in 1846 freed him from any real +cause for pecuniary anxiety—though from time to time all through his +later life he was liable to fits of considerable depression and +nervousness about his monetary concerns. He settled down permanently at +Brighton (No. 45 Brunswick Square) into the life of the respectable +_rentier_, with its usual aims and ideals as far as his family was +concerned, though for himself his aims were very different from those of +the society round him, and his conception of life was as broad as it +could well be upon the foundation of that particular social status to +which he belonged. + +His early life in the Navy had given my father that honest, somewhat +simple, cast of mind which belongs to sea-faring folk. He was always +ready to be impressed by a tale of distress—especially if it came from +the lips of one of the fair sex. At the same time his active brain had +carried him far in most fields of thought. Though having a strong +religious feeling, he soon emancipated himself from current orthodoxies +in religion, and seldom in later life went to church—a fact which to the +mild respectabilities around us was a sufficient justification for +calling him an Atheist. For Frederick W. Robertson, who was then +preaching at Brighton, and who not unfrequently came to our house, and +for Frederick D. Maurice, however, he had a great admiration; and his +own views were—as far as I remember what he said when I was a boy—a kind +of Broad Church mysticism, derived at first from reading S. T. Coleridge +(whom he had met occasionally in former years in London), and gradually +broadening out under the influence of Eckhardt, Tauler, Kant, Fichte, +Hegel and others into a religious and philosophic mysticism without much +admixture of the Broad Church at all. + +In politics he was a strong Liberal—indeed in his most active period a +philosophic Radical of the Mill school, and gave strong support to Henry +Fawcett during the time when the latter represented Brighton. Though +occasionally asked to stand himself he never as far as I know felt +inclined to do so, and indeed a certain lack of glibness and difficulty +of expression which he experienced always made him disinclined from +taking part in any kind of public speechifying. In his quite latest +years he veered round to the support of Beaconsfield’s Government; but +this, if partly due to the reactionary tendency of old age, was also +caused by his keen perception of the hypocrisy (unconscious or +otherwise) of Gladstone, whom in the last few years of his life he never +ceased to vilify. + +Almost all general literature interested my father—especially works on +natural history, travels, and science of any kind; but art and music +were never much in his line. Any tale of heroism, or prodigy of science +would bring ready tears to his eyes; and his love of reading—as in the +case of his own father—lasted to the latest years of his life; for when +he was over eighty years of age he would not unfrequently sit up till +one or two in the morning, conning the last new book or running over +favorite passages of his philosophical authors. + +In a letter of his (written in ’73) I find the following passage: +“Circumstances have been leading me to think a good deal lately about +Instinct. I do not see how any distinction can be drawn between what we +call Instinct in the lower animals—such as the insect when she deposits +eggs and then brings to the place of deposit the food needful for the +support of her offspring grub, and covering them up (eggs and food) +together, flies away to perish—and that power in Plants that causes them +to send forth their roots often to a great distance and in a special +direction, in search of the material needful for their nutriment, the +mineral perhaps without which they could not live. This can only be +understood, as it seems to me, upon the assumption of there being a +Life, an intelligent Life, in the Plant or Insect, of which they are +unconscious. Think of the Swallow going to Egypt perhaps, and then at +proper season returning to its old nest under the eaves of some cottage +in England. The possession of sense-organs, therefore, does not expel +from the Bird or Fish this Intelligent Life within them, which orders +their migrations, etc., but of which they are unconscious. And why +should it be otherwise with man? That he should be conscious of this +life will one day be his highest blessing.” + +And in another letter (of 1876): “Surely the true meaning of Nirvana is +that at some future stage of our being man will be so conscious of the +indwelling and inworking of Deity, that he will ascribe every movement, +whether of his body or mind, to the One Will, the One _Vernunft_, the +One Life, and thus think of himself as swallowed up by and absorbed, as +it were, in that Being.” + +These extracts will show what a priceless debt I owe to the early +contact with his mind. + + +How strange and far-back all that early life seems now—and yet so +vivid—I can see it all in brightest detail! Of an evening, after dinner +or supper, how we sat round the drawing-room table, or in scattered +chairs, reading. My father would get out his Fichte or his Hartmann and +soon become lost in their perusal. Occasionally he would, when he came +to a striking passage, play a sort of devil’s tattoo with his fingers on +the table, or, getting up, would walk to and fro quarter-deck fashion, +with creaky boots, and reciting his authors to himself. Then my mother +or perhaps my eldest sister would remonstrate, and after a time he would +settle down again. Sometimes if he was very quiet one might look up from +one’s book and see from his upturned eyes and half-open lips that he had +lapsed into inner communion and meditation. + +His was a very religious nature, and it was his habit to think of the +divinity as clearly present—as he would say: “When I am taking my bath +or even when I am breathing I say to myself, ‘This is God working within +and around me.’” In later years, however, his liability to extreme worry +and anxiety would return; and there were times when even his books +failed to save him from the sleepless nights and despondent days +occasioned by the failure or possible failure of some Stock Exchange +speculation. At such times reports of railway companies, maps, +gazetteers, newspaper cuttings, etc., were got out and studied and +restudied; I was called in to take part in the investigations (“put in +the stocks” as I used to call it), and had to sit up till the small +hours of the morning in attitudes of painful suspense and tension. The +troubles, however, would pass away in due time, and on the whole my +father was (owing chiefly to the care and thought he gave to them) very +successful over his “investments.” + +The rest of the family spent the evening, as a rule, in reading—of which +we were all fond. My sisters would play or sing a little; and when they +ceased, the sound of the near sea would reassert itself, or the roaring +of the wind in the chimney. My mother sat on a low chair, with a book on +her knee and some knitting in her hands, but occasionally, tired with +the work of the day, would drop asleep; at ten o’clock the servant +brought up wine and biscuits, and shortly afterwards we would all—except +my father—retire. + +Of my mother’s life how can I say anything? That which is so vital to +one, so intimate, how can one disengage it from oneself? There was an +unspoken tragedy in those beautiful gazelle-like eyes—the tragedy as of +dumbness itself. The tender loving spirit which beamed forth from them +never found direct utterance in this world. It was the look of a +prisoner. Her mother was a Scotchwoman. A baneful parental +influence—Scottish pride and puritanism—had rested on my mother’s young +life, making all expression of tender feeling little short of a sin; and +this reserve, inculcated in youth, became in later days involuntary and +inevitable. My mother had a sister to whom she was much attached, but +who had offended my grandmother by marrying a man who was considered +undesirable. The sister was never forgiven, nor even acknowledged again. +She died soon after her marriage; and her death, with all the +accompanying circumstances, was a great blow to my mother; but of it—as +of other things which touched her nearly—she would never speak. + +Her nature was not so much intellectual or imaginative as practical and +prompt to act, with a kingly sense of duty and courage. Her life was one +long self-sacrifice—first to her parents, then to her husband and +children. All day and much of the night, without haste and without rest, +she went about the house attending to our young wants, to my father’s +comfort, and to the organization of a large household—wearing herself +daily to a thinner and slighter frame, which even in age seemed by this +means to maintain its activity—till at last when her children were grown +up, and her husband’s growing infirmities demanded the services of a +trained nurse, there came upon her the grievous sense—not the less +grievous because wholly unwarranted—that she was “no longer of any use +in the world.” Twice, I remember, she repeated these fatal words; and +then, not long after, a brief attack of bronchitis parted easily the +thread of life, already worn so fine. The manner of her death was as +heroic as that of her life, with thought in lucid intervals for all +around her, servants, and everybody in the house; and with closing +smile, and words of calm, “All is as it should be.” + +When my mother died (in January 1881) my father—who had been for the +most part absorbed in business or philosophic speculations, and who had +given indeed too little time to personal matters—suddenly became aware +of the greatness of the loss he had sustained. He woke up from dreamland +when it was too late. My mother’s silent and untiring forethought had +unconsciously to himself been the great support and directing power of +his life; and now he ceased not to say, “The mainspring is broken, the +mainspring is broken.” His infirmities, which at eighty-three years of +age were the natural ills of senile decay, rapidly gained upon him, and +a year afterwards, in April 1882, he died and was laid in the same grave +with her—in Hove cemetery, between the sea and the Downs, close to the +little church to which, years before, we as children had trudged with +these our parents every Sunday by the fields and footpaths which then +separated the village of Hove from the growing West of Brighton. + +My mother had very gracious manners, of gently-smiling dignity, yet her +inflexible sense of truth and justice—inflexible especially as regards +her own life and conduct—was easily apparent beneath the gentle +exterior. Her ideas of social demarcation, etc., were of course of the +old school; and she looked upon it quite as a duty to keep up a certain +position in society—as the phrase is. Indeed, though much of the social +life of Brighton was in reality irksome to her, I think that she never +questioned the duty of conforming to it. But then—unlike many modern +mistresses—she never questioned the duty of attending to the wants of +dependents; and her care for the interests of the household servants, +and others whom misfortune might bring to her door, was most unfailing +and most sincere. The servants in fact were as a rule much devoted to +her—though she was by no means lax in matters of discipline and daily +superintendence. + +A great feature of my mother’s character was her love of animals, +especially dogs and horses. Outdoor and garden occupations she was also +fond of—and I believe her natural inclination would have led her to a +rural life. But Brighton offered nothing in this direction—and here +again the promptings of her nature were destined only to be thwarted. + +[Illustration: + + MY MOTHER: SOPHIA WILSON CARPENTER (ABOUT 1864). +] + + + + + III + CAMBRIDGE + + +Between school and College days I went to Germany for some months. I was +already nineteen when I left school, full old enough to go to College, +but it did not seem to be decided what was to become of me. I inclined +to go into Orders. Possibly my father, dreading this, thought Heidelberg +would be an antidote! At any rate I could learn German there. So off I +went, lodged with a professor and his Frau for five months, wandered +through the woods and over the hills of Heidelberg, heard Bunsen and +Kirchhoff lecture on Physics and Chemistry, attended the English church +on Sundays, and ate sausages with the Professor and his friends on +weekdays. An odd secluded life, seeing but little of the Germans and +less of the English, what I chiefly remember of it is those long moony +rambles through the woods—not very clearly thinking about anything that +I can make out, but wondering, and just waiting—and every now and then +chancing in some secluded glade or gorgeous sunset scene upon something +that caught my breath and held me still. Indeed on one occasion I +perpetrated some rhymes in German about the Neckar—the first verses that +I ever wrote. The Professor and his wife chaffed me about my odd ways. I +even wore a tall hat to the English church on Sundays! He argued with me +about the Bible and about the idiotic habits of my countrymen and women. +I resisted his arguments, but secretly they touched me. Ultimately I +gave up attending the church, and became so disgusted with my tall hat +that when I returned to England I placed it in my carpet-bag! So I +learned something besides German at Heidelberg. + +Then came Cambridge. When my father after some hesitation consented to +let me go to Cambridge, and asked me which College I would prefer, I +said “Trinity Hall,” and for my reason that it was a _gentlemanly_ +college. My father laughed, as he certainly was justified in doing—and I +can only wonder now what sort of animal I was then. At any rate the +answer shows that notwithstanding all my sufferings at Brighton I had +not yet realized what was the true cause of them. There were however +other reasons for my choice. One was that Romer, the last Senior +Wrangler, was a “Hall” man; the other was that the same College was now +Head of the River. Both events had brought Trinity Hall into notice. + +So thither I went, and found myself immediately in the thick of a +boating set. The whole College was given up to boating. Not to row or +help in the rowing in some way or other was rank apostasy. A few might +read besides, and a few—a dozen or two at most—did so. I boated and +talked boating slang; was made stroke of the second boat, and it went +down several places; became Secretary of the Boat Club; and for two +years wore out the seat of my breeches and the cuticle beneath with +incessant aquatic service. At the end of that time I got sadly bored +with the business, and gave it up. Indeed I was obliged to give it up; +for reading pretty hard for my degree, as I was later on, the two +strains together were too much, and my health was breaking down. But so +far perhaps boating had not been a bad thing. It was healthy exercise, +and brought me in with healthy muscular companions who bothered their +heads about no abstruse problems, and for the most part rarely read a +book. Fives and rackets too occupied some of my time; but in athletic +sports I was not so successful as I had been at school. At Brighton I +had been a good high-jumper, having cleared 5 ft. 3 or 4, a good height +in those days—but at Cambridge, probably owing to the relaxing quality +of the air, I failed to make any mark. Thus, with games and wine parties +and boat suppers, life slid easily onward. + +Certainly nothing could be more unlike what I had expected. I had +imagined a university where folk would talk Latin naturally and where I, +lamely taught at school and late coming from loafing in Germany, would +be an outcast and an object of contumely. I found myself at the end of +the first term easily head of my year in the College examinations. +Myself and another. He, Yate, was the son of a country doctor—keen on +boating, but a fellow of some originality and thought as well and of +singular gentleness and candour. A friendship sprang up between us; and +for the next year or two we were always together. In examination honours +(such as they were) we were quits, and it was sincerely I believe a +matter of indifference to both of us which might win the prize. Then he +fell ill of rheumatic fever, and ultimately died without taking his +degree—my first experience of loss of this kind. + +Other friends of this period were Ernest Gray—a very dear and +affectionate creature who afterwards became the Vicar and very fatherly +pastor of a country parish; Harry Spedding, son of Anthony Spedding of +Bassenthwaite, and nephew of James Spedding of Baconian fame; and +Francis Hyett of Painswick, who afterwards became my brother-in-law. +Harry Spedding was one of those extraordinary beings who though quite +unable to row himself cherished an immense enthusiasm for boating. Long +and thin and weak-chested, hard work in the boats would probably have +been fatal to him, but on the banks, running beside the boats and +cheering the crews in the races, his pluck and lively humour never +failed. Hyett did not take to the river, but kept to racquets and his +law-studies, and was really one of the few undergraduates who took any +interest in political affairs. In later years he has done much +administrative and literary work in connection with his own county. + +In coming up to Cambridge it had never occurred to me at the outset to +go in for an honour degree; my opinion of the university was too high +for that. But after a term or two the tutor to my surprise seriously +recommended me to read for the mathematical tripos. I was of course +frightfully behindhand in my subjects, but I took a private ‘coach,’ +went through the routine of cram, and ultimately obtained a fellowship. + +Mathematics interested me and I read them with a good deal of +pleasure—but I have sometimes regretted that three years of my life +should have been—as far as study was concerned—nearly entirely absorbed +by so special and on the whole so unfruitful a subject. I think every +boy (and girl) ought to learn some Geometry and Mechanics; without these +the mind lacks form and definiteness, and its grip on the external world +is not as strong as it should be; but the higher mathematics (certainly +as they are read at Cambridge) are for the most part a mere gymnastic +exercise unapplied to actual life and facts, and easily liable to become +unhealthy, as all such exercises are. + +After my degree, though retaining a certain general interest in the +subject, I never again opened a mathematical book with the intention of +seriously pursuing its study. I worked however at one time on “Taylor’s +theorem” in the Differential Calculus, with the object of finding a +simpler and more direct proof than Homersham Cox’s (the one usually +adopted). But not being able to complete the proof, I handed it over to +my friend Robert Muirhead, who has adopted and worked it to its +conclusion in a contribution to the Proceedings of the Edinburgh +Mathematical Society (Vol. 12, Session 1893–4). + +It was just about this time of my degree (and curiously late) that my +attention began to be turned towards literary production. I had won as +an undergraduate—and to my surprise—two College prizes for English +Essays (one, by the way, on Civilization); and shortly after my degree, +in 1870, I was awarded a university prize (the Burney), £100, for an +essay on “The Religious Influence of Art.” Meanwhile I kept scribbling, +just for my own satisfaction, quantities of verse, very formless and +incoherent—but which formed an outlet for my own feelings in the absence +of any more tangible way of expressing them. + +How well I remember going down, as I so frequently did, alone to the +riverside at night, amid the hushed reserve and quiet grace of the old +College gardens, and pouring my little soul out to the silent trees and +clouds and waters! I don’t know what kind of longing it was—something +partly sexual, partly religious, and both, owing to my strangely +slow-growing temperament, still very obscure and undefined; but anyhow +it was something that brooded about and enveloped my life, and makes +those hours still stand out for me as the most pregnant of my then +existence. + +Here are some verses (written in ’68) which I give as a specimen of the +kind of thought and the half-formed emotional atmosphere in which I +brooded, as well as of their juvenile style. + + O pale and wan with watching, starless night! + Far, far beyond thy cloudy banks + Pass and repass in serried ranks + The flaming watchfires of the infinite— + Gliding and streaming through the realm of space + In breathless adoration round + The burning throne whose base profound + Knoweth no resting-place. + + To thy deep silence through the moving years + Cometh no cry of misery, + No sound of all the things that be, + Upborne from this dark field of feverish tears; + But all the myriad worlds thou dost enfold + Move on before their Monarch hushed, + And, looking forth, my soul is crushed + Beneath a weight untold. + + O great Humanity, that liest spread + Beneath the gaze of the sleepless night, + Who is there who will dare to fight + To raise the tresses of thy drooping head? + Who cares through the immensity of suns? + Which of the angels shall arise? + Oh! heavy and dark the burden lies + On all thy noblest ones. + + Far off the morning stars may shout and sing, + For there is Love and Joy and Peace, + And Life—true life that cannot cease— + But here the ghastly shuddering of Death’s wing. + And here faint whispers only come to die + Upon the threshold of our hearts, + Voices at which the sad soul starts + With a half-uttered sigh. + + O hanging cloud, O scarcely stirring trees, + O velvet waters moved to sound + By the gliding fishes’ bound, + O Willow, whispering to the fitful breeze, + O gentle touch of the sweet summer air, + O solitary owl, alone, + Nursing thy joy in low weird tone + Within thy leafy lair! + + O one and all, unveil! and let us see + The flaming soul of world-wide Love + Burning behind you, far above, + Beneath, deep-fountained life, strange mystery! + Unveil! O night that washest Earth’s dark shore, + O suns, through space that ever roll, + O Love, clasping us body and soul + For evermore! + +Curiously enough, as it happened, I was practically offered a Fellowship +before I took my degree. The College was in want of an assistant +Lecturer. There were three clerical Fellowships (the others being +connected with the Bar as a profession), and one of these clerical +Fellowships had lately become vacant by Leslie Stephen, who held it, +relinquishing his Orders. It was understood that I was going into the +Church; it seemed probable that I should take a fair degree; and for the +rest, who could be found so suitable—so mild, so docile, so decently +mannered and generally unaggressive—as the young man in question! +Accordingly one day the tutor (Henry Latham) sounded me on the subject. +I conveyed to him that I had not changed my intention of being ordained, +and that I rather liked the prospect of staying on at Cambridge in +connection with the College; and it became practically understood that +if things turned out favorably that should be my destiny. + +And things turned out accordingly. In the Mathematical Tripos of 1868 I +came out tenth wrangler, which was a sufficiently high degree to justify +a Fellowship at a small College; and in the autumn of that year I came +into residence at Trinity Hall as a Lecturer; shortly afterwards I was +elected to a clerical Fellowship; and in June ’69 I was ordained Deacon +by the Bishop of Ely. + +The story of my connection with the Church may be soon told. Brought up +in the philosophical Broad Churchism of my father, with an +ever-expanding horizon, my mind had at no time undergone any revulsion +of feeling such as could be called a religious crisis; no sense of +antagonism to the Church and its teachings had been developed. Though +quite aware that my opinions were vastly different from those of the +ordinary Churchman, I perhaps hardly appreciated _how_ far I had +drifted; and with an easy faith in progress, such as I had, it seemed to +me that anyhow in a few years the Church, widening and growing from +within, would become adapted to the times, and be a perfectly habitable +and a useful institution. + +As soon as I was ordained I had services in the College Chapel to read, +and sermons to preach—with the usual accompaniment of winks and grins +from the fellow-students, shufflings of hassocks, racings half-dressed +through the prayers on winter mornings, with clicks of watches timing +the performance, and all the gaping signs of unconcealed boredom; but I +thought I would like to see something more satisfactory and more +definite in the way of Church work than that, and accordingly took a +curacy at St. Edward’s under a dry evangelical of the steel-knife and +lemon-juice type, named Pearson. + +If I had nursed in my mind any sentiment of romance in connection with +ecclesiastical affairs, it was soon expelled by these experiences. A +peep behind the scenes was enough. The deadly Philistinism of a little +provincial congregation; the tradesmen and shopkeepers in their sleek +Sunday best; the petty vulgarities and hypocrisies; the discordant music +of the choir; the ignoble scenes in the vestry and the resumed saintly +expression on returning into the church; the hollow ring and the sour +edge of the incumbent’s voice; and the fatuous faces upturned to receive +the communion at the altar steps—all these were worse, considerably +worse, than the undisguised heathenism of the chapel performance. + +It was not long before I began to have serious misgivings about the step +I had taken. Still I did not torment myself; and when in the following +June (1870) the time arrived for my ordination as a priest, I prepared +myself quite philosophically to go through the ceremony. + +But here an interesting hitch occurred. In the Bishop’s examination +preparatory to the ordination, the candidates had among other things to +write a Life of Abraham; and such was my optimistic confidence in the +breadth of the episcopal mind that I quite candidly and without any +particular misgiving committed to paper the view which I had picked up, +I think from Bunsen the historian, and which is also adopted by Dean +Stanley in his _Jewish Church_—that Abraham’s intended immolation of +Isaac was a relic of Moloch-worship, and of the old practice of human +sacrifices, and that the “voice of God” which bade him substitute the +ram did indeed figure the evolution of the human conscience to a higher +ideal of worship than that in vogue among savage nations. This paper, +containing so dreadful a heresy, I sent up without a qualm! But on +arriving myself some days later at the Palace at Ely, the Bishop (Harold +Browne) soon after the first greetings called me into his study and +confronted me with the offending passage. At first I had some difficulty +in understanding what the trouble was, but when the Bishop in grave +tones began to remind me that the sacrifice of Isaac was a type—a type +and a prefigurement of that greater sacrifice of Jesus, and that the +whole Biblical scheme of salvation rested four-square upon this incident +(not forgetting the ram), I immediately saw that the fat was in the +fire, and that there was now no escaping a solemn discussion on the +Atonement. + +And to that it came. Our conversation, interrupted by dinner, was +resumed again late in the evening; and when all the other clerics and +candidates had gone to bed the reverend Father-in-God and I sat up till +past twelve discussing all the main and side issues of Theology! On the +latter he was easy enough. I told him plainly that I did not believe in +the historical accuracy of the Old Testament; and he admitted that there +were gaps! Even the Thirty-nine Articles were to be swallowed in the +lump, and not in detail, so to speak. But on the Atonement the +discussion narrowed. Here was a vital point. My views were woolly in +outline, sadly blurred by the Broad Church mysticism of F. D. Maurice, +and I confess I had some difficulty in formulating them. The Bishop +merely shook his head, asked me to “say that again,” and declared that +he could not understand. It ended by his requesting me to _write out_ my +doctrine; and going to bed himself he left me sitting up for a couple of +hours more for this purpose! In the morning I handed him, before +breakfast, my mystic script. After breakfast he once more called me into +his study, said he had read the paper, that it was thoughtful and all +that, but that he could not say that he really followed it, and that he +was sure it was _not_ the doctrine of the Church of England. + +We were then within a few minutes of the commencement of the service. I +took for granted that he would not ordain me; but after a pause he said +“I cannot refuse to ordain you; but I do not think your views are those +of the Church.” I think he hoped that _I_ should then retire of my own +accord. However I said nothing but took it all as settled in my favour, +and in less than an hour the apostolic hands were on my head. + +After luncheon the good old man, not without a certain anxiety and +_épanchement_, put his arm in mine and walked with me round the garden. +I remember there was a chaffinch hopping about, and a longish discourse +followed on creation and suffering and vicarious sacrifice, which I +listened to with due deference; but it did not seem to me to lead to any +conclusion; and soon the time came for us to leave the palace, and I saw +him no more. + +It may be imagined that I did not find my profession any more +satisfactory after being made priest than before. He of the sour +knife-edge, my superincumbent, left St. Edward’s, being translated into +a canon of Carlisle, and was succeeded, curiously enough, by Maurice +himself. That was I think early in 1871. + +Of this transaction, by which F. D. Maurice became incumbent of St. +Edward’s, it may be worth while to say a few words. Maurice had lately +come to Cambridge as Professor of Moral Philosophy. As far as his moral +worth was concerned, the choice was a good one. There was an ineffable +personal charm about him, of moral earnestness and deep feeling, +connecting itself somehow with his lofty venerable head and +extraordinary modesty. But of his philosophy perhaps the less said the +better. He saw facts which doubtless it is impossible adequately to +translate into language. Certainly it was impossible for him. To see him +struggling with the root-ideas which he was always trying, and vainly, +to express, to see him perspiring with effort, tapping his forehead with +his fingers, shutting his eyes, and still only framing broken sentences, +was really touching. The net result among the students was, as I have +hinted, one of personal devotion to him, but of utter bafflement as to +his teaching. It is said that one student hearing that the great man was +giving a course of lectures on the “I” (as he was), made his way down to +the _Physiological_ schools and after many inquiries finding that no +lectures were being given on the _Eye_, came back again with the +conclusion that the whole affair was a myth! + +Well, Maurice having expressed a wish to take some practical “duty” in +Cambridge, and the living of St. Edward’s falling vacant at that time, a +movement was got up in the College to offer the living to him. The +living was in the gift of the Fellows of Trinity Hall, and most of the +Fellows were favorable to the proposal. But an unexpected difficulty +arose in the person of the Master (Dr. Geldart). Not that the Master +himself (who was an old sporting man, more than anything else) cared a +button about the matter, but because his wife, Mrs. Geldart, was +accustomed to attend St. Edward’s and fuss round the parson there, and +_she_ strongly disapproved of any one so heretical as Maurice occupying +the pulpit! + +I was a Fellow of the College at the time, and the scenes round the +table as we discussed the knotty question were most amusing. The obvious +embarrassment of the old Master when the question arose as to _why_ he +thought Maurice so dangerous; his mysterious references to the opinions +of other people (his wife) and his candid disavowal of any knowledge on +these subjects himself; the guffaws of Henry Fawcett (then Professor of +Political Economy and afterwards Postmaster-General) as he called for +his chop and settled himself down to enjoy a scene to which his +blindness was little drawback; the quips of H. D. Warr, one of the +Fellows; the muttered blasphemies of our Dean (Hopkins), who couldn’t +think why we wasted time “over such blasted nonsense”; the ingenious +surmises of the barrister fellows generally as to what Maurice’s +opinions might conceivably be; and the politic expediencies of the Tutor +(Latham) who at last silenced the Master and his Missus by producing a +letter from the Bishop of Carlisle (Goodwin) endorsing Maurice with a +friendly pat on the back: all this was as good as a play. + +Maurice was installed in the living early in 1871, and thenceforth read +the services and prayed and preached, with that profundity of earnest +innocence which was so characteristic of him, and which contrasted +strangely with the manner of his election, and more strangely still with +the cheap commercialism of his congregation. + +Maurice had no great ear for music. The organist and choir of +flat-singing shop-girls revelled in florid hymns about the +“blood-of-the-Lamb.” Maurice besought me to alter this and induce them +to sing again those fine old hymns like the “Old Hundredth.” A nice task +for an amiable curate! + +It was curious that after having been brought up in and adopted +Maurice’s views, I should now, having become his curate, feel so +uncomfortable as I did. But so it was. I had had experience in the short +space of a year and a half, of three spiritual superiors—each in a sense +more favorable than the last; and yet my sense of aggravation +continually increased. I saw a good deal of Maurice. He was kindness +itself. I opened out my difficulties to him; and he was I think troubled +to find I could not reconcile myself to the position which _he_ occupied +apparently without difficulty. But to me his attitude was a growing +wonder. I could quite understand his historical-philosophical view of +the Creeds and the Old Testament, and that he could read into them a +deep and necessary meaning, satisfactory to his own mind; I had in fact +been already, long before, initiated into this Broad Church attitude by +my father. But when it came to standing up oneself in church and +reciting these documents to a congregation who (as one knew perfectly +well) did not understand a word of them, and practically received them +in their grossest sense and in a spirit of mere superstition, then I +felt it _was_ necessary to draw the line somewhere! It was not that I +then, or at any time, made a trouble of the conformity of my own _views_ +with those of the Church; for I thought and I think now, that if a man +feels he can do useful work, and congenial to himself, in that +connection, he had better remain where he is until he is kicked out; and +that seeing the variety of interpretations that Church doctrines are +capable of, it is rather for the Church to decide whether _his_ +interpretations are within its pale, or not, than for him to do so. But +the trouble to me was a practical one—namely the insuperable _feeling_ +of falsity and dislocation which I experienced, and which accompanied +all my professional work from the reading of the services to the +visiting of old women in their almshouses—who were, one could see, +goaded on to hypocrisy by the position in which they were placed—and who +would hastily shuffle a Bible or prayer-book on to the table, when they +saw the parson coming. This sense of falsity grew on me more and more +till I felt the situation to be intolerable. + +It is remarkable—certainly I have found it so in my own life—how little +its greater changes are one’s own choice, and in a sense, how much they +are forced upon one by necessity—sometimes by an outward necessity, +sometimes by an inner and necessary, though perhaps unconscious +evolution of one’s own nature. No doubt I _thought_ about this matter a +great deal, argued to myself the question of my conformity to the +Church, and the pros and cons of remaining in it—worried myself, passed +sleepless nights—and felt generally unhinged over it; but all this +conscious argument brought me no nearer to a decision. Deep below I felt +that some sort of sheer necessity was driving me on. Sometimes when I +was occupied with, and thinking about, quite other things, a kind of +shiver would run down my back: “You’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,” and +I felt as if I was being pushed to the edge of a steep place. + +For it was not altogether easy to face the situation. I was doing very +well, in a pecuniary sense, at Cambridge, making with my Fellowship and +small offices as lecturer, librarian, etc., £500 or £600 a year, and +prospects good for the future; the abandonment of my Orders would +probably mean the loss of my Fellowship, and possibly also that I should +have to leave Cambridge altogether. And it did not seem quite reasonable +to risk all this for what might after all be only a Quixotic fancy. + +But blessed is Necessity which cuts all arguments short! By the middle +of May 1871 I felt so ill and wretched that I _could_ not stay on even a +few weeks to the end of the term. I begged off my lectures, left Maurice +to find another curate, and ran away! + + +Meanwhile other threads and clues of life were developing. Up to my +degree (January ’68) I had lived singularly apart from any intellectual +or literary circles. As an undergraduate my companions had mostly been +boating men. After my degree however I came naturally into a more +literary society, consisting partly of the younger Fellows of Colleges +and partly of the more go-ahead students who had not yet taken their +degrees. One or two of the more thoughtful undergrads of my own College +also leaned towards me. I belonged to one or two little societies which +used to meet and discuss literary or other topics. To one of these, +which W. K. Clifford organized, I used, after I became a curate, to rush +round on Sunday evenings after church—in time to take part in the +reading of Mazzini’s _Duty of Man_; illustrated by a plentiful +accompaniment of claret-cup and smoke! Clifford was a kind of Socratic +presiding genius at these meetings—with his Satyr-like face, tender +heart, wonderfully suggestive, paradoxical manner of conversation, and +blasphemous treatment of the existing gods. He invented just at that +time a kind of inverted Doxology which ran:— + + O Father, Son and Holy Ghost— + We wonder which we hate the most. + Be Hell, which they prepared before, + Their dwelling now and evermore! + +and his influence, combined with that of Mazzini, was certainly part of +my education at that period. If it had by any chance come to the +Bishop’s ears that I attended these meetings there is little wonder +about his hesitation to ordain me! + +There was another Cambridge heretic with whom I not unfrequently +consorted—Lock of King’s—who certainly by his attainments and ability +ought to have been made a Fellow of his College, but his views and the +audacity with which he ventilated them proved a fatal obstacle. Having +to write a ’Varsity prize-poem he sat up all the preceding night to do +it, worked himself up into a kind of prophetic frenzy and managed under +cover of a forecast of republican utopianism to introduce the lines:— + + Since they traded in holy things, and treated the people like beasts, + The priests shall be slain and the kings shall be drowned in the blood + of the priests. + +I don’t feel so certain of the exact words of the first line as I do of +the second, but I hope the author of both (who was then, of course, an +undergraduate) will forgive my quotation of them. It is hardly to be +wondered at that in those days he was _not_ made a Fellow! + +One of the undergraduates of my own College with whom I made quite a +friendship at this time was Edward Anthony Beck. He came up to +Cambridge, a poor student from the country district of Castle Rising in +Norfolk, on the shores of the Wash—he also with his head full of rhymes +and verses, which he had written since he was a boy of eight or ten, to +the wonderment and delight of his widower father, who prophesied in no +uncertain tone, a nook in Westminster Abbey for his poet son. Beck was a +bright, capable fellow, with a slight stoop, and a stammer, and a +good-humoured way of laughing at his own oddities. He took the +University by surprise by carrying off, in his first year, the prize +poem on Dante—having been fain, it is said, to work up the subject by +reading Cary’s translation (which he could not afford to buy) on the +bookstalls. Then he wrote another prize poem on Runnymede, which +delighted him chiefly I think on account of a misprint which occurred in +the printed copy. There was an eloquent passage in the poem, describing +the sunrise of freedom in England, and something about the clouds +heralding the approach of morning:— + + Streaks rosy-tinted vanward of the sun— + +which the printer, in a materialistic mood, altered into:— + + _Steaks_ rosy-tinted vanward of the sun. + +These rosy-tinted steaks gave Beck, I believe, as much pleasure as he +got from all the _kudos_ of his poetic success. He worked away at +Classics, took a good first-class, and ultimately became a fellow and +tutor of the College. But his vein of poetic feeling and romance, +possibly too soon ripe, ran itself out, and he never carried on this +line of production or published anything. His mind, perhaps from the +same cause, took on a slightly cynical cast; he lapsed into the ordinary +channels of lecturing and coaching, then married and had a large family, +and so gave himself up to the work-a-day routine of College life. + +At the time I mention he and I chummed together a good deal—indeed there +was a touch of romance in our attachment—we compared literary notes, +went abroad together once or twice, and after he was made a Fellow, had +rooms adjoining each other, and spent many and many an evening in +common. He became a favorite in the general society of the younger dons +and B.A.’s, on account of his brightness, naturalness and frankly avowed +enjoyment of the good things of life. + +As for myself, for a couple of years or so after my degree I entered +with great zest into this academically intellectual existence—these +chit-chat societies, these little supper parties, these lingerings over +the wine in combination-room after dinner—where every subject in Heaven +and Earth was discussed, with the university man’s perfect freedom of +thought and utterance, but also with his perfect absence of practical +knowledge or of intention to apply his theories to any practical issue. +It was helpful no doubt especially as a solvent of old ideas and +prejudices; but after a time it began to pall upon me and bore me. There +was a vein of what might be called painful earnestness in my character. +These talking machines were, many of them, very obnoxious to me. And +then of what avail was the brain, when the heart demanded so much, and +demanding was still unsatisfied? + +Looking back, I think with regard to this last-mentioned matter, that +the fault was probably a good deal on my own side. Strong as had been +two or three attachments of this and my earlier undergraduate period, +and deeply as they had moved me (to a degree indeed which I should be +almost ashamed to confess); yet for the most part, owing to my reserved +habits, and the self-repressive education I had received—combined with +the fatuities of public opinion—I consumed my own smoke, and did not +give myself the utterance I ought to have given. By concealing myself I +was unfair to my friends, and at the same time suffered torments which I +need not have suffered. + +As I have already said, during the time shortly after my degree I +scribbled a great deal in verse form merely as an outlet to my own +feelings, and without much attention to conventionalities of style and +rhythms—though of course along the ordinary lines of versification. But +now came my introduction to the poet who was destined so deeply to +influence my life. It was in the summer of ’68, I believe (though it may +have been ’69), that one day H. D. Warr—one of the Fellows of Trinity +Hall, and a very brilliant and amusing man—came into my room with a +blue-covered book in his hands (William Rossetti’s edition of Whitman’s +poems) only lately published, and said:— + +“Carpenter, what do you think of this?” + +I took it from him, looked at it, was puzzled, and asked him what he +thought of it. + +“Well,” he said, “I thought a good deal of it at first, but I don’t +think I can stand any more of it.” + +With those words he left me; and I remember lying down then and there on +the floor and for half an hour poring, pausing, wondering. I could not +make the book out, but I knew at the end of that time that I intended to +go on reading it. In a short time I bought a copy for myself, then I got +_Democratic Vistas_, and later on (after three or four years) _Leaves of +Grass_ complete. + +From that time forward a profound change set in within me. I remember +the long and beautiful summer nights, sometimes in the College garden by +the riverside, sometimes sitting at my own window which itself +overlooked a little old-fashioned garden enclosed by grey and crumbling +walls; sometimes watching the silent and untroubled dawn; and feeling +all the time that my life deep down was flowing out and away from the +surroundings and traditions amid which I lived—a current of sympathy +carrying it westward, across the Atlantic. I wrote to Whitman, obtained +his books from him, and occasional postcardial responses. But outwardly, +and on the surface, my life went on as usual. + +What made me cling to the little blue book from the beginning was +largely the poems which celebrate comradeship. That thought, so near and +personal to me, I had never before seen or heard fairly expressed; even +in Plato and the Greek authors there had been something wanting (so I +thought). If there had only been those few poems they would have been +sufficient to hold me; but there were other pieces: there was “Crossing +Brooklyn Ferry,” “Out of the Rocked Cradle,” “President Lincoln’s +Funeral Hymn,” and the prose Preface[3]—and then afterwards _Democratic +Vistas_. + +On the whole at that time I thought most, I believe, of the prose +writings. _Democratic Vistas_ was a mine of new thought. Both this and +the little blue book I read over and over again, and still they were +new. I had read a great deal of Wordsworth about the time of my degree; +then Shelley captivated and held me for a long time; portions of Plato +and of Shakespeare I had read repeatedly; but never had I found anything +approaching these writings of Whitman’s for their inexhaustible quality +and power of making one return to them. + +Yet all this time, or for three or four years, I believe my interest in +them was mainly intellectual—that is, they were producing an +intellectual ferment in me, but I had not distinctly come into touch +with the dominant individuality behind them, nor felt that they were +reshaping my moral and artistic ideals. This is partly shown by the fact +that I continued all these years, and up to ’74 or so, writing verse +along the usual lines and upon the usual subjects. Wordsworth’s “Tintern +Abbey” and Shelley’s “Adonais” and “Prometheus” still ruled my artistic +and emotional conceptions; and withal, living as I was in an atmosphere +of literary criticism and finesse, mere academic technique seemed to me +a great matter, and I made great struggles to attain to it. + +Though I was not particularly successful in these efforts towards the +conventional in literature, yet I have no doubt they were very helpful +in giving me some sort of training in the power of handling words and +rhythmical forms—and it was a true instinct which led me through this +instead of urging me to leap at once into the ocean of metrical freedom, +so difficult to navigate with success. Anyhow so it was that while (in +other things as well as in literature) my inner scarcely conscious +nature was setting outwards in a swift current from the shores of +conventionality, under the influence of its new genius, into deeps it +little divined, my external self was still busy in a kind of backwater, +and working hard if by any means it might attain to a creditable or even +a possible existence in these channels! + +But by ’71 and ’72 I began to feel that continued existence in my +surroundings was becoming impossible to me. The tension and dislocation +of my life was increasing, and I became aware that a crisis was +approaching. In May of the former year I had taken a holiday and got +away from Cambridge. In October I returned to my lecturing and College +work, but not to the church duties; and all ’72 I continued on, going +through the daily round—but in a torpid, perfunctory manner—feeling +probably that I ought to throw it all up, yet without the pluck to do so +till I was fairly forced. By the end of ’72 I was obviously ill and +incapacitated, and when I asked for leave of absence for a couple of +terms it was readily granted—my own object in asking (so I put it to +myself) being to get quite away and for long enough to be able to +estimate my position and future action fairly and deliberately. + +The year ’73 was an important one for me. Feeling shattered and +exhausted, and with a big holiday before me, I determined to go to +Italy. It was a new life and I may almost say inspiration. I spent two +months in Rome, a month in the Bay of Naples, and a month at Florence. I +was alone, still alone; but the healing influences of the air and the +sunshine were upon me. Amid the bright external life of the day, and the +rich records and suggestions of the past, all the questions which had +been tormenting me faded away. I _thought_ about them no more; but new +elements came into my life which decided them for me. + +The Greek sculpture had a deep effect. The other things, pictures, +architecture, etc., interested me much from an historical or æsthetic +point of view; but this had something more, a germinative influence on +my mind, which adding itself to and corroborating the effect of +Whitman’s poetry, left with me as it were the seed of new conceptions of +life. The marvellous beauty and cleanliness of the human body as +presented by the Greek mind, the way in which the noblest passions of +the soul—the tender pitying love of Diana for Endymion, the haughty +inspiration of Juno, the heroic endurance of the fallen warrior, the +childlike gladness of the faun—were united and blended with the +corporeal form—or rather scarcely conceived of as separated from it; the +emotional atmosphere which went with this, the Greek ideal of the free +and gracious life of man at one with nature and the cosmos—so remote +from the current ideals of commercialism and Christianity!—to become +aware of all this in the midst of that “delicate air” and delightful +landscape and climate of Italy, was indeed a new departure for me. + +There are magnificent fragments of Greek sculpture in the British +Museum, not forgetting the priceless frieze of the Parthenon—things +which to a skilled artistic eye are as suggestive as any that can be +found—but to me the great range and completeness of the Italian +galleries, the almost perfect Cupids, fauns, Venuses, athletes, +warriors, youths, maidens, sages, gods, in unending procession under +that southern sky, gave a poetic impulse which I could not, at any rate +at that time, have surmised from a broken marble seen in a London fog! + +Nor must I omit, as part of the Greek impression, a visit to the Temples +of Pæstum—which helped to give a habitation in the mind’s eye to those +strings of sculptured figures, exiles in alien Rome, and to intensify +the sense of harmonious life and divine proportion which they had +excited. + +I stayed in Italy long enough to see, at Florence, the fireflies skim +and flicker over the blossoming wheat-fields of May and June, and then +returned home, to find that without worrying about it a change had taken +place in my mental attitude which would make my return to the Cambridge +life impossible. + + +And here I must not omit to mention another influence which played a +large part in the shaping of my life at this time. Most men own a deep +debt to women’s influence in the ordering and guidance of their lives. I +cannot say that I have felt this. With the exception of my mother and +one other person, I cannot remember a single case in which a woman came +to me as a strong motive-force or inspiration, or as a help or a guide +in doubt or difficulty. Perhaps on the emotional side women did not +supply what I needed; while on the intellectual side a woman with +decisive, originative, authentic mind is certainly not often to be met +with. Such a woman, however, of the latter type, was the person to whom +I allude, and whom I may call Olivia (which indeed was one of her +Christian names). + +She was a connection by marriage with one of my sisters, a woman about +fifty, still retaining traces of an exceedingly handsome youth. Married, +but separated from her husband; artistic to the finger-tips; brought up +in Italy, and loving the South; hating everything British and Philistine +and commercial; detesting the Bible and religion; she had fought her way +through social odium and disability, and then through severe illness and +suffering, till she was but the wreck (she used to say) of her former +self. Nevertheless a remarkable fire and enthusiasm still survived in +her, and though one of those natures who see everything rather violently +black or white, yet the decisive artistic quality of her mind was most +refreshing and inspiring. I have given some general account founded on +her life and character in a separate sketch.[4] Sufficient to say here +that her conversations on literature and art, her criticisms of art work +(and of my own efforts), her views on marriage, on religion—though we +disagreed a thousand times and often saw things from opposite +points—were most helpful to me. They served to liberate my mind, +corrected in many respects the native vagueness of my thought, and +certainly helped me greatly on the road to choose my own way in life. I +find a scrap of a letter from her, written during this period of my +suffering and doubt as to my continuance at Cambridge and in the Church: +“I ought not to write this morning, _caro mio_, I am too depressed. It +is terrible to me to know how you suffer. Your letter last night made me +cold to the finger-ends. One thing is clear anyhow, your present life is +intolerable, _change it you must_.... When you get away from the +depressing influence of your present life with all its worries you will +breathe and clap your hands and thank God!” It is needless to say that +my move to Italy and my preparations for abandoning Orders were things +truly after her own heart. + +And now for the first time I seriously entertained the idea of taking to +literature as a profession. I saw that my Cambridge career was at an +end, and that I must do something else; and for a time (though only for +a short time) it appeared to me that I might make a living by writing. + +I believe I felt that I really had something to write, that I must +write, though certainly my mind and purpose was only vague as yet; and +as to the professional side of the question, though I realized, I only +partly realized, how difficult it would be to make writing of any kind +‘pay.’ There were plenty of ‘candid friends’ however to impress _that_ +upon me, and I well remember the derisive chorus of the other Fellows +which greeted (at some College meeting or other) the announcement of my +intention! I stayed at home, at Brighton, during the summer and autumn +and gathered my verses—those more careful and academic productions which +I had perpetrated in the late years—together in a volume for +publication. Of course no publisher would take the volume at his risk, +and I was content, after a few efforts, to pay the piper myself for the +pleasure of seeing the work in print, and on the chance of its leaping +to a world-wide success! The book, under the title _Narcissus, and other +Poems_, was published in November 1873, and needless to say fell +practically dead—a few notices, mostly depreciatory, in the papers, a +few copies bought by friends, and then it ceased to stir. + +[Illustration: + + MY SISTER LIZZIE. +] + +Nor was there any reason why it should stir. There was nothing of any +moment in the book; only a vague sentiment of Nature and humanity +running through, not definite enough at any point to carry weight; and +really not so much of the author’s own self in it, as of his effort to +reach a certain literary standard. Perhaps one of the best of the +pieces, both in form and intention, was “The Artist to his Lady”: which +I remember expressed in its indefinite way the dominant feeling which I +had those last years, of being drawn away from my surroundings by +another ideal than that which I could realize at Cambridge. Of the other +pieces, “The Carpenter and the King”—an extract from an unfinished +revolutionary drama of which the scene was laid in Austria and Italy in +1848—indicates a certain advance in political ideas and the germ of +future developments; while “The Angel of Death and Life” contains in +embryo some of the dominant conceptions of _Towards Democracy_. + +It so happened that at the time of publication of _Narcissus_, in +November ’73, I was at Cannes, in the South of France, whither I had +gone with my sister Lizzie (to whom I was much attached) on account of +her illness. I stayed two or three weeks, and then it became necessary +for me to return home, in order to make preparations for and be present +at our College Fellows’ meeting at Christmas. It had of course become +quite imperative that I should make some distinct announcement of my +intentions with regard to the future; and for my part I had now quite +decided that I would relinquish my Orders, and go through the legal +formalities of unfrocking myself. Sincerely I hoped that this would lead +to my disappearance from Cambridge. If, before, I had recoiled from such +a thought, the torpor and misery I had experienced since then had quite +altered my point of view. + +And in all this matter it was not by any means only the clerical +difficulty that troubled me. As I have hinted before I had come to feel +that the so-called intellectual life of the University was (to me at any +rate) a fraud and a weariness. These everlasting discussions of theories +which never came anywhere near actual life, this cheap philosophizing +and ornamental cleverness, this endless book-learning, and the queer +cynicism and boredom underlying—all impressed me with a sense of utter +emptiness. The prospect of spending the rest of my life in that +atmosphere terrified me; and as I had seemed to see already the vacuity +and falsity of society life at Brighton, so in another form I seemed to +see the same thing here. + +And now it dawned upon me that my abandonment of Orders, instead of +being a thing to be dreaded, would be my veritable deliverance, and +would provide just that valid excuse for breaking with my old life, +which otherwise might prove hard to find. When friends, relations, +Fellows of the College, and others, were all urging upon me the folly of +committing professional suicide, I felt that the argument of +_conscience_—though not really to myself the final and convincing thing +(since that was Necessity)—was one which I could make use of, and which +I should _have_ to make use of, since every one, whether I liked it or +not, would credit me with it! + +I therefore, to avoid all possible lapses or failures that might ensue +if I left the matter over to a personal explanation at the College +meeting, _wrote_ beforehand to the Master of Trinity Hall, explaining +that I had entirely made up my mind to formally relinquish my Orders, +and placing my Fellowship in his hands, in accordance with what I +supposed would be necessary under the circumstances. Then two or three +weeks afterwards I followed in person to join in the Christmas +festivities. + +At that time, every year at the Christmas season, not only did all the +Fellows assemble for the transaction of College business at our +meetings, but there was a week of dinner-parties, with often fifty or +sixty guests each evening (no women) and very serious junketings! This +was, of course, in Commemoration of the Founder of the College—and with +money partly left for the purpose. We sat down to dinner, a most +extensive one, at six o’clock, which lasted, with the passing of the +loving-cup and the serving of wine and dessert, till about eight; then +we adjourned to the combination-room to take coffee and to chat for an +hour; after which the elder men generally resolved themselves into whist +parties, while the younger would retire in batches to college rooms in +order to smoke and drink brandies and soda. Soon after ten _supper_ was +served; and returning to the combination-room one found a table spread +with the traditional boar’s head, supplemented by oysters, game-pie, and +other little delicacies. In order to stimulate the exhausted powers, +bottled stout was found useful at this period. Some of the old hands did +no scant justice to the supper; others remained at the whist tables. +Finally and as the _coup de grâce_, about 11.30 hot milk punch and roast +apples appeared! + +It was generally the duty of the younger Fellows to look after the +ceremonies a little, to arrange the whist parties, invite the guests to +supper, and ply them with meat and drink. I remember one evening, +somewhat past midnight, finding the Mayor of Cambridge (who had been +invited) by himself in a remote corner discussing a roast apple. I went +and got a good big glass of milk-punch, and brought it him, saying, +“Now, Mr. Mayor, I’m sure this will do you good”—but he waived it away, +with a comical gesture, replying: “No, no more—I _can’t_ drink any more, +thank you; but this apple is delicious!” Shortly afterwards, leaning on +my arm, he was to be seen carefully descending the stairs to his +carriage. + +My feelings at this particular Christmas were of rather a mixed kind. As +to the Fellows they were berating me of one accord for my madness in +writing to the Master and practically resigning my Fellowship before it +was proved needful to do so; also for my supposed Quixotism in troubling +about my Orders. As to the Dean, being of course in Orders himself he +made short work of the difficulty: “It is all such tomfoolery,” he said, +“that it doesn’t matter whether you say you believe in it, or whether +you say you don’t. Look at my sermons in chapel now—are they not models +of unaffected piety! You let the matter drop, and it will all blow +over.” + +Among the Fellows and members of my own and other colleges with whom at +that time I was often in contact were Henry Fawcett (afterwards +Postmaster-General), Henry Latham (Tutor of Trinity Hall), Charles +Wentworth Dilke, W. K. Clifford, George Darwin, Robert Romer (afterwards +Lord Justice), Lumley Smith, Henry Fielding Dickens, Augustine Birrell, +Edward Beck (present Master of Trinity Hall), and others of course. Most +of these—though not all—did their best from their different points of +view to dissuade me from the course I had embarked on; but I was not +going to be dissuaded it was obvious to me that half-measures would be +no good, and that if I wanted to make my escape from Cambridge I must +throw the whole thing overboard; so underneath all the unpleasantness +there was the secret satisfaction of feeling that unknown to everybody I +was really going to gain a point instead of lose one! + +What kind of debates they had in College meeting over my case I don’t +know, for of course I was not present, but it was conveyed to me that +though there was a general wish that I should stay on as before, yet if +I persisted in relinquishing my Orders, it would be doubtful if I could +be asked to remain in the College—owing to the scandal of the thing! As +to the question whether my relinquishment of Orders should involve the +loss of my fellowship, that was adjourned for the present. + +So again next term I did not rejoin; but remained at home, at Brighton, +occupied with another important literary project! _Moses_: a drama. +Early one morning I had woken from sleep in the midst of a heavy +thunderstorm, with an extraordinarily vivid conception (I don’t know how +it came to be there) of Moses on the top of Sinai. Then and there I +wrote out a long soliloquy (Act II. Sc. 1), which now insisted on +expanding itself into a considerable poem in dramatic form—the ruling +idea being to take the Bible story, treat it in a rationalistic way, as +an obscure tradition of an actual event, and to show Moses as a noble +but entirely human reformer, embarrassed in his great enterprise more by +the apathy, stupidity and superstition of the people he desired to save +than by anything else.[5] + +Meanwhile through solicitors I set the ecclesiastical law in operation +with a view to my unfrockment. The process takes six months for its +completion. It was not necessary for me to see my Bishop again; but I +had one or two gravely regretful letters from him. I spent the ‘Long’ at +Cambridge—July and August—the last ‘Long’ that I spent there; and during +that time received the legal document which rendered me once again a +layman. + +These summer vacations spent at Cambridge were the part of my university +life that—even from my undergraduate days—I had most enjoyed. Chapels +and lectures were in abeyance, the monotonous tyranny of +boating-practice and training was unknown; a few students only were up, +perhaps twenty or so at our College—but these would be the more +intelligent and congenial spirits. During the long morning from nine to +two one got through a lot of reading unhindered by lectures and other +interruptions; then came afternoons canoeing up the river, two or three +together, in the dreamy sheen of the water and the overhanging willows, +or through beds of iris; or bathing; or playing fives or rackets; or +walking the country lanes, or sitting long on some turfy bank with a +friend. Sometimes we would make quite a party and go, a fleet of canoes, +with provisions, far up the river and not return till dark. Then as a +rule there were two or three hours more work in the evening, though +sometimes this was broken through by some little entertainment. + +What a curious romance ran through all that life—and yet on the whole, +with few exceptions, how strangely unspoken it was and unexpressed! This +succession of athletic and even beautiful faces and figures, what a +strange magnetism they had for me, and yet all the while how +insurmountable for the most part was the barrier between! It was as if a +magic flame dwelt within one, burning, burning, which one could not put +out, and yet whose existence one might on no account reveal.[6] How the +walks under the avenues of trees at night, and by the riversides, were +haunted full of visionary forms for which in the actual daylight world +there seemed no place! + +Yet as time went on I think it must have become clearer to me that +Cambridge never would afford in this direction the actual that I wanted. +Expectation grew dry at the fount, and torpor and distress in the last +year or two took the place of the romance of the years before. Somehow I +think I must have dimly understood that the trouble arose partly from a +deep want of sympathy between myself and the whole mental attitude, mode +of life, and ideals of the university, and of the gilded or silvered +youth who lived and moved within it; for I remember that on the +memorable journey from Cannes homewards, when I was revolving the whole +situation—the abandonment of my Orders and Fellowship, the failure (as +it already appeared) of my first literary venture, and the doubt of what +I should or _could_ do in the future, it suddenly flashed upon me, with +a vibration through my whole body, that I would and must somehow go and +make my life with the mass of the people and the manual workers. + +It was in pursuance of this last idea that shortly after the eventful +College meeting above mentioned I went to see James Stuart at Trinity, +who was just then organizing the first outlines of the University +Extension Lecturing Scheme, and asked him if he could find me a place on +it. He agreed to do so; and suggested that I should take the subject of +Astronomy. I consented, and shortly after was appointed to begin a +course of Lectures (in October 1874) at Leeds, Halifax and Skipton. + +[Illustration: + + SELF, IN ABOUT 1875 +] + + + + + IV + UNIVERSITY EXTENSION AND NORTHERN TOWNS + + +I sometimes think myself singularly fortunate in the way in which my +dreams of life (the wildest and most unlikely) have from time to time +been realized; but in this connection I have noticed two things that +have generally happened—one is that the new life-purpose would come, to +begin with, with great force, making me believe it was going to be +realized at once, and that then it would seem to fail and almost be +abandoned, and then again, some years after, it _would_ be realized. The +second thing is (and this is in accordance with the general law of the +“cussedness of things”) that just in the moment of the realization of +the first endeavour, _another_ ideal would make itself felt, which would +in some degree supersede the former. + +It had come on me with great force that I would go and throw in my lot +with the mass-people and the manual workers. I took up the University +Extension work perhaps chiefly because it seemed to promise this result. +As a matter of fact it merely brought me into the life of the commercial +classes; and for seven years I served—instead of the Rachel of my +heart’s desire—a Leah to whom I was not greatly attached. Nevertheless +this period was of interest and useful to me. I had never been in the +Northern Towns. I was profoundly ignorant of commercial life. The +manners, customs, ideas, ideals, the types of people, the trades, +manufactures, the dominance of Dissent, the comparative weakness of the +Established Church, the absence of art, literature and science, the dirt +of the towns, the rough heartiness and hospitality—all formed a strange +contrast to Cambridge and Brighton. + +I spent the two winters ’74–’75 and ’75–’76 at Leeds—lecturing there, +and at Halifax and Skipton—living in Leeds, in lodgings—and seeing a +good deal of the people (mostly ladies) who were actively engaged in +promoting the Extension lectures. My subject was Astronomy. It was a +curious subject for these towns where seldom a star could be seen. As +far as the heavens were witness I might have told any fables. My own +knowledge was derived almost entirely from books, and my pupils’ +knowledge was practically limited to books. Occasionally I used to drag +an evening class onto Woodhouse Moor, at Leeds, to look at the actual +subjects of our discussions, but the latter generally withdrew +themselves from observation! I don’t know whether this kind of learning +was of much use; but it was on the same lines as most modern learning. I +think the study of books educates the constructive imagination—and +teaches people to figure to themselves things and situations they have +never seen. That is perhaps the chief use of it. The bulk of the pupils +at this time and during my later connection with the University +Extension were of the “young lady” class. These were the main support of +the movement, and they might be said to fall into three groups—namely, +the best scholars from girls’ schools, especially some very intelligent +ones from the Friends’ Schools; girls living at home and having nothing +particular to do; and elder women in the same plight. These formed the +great majority of the afternoon classes, and a considerable fraction of +the evening classes; the remainder being elderly clerks and a few +extra-intelligent young men, and a very small sprinkling of manual +workers. + +Though for the most part incapable of any mathematical processes, I +found my students open to simple geometrical reasoning and consequently +able to follow a great deal of formal Astronomy. They took a real +interest in the work, which carried them on and which made the teaching +a pleasure—a great pleasure in comparison with my experience of the +tuition of “poll” men at Cambridge, whose dulness and distaste for their +work were crushing. + +The modern Women’s Movement was just beginning to take shape at that +time. And there was at Leeds three women—all remarkable characters in +their way—who were very much in evidence in connection with the +University Extension. They were Miss Lucy Wilson, Miss Heaton, and Miss +Theodosia Marshall. Miss Wilson was Local Secretary to the University +Extension; Miss Heaton and Miss Marshall both aspired after the dignity +and influence of the position. As may be imagined there was no love lost +between the three, and the cabals and conflicts were unending and most +amusing. At one time there were two other lecturers from Cambridge +living in Leeds besides myself, namely H. S. Foxwell (of St. John’s, +Cambridge) and E. S. Thompson (of Christ’s). We used to meet every day +for dinner at each other’s lodgings and had no end of fun comparing +notes of local scandal. Coming from a distance and being in the position +in which we were, we were naturally the recipients of confidences from +all sides. The three ladies were constantly asking one or other of us +out to _tête-à-tête_ breakfasts, lunches, or afternoon teas—pouring out +their grievances against one another, and drawing us into deadly plots. +These we duly compared—not without hatching comical counterplots of our +own. + +But Miss Wilson was not to be dislodged; she was firm in her seat. +Extremely good-looking and capable, and a good organizer, she yet had +two defects. Like many “advanced” women she was very _doctrinaire_; and +having swallowed a principle (like a poker) would remain absolutely +unbending and unyielding; and, in the second place, she hated men. On +one occasion she got up a “Women’s Rights” Meeting in Leeds. It was one +of the first of these meetings—certainly the first I had been to. It was +well attended—by women; Miss Wilson made a clever speech, full of keen +thrusts at the male portion of mankind. I dare say it was well deserved. +It was very slashing. There were a few of us “lower animals” huddled +near the door. At some final witticism there was a yell of applause. We +shut our eyes, assured that our last hour had come—but were ultimately +spared for another day. + +On another occasion a rather amusing thing happened. One of the +lecturers—not either of those already mentioned, but one living at +Halifax though also lecturing in Leeds—got himself engaged to be +married. This in itself was perhaps an offence to Miss Wilson. But what +was worse—and certainly foolish of the young man—he went and fixed his +wedding (in the South of England) for a date in the middle of the term, +and then asked leave to miss a lecture in order to attend it! Of course +Miss Wilson refused. Then in a day or two he wrote again. The affair was +very pressing, he said, and he must go. Miss Wilson called her committee +together. They were inclined to yield to the over-hasty marriage +arrangement—foreseeing no doubt that it was inevitable. But Miss Wilson +was absolute. _She_ would not yield—a great principle was at stake. +“What if all lecturers,” etc. Of course her word prevailed, and a +refusal was sent. Then the inevitable happened. The fellow went off +without leave, only leaving _me_, poor unfortunate! to _read_ his +lecture to his gently smiling class. After that there was a scene +between me and Miss Wilson on which the curtain had better be drawn! +“What business had I to give my services and help to the rebellious +lecturer?” etc. Sufficient to say that we both survived it, and were +quite good friends afterwards. + +On the whole it was an interesting time. It was at Leeds that I came to +know the three sisters Ford of Adel Grange, whose friendship I have +valued ever since; and it was at Leeds that I resumed acquaintance, to +deepen into intimacy, with C. G. Oates, of Meanwood Side—a companion of +Cambridge days. But my health was not of the best—a certain overstrain +and tension of the nerves, dating from Cambridge worries, and carried on +and increased by other causes, was continually pulling me down, and +rendering my life at times quite painful. It was at this time too that +my brother Charlie died in India (March 1876) quite suddenly, as I have +already explained, through a fall from his horse. He was just, as it +happened, on his way home on furlough after a long absence, and the +shock to my mother and those at home was very great. And even I—though I +had seen comparatively little of him—felt it a good deal. + +In September 1876 my lecturing beat was changed from the Leeds district +to Nottingham, York and Hull. I lodged at Nottingham (with a fatuous +landlady) for that term and rather enjoyed the brighter air of +Nottingham and brighter spirits of the people, after Leeds. The Casey +family with their simple rather foreign habits (Mrs. Casey half-English, +half-German, Mr. Casey half-Irish, half-French) were my chief refuge +during that and later visits to Nottingham. To my Astronomy course, I +added Light and Sound. The limelight lantern became my companion, and +experiments—though they increased the labour of preparation—made the +lectures easier and more successful. By nature an abominably bad +speaker, I had at first found lecturing extremely difficult and a great +strain. My nervous disorganization increased the difficulty. Words would +not come. I suffered; and if possible my audiences suffered more! But by +degrees, by very slow degrees, I improved; practice and hard work over +my notes in preparation made a vocabulary more ready to my tongue; and +at last, by about the end of my seven years, I could get through an +hour’s talk without absolutely disgracing myself! + +In this connection I may tell a story. One term (a little later on, I +think) I was lecturing at Barnsley. The place was a little local +theatre, unused at the time; but about the middle of the term it was +taken by a traveling company, and we had to move into another building. +The last evening of our occupation, some scenery was already up, and I, +having affixed my star diagrams to the shifts and side-scenes, was +lecturing from the stage when a belated stranger, a rough navvy or +collier—no doubt attracted by the theatrical bills already out—came +stumping down the middle gangway and ultimately dropped into a seat. He +remained quiet for a good time; and then—his patience fairly giving +out—he rose up and spoke. “Look ‘ere,” he said, “I’ve been sittin’ ‘ere +’alf an hour—and I haven’t understood a _word_ of what you’ve been +saying, _and I don’t believe you do neither_.” + +I felt for the poor man—I deeply sympathized. He had come in no doubt on +the expectation of a theatrical treat—got in too without paying at the +door, which was _nuts_, as they say—and now—what had he come to? + +There was a scene. Everybody jumped round on their seats. The local +Secretary—a tiny little man, a Frenchman, a dentist—approached the bold +stranger. + +“You must sit down,” he said. + +“_Shan’t_ sit down!” + +“Den you must go out of de room.” + +“_Shan’t_ go out of the room.” + +“Den I shall have to _make_ you.” + +The situation was too ludicrous—this tiny Gallic David and this huge and +beery Goliath! What might have happened we know not. Fortunately the +stranger took the better part, and said— + +“I’m sure I don’t want to stay ’ere any longer”—and left us with +contempt to our Astronomy. + +In the Spring term, January to April, 1877, I lodged at York—again an +improvement in climate. The lectures there were largely supported by +Unitarian, Quaker, and other dissenting groups flourishing in the very +shadow of the Cathedral. There were the Spences, the Smithsons, the +Wilkinsons, and the excellent ‘Mount’ school (‘Friends’) managed by Miss +Rous—whose girls were good pupils and great chums of mine. + + +In the end of April that year I went out to America. This was the +accomplishment of a long-slumbering intention. Ever since, in my rooms +at Cambridge, I had read that little blue book of Whitman, his writings +had been my companions, and had been working a revolution within me—at +first an intellectual revolution merely—but by degrees the wonderful +personality behind them, glowing through here and there, became more and +more real and living, and suffusing itself throughout rendered them +transparent to my understanding. + +I began in fact to realize that, above all else, I had come in contact +with a great Man; not great thoughts, theories, views of life, but a +great Individuality, a great Life. I began to see and realize +correspondingly that ‘views’ and intellectual furniture generally were +not the important thing I had before imagined; that character and the +statement of Self, persistently, under diverse conditions were +all-important; that the body in Man (and this the Greek statuary had +helped me to realize), and the quality corresponding to body in all art +and behaviour, was radiant in meaning and beautiful beyond words; and +that the production of splendid men and women was the aim and only true +aim of State-policy. By day and night the presence of this Friend, +exhaled from his own book, had been with me—thus working, transforming, +drawing me wonderfully to seek him. America too, the United States, +began of necessity to compel my interest, and to form an additional +attraction across the Atlantic. I wrote to Whitman more than once, and +in 1876 obtained from him the complete (Centennial) Edition of his works +published in that year. Indeed I made every preparation to go out to the +States that summer, but circumstances rendered the voyage impossible. + +This year, however, 1877, gave me the long-desired opportunity. I have +recorded in another place[7] the main outlines of my visit to Whitman on +this occasion, so on that subject I need not say anything further here, +except that Whitman as a concrete personality entirely filled out and +corroborated the conception of him which one had derived from reading +_Leaves of Grass_. The Rev. W. H. Channing, who was then acting as +Unitarian Minister at Leeds, insisted on giving me letters of +introduction to various friends of his on that side—Emerson, O. W. +Holmes, Russell Lowell, Charles Norton of Harvard and others—of which I +made use. Emerson was very charming and friendly. I stayed one night at +his house and dined with him and his wife and his daughter Ellen. His +failure of memory for names was considerable, and at times painful, and +there was the fixed look of age often in his eye; but otherwise he was +active in body and full of fun and enjoyment of intellectual life. His +eyes greyish-blue, the corners of his lips often drawn upward—altogether +a wonderful bird-like look about his face, enhanced by his way of +jerking his head forward—the look sometimes very straight and intense, +then followed by a charming placid smile like moonlight on the sea. His +domestic life seemed admirable. I took a turn in the garden with him in +the afternoon and a drive afterwards—saw the ‘Minute Man’ and the ‘old +Manse’ where his grandfather lived. Then in his library he talked much +about books and authors—handling his books in a caressing loving way—and +showed me his Upanishad translations, and his verses “If the red slayer +thinks he slays,” etc. He expressed his admiration for Carlyle and +Tennyson; his want of the same for Matthew Arnold; and his plain +contempt of Lewes’ Life of Goethe. His conversation generally seemed +very _literary_ in character and I could not get him to express any +views or ideas about America’s place and progress. When I spoke of Walt +Whitman he made an odd whinnying sound: “Well, I thought he had some +merit at one time: there was a good deal of promise in the first +edition—_burt_ he is a wayward fanciful man. I saw him in New York and +asked him to dine at my Hotel. He shouted for a ‘tin mug’ for his beer. +Then he had a _noisy_ fire engine society. And he took me there and was +like a boy over it, as if there had never been such a thing before.” +Emerson also took exception to Whitman’s metre. + +O. W. Holmes did not please me so well—a good-natured little spiteful +creature, one might say, with shovel underlip and bright grey-blue eyes +under a low brow, a dapper active man of seventy—his vanity qualified by +geniality and humour. No ideas whatever about America. “As to Whitman, +well, Lord Napier said _He_ was the one thing that interested him in the +States. And then Lord Houghton at dinner one day came plump out in his +favour—but Willie Everett made such a fierce attack in reply that +conversation was silenced.” And he knew that Rossetti and others in +England thought much of him; but he could only say that in America he +was not known. Then he told the story about him and Lowell and +Longfellow sitting in judgment on Walt Whitman![8] + +One of the men who interested me most in Boston neighborhood was +Professor Benjamin Pierce—Astronomical Professor at Harvard—a fine +capable man. We had a long talk on Astronomy, very helpful, and he gave +me a fine set of drawings published by the Observatory. + +One day at New York I met Bryant the poet. It was at his editorial +office. Though eighty-four years old he was walking down there daily and +getting through much work. He was infirm and aged-looking of course, but +still wonderfully active; forehead narrowing above, and high like a sort +of promontory, straight brow, and eyes sunken but opening out on you +occasionally, straight nose inclining to a hook, and high bridge, white +hair like a thin fall of spray over neck, ears and mouth. A very +literary person—and manners extremely undemonstrative, even +unsympathetic. + +But it was Whitman I came out to see, and he in interest and grandeur of +personality out-towered them all. + +The other thing that fascinated me in America was Niagara. I stayed +there four days all alone, looking at the Falls all the time, _feeling_ +their earth-shaking roar under my feet by day and in bed at night, and +watching that strange calm sentinel, that column of white spray which, +like a great spirit, exhales itself into the immense height of the sky +over the roaring gulf, and which, rainbow-tinted in the sun, or +glistening mysterious in the moon by night, seems to overlook the land +for far and wide around. It was the only thing I saw which seemed quite +to match Whitman in spirit. + +For the rest the broad, free life—Washington, New York, Philadelphia, +Boston, Albany, and the rivers and steamboats—the rough freedom and ease +and independence—rougher and better a good deal than exists now—the +hearty welcomes and general friendliness were pleasant and inspiring. + +On my way down the Hudson I stopped at Esopus and stayed with John +Burroughs a night or two. We took a long walk in the primitive woods +back of his house, while he talked of Whitman and bird-lore—a tough +reserved farmer-like exterior, some old root out of the woods one might +say—obdurate to wind and weather—but a keen quick observer close to +Nature and the human heart, and worth a good many Holmes and Lowells. + +I was alone all this time, and felt lonely, among all these people; but +as it was the same in England there was nothing remarkable about it! I +returned in July to my life of lodgings and lectures; and in September +was put on another lecturing round—to Sheffield, Chesterfield, and part +of the time York and Barnsley. + + +This itinerant life in lodgings was a little dull and unfruitful it must +be confessed; the only relief from the importunities of +lodging-landladies being the futile hospitalities of commercial +villa-dom. Both experiences however had their comic side. At Nottingham +my landlady—a widow of course—used to aggravate me much, when I first +came downstairs of a morning, by jumping out upon me from a side-door +with “What’ll you have for dinner to-day?” This query, unannounced by +any morning greeting or salutation, and flung at me _every day_ even +before I had had breakfast, was a complete poser. If I suggested +anything, the suggestion was met by insuperable difficulties. _She_ made +no suggestions. And there we used to stand staring at each other in a +kind of dismay which at that early hour in the morning was sadly +demoralizing! On one occasion I wanted a box made—for some of my +books—and I asked this foolish widow to recommend me a joiner for the +purpose. She mentioned some man’s name; and I, to make sure, queried: +“Is he a good workman? would he make a strong and serviceable article?” +“He made my husband’s coffin, Sir,” she replied with an air of triumph! +And once more I was completely silenced—for I really could not ask +whether it had lasted well or otherwise. + +My first experiences of lodging in Sheffield were about equally bad. I +took a lodging at the top end of Glossop Road. It was a good part of the +town; but the weather was awful. For three successive days it rained +blacks mingled with water! The sky was dark. Lamps had to be lighted +indoors. Then my lodging-place people were most doleful—three timid +little old maids, like bunnie-rabbits. No. 1, the youngest and most +presentable, waited on me; No. 3 I never saw, she lived in the kitchen +below; No. 2 haunted in the passage or on the stairs half-way between. +No. 1 would come in and ask me what I would have for dinner. “Chop and +potatoes,” I would say. Then she would put her head out of the door and +say to the one in the passage “The gentleman says he will have chop and +potatoes.” Then I could hear the one in the passage say to No. 3 in the +kitchen “The gentleman says he will have chop and potatoes.” Then a sort +of echo came up from below in a deep tone “Chop and potatoes.” Then No. +1 would begin again with the second course. “Rice pudding.” “The +gentleman says he will have rice pudding.” And so it went on, also for +three days, everything that I said was circulated round the house and +echoed back again from below! It was too much. If this was Sheffield I +could stand it no longer—and I fled away and took rooms at +Chesterfield—dullest alas! of earthly places, but with a rather better +climate. + +Perhaps I rather liked the quietude of Chesterfield—where it was hardly +necessary to know anybody. There were good country walks out towards the +moors, and once or twice I got as far as Barlow, half-way to +Millthorpe—of which place, needless to say, I had then never heard. I +penetrated, during my stay in Chesterfield, into the cottage of a +plasterer, a dear old man, S. Ashmore, and became familiar in his +household—the only permanent alliance I made in Chesterfield. + +The next winter—1878–9—I really did manage to settle in Sheffield, in +Holland Terrace, Highfields—three old maids again for landladies!—but +rather better conditions generally. I lectured at Nottingham and Hull +and Chesterfield, so had a good deal of traveling, and added a new +course of lectures—“Pioneers of Science”—which was popular on account of +its more discursive character: a brief history of scientific progress +illustrated by biographies of the great men. The courses on “Sound” and +“Light” went on as well; also that on “Astronomy”—which last was a +popular subject in Sheffield. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico._ The evening +students were very enthusiastic. Many of them bought telescopes, and we +had outdoor meetings at night, with all sorts of optical gear, for the +purpose of observing the heavenly bodies. One elderly enthusiast was +quite sure he had discovered a comet, and was not satisfied till he had +written to Greenwich Observatory, and even then (seeing that they could +not find it) he was not satisfied. The Sheffield students too formed a +Students’ Association, and discussed subjects among themselves, +organized excursions, and hunted up fresh pupils—all very good. From the +first I was taken with the Sheffield people. Rough in the extreme, +twenty or thirty years in date behind other towns, and very uneducated, +there was yet a heartiness about them, not without shrewdness, which +attracted me. I felt more inclined to take root here than in any of the +Northern towns where I had been. + +But during all this lecturing period my health had been bad, and getting +worse instead of better; and now I was approaching a crisis in regard to +it. The state of my nerves was awful; they were really in a quite +shattered condition. My eyes, which even in Cambridge days had been +weak, kept getting worse. There was no disease or defect—I had been to +three first-rate oculists and they all agreed about that. It was simply +extreme sensitiveness—probably the optic nerve itself. A strong light +from a lamp or candle was quite painful. I could hardly read more than +an hour a day—certainly not two hours. It caused a pain in the nerve, +which seemed to mount to and disorganize the brain. I was conscious that +the refusal of my eyes to read was in all probability a kindly +indication that I would be much better without reading—but this would +mean giving up the lectures—so here I was again! + +As long as the lectures went on I was in perpetual suffering with my +eyes, and anxiety—sometimes being really unable to prepare the work +before me. Then on this came the strain of lecturing—traveling to a +place with a great box of apparatus, arriving there three or four hours +before the time of the meeting, getting all one’s apparatus and +experiments ready (in some wretched schoolroom with _no_ assistance), +having often in those days to make my oxygen gas myself for the lantern; +to rush out when all was ready for a cup of tea, to return in time to +take an hour’s preliminary _class_, and then to give the lecture; all +this was terribly exhausting. But it by no means ended there. After the +lecture some local manufacturer and patron would carry one off to his +residence for the night, there to meet a few friends at supper, and to +talk and be talked to till the small hours of the morning. When one got +to bed—a vibrating mass of nerves—sleep was out of the question. There +were all the pupils and their faces, and their needs and their +personalities; there were the tiresome patrons and committee people, in +endless dance on my brain. Often and often I never slept a wink—only to +get up the next day and go through a similar round. Often and often when +I got back to my lodgings I had to lie on my back on the sofa for +hours—not even then to sleep—but simply to rest and soothe the +nerve-pain throughout my body. I felt my life was becoming wrecked and I +remember at last swearing a great oath to myself that somehow or other I +would get out of it and find my health again. + +And behind it all there was that other need—which I have already +mentioned more than once—that of my affectional nature, that hunger +which had indeed hunted me down since I was a child. I can hardly bear +even now to think of my early life, and of the idiotic social reserve +and Britannic pretence which prevailed over all that period, and still +indeed to a large extent prevails—especially among the so-called +well-to-do classes of this country—the denial and systematic ignoring of +the obvious facts of the heart and of sex, and the consequent desolation +and nerve-ruin of thousands and thousands of women, and even of a +considerable number of men. I came home in the summer to Brighton to +find my sisters, for the most part unmarried, wearing out their lives +and their affectional capacities with nothing to do, and nothing to care +for: a little music, a little painting, a walk up and down the +Promenade; but the primal needs of life unspoken and unallowed; +suffering (as one can now see all this commercial age has been doomed to +suffer) from a state of society which has set up gold and gain in the +high place of the human heart, and to make more room for these has +disowned and dishonoured love. It is curious—and interesting in its +queer way—to think that almost the central figure of the drawing-room in +that later Victorian age (and one may see it illustrated in the pages of +_Punch_ of that period) was a young or middle-aged woman lying supine on +a couch—while round her, amiably conveying or consuming tea and coffee, +stood a group of quasi-artistic or intellectual men. The conversation +ranged, of course, over artistic and literary topics, and the lady did +her best to rise to it; but the effort probably did her no good. For the +real trouble lay far away. It was of the nature of _hysteria_—and its +meaning is best understood by considering the derivation of that word. I +had two sisters—who each of them for some twenty years led that supine, +and one may say tragic, life; so I had good occasion—beside what may +have lain within my own experience—to understand it pretty thoroughly. +Certainly the disparity of the sexes and the absolute non-recognition of +sexual needs—non-recognition either in life or in thought—weighed +terribly hard upon the women of that period.[9] + +Another cause, increasing the hardship of disparity, was the growing +disinclination of men (of the upper classes) to get married. Partly this +arose, no doubt, from their growing realization of the perils and +complications of matrimony; but partly also it arose from an increase in +the number of men of what may be called an intermediate type, whose +temperament did not lead them very decisively in the direction of +marriage—or even led them away from it; men who did not feel the romance +in that direction which alone can make marriage attractive, and perhaps +justifiable. There have of course been, in all ages, thousands and +thousands of women who have not felt that particular sort of romance and +attraction towards men, but only to their own kind; and in all ages +there have been thousands and thousands of men similarly constituted in +the reverse way; but they have been, by the majority, little understood +and recognized. Now however it is coming to be seen that they also—both +classes—have their part to play in the world. + +For my part I have always had excellent and enduring alliances among +women, and life would indeed be sadly wanting and impoverished without +their friendship and society; but since the days when I sat a boy of +nine or ten under the table, apparently playing with my marbles, while +my elder sisters and their girl friends were talking freely and +unconsciously with each other about some ball of the night before, and +their partners in the dances, and their conversations—the workings of +the feminine mind and nature have always been perfectly open and clear +to me. By a sort of intuition (partly no doubt inborn) I never had any +difficulty in following these workings. They enshrined no mystery for +me. This fact has always caused me to find women’s society interesting; +but naturally it did not conduce to headlong adorations and marriage! +The romance of my life went elsewhere. + +Whether such a state of affairs may be desirable or undesirable, whether +it may indicate a high moral nature or a low moral nature, and so forth, +are questions which (in a land where _everything_ is either moral or +immoral) are sure to be asked. But in a sense they are quite beside the +mark. They do not alter the fact; and that has always been the same +since my earliest days.[10] But it will be evident enough—to any one who +takes the trouble to think what these things mean—that to a person of my +emotional nature the conditions which brought about—to a comparatively +late age—the absence of marriage, or its equivalent, were a fruitful +source of trouble and nervous prostration. I realized in my own person +some of the sufferings which are endured by an immense number of modern +women, especially of the well-to-do classes, as well as by that large +class of men of whom I have just spoken, and to whom the name of +Uranians is often given. + +Certainly my isolation was in a sense my own fault—due partly to reserve +and partly to ignorance. When at a later time I broke through this +double veil, I soon discovered that others of like temperament to myself +were abundant in all directions, and to be found in every class of +society; and I need not say that from that time forward life was changed +for me. I found sympathy, understanding, love, in a hundred unexpected +forms, and my world of the heart became as rich in that which it needed +as before it had seemed fruitless and barren. + +The Uranian temperament in Man closely resembles the normal temperament +of Women in this respect, that in both Love—in some form or other—is the +main object of life. In the normal Man, ambition, moneymaking, business, +adventure, etc., play their part—love is as a rule a secondary matter. +The majority of men (for whom the physical side of sex, if needed, is +easily accessible) do not for a moment realize the griefs endured by +thousands of girls and women—in the drying up of the well-springs of +affection as well as in the crucifixion of their physical needs. But as +these sufferings of women, of one kind or another, have been the great +inspiring cause and impetus of the Women’s Movement—a movement which is +already having a great influence in the reorganization of society; so I +do not practically doubt that the similar sufferings of the Uranian +class of men are destined in their turn to lead to another wide-reaching +social organization and forward movement in the direction of Art and +Human Compassion. + + + + + V + BRADWAY AND _TOWARDS DEMOCRACY_ + + +Everything, one sometimes thinks, has its Compensation. The soul of man +is so vast, so endless, that no matter on what side or sides it be +hemmed in or thwarted, it will find its outlet in some fresh +direction—all the more powerfully perhaps for its temporary and local +obstruction. This is true of bodies of people, and it is true also of +individuals. + +The sufferings of these years, the emotional distress and tension which +I had experienced, poured themselves out in poetical effusions, +outbursts, ejaculations—I know not what to call them. Sometimes lying +full length in the train coming home at midnight from some lecture +engagement, hardly able to move; sometimes in the morning with a sense +of restoration, flying over the fields in the sunlight; sometimes in my +little lodging; sometimes on a long country walk—I wrote just what the +necessity of my feelings compelled—formless scraps, cries, prophetic +assurances—in no available metre, or shape, just as they came. In no +shape that they could be given to the world; but they were a relief to +me, and a consolation. + +Afterwards, when I found as it were the keynote which harmonized these +disjointed utterances, I made use of them; and they were mostly embodied +and embedded and adapted into the structure of _Towards Democracy_. + +I say my nerves had come to such a pass of dislocation, that I was +nearly breaking down; and I had sworn a great oath to myself to mend +matters somehow. The year 1879 was in many ways the dim dawn or +beginning of a new life to me. + +Early in that year I made my first valid essays in the direction of a +reform in diet. I may have tentatively experimented in vegetarianism +before that, but ineffectually and in ignorance. Once I remember boldly +dining off nothing but a vegetable marrow. Of course, disastrous defeat +and dismay immediately followed! Practically I had always lived along +the usual régime, of plentiful meat, washed down with beer or wine; and +probably the sick headaches and nervous tension of my early years were +to a considerable extent due to this excess of stimulation. Now, the +vegetarian ideal, for many reasons, began to commend itself to me; and +though I did not abandon meat at once, I gradually pushed along this +line—slowly as my way is, but steadily—so that after four or five years, +that is, by ’83 or ’84, I practically was able to dispense with meat +(and alcoholics) altogether—and did so dispense, often for months at a +time. + +A word here about my vegetarian practice generally. I find now [1899] +that though I have lived, as said, for months at a time without meat or +fish of _any kind_, and have enjoyed in so doing infinitely better +health than ever before—and though I feel as if I could continue in this +diet indefinitely and much prefer it—I have yet never made any absolute +rule against flesh-eating, and have as a matter of fact eaten a very +little every now and then—just, as it were, to see how it tasted, or to +avoid giving trouble in Philistine households, and so forth. Having a +strong (perhaps a too strong) objection to _principles_ generally, I +have disliked the idea of making any absolute rule in the matter. +Briefly I find the vegetarian diet—fruit and grains and vegetables, +nuts, eggs, and milk—pleasant, clean, healthful in every way, and +grateful to one’s sense of decency and humanity. It is a real pleasure +to live among those who adopt it. But having spent my time for the most +part embedded among folk who favour meat, I have not always kept to my +own choice, but have given in at times to a supposed convenience or +necessity. Perhaps I should have done better, for myself and others, if +I had been more resolute, but such are the facts. + +In the year 1879 also the absolute necessity for a more open-air life +began to make itself felt. I had always lived in towns, and though fond +of the country I looked on the town as my natural home. Now I began to +long for a country home. I took long walks round Sheffield, and bitterly +regretted having to come _back_ in the evening, instead of staying +permanently outside. I began to revolve how a change might be possible. +Manual work, too, in contradistinction to the mere ‘exercise’ (riding or +cricket or athletics) which takes the place of work among the well-to-do +classes, began to have a fascination for me. I think it was in this +summer [1879] that being at Brighton, I worked for a couple of months in +a joiner’s shop, regularly, from 6.30 to 8.30 every morning; I used to +make panel doors, and got a good experience, so far, of the trade. + +Also as I continued to make Sheffield the headquarters of my lectures, I +was taking definite root there, and reaching down partly through my +classes, partly through explorations of my own, into the actual society +of the manual workers; and beginning to knit up alliances more +satisfactory to me than any I had before known. Railway men, porters, +clerks, signalmen, ironworkers, coach-builders, Sheffield cutlers, and +others came within my ken, and from the first I got on excellently and +felt fully at home with them—and I believe, in most cases, they with me. +I felt I had come into, or at least in sight of, the world to which I +belonged, and to my natural _habitat_. + +It was about this time that I made the acquaintance of a man who for +some years after was a good deal associated with me—Albert Fearnehough. +He came up one evening after a lecture, and gave me his name (I remember +thinking how strange it was) and address; and asked me if I would come +and see him some time. Later, meeting me in the street, he renewed the +request, telling me that his friend who came with him to the lectures +was a young farmer who was well up in ‘book-learning’ (which he himself +was not)—that they both lived in the country, he in a cottage on the +farm of which Fox, his friend, was owner; and that they would both +gladly entertain me any time that I cared for a country walk. Here was +exactly my opportunity. I accepted the invitation, and not long +afterwards went to visit the two friends at the little hamlet of +Bradway, four or five miles from Sheffield, on the charming outskirts of +Beauchief Abbey. + +[Illustration: + + ALBERT FEARNEHOUGH AND “BRUNO.” +] + +Fearnehough was a scythe-maker, a riveter, a muscular, powerful man of +about my age, quite ‘uneducated’ in the ordinary sense (since indeed at +the age of nine he had pushed a handcart about the streets of Sheffield) +but well-grown and finely built, with a good practical capacity though +slow brain, and something of the latent fire and indomitableness of the +iron-worker—a man whose ideal was the rude life of the backwoods, and +who hated the shams of commercialism. Indeed he was always getting into +coils with his employers because he would not scamp and hurry over his +work, as occasion demanded; and with his workmates because he would not +countenance their doing so. In many ways he was delightful to me, as the +one ‘powerful uneducated’ and natural person I had as yet, in all my +life, met with. Moreover there was a touch of pathos in his inarticulate +ways and in his own sense of inability to compete with the cheapjack +commercialism of the day. He lived in a tiny little cottage, on Fox’s +farm as I have said, with his wife, a good patient worker, and two +children. And many a Saturday or Sunday afternoon I came up there and +had tea with them, or roamed about the fields. + +Charles Fox was a very singular character—a bachelor, with a good brain, +curiously fond of mathematics in his boyhood, quite an original thinker +in his way—yet to look at, a mere clodhopping farmer with inexpressive +face, humped shoulders, and beetle-like gait. He was not ill-looking, +but decidedly quaint, with his florid, shaven face, and only the sharp +gleam of his eye to show you his shrewdness. Most of the country-folk +thought him a little touched in the head, for his odd Socratic humour; +and never fathomed in the least his real ability. He lived on the farm +left him by his father, with an unmarried cousin of his, Miss Fox, for +housekeeper, and with _her_ son Teddie for his farm-lad and helper; and +with a brother, Owen, who certainly _was_ weak in the head and feeble, +and of no practical use in the establishment. Between Teddie and his +uncle quite an affection existed; but of the household, and especially +of Charles Fox I have given some account in a separate paper, under the +title of _Martin Turner_[11]; and what I have there said I need not +repeat. + +My acquaintance with these two men had its inevitable effect on me. I +saw at last my way of escape out of that dingy wilderness, that _selva +oscura_, in which I had wandered lost, from childhood even down to the +very middle of life’s journey. They represented at any rate for me a +deliverance from the idiotic fatuous life I had been submerged in all my +boyhood at Brighton, and more or less ever since. They represented, if +nothing more, a life close to Nature and actual materials, shrewd, +strong, manly, independent, not the least polite or proper, thoroughly +human and kindly, and spent for the most part in the fields and under +the open sky. + +My visits to little Bradway and the farm became more and more frequent. +I was accepted cordially by both households. I joined in the farm work, +and spent long evenings with the boy and his uncle in the cowhouse or +with the two families round their kitchen fire—quaint scenes of fun and +merriment which are graven on my mind, but which it would take too long +to recount here. I soon formed a plan of coming to live if possible with +these good people, and carrying on my lectures even from this distance +out in the country. + +It took a little time to arrange anything, but after some months it was +agreed that Fearnehough should move into another cottage a little +distance off (since the one he occupied was so small) and that I should +lodge with him for a time. Accordingly (in May 1880) he migrated with +his family to the neighboring parish of Totley, and I joined them there; +but in March of the following year, the adjacent cottage to the old one +on Fox’s land having become vacant, and Fox having thrown the two into +one, we returned to Bradway and resumed our old relations on the farm. + +I had managed to carry on my lectures from Totley—indeed I had added a +new course, on the “History of Music,” and one that interested me much, +to my former ones; but it was certainly inconvenient, carrying on the +work from such a distance in the country; and new interests and forces +were growing within me. + +The life, especially since our return to Bradway, was so different from +anything to which I had before been accustomed, it was so congenial in +many respects, so native, so unrestrained, it seemed to liberate the +pent-up emotionality of years. All the feelings which had sought, in +suffering and in distress, their stifled expression within me during the +last seven or eight years, gathered themselves together to a new and +more joyous utterance. My physical health was every day becoming better. +There was a new beauty over the world. Everywhere I paused, in the lanes +or the fields, or on my way to or from the station, to catch some magic +sound, some intimation of a perpetual freedom and gladness such as earth +and its inhabitants (it seemed to me) had hardly yet dreamed of. I +remember that, all that time, I was haunted by an image, a vision within +me, of something like the bulb and bud, with short green blades, of a +huge hyacinth just appearing above the ground. I knew that it +represented vigour and abounding life. But now I seem to see that, in +the strange emblematic way in which the soul sometimes speaks, this +image may have been a sign of the fact that my life had really at last +taken root, and was beginning rapidly to grow. + +Another thing happened about this time. On the 25th January 1881 my +mother died. Her death affected me profoundly. Though there had been (as +I have explained elsewhere) so little in the way of spoken confidences +between us, we were united by a strong invisible tie. For months, even +years, after her death, I seemed to feel her, even see her, close to +me—always figuring as a semi-luminous presence, very real, but faint in +outline, larger than mortal. It was an inexpressibly tender and +consoling relation. Gradually, in the course of years, the presence, or +the sense of it, faded away, becoming less and less objective, into the +background of my mind, where it remains now, more as it were an actual +part of myself than it was then. + +Her death at this moment exercised perhaps a great etherealizing +influence on my mind, exhaling the great mass of feelings, intuitions, +conceptions, and views of life and the world which had formed within +me, into another sphere. The _Bhagavat Gita_ about the same time +falling into my hands gave me a keynote. And all at once I found +myself in touch with a mood of exaltation and inspiration—a kind of +super-consciousness—which passed all that I had experienced before, +and which immediately harmonized all these other feelings, giving to +them their place, their meaning and their outlet in expression. + +And so it was that _Towards Democracy_ came to birth. I was in fact +completely taken captive by this new growth within me, and could hardly +finish my course of lectures for the preoccupation. Already I was +speculating how I could cut myself free. No sooner were the lectures +over (about the end of April 1881) than I began writing _Towards +Democracy_. It seemed all ready there. I never hesitated for a moment. +Day by day it came along from point to point. I did not hurry: I +expressed everything with slow care and to my best; I utilized former +material which I had by me; but the one illuminating mood remained and +everything fell into place under it; and rarely did I find it necessary +to remodel, or rearrange to any great extent, anything that I had once +written. + +I soon saw that the whole utterance would take a long time. I decided to +give up my lecturing work so as to be quite unhampered. And I did so. +What with my savings from Cambridge days, and a small income of fifty or +sixty pounds a year springing from them, I knew I could live well enough +for a few years—and so I felt supremely happy. It became necessary also +to have some place in which to sit many hours a day writing—and so I +knocked together a kind of wooden sentinel-box, placed it in a quiet +corner of the garden, overlooking far fields, and thither resorted all +through the summer, and into the autumn, and far away through the +winter. + +What sweet times were those! all the summer to the hum of the bees in +the leafage, the robins and chaffinches hopping around, an occasional +large bird flying by, the men away at work in the fields, the consuming +pressure of the work within me, the wonderment how it would turn out; +the days there in the rain, or in the snow; nights sometimes, with +moonlight or a little lamp to write by; far far away from anything +polite or respectable, or any sign or symbol of my hated old life. Then +the afternoons at work with my friends in the fields, hoeing and +singling turnips or getting potatoes, or down in Sheffield on into the +evenings with new companions among new modes of life and work—everything +turning and shaping itself into material for my poem. There was a sense +to me of inevitableness in it all, and of being borne along, which gave +me good courage, notwithstanding occasional natural doubts; and a sense +too of unspeakable relief and deliverance, after all those long years of +gestation, as of a woman with her child. + +In about a year, that is, by early in 1882, _Towards Democracy_—that is +the long first poem which bears that name—was completed except for some +technical revisions. The child, conceived and carried in pain and +anguish, was at last brought into the world. + +Some further details with regard to the genesis of _Towards Democracy_ +were given in a short paper in the _Labour Prophet_ for May 1894, and +are now reprinted as a Note to the editions of _Towards Democracy_; and +the history of its publication is given in Chapter XI below. + +[Illustration: + + E. C. (1887), AGE 43. +] + + + + + VI + MANUAL WORK AND MARKET-GARDENING + + +In April 1882 my father died; and I was at once whirled out of my land +of dreams into a very different sphere. It became necessary for me to +return home, to Brighton, and handle, as executor, a considerable +estate—divisible among ten children. The investments were chiefly in +American securities—and they gave a lot of trouble! I stayed at Brighton +four or five months, dealing with solicitors, brokers, officials, +relatives—selling, negotiating, dividing, transferring without end—doing +the work of a lawyer’s clerk in fact. Indeed our solicitor remarked one +day, perhaps rather plaintively, that it was lucky I had had the time to +spare, as it had saved the family no doubt some hundreds of pounds! Of +course the work was not really finished for three or four years, but the +thick of it was got through that summer, and after that I returned to my +beloved Bradway. + +My forced stay at Brighton brought out into strong relief the contrast +between the old life and the new. I felt more than ever the futility and +irksomeness of the old order. I missed my companions of the North, I +grieved more than ever over the wasted lives around me in the South—but +it was with a new sense, the knowledge that there was something better. +I employed my spare time in writing shorter pieces in the style of +_Towards Democracy_ and revising what I had already written, using my +new surroundings again as a point of view under the great light of my +main inspiration. My unmarried sisters remained on for a few years at +Brighton after my father’s death, keeping the house together much as of +old. Then they removed to London, and at last (in 1886) the old house +and furniture were sold and its doors closed on the family who had +occupied it for forty years. + +At the end of the summer of which I am speaking—about September 1882—I +returned to my home at Bradway. My father’s death had left me (more or +less prospectively) possessor of about £6,000—which with my little +savings of earlier years, seemed quite a large fortune—too large +indeed—it rather weighed on my mind![12] My lectures were over and done +with; some years of literary work were before me, but obviously not of a +paying sort, either in the way of wages or fame. The question was What +should I do? + +I might have simply settled down into an armchair literary life. I +really don’t know exactly why I didn’t. But the fancy for manual work +had seized me, and for some reason or other, nothing but a life of that +kind would satisfy me—only it must be in the open air. No sooner had my +father died than I made up my mind to buy a piece of land and work on it +as a market-gardener. + +No doubt it was a healthy instinct. The motive was in the main a purely +personal one. I felt (and rightly) the need of physical work, of +open-air life and labour—something primitive to restore my overworn +constitution. I felt the need directly and instinctively, not as a thing +argued out and intellectually concluded. I have sometimes been credited +with making this move onto the land in pursuance of some great theory or +scheme of social salvation! But it was not so. There was no idea of this +kind in it, or if there was, it was of a very secondary character. My +thought was my own need. But I may have had some feeling that a life of +this kind was more honest than the alternative, and I think also that I +felt it would bring me more decisively into touch with the great body of +the people (a strong motive at the time)—and so far I believe these two +motives had some secondary play. + +At any rate I never felt much doubt about the move. I persuaded +Fearnehough, after a little time, to join me if I should settle +anywhere; and then I set looking out for a bit of land. But that was not +easy to find. At intervals for many months I scoured the country in the +neighborhood of Sheffield, but could find nothing there except the small +holding at Millthorpe, which though good land and in a lovely situation, +with water, etc., seemed too far from town to be available for market +purposes. Then I went down into Worcestershire; but in truth the +difficulty of finding a small freehold anywhere in England—especially +with good soil and near a market—is great; and being no more successful +in Worcestershire I returned to Sheffield. Ultimately and being (as +usual in such things) more compelled by necessity than of my own choice, +I fell back on the seven acres at Millthorpe which I now occupy. Of +course I could not help rejoicing in the lovely necessity of living in +such a place—the charming brook running at the foot of my three fields, +the beautiful wooded valley, and the close proximity, a mile or so off, +of the open moors. But I had some misgiving, not only about the market +side of the question, but about living so completely gulfed in the +country—eight or nine miles from a town centre—for I had never tried +anything of the kind before. + +I spent the winter of ’82 and ’83 mostly at Bradway, continuing my +writing and other life there, in the intervals of the search for land. +About Easter ’83 I came to terms for the purchase of the three fields at +Millthorpe, and soon after that I set to house-building. The house was +finished by the end of the summer, and in October ’83 the Fearnehoughs +and I moved in. About the same time I published through John Heywood of +Manchester, my first poem _Towards Democracy_. + +It was a small thin volume of 110 pages, meant for the pocket. It was +sent out to the Press, but excited very little comment, except as the +ravings of some anonymous author. Yet after a time, faithful to its +charge, it came back to me, bringing dear and true friends from all +sorts of unlikely places and distant parts of the world; and has not +ceased to do so since. Not long after its publication Havelock Ellis +picked it up on a second-hand bookstall in London, and wrote to me; and +he again brought me into communication with Olive Schreiner, whose +_African Farm_ was then beginning to attract attention. + +That winter, of ’83–’84, was spent in hard work, getting the house and +the yard and out-buildings in order, laying out the garden ground, +digging up the grass-land, planting fruit and other trees, etc. And so +were the summers and winters following, for four or five years. + +That strange œstrum of hard manual work, and digging down to the very +roots of things, spurred me on. I hardly know how to account for it. It +possessed me. Every habit, every custom or practice of daily +life—house-arrangement, diet, dress, medicine, etc., was overhauled and +rigorously scrutinized. I worked for hours and for whole days together +out in the open field, or garden, or digging drains with pick and +shovel, or carting along the roads; going into Chesterfield and loading +and fetching manure, or to the coalpit for coal, grooming and bedding +down the horse, or getting off to market at 6 a.m. with vegetables and +fruit, and standing in the market behind a stall till 1 or 2 p.m.; I was +not satisfied but I must do everything that was necessary to be done, +myself. + +It was a considerable strain. With my somewhat vague aspiring mind, to +be imprisoned in the rude details of a most material life was often +irksome. Yet a consuming passion drove me on—a desire to know, to do +something real, an evil conscience perhaps of the past unreality of my +existence. I was compelled to eat it all out. + +I carried on, for those first three or four years, the superintendence +(of course with the help of my friend and his wife) of house and garden, +with their manifold points of detail. I went on with my writing—adding +essays on social subjects (“England’s Ideal” and others) to my poems; +and I started lecturing on similar topics. + +It was too much. I remember that period as a time of great strain. I +felt indeed the isolation of the country—gulfed as I was among a +perfectly illiterate unprogressive country population (much more so than +at Bradway), with my friend and his family, who though good and true +people were also quite limited to material interests. There was no one +to whom I could talk, who could give me any help. My Sheffield friends +were far away, only to be seen once a week or so, and (in the early +years at any rate) visitors at Millthorpe were rare. It was too much, +and my health suffered a little; and yet (as I have said) I was driven +to it. It is strange how unaccounted impulses and instincts underlie the +evolution of one’s life. Certainly during those years I (in some ways +the most unlikely person to do so) bottomed out the whole of the +material and mechanical ways of life—from the details of household life +to the processes of agriculture and of a great number of other trades +and industries. It was a training such as no university could give. And +if my health suffered now and then from the strain, _on the whole_ it +improved immensely during this period; so that after five or six years I +threw off completely my nerve troubles, and became stronger than I had +ever been before in my life. + +Two other things happened in 1883 besides my migration to Millthorpe, +and publication of _Towards Democracy_—namely, my first acquaintance +with the Socialist movement, and my reading of Thoreau’s _Walden_. + + +Of course, in a vague form, my ideas had been taking a socialistic shape +for many years; but they were lacking in definite outline—that +definition which is so necessary for all action. That outline as regards +the industrial situation was given me by reading Hyndman’s _England for +All_. However open to criticism the Marxian theory of surplus-value may +be (and _every_ theory must ultimately succumb to criticism), it +certainly fulfilled a want for the time by giving a definite text for +the social argument. The instant I read that chapter in _England for +All_—the mass of floating impressions, sentiments, ideals, etc., in my +mind fell into shape—and I had a clear line of social reconstruction +before me. + +I gave my first semi-socialistic lecture (though I think this was before +reading the above book)—on “Co-operative Production”—in that year; and +later on in the same year I one evening looked in at a committee meeting +of the Social Democratic Federation in Westminster Bridge Road. It was +in the basement of one of those big buildings facing the Houses of +Parliament that I found a group of conspirators sitting. There was +Hyndman, occupying the chair, and with him round the table, William +Morris, John Burns, H. H. Champion, J. L. Joynes, Herbert Burrows (I +think) and others. After that, though I did not actually join the +S.D.F., I kept in touch with them, and was able at a later time to +render material help in the establishment of _Justice_ as their organ. + +From that time forward I worked definitely along the Socialist line: +with a drift, as was natural, towards Anarchism. I do not know that at +any time I looked upon the Socialist programme or doctrines as final, +and it is certain that I never anticipated a cast-iron regulation of +industry, but I saw that the current Socialism afforded an excellent +text for an attack upon the existing competitive system, and a good +means of rousing the slumbering consciences—especially of the rich; and +in that view I have worked for it and the Anarchist ideal consistently. + +The other thing that happened in 1883 was my reading of Thoreau’s +_Walden_. Just about the very day that I got into my new house and onto +my plot of land—the realization of the plotting and scheming of some +years—that book fell into my hands, which took the bottom completely out +of my little bucket! Having just committed myself to all the +exasperations of carrying on a house and market-garden and the petty but +innumerable bothers of ‘trade,’ the charming ideal of a simplification +of life below the level of all such things was opened out before me—and +for the time I felt almost paralyzed. + +Whatever the practical value of the Walden experiment may be, there is +no question that the book is one of the most vital and pithy ever +written. Its ideal of life spent with Nature on the very ground-plane of +simplicity (though probably only permanently realizable by a highly +cultured humanity, having access to all the results of art and science, +as Thoreau had at Concord) has yet shattered the conventional views of +thousands of people. It helped, I must confess, to make me uncomfortable +for some years. I felt that I had aimed at a natural life and completely +failed—that I might somehow have escaped from this blessed civilization +altogether—and now I was tied up worse than ever, on its commercial +side. + +What sort of line my life would have taken if Thoreau had come to me a +year earlier, I cannot tell. It is certain that there would have been a +considerable difference. Perhaps it is lucky I was not drifted away by +him and stranded, too far from the currents of ordinary life. At any +rate I do not regret now that things happened as they did. Instead of +escaping into solitude and the wilds of nature—which would have +satisfied one side—but perhaps not the most persistent—of my character, +I was tied to the traffic of ordinary life, and thrown inevitably into +touch with all sorts of people. + +Early in 1883, as I have said, I gave my first lecture on social +questions, and from that time forward I spoke on these subjects. In the +summer of ’84 I went again to the United States, my chief object again +being to see Whitman—though I had also friends to visit. I crossed the +Atlantic as a steerage passenger—in a big Inman boat, the _City of +Berlin_—with seven or eight hundred other steerage passengers. It was a +great experience. I have described it in my poem “On an Atlantic +Steamship.” The fact of my venturing it shows the determination with +which I was working down into a knowledge of the life of the people. +Besides, I had crossed as a _saloon_ passenger before, and I felt that +_that_ was intolerable! The experience was not nearly so rude as I had +expected. We had good weather, which of course is everything, and were +on deck all day; the nationalities, Swedes, German, Irish, English, +etc., were kept apart from each other below; I secured a cabin with a +very decent set of young English fellows, and we got on first-rate. The +food was quite clean and good. So well satisfied was I that I actually +_returned_ (from Quebec) in the steerage section! + +I spent three or four days in Philadelphia and saw Whitman each day (of +which I have given an account elsewhere[13]); and then went on to +Massachusetts. The visit to Whitman did not help me so much as the first +time. He was very friendly; he gave me introductions to Dr. Bucke in +Canada, and to W. Sloane Kennedy, and was generally kind; but his +self-centredness (arising no doubt largely from physical causes) had +increased, and seemed difficult to overcome. + +In Massachusetts I stayed with my friends the Rileys, who had at one +time been on St. George’s farm (Ruskin’s) near Sheffield. They were now +on a farm near Townsend Centre, and I remained with them about three +weeks, joining in the life, doing a bit on the farm with them, and +seeing something of the neighbours. George Riley, the son, and I were +chums, and spent some of the time walking together—on one occasion a two +days ‘out’ to Wachusett, mountain and lake, a charming neighborhood. +During the time I also visited Sloane Kennedy, at Belmont, and together +we went to Walden pond, bathed in it, and added a stone to Thoreau’s +cairn. Thence to Pennsylvania, beyond Pittsburg, to stay with Mrs. Hardy +and her three daughters—also people I had known in Sheffield—who +together were ‘running’ a big farm and making it pay well, an excellent +example of female management. Thence, after a pleasant stay of four or +five days, across Lake Erie to Toronto and so to London, to see Dr. +Bucke. Dr. Bucke was acting as head and superintendent of a large Asylum +for Insane folk—over a thousand patients—which he managed excellently. I +found him very interesting. We had long talks about Whitman; he showed +me his Whitman books, pictures, etc., and then after another four or +five days I got the steamer at Toronto, and went down the St. Lawrence +to Quebec. The Lake itself, the passages of the thousand islands and of +the successive rapids, were a great delight. I had only an hour or two +at Quebec, unfortunately—not time to see much of the town; and then I +embarked on the _Parisian_ for home. Here again the lower reaches of +this magnificent river, the coast of Gaspé, and of Labrador, the +hundreds of icebergs we saw that day, becalmed in a glassy blue sea, and +in blazing sunlight, were most interesting. We slipped through the +straits of Belle-Isle and had an enjoyable passage to Liverpool. + + +It was, I think, some little time before the events recorded in the +first part of this chapter—though I cannot be quite sure about the +date—that I had the signal experience of meeting with Edward J. +Trelawny, the devoted friend of Shelley and the companion of Byron. For +years and years—until indeed the star of Whitman rose in the +West—Shelley had been my own ideal. To grasp Trelawny’s hand was to gain +an unexpected link with a far remote past. + +Trelawny’s life had been one of extraordinary adventure. To understand +even a part of it one must read his _Adventures of a Younger Son_ +(largely his own story), and his book _Records of Shelley, Byron, and +the Author_ (1858 and 1878). Born in 1792 of a well-known Cornish family +he joined the Navy as a mere boy, and then at an early age _deserted_ +and took up, according to his own account, with a pirate gang among the +seas of Java and Borneo. After some amazing adventures, he returned in +about 1813 to Europe; and soon after married an English lady. Of this +period however, between 1813 and 1820, very little seems to be known, +except that he himself says: “I became a shackled, careworn and +spirit-broken married man of the civilized West!” It was in 1820 at +Lausanne that a German bookseller chanced to show him _Queen Mab_; and a +little later, at Geneva, that he met Thomas Medwin, Shelley’s cousin. +The reading of the book and the conversations with Medwin convinced +Trelawny that here was a man worth knowing; and he did not rest till a +year or two later he went to Pisa and actually made Shelley’s +acquaintance (early in 1822). The two were about the same age; and it +shows something of what manner of man Trelawny was, that he so quickly +recognized the quality of Shelley; and something of what Shelley was +that he so soon commanded the admiration of this buccaneer and man of +adventure. After Shelley’s death Trelawny was with Byron a great deal, +both as Captain of Byron’s yacht and companion in his expedition to +Greece; but he never expressed a great regard for Byron—perhaps indeed +he hardly did the latter justice. Byron died at Missolonghi in 1824; but +Trelawny stayed on in Greece, joined the Greek cause against the Turks, +took to wife the sister of Ulysses, or Odysseus, a Greek chieftain, +lived for some time with him and his guerilla band in a cave on Mount +Parnassus, and was nearly killed there by a bullet from a spy. These and +many other things are written in the _Records_ above mentioned. + +Later, after his return to England, and somewhere about 1840, Trelawny +fell in love with a certain Lady Goring, and finally induced her to +leave her husband and live with him. And it was this, curiously enough, +which at a later period led to my acquaintance with him. Lady Goring’s +son, by the old Sir Harry, married a cousin of mine, and when a boy of +sixteen or seventeen I used occasionally to go and stay with the young +pair at Highden near Worthing where they lived, and where I was +initiated in the mysteries of coursing, ferreting, etc., which were very +much in the order of the day there. Charles Goring, my cousin’s husband, +was the very type of the “bold bad baronet” of the shilling novels—a +type fairly common then, though almost extinct now—a rather handsome man +with fierce twirlable moustache, and thoroughly bearish manners, given +to swearing and drinking, and devoted to his dogs and guns. Whatever +induced my cousin—who was the sweetest and gentlest of girls—to marry +him I do not know. But that is always the way: the mild and forgiving +women marry the wicked men, and of course make the latter all the +wickeder by doing so! In course of time he grew a little tired of his +wife (there were no children) and behaved badly towards her. Then his +mother died—whom he had not seen since she ran away with Trelawny, some +twenty-five or more years before; and so, seized with some sort of +compunction after all this time, Charles Goring went on a pilgrimage to +his mother’s adopted home; found there Trelawny _and_ his mother’s +daughter by Trelawny—his own stepsister, by that time a rather beautiful +girl or young woman. + +From all this complications arose, which I need not go into, but which +ultimately in an indirect way led to a somewhat celebrated affair in the +Divorce Courts—the Goring Case of the year 1878. Suffice it to say that +soon after these unfortunate squabbles were over, Charles Goring had the +grace to die, and my cousin (who had obtained a separation order) was +left quite free. It was then that I asked her one day to give me an +introduction to Edward Trelawny, which she willingly did. + +I found him at the house which he was then occupying in Pelham Crescent, +S.W.—No. 7 I think—a quite old man of about eighty-seven or +eighty-eight, rugged to a degree, with sunken eyes and projecting +cheek-bones, but with a strange gleam of fire about him even at that +age—not unlike some semi-extinct volcano—and the appearance of what had +once been a rather massive and powerful frame. He was sitting in a high +chair near the fire with a pile of books on the floor beside him. “You +are interested in Shelley,” he said. And then without waiting for a +reply: “He was our greatest poet since Shakespeare.” And then: “He +couldn’t have been the poet he was if he had not been an Atheist.” That +was a pretty good beginning; he rolled out the “Atheist” with evident +satisfaction. He went on to express his contempt for the contemporary +poets, like Tennyson and Browning; then returned to Shelley: “I am not +sure he wasn’t the greatest man we have ever had: all these others just +tinker with the surface; Shelley goes down to the roots.” We talked a +little about individual poems, but I forget what. Then he took up one of +the books beside him—a Godwin’s _Political Justice_, and read extracts +from it—always with a choice which showed his hatred of modern +Civilization. (And this was interesting from one who had seen so much of +the world outside the bounds of our civilization.) Indeed there was +something astonishing in this old man’s intensity of rebelliousness, +which extreme age had apparently done nothing to reduce. He directed my +attention to an oil-portrait over the mantelpiece: “Do you know who that +is?” I guessed. It was a portrait—apparently not a very good one—of +Mary, Percy Shelley’s wife[14]: the face rather milk-and-watery in +expression. “She did him no good,” he said—“was always a drag on +him—shackling him with jealousies and the conventions of social life.” +[Trelawny was never quite fair to any one he did not like, and it was +evident he did not like Mary—though in the earlier days of their +acquaintance he had certainly been fond of her.] “Poets,” he continued, +“ought never to marry. It’s the greatest mistake. A poet ought to be +free as air—free to say and do what he pleases—and he cannot be free if +he is married.” This was pretty good from a man who had been so very +_much_ married as Trelawny! + +He had had four wives at least—no one knew how many more. His first wife +(as appears also from _The Younger Son_) was a girl of Borneo. The +second was the lady who filled somehow the gap between 1813 and 1820. +The third, as we have seen, was a Greek, the sister of Odysseus; the +fourth was the former Lady Goring. There were many stories about him in +the family, mostly no doubt somewhat embellished. His second wife, it +was said, was only a small woman, and when she was “naughty” he would +dangle her by the scruff of her neck _out of the window_, until she was +good again. He had various dried heads, of pirates and others, among his +treasures; and swords and daggers stained with the blood of enemies! Our +conversation rambled on, but at this distance of time I forget details. +As I say, it gave me a strange thrill on leaving (and he died soon +after) to grasp the hand of one who had been so near to Shelley, and +whose character undoubtedly had a great fascination for the poet. In +Shelley’s _Fragments of an Unfinished Drama_ (in which the Pirate on the +Enchanted Isle is generally supposed to represent Trelawny), the poet +says— + + He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, + As terrible and lovely as a tempest. + +On the other hand Trelawny in the Preface to his _Records_ says of +Shelley: “After glancing one day at an old Italian romance, in which a +knight of Malta throws down the gauntlet defying all infidels, Shelley +remarked: ‘_I_ should have picked it up. All our knowledge is derived +from infidels.’” These two quotations give a good idea of the relation +between the two men. + + + + + VII + SHEFFIELD AND SOCIALISM + + +During my absence in the United States, my friend Harold Cox, who had +just left Cambridge, came down to Millthorpe and spent a good part of +the summer there—remaining a bit after my return home. He wanted to get +manual and farm and garden experience, and that same autumn he plunged +into farming—took a farm at Tilford in Surrey, and inducted a little +colony into it. But the land was mere sand, and the experience of one +winter and spring was enough! In less than a year he gave the place up, +and went out, by way of a change, to India, to the Anglo-Mohammedan +College at Futtehgur. While in India he went in ’85 or ’86 for a tour in +Cashmere, and from Cashmere he sent me a pair of Indian sandals. I had +asked him, before he went out, to send some likely pattern of sandals, +as I felt anxious to try some myself. I soon found the joy of wearing +them. And after a little time I set about making them. I got two or +three lessons from W. Lill, a bootmaker friend in Sheffield, and soon +succeeded in making a good many pairs for myself and various friends. +Since then the trade has grown into quite a substantial one. G. Adams +took it up at Millthorpe in 1889; making, I suppose, about a hundred or +more pairs a year; and since his death it has been carried on at the +Garden City, Letchworth. + +In 1885 I published the second edition of _Towards Democracy_—still +through John Heywood; and early in ’86 quite an important local event +occurred in the establishment of our Sheffield Socialist Society. One or +two of us beat round the town and got together a few Socialists and +advanced Radicals; we persuaded William Morris to come down (early in +March)—and the result of that was the formation of the Society. + +At that time, William Morris, having with a few others parted from +Hyndman and the S.D.F., had founded the Socialist League—branches of +which were springing up merrily all over the country. And it was William +Morris’s great hope, often expressed in the _Commonweal_ and elsewhere, +that these branches growing and spreading, would before long “reach +hands” to each other and form a network over the land—would constitute +in fact “the New Society” within the framework of the old, and destined +ere long to replace the old. No doubt the forces of reaction—the immense +apathy of the masses, the immense resistance of the official and +privileged classes, entrenched behind the Law and the State, and the +immense and growing power of Money—were things not then fully realized +and understood. There seemed a good hope for the realization of Morris’ +dream—and we most of us shared in it. But History is a difficult horse +to drive. In this matter of the Socialist movement, as in other matters, +it has always been liable to take the most unexpected turns; and the +little League societies after flourishing gaily for a few years—suddenly +began to wane and die out; I believe indeed that at this moment there is +not one of them left. Morris saw with some sadness that his hope was not +going to be fulfilled—and though I do not think that he altogether lost +heart he was fain in his last years to bury his disappointment in a +return to his art work, and even to favour as a forlorn hope the +Parliamentary side in revolutionary politics! It is curious indeed in +this matter to see how, of all the innumerable little societies—of the +S.D.F., the League, the Fabians, the Christian Socialists, the +Anarchists, the Freedom groups, the I.L.P., the Clarion societies, and +local groups of various names—all supporting one side or another of the +general Socialist movement—not one of them has grown to any great +volume, or to commanding and permanent influence; and how yet, and at +the same time, the general teaching and ideals of the movement have +permeated society in the most remarkable way, and have deeply infected +the views of all classes, as well as general literature and even +municipal and imperial politics. Perhaps it is a matter for much +congratulation that things have turned out so. If the movement had been +pocketed by any one man or section it would have been inevitably +narrowed down. As it is, it has taken on something of an oceanic +character; and if by its very lack of narrowness it has lost a little in +immediate results, its ultimate success we may think is all the more +assured. + +The real value of the modern Socialist movement—it has always seemed to +me—has not lain so much in its actual constructive programme as (1) in +the fact that it has provided a text for a searching criticism of the +old society and of the lives of the rich, and (2) the fact that it has +enshrined a most glowing and vital enthusiasm towards the realization of +a new society. It is these two points which have always drawn and +attached me to it. The constructive details of the future are things +about which there may and indeed must be different opinions. The +necessity of organization in society, and of united action, the +avoidance of officialism and bureaucracy, the handling of the land so as +to afford the most general access to it, the barring of monopolies and +of all industrial parasitism, the liberation of labour to dignity and +self-reliance, the conduct of public ownership, the questions of +taxation, representation, education, etc.—these are all most complex +affairs whose united and detailed solution can only proceed step by +step, by slow trial and experience. We must expect mistakes and +differences of opinion here. Nevertheless I think we may say that in the +broad lines of its constructive policy Socialism has taken the right +course and the one which time will justify. It has laid down in fact +once for all the principles that parasitism and monopoly must cease, and +it has set before itself the ideal of a society which while it accords +to every individual as full scope as possible for the exercise of his +faculties and enjoyment of the fruits of his own labour, will in return +expect from the individual his hearty contribution to the general +well-being, and at least to claim nothing for his own which (or the +value of which) he has not by his own effort produced. Towards the +fulfilment of these aims Socialism has proposed a guarded public +ownership of land and of some of the more important industries (guarded, +that is, against the dangers of officialism), and it seems likely that +this general programme is the one along which western society will work +in the near future; that is, till such time as the State, quâ State, and +all efficient Government, are superseded by the voluntary and +instinctive consent and mutual helpfulness of the people—when of course +the more especially Anarchist ideal would be realized. + +As I say, while there is practically no dissent about the future form of +society as one which shall embody to the fullest extent the two opposite +poles of Communism and Individualism in one vital unity, there may and +naturally must be differences on the question of the detailed working +out of the problem, and indeed it may well be that the solution will +take somewhat different forms in different places and among different +peoples. + +It has not been, I repeat, the belief in special constructive details as +panaceas which has led me into the Socialist camp, so much as the fact +that the movement has been a distinct challenge to the old order and a +call to the rich and those in power to remodel society and their own +lives; and that other fact that within the Socialist camp has burned +that wonderful enthusiasm and belief in a new ideal of fraternity—which +however crude and inexperienced it may at times appear is surely +destined to conquer and rule the world at last. + +It is this latter side of the movement which by the outsider is so +little known and understood. Those who stand outside a revolutionary +agitation, or who look down on it from above, necessarily only see the +defiant subversive elements of it, they do not guess the glowing heart +within. To me, passing from time to time from one stratum of life to +quite another, it was a strange experience and not without its comic +side, to see the wildly different features which one and the same +movement wore to those within and those without; to hear Socialism +spoken of from above, as nothing but an envious shriek and a threat, a +gospel of bread and butter, a grab, a “divide up all round”—the work of +unscrupulous demagogues and tinsel politicians; and then the next moment +to pass into the heart of the thing and to find oneself in an atmosphere +of the most simple fraternity and idealism, where the coming of the +kingdom of Heaven, a kingdom of social order and decency, was +entertained with a childlike faith that might almost make one smile; +where it seemed only necessary to go out into the streets and preach the +better ideals for crowds to flock to the standard; and where, if a +betterment of conditions was the main thing sought for, it was a +betterment of social life and a satisfaction of the needs of the heart +fully as much as an increased allowance of bread and butter. It was a +strange experience to pass from cold to hot, and from hot to cold, as it +were, and to realize how little those in the one current could +understand what was going on in the other. + +Certainly from what experience I have had of a movement at one time +thought very revolutionary, I am inclined to think that most revolutions +must have been pretty well justified before they took place. One hears +of dangerous mobs led by demagogues and fed on fancied wrongs; and of +course there are such things in every movement as self-seeking +blusterers, or designing misleaders; there is ignorance and +non-reasoning exasperation; but my experience of the (British) masses is +that instead of being too inflammable, they are surely only too _slow_ +to move, too slow to perceive the burdens which they bear, or to point +out the cause of their own suffering; and—in the Socialist agitation—the +number and influence of the blusterers and self-seekers compared with +the genuine leaders has always been very small. No, revolutions do not +take place without cause; and I doubt whether in any case the excesses +accompanying a rising have exceeded the cruelties and injuries of the +preceding tyranny. There is such a heart of tenderness and patient +common sense in the mass of the people—everywhere I believe—as to +convince one that, notwithstanding the slanders that have been heaped up +by the armchair historian, they are really more inclined to endure than +to accuse, more ready to forgive than retaliate. No—the general +Socialist movement (including therein the Anarchist) has done and is +still doing a great and necessary work—and I am proud to have belonged +to it. It has defined a dream and an ideal, that of the common life +conjoined to the free individuality, which somewhere and somewhen must +be realized, because it springs from and is the expression of the very +root-nature of Man. + +Our “Sheffield Socialists,” though common working men and women, +understood well enough the broad outlines of this ideal. They hailed +William Morris and his work with the most sincere appreciation. I found +among them the most interesting personalities, saturated for the most +part, as I have said, with the thought of fraternity and fellowship; and +I made one or two lifelong friends. + +[Illustration: + + G. E. H. + + (One of the first “Sheffield Socialists.”) +] + +We organized lectures, addresses, pamphlets, with a street-corner +propaganda which soon brought us in amusing and exciting incidents in +the way of wrangles with the police and the town-crowds. At first an +atmosphere of considerable suspicion rested upon the movement, and +dynamite and daggers were assumed by outsiders to be indispensable parts +of our equipment; but as time went on, and after a few years, this died +away—and where there had been only jeers or taunts at first, crowds came +to listen with serious and sympathetic mien. A dozen or twenty at most +formed the moving and active element of our society—though its +membership may have been a hundred or more; and these disposed +themselves to their various functions. Mrs. Usher, large-bosomed and +large-hearted, would move on the outskirts of our open-air meetings, +armed with a bundle of literature. She was an excellent saleswoman and +few could resist her hearty appeal “Buy this pamphlet, love, it will do +you good!” Even in the streets or the tramcars the most solemn and +substantial old gentlemen fell a prey to her. Her brothers, the two +Binghams, were among our two speakers, and both of them pretty +effective, the one in a logical, the other in a more oratorical way. +They were provision merchants in the town; and their business suffered +at first, but afterwards gained, by the connection. Then there was +Shortland, handsome, fiery and athletic, an engine fitter, always ready +for a row and to act as ‘chucker out’ if required. Or J. M. Brown, who +took quite an opposite part. He (tailor by trade) the very picture of +kindness and broad good-nature would move among the crowd as if he +hardly belonged to us, and engaging persuasively in conversation, first +with one and then with another, would draw many a doubter into the fold; +or George E. Hukin, with his Dutch-featured face and Dutch build—no +speaker, nor prominent in public—but though young an excellent help at +our committee meetings, where his shrewd strong brain and tactful nature +gave his counsels much weight; and always from the beginning a special +ally of mine; or George Adams, afterwards associated with me at +Millthorpe, with his amusing quips and sallies, and plucky antagonisms, +a good friend and a good hater, and always ready for an adventurous +bout; or Raymond Unwin, who would come over from Chesterfield to help +us, a young man of cultured antecedents, of first-rate ability and good +sense, healthy, democratic, vegetarian, and now I need not say a +well-known architect and promoter of Garden Cities. + +Then at one time there was Fred Charles—who was afterwards accused of an +anarchist plot and sentenced, most unfairly, to ten years’ hard labour. +He was already leaning to the Anarchist side of the movement, but was +ready to work with us; and certainly was one of the most devoted of +workers. No surrender or sacrifice for the ‘cause’ was too great for +him; and as to his own earnings (as clerk) or possessions, he +practically gave them all away to tramps or the unemployed. The case was +tried at Stafford in March ’92 by Justice Hawkins, and though the +incriminating evidence was quite slender yet, there being a panic on at +the time with regard to Anarchism, there was an obvious determination to +convict. I appeared in the box to testify to Charles’ excellent +character and public spirit, but needless to say without success. Or +there was Burton, enginetenter, rather a type of the stout, somewhat +self-satisfied and ignorant street-speaker, who would get us into +trouble shouting “The land for the people!” or other cant phrases of the +period, with really no clear idea of what they meant, and would have to +be rescued when attacked or challenged by some keener critic among the +audience; or again, Jonathan Taylor, the very opposite in type to these, +tall, lean, logical and conclusive to the last degree; who with a kind +of homely unconquerable humour, compelled his hearers from finger to +finger, and from point to point, of his argument, and somehow always +succeeded in holding the most restive crowd, and for any period. He had +been on the school-board at one time, and was useful to us also by his +knowledge of local and municipal expediencies. Or again, John Furniss: +he was a remarkable man, and perhaps the very first to preach the modern +Socialism in the streets of Sheffield. A quarryman by trade, keen and +wiry both in body and in mind, a thorough-going _Christian_ Socialist, +and originally I believe a bit of a local preacher; he had somehow at an +early date got hold of the main ideas of the movement; and in the early +’eighties used to stride in—he and his companion George Pearson—five or +six miles over the Moors, to Sheffield in order to speak at the Pump or +the Monolith; and then stride out again in the middle of the night. And +this he kept up for years and years, and when later he migrated to +another quarry about the same distance from Chesterfield did exactly the +same thing there; for perhaps twenty years, with marvellous energy and +perseverance, he must have kept up this propaganda; and the amount of +effective influence he must have exercised would be hard to reckon. + +Such were some of the characters with whom I found myself associated, +and for five or six years we carried on the Society with the utmost +friendliness, accord and enthusiasm. It was a most interesting time. I +knew all those mentioned and many others, very intimately, was familiar +in their houses, stayed with them, knew all their goings-out and +comings-in, and something of the details of their various trades. + +In 1887 we took a large house and shop in Scotland Street, a poor +district of the town; and opened a café, using the large room above for +a meeting and lecture room, and the house for a joint residence for some +of us who were more immediately concerned in carrying on the business. +We had all sorts of social gatherings, lectures, teas, entertainments in +the Hall—the wives and sisters of the “comrades” helping, especially in +the social work; we had Annie Besant, Charlotte Wilson, Kropotkin, +Hyndman, and other notables down to speak for us; we gave teas to the +slum-children who dwelt in the neighboring crofts and alleys (but these +had at first to be given up on account of the poor little things tearing +themselves and each other to pieces, perfect mobs of them, in their +frantic attempts to gain admittance—a difficulty which no arrangement of +tickets or of personal supervision seemed to obviate); and we organized +excursions into municipal politics; and country propaganda. This last +was often amusing as well as interesting. While, in the towns, as time +went on, audiences grew in numbers and attentiveness, it still remained +very difficult to capture the country districts. The miners would really +not be uninterested, but in their sullen combative way they would take +care not to show it. Many a time we have gone down to some mining +village and taken up our stand on some heap of slag or broken wall, and +the miners would come round and stand about or sit down deliberately +_with their backs to the speaker_, and spit, and converse, as if quite +heedless of the oration going on. But after a time, and as speaker +succeeded speaker, one by one they would turn round—their lower jaws +dropping—fairly captivated by the argument. It was much the same with +the country rustics—but as a rule less successful. I remember on one +occasion seven or eight of us, armed with literature, going for a long +country walk to Hathersage in the Derbyshire dales. We had Tom Maguire +with us, from Leeds, an excellent speaker, full of Irish wit and +persuasiveness. We set him upon a stoneheap in the middle of the village +and standing round him ourselves while he spoke, acted as decoy ducks to +bring the villagers together. The latter full of curiosity came, in +moderate numbers, but not one of them would approach nearer than a +distance of twenty or thirty yards—just far enough to make the speaker +despair of really reaching them. In vain we separated and going round +tried to coax them to come nearer. In vain the speaker shouted himself +hoarse and fired off his best jokes. Not a bit of it—they weren’t going +to be fooled by us! and at last red in the face and out of breath and +with a string of curses, Tom descended from his cairn, and we all, +shaking the dust of the village off our feet, departed! + +I meanwhile and during these years, not only took part in our local +work, but spoke and lectured in the Socialist connection all round the +country—at Bradford, Halifax, Leeds, Glasgow, Dundee, Edinburgh, Hull, +Liverpool, Nottingham and other places—my subjects the failures of the +present Commercial system, and the possible reorganization of the +future. As to the Café, we were only able to hold to it for a year. +Though quite a success from the propagandist point of view, financially +it was a failure. The refreshment department was not patronized nearly +enough to make it pay. The neighborhood was an exceedingly poor one. And +so we were obliged to surrender the place, and retire to smaller +quarters. During that year however I really lived most of the time at +the Scotland Street place. I occupied a large attic at the top of the +house, _almost_ high enough to escape the smells of the street below, +but exposed to showers of blacks which fell from the innumerable +chimneys around. In the early morning at 5 a.m. there was the strident +sound of the ‘hummers’ and the clattering of innumerable clogs of men +and girls going to their work, and on till late at night there were +drunken cries and shouting. Far around stretched nothing but factory +chimneys and foul courts inhabited by the wretched workers. It was, I +must say, frightfully depressing; and all the more so because of tragic +elements in my personal life at the time. Only the enthusiasm of our +social work, and the abiding thoughts which had inspired _Towards +Democracy_ kept me going. I spent my spare time during the year in +arranging and editing the collection of songs and music called _Chants +of Labour_—a thing which might have been much better done by some one +else, but I could find no one to do it. And it was a queer experience, +collecting these songs of hope and enthusiasm, and composing such +answering tunes and harmonies as I could, in the midst of these gloomy +and discordant conditions. + +As I say, we only stayed a year here, and as far as my health was +concerned I don’t think I could have endured it much longer. I realized +the terrible drawback to health and vitality consequent on living in +these slums of manufacturing towns, and the way these conditions are +inevitably sapping the strength of our populations. + + + + + VIII + TRADE AND PHILOSOPHY + + +In 1887 or 1888 I turned over the organization and commercial side of +the garden at Millthorpe to my friend Albert Fearnehough. During the +first four years or so I had taken the responsibility, and by many +mistakes bought some valuable experience—but now I found that my +literary and social work demanded so much time that I wanted my brain +free from agricultural cares. So after this, while still contributing a +fair amount of manual labour I left the organization alone. + +I cannot say that, adopting the commercial standard, the experiment at +Millthorpe could at any time be called _paying_. At the same time it was +never (to me) disheartening. Taking strawberries as our main crop, we +found, with several years’ experience, that £40 per acre was a fair +estimate of the gross produce. (And I do not think that this is +excessive since I know that £60 or £70 is a not uncommon estimate.) If +we had put, say, 5 acres out of our 7½ under strawberries, this would +have yielded £200 a year, which, allowing for extra labour, manure, +etc., would still have maintained a man and his family; 100 fowls would +probably have paid the rent (if it had not been a freehold); and the 2½ +acres would have gone far to keep a horse or pony. But I had not the +time to give to a complete organization, nor perhaps felt the necessary +interest in it; and my friend had hardly the required energy; so we just +paddled along, keeping two or three acres only under spade cultivation, +and making a small sum, but not sufficient to meet expenses. I think, as +I say, that the thing might have been made to pay in the commercial +sense—but there is no doubt that under prevailing conditions and prices +in England, agriculture of any kind requires pretty hard work and long +hours to make it fairly successful. One of the reasons of this is the +want of a prosperous country population and the local markets which this +would afford. With industrial villages scattered over the land, eggs, +fruits, vegetables would be in great demand—even in country +districts—prices would be fair, the middleman would be dispensed with; +even the horse and cart might not be needed. But it is quite a different +matter when the stuff has to be sent to a distant market, there to be +bought by hucksters, and to feed middlemen and railway shareholders, +before it feeds either the producer or consumer. This trouble is really +one of the great troubles of modern civilization—and while there is no +doubt a certain advantage gained by division of labour among nations and +provinces, and by the raising of products in the most suitable +localities, it is a matter quite open to question whether the enormous +expenses of the present world-wide exchange and the maintenance of these +swarms of merchants, traders, shipping and railroad companies, with +their innumerable shareholders and employees, does not quite obliterate +or absorb the advantage so gained. Indeed when one thinks of the immense +numbers of people in this way withdrawn from any direct service in +production and made systematically dependent on the others, one may +question whether the gain does not at times come very near a loss; and +one ceases to wonder that the condition of the actual producers, +agricultural and others, remains so poor and unimproved. + +In ’86 and ’87 I prepared for the Press and published the volume called +_England’s Ideal_. The papers composing it had been written at different +times during the two or three years preceding—some of them at Brighton, +during intervals when family affairs had taken me back there for a time. +Especially I remember writing _Desirable Mansions_ in this way in an +interval when I was tangled in family business and the idiotic life of +the place—and with a kind of savage glee as I sought to tear the whole +sickly web to pieces. Descended from the transcendental generative +thought of _Towards Democracy_ on the one hand, and my new-found +acquaintance with intensely practical life on the other, these papers, +though crude in some respects, bear I believe a certain impetus about +them. Once or twice, by the violent opposition they have excited (always +a reassuring thing for an author), I have had evidence of this. When +_Desirable Mansions_ was first issued, as a separate pamphlet, I +received a copy, anonymously sent and written all over with the most +furious and scurrilous denials, challenges, abuse, etc.; and after the +publication of _England’s Ideal_ as a volume, a friend of mine had a +letter from a lady, in which she said that her husband had been reading +the book, and that she had got hold of it and “poked it into the fire, +as she found it was unsettling him so!” I have always regretted that I +did not get hold of that letter, with leave to publish it. It would have +made such a splendid advertisement. + +The influences of Ruskin, in style and moral bias, and of Marx in +economics, are very apparent in the volume; and though I do not think +that I ever gave myself ‘hand and foot’ to Marx in his views; yet I was +very willing to adopt his theory of surplus value as a working +hypothesis. The truth is that though no exact measure of ‘surplus value’ +or of the amount of which the workman is ‘defrauded’ by the capitalist, +is possible—and though any theory which attempts to exactly define this +amount is sure to be open to criticism[15]; yet, the general fact of +surplus value, namely that the workman does _not_ get the full value of +his labours, and that he is taken advantage of by the capitalist is +obvious—and serious—enough. And it is on this general position that +_England’s Ideal_—like the whole Socialist movement—is founded. The +seriousness of the matter may be seen from the fact that from this +original falsity (of the appropriation of other folks’ labour) are +flowing to-day by a perfectly logical evolution two other great +falsities or failures—Commercial Crises and shopkeeping +Imperialism—which are now threatening ruin to all the Western +Civilizations. + +Commercial Crises, as has been often explained (see _England’s Ideal_, +pp. 42, 43) flow primarily from the fact that the working masses for +their wages only receive a fraction of the value of the goods produced, +and therefore can only _buy back_ a fractional part of the same, while +the capitalist classes (though with their share of the swag they _could_ +buy back the remainder) do not want more than a part of the remainder. +Consequently there occurs every year on the one hand an accumulation of +goods unused and on the other an accumulation of capital waiting for +reinvestment; and these two things from time to time clog the Commercial +Machine so as to render it hardly workable, and will probably in the end +bring it to a standstill. As to modern Imperialism it is a logical +outcome of the last-mentioned item, the accumulation of capital waiting +for reinvestment. For all the openings for capital in the mother country +having been filled up there remains nothing but to invest it in +manufactures abroad. And since other Western countries are similarly +filled up, there further remains nothing but to go to savage and +outlying nations and force _them_ to become our employees and our +customers. But to do this with safety requires military occupation and +the country’s flag. Hence in a nutshell the flag-waving and Imperialism +of the day. + +In 1889 I got off _Civilization: Its Cause and Cure_—another series of +reprints. And here too the philosophical position, though often crudely +expressed, and with more attempt at _suggestion_ than finish, is I think +in the main well-founded and valuable. The attacks on Civilization and +on Modern Science were both wrung from me, as it were by some inner +evolution or conviction and against my will; but in both cases the +position once taken became to me fully justified. In neither case did I +take any great precautions to guard against misunderstanding, and in +consequence I have been freely accused of blinding myself—in respect of +Civilization—to modern progress, and of desiring to return to the state +of primitive man; and in respect to Science—of preferring ignorance to +intelligence. But no careful reader would make these mistakes. The +monumental, patient, one may almost say heroic, work which has been done +by Science during the nineteenth century, in the way of exact +observation, classification, and detailed practical application, can +never be ignored and can hardly be over-estimated. None the less the +very decided criticism in _Civilization: Its Cause and Cure_, of the +limits of scientific theorizing and authority has been quite necessary; +as well as the forcible insistence on the fact that Science only deals +with the surface of life and not with its substance. As to Civilization +the advances of Humanity during the Civilization period have been +largely bound up with the advance of Science and have chiefly consisted +perhaps in increase of technical mastery over Nature and materials. Like +every increase of power this has led to greater opportunity of good and +greater opportunity of evil. On the moral side however, we may believe +that men’s sympathies _have_ broadened and widened during the +civilization period—so that there is a larger and more general sense of +Humanity. On the other hand during this period something of the +intensity of the old tribal kinship and community of life has been lost, +as well as something of the instinctive kinship of each individual to +Nature. It is obvious enough that there can be no _return_ to +pre-scientific or pre-civilization conditions—though it may be hoped +that a later age may combine some of the virtues of the more primitive +man with the powers that have been gained during civilization. + +In the year following [1890] something happened which in a curious vague +way I had been expecting to happen for some time. It almost amounted to +my making the acquaintance of a pre-civilization man of a very high +type. I have mentioned how the _Bhagavat Gita_ falling into my hands at +a certain date, gave the clue to and precipitated the crystallization of +_Towards Democracy_. From that time of course I was intensely interested +in the wise men of the East, and that germinal thought which in various +ages of the world has become the nucleus and impulse of new movements. +During the years ’80 to ’90 there was a great deal of Theosophy and +Oriental philosophy of various sorts current in England, and much talk +and speculation, sometimes very ill-founded, about ‘adepts,’ ‘mahatmas,’ +and ‘gurus.’ I too felt a great desire to see for myself one of these +representatives of the ancient wisdom. But it did not seem very clear +how the thing would come about. However at last there came a very +pressing letter from my friend Arunáchalam in Ceylon (the very friend +who had given me the _Bhagavat Gita_ at an earlier date), asking me to +come out and meet a certain Gñani to whose discourses and teaching he +was himself already deeply indebted, and who was willing to give some +time to me if I should come. So the way was made plain, and I +immediately made arrangements to go. + +I have given a careful account of this Gñani, his personality and +teaching, in my book _Adam’s Peak to Elephanta_—and I need not repeat +the material here. As I say, he was in some respects a high type of +pre-civilization man. For, like most men of this class in India, he +identified himself so closely with the ancient religious tradition that +one could almost feel him to be one of the old Vedic race of two +thousand or three thousand years back. His modes of thought, appearance, +personality, all suggested this. And here in this man it was of +absorbing interest to feel one came in contact with the root-thought of +all existence—the intense _consciousness_ (not conviction merely) of the +oneness of all life—the germinal idea which in one form or another has +spread from nation to nation, and become the soul and impulse of +religion after religion. However one might differ from him in points of +detail, in matters of modern science or of politics, one felt that he, +and his predecessors three thousand years ago, had seized the central +stronghold, and were possessors of an outlook and of intuitions which +the modern might truly envy. After seeing Whitman, the amazing +representative of the same spirit in all its voluminous modern +unfoldment—seven years before—this visit to the Eastern sage was like +going back to the pure lucid intensely transparent source of some mighty +and turbulent stream. It was a returning from West to East, and a +completing of the circle of the Earth. + +It is curious that _his_ teacher (Tilleinathan Swamy) seems to have told +this Gñani many years before that an Englishman or Englishmen would come +to him. Probably he foresaw, from the growth of the English mind, that +the time was not very far distant when the English would rise to an +understanding of the great Indian tradition and would come over to study +it. + +Looking back now [1901] after ten years, on my personal experiences of +the Eastern teachings, I seem to realize more and more that the true +line is that (first adequately pointed out by Whitman) which consists in +combining and harmonizing _both_ body and soul, the outer and the inner. +They are the eternal and needful complements of each other. The Eastern +teaching has or has had a tendency to err on one side, the Western on +the other. The Indian methods and attitude cause an ingathering and +quiescence of the mind, accompanied often by great illumination; but if +carried to excess they result in over-quiescence, and even torpor. The +Western habits tend towards an over-activity and external distraction of +the mind, which may result in disintegration. The true line (as in other +cases) is not in mediocrity, but in a bold and sane acceptance of both +sides, so as to make them offset and balance each other, and indeed so +that each shall make the extension of the other more and more possible. +Growth is the method and the solution. The soul goes out and returns, +goes out and returns; and this is its daily, almost hourly, action—just +as it is an epitome of the æonian life-history of every individual. + +This visit to the East in some sense completed the circle of my +experiences. It took two or three years for its results to soak and +settle into my mind; but by that time I felt that my general attitude +towards the world was not likely to change much, and that it only +remained to secure and define what I had got hold of, and to get it +decently built out if possible into actual life and utterance. + + +With regard to this process of “building out” into the actual world I +should feel very ungrateful if I did not acknowledge my indebtedness to +the Nature-conditions around me. For any sustained and more or less +original work it seems almost necessary that one should have the +quietude and strength of Nature at hand, like a great reservoir from +which to draw. The open air, and the physical and mental health that +goes with it, the sense of space and freedom in the Sky, the vitality +and amplitude of the Earth—these are real things from which one can only +cut oneself off at serious peril and risk to one’s immortal soul. And +there is somewhat of the same potency and vitality in the very life of +the mass-peoples who are in touch with these foundation-facts and +outdoor occupations. It was a true instinct or a gracious Fate—and I +realized this more and more—which had compelled me to locate myself in +the midst of such surroundings. + +I should feel ungrateful too if I did not express my indebtedness to the +lovely little stream which like a live thing ran night and day, winter +and summer, full of grace and music at the foot of my garden. It entered +into my life and became part of it.[16] The hut, which I had built at +Bradway to write the earlier part of _Towards Democracy_ in, I +transported with me to Millthorpe, and planked it down on the edge of +the brook, facing the sun and the south; and thenceforth it served a +double purpose—that of a study in which, a hundred yards away from the +house, I could write in comparative safety from interruption; and that +of a bathing shelter with its feet almost in the water. Here through +uncounted hours I continued the production of _Towards Democracy_ and my +other books, avoiding always the act of writing within the house except +when absolutely forced to retire by stress of weather or other causes, +and rejoicing always to get the sentiment of the open free world into my +pages; and here I came, either alone or with friends, to rest from +labour in the garden, or to bathe and be refreshed after the heat of the +day. + +[Illustration: + + THE HUT AND THE BROOK. +] + + + + + IX + MILLTHORPE AND HOUSEHOLD LIFE + + +It must be admitted, however, that the acclimatization to the new and +somewhat limited and strenuous life at Millthorpe did not take place all +at once; and perhaps the fact of my having burnt my boats, as it were, +and committed myself as I had done, was after all a good thing. For some +little time I felt restive and unsettled at the enchainment—partly, as I +have said, because the Thoreau ideal, opening out _underneath_, took the +bottom out of the commercial and rather materialistic life in the way of +Trade in which I was embarking; and partly because anyhow the latter +sort of life—though valuable as an experience—was not by its nature +likely to hold my interest for long. The rustics too and farmfolk around +me were on my first arrival a little strange, and inclined, as often +happens in such cases, to hold off and be suspicious of a newcomer; my +reputation as a Socialist alarmed them; there was none of the cordiality +of little Bradway; the climate was damp and the winters were long; and I +had occasional relapses of feeling about it all. + +Yet if I _had_ cut the painter and floated my little boat away onto the +great deep I doubt whether the result would have been favorable. After +all, all life means a denial of _part_ of oneself. It is obviously +impossible to find a situation or conditions which will satisfy _all the +demands_ of one’s nature—millionfold complex as they are. Some must be +sacrificed. To moan over that necessity or to pose as a martyr is +absurd. All one can reasonably do is to find a situation which will +satisfy the _root_-demands, and the _rooting_ demands—those that have +the power of growth in them. Then the seed, though it seem to die in its +prison-house, will assuredly find its outlet and quicken into a new +life. + +I could not complain in this case that the root-needs of my temperament +were unsatisfied. Quite the contrary. I was plunged in the very heart of +Nature—that Nature which for many years I had felt the need of—in a +singularly beautiful Derbyshire valley with plentiful woods, streams and +moors; I had already become familiar with the mass-folk of Sheffield, +and found friends among the workers in many trades; and was beginning to +know the rustics of my own neighborhood. I was leading an outdoor life, +and my health was every day becoming firmer and more consolidated. I had +escaped from the domination of Civilization in its two most fatal and +much-detested forms, respectability and cheap intellectualism. In my +happy valley there was no resident squire of any kind, nor even a single +“villa,” while the church, more than a mile distant, was quite amiably +remote! We were just a little population of manual workers, sincerely +engrossed in our several occupations. And finally, and perhaps more than +all, I had found a firm basis and secure vantage-ground for my literary +and productive work. + +People have often asked me if I did not miss the life I had left behind. +I cannot truly say that I ever did. At Brighton and at Cambridge and +partly in London I had had my fill of balls and dinner-parties and the +usual entertainments, and when at the close of those two dispensations +(somewhere in the early ’eighties) _I gave my dress clothes away_, I did +so without any misgiving and without any fear that I should need them +again. The fact is that though it is perfectly true that by steadily and +persistently going to evening parties and social functions one may come +into touch with interesting or remarkable people of sorts, yet the game +is hardly worth the candle. Through leagues of boredom, platitudes and +general futility one occasionally has the satisfaction of exchanging a +wink of recognition, so to speak, with some really congenial and +original woman or man; but at all such functions the severe flow of +amiable nonsense soon cuts any real conversation short, and if one wants +to continue the latter the only way is to arrange a meeting quite +outside and apart—which after all one might have done in other and +simpler ways. As to the matter of dress, the adoption of a pleasant yet +not strictly conventional evening garb of one’s own has the useful +effect of automatically closing doors which are not “worth while” and +opening those that _are_—so in that way it is much to be recommended! + +On the whole, though just the first few years at Millthorpe were +somewhat isolated I believe my independent life there has really enabled +me to see more of the great world than I should otherwise have done. +Visitors from a distance have often many and intimate things to tell +one, and questions can be discussed in a more leisurely way than in a +great centre where every one stands watch in hand, counting the minutes. +And on the other hand, by going myself to London for a fortnight or so +three or four times a year, I found I could get into touch with all +sorts of cliques and circles—such as I perhaps should not have cared to +be involved in if I had been permanently living there! The country +became a splendid basis for literary work, with the opportunity it +afforded (so priceless to me) of writing in the open air and in close +contact with the ordinary realities of life; it supplied a good basis +for my lecturing and other excursions into the Northern Towns; and with +its market-gardening and sandal trades kept my hands busy when my head +required a rest. + + +Of the many years mainly spent here at Millthorpe, the first +fifteen—from 1883 to 1898—were somewhat handicapped for me by the +presence of a small working-family in the house; first, for ten years, +the Fearnehoughs of whom I have already spoken; and afterwards, for five +years, the Adams’. No other arrangement was at that time possible. Both +families were charming and interesting in their different ways; but +necessarily they hampered my freedom a good deal. With children in the +house (in both cases) the domestic arrangements had largely to be suited +to their necessities and convenience, and my interests had to come very +decidedly second. This did not so much matter at the beginning of the +time, but later with the expansion of my own sphere of operations a +different household arrangement became imperative. + +Fearnehough, as I have said, was of a “powerful uneducated” type—a good +specimen of the British worker—a bit slow in brain, but exceedingly +thorough and downright in all his dealings. His wife possessed the +infinite patience and kindliness of the household guardian—going always +about her work with untiring forethought and industry—even when, as +often happened, she was silently suffering from bad headaches. There was +a certain native grace about her, and dignity about him, which well +became them. The two children, boy and girl of about nine and ten when +they first arrived, were sensible and natural too. To have this family +living with me—though it may have been hampering in some ways—was for +some years very helpful. Whether at meals, or working in the fields, or +sitting round the fire of an evening, to be in close touch with so sane +and simple an outlook on life, and one so entirely different from that +to which I had generally been accustomed, was in itself an education. +The very downrightness of daily existence among those who live close +upon absolute necessity is a thing hardly realized even by the most +well-meaning of the well-to-do, unless they positively share that +existence. Of course it cuts away a vast deal of sentimentalism, +æstheticism, and all that. But on the whole it is rather healthy. + +I remember one day—in later years when Annie, the daughter, had gone +away to work in Sheffield—speaking to her mother about the girl (whose +absence I knew she felt) and saying rather sentimentally, “I expect you +miss Annie a good deal nowadays.” The answer was characteristic, and in +its way quite lovely: “_Yes, I do miss her—especially on washing days!_” +It was not that Mrs. Fearnehough cared one whit less for her daughter +than many a very cultured mother might, but simply that her answer +allowed the bed-rock of human nature to be seen. At any rate it took the +wind out of my sentimentality! Not long ago I was asking a neighboring +farmer—whose son had just got married and migrated on to a little farm +of his own—how the son “liked his new place.” “Like it?” said the old +man with a dryish sort of laugh—“well, I guess he’ll like it if he can +any way make a living out of it—and if he can’t he won’t; he’ll be +better able to say in a year or two.” It is from answers like these that +one perceives how close on the rocks the lives of the mass peoples are +thrust—too close indeed to allow much scope for expression of their real +life or liking. + +Fearnehough and I stumbled away at our market-gardening for a good many +years. Being both to begin with quite ignorant of the trade we made our +full complement of mistakes and purchased our experience sometimes +dearly. Yet by degrees we got the land into good order. We dug it over, +made drains to carry off the water, planted a hundred or two of fruit +and forest trees, built bits of walls and fences, kept a horse, and +fowls, and grew our crops, and took our produce into market—a strenuous +time, but greatly interesting in its way. My commercial instinct was +weak, but Albert’s was perhaps even weaker! With his real love of good +work he would spend as much time preparing an onion-bed as could only be +paid for by ten times the value of the crop; and at one period he +insisted on rooting every bit of rock and stone out of the subsoil so +persistently that I began to think the garden would be turned into a +quarry! It was characteristic of him when I remonstrated, to say: “I +can’t help it—if I didn’t do my work thorough when I’m at it, I should +only keep awake at night thinking about it.” I have already given some +of the general results and conclusions of our labours of that time. When +the period of our experiment came to an end, Fearnehough returned again +to his scythe-making trade in Sheffield, which he still carries on, hale +and hearty, down to this day [1915]. + +I cannot pass this period by without dwelling for a moment on another +friend at that time a member of the household. I mean my dog +Bruno[17]—so called not from his colour, for he was a very handsome +black spaniel, but from some fanciful association with Giordano Bruno +the Italian. That dog—like so many black animals, black horses, black +cats, black poodles, black-plumaged birds, rooks, jackdaws, starlings, +and so forth—had something _demonic_ about him. The tenderness and +gentleness of his spirit, combined with a penetrative vision which +searched one’s very soul, was almost superhuman. I came first to know +him when he was merely a puppy at a friend’s house. We almost fell in +love with each other then and there, and I was not altogether surprised +when a few weeks afterwards he arrived at my door, sent on as a present +from the said friends. He never doubted for a moment that he had come to +his true home, and he settled down at once, a most loving member of the +household. The Fearnehoughs took to him right cordially, and Albert +himself a year or so later had the great satisfaction of saving him from +a horrible death. + +I had been out somewhere on foot with Bruno and arriving back within a +couple of hundred yards of my gate I perceived the local pack of +foxhounds (the pests of this as of all countrysides!) scattered about +the road between me and home—the huntsmen having gone into the +public-house for a moment to have a drink. But that moment was more than +sufficient—for hounds are dangerous things unless under severe control. +Something occurred—I know not what. A hound gave cry; the others joined +in; and in an instant, to my horror and despair, the whole pack was +yelling in pursuit, and Bruno flying for his life—in the only direction +he _could_ at the moment fly, away from home! The dog was swift and +active, but what chance had he? I gave him up for lost. With +extraordinary agility however and much presence of mind he doubled and, +clearing ever so many garden walls and gates, dashed through the little +hamlet back again, finally racing across one of my fields with the whole +pack close behind and of course gaining on him. Most luckily Albert was +in our yard at the moment, and hearing the hullabaloo rushed out with a +pitchfork in his hand, just in time to check the ravening horde while +Bruno rushed past him to safety. A moment more and the dog would have +been torn to fragments. + +Bruno showed in high degree that curious quality resembling _conscience_ +in man, by which dogs, having contracted and adopted a new standard of +life from their masters, betray an emotional conflict going on within +them. Sometimes—as is often the case where fowls are kept—we would have +a nest of newly-hatched chicks being kept warm and dry in a basket on +the hearth. On such occasions Bruno was torn by conflicting passions. +The very sight and smell of the chicks roused the old primitive hunting +instinct, and he would creep nearer and nearer to the basket in a very +ecstasy of excitement—his limbs trembling and his nose quivering as he +sniffed the prey. Yet he knew perfectly well that he must not touch; and +his fidelity was so absolute that I firmly believe he harboured no +intention of doing so. But who can tell? We felt that possibly a sudden +frenzy of the animal nature might overtake him; and we could not do +otherwise than keep on the watch. As a matter of fact he never did do +anything rash; but the tension on him, poor dog, was so great that +sometimes for two or three days he would hardly touch his food, and he +positively grew quite thin under the strain. It was really a relief for +all of us when the hatching days were over. + +There is something strangely touching in the fact that dogs not only +thus develop a conscience and a morality foreign to their canine nature, +but that also from their intense devotion to their so-called ‘masters’ +they are severed and alienated to some degree from the natural loves of +their race—at any rate on the affectional side. I think Bruno nourished +in his heart a strange susceptibility to beauty. His amours with other +dogs were only of the ordinary kind; but he cherished for a certain +white kitten a positive adoration. The kitten was certainly +beautiful—snow-white and graceful to a degree—and to Bruno obviously a +goddess; but alas! like other goddesses only too fickle and even cruel. +When Bruno arrived on the scene, the kitten would skip on to the +vantage-ground of a chair-seat; and from thence torment the pathetic and +pleading nose of the dog with naughty scratches. Again and again would +Bruno—wounded in his heart as well as in his head—return to his +ineffectual suit, only to have his advances rejected as before. At last +he had to abandon this quest, but it was curious that a year or two +later he fell in love with _another_ white kitten in much the same way +and with much the same result. + +“Everything however comes to him who waits”; and the most curious and +pathetic part of this story is its ending. For, a good many years +afterwards when Bruno had become quite an old dog and had lost much of +his activity, a _cat_ came and fell in love with him! This cat used to +come from a neighboring farm and spend much of its time with the dog, +and frequently at night would stay with him in the little outhouse which +he used as a kennel, sleeping between the dog’s paws. Ultimately the cat +was there when Bruno died. + + +Fearnehough’s place, when he returned to Sheffield, was taken by George +Adams, who (also with wife and two children) came to share the +Millthorpe Cottage with me. Adams was in most ways the very reverse of +Albert Fearnehough. Town bred, rather slight and thin, with a forward +stoop and a shock of black hair, he was of an impetuous humorous and +rather artistic temperament—not too exact or precise about details, but +one who could cover a good deal of ground in a day. Born in the poorest +slums of Sheffield he told me more than once how, after his mother died, +he was left alone a mere urchin in a tiny lodging with his father. His +father was a cobbler by trade rather given to drink, and in the habit of +going out early of a morning to work as a wage-slave in some shop, and +returning late. When he went out he left a _halfpenny_ on the table for +the boy to find his food with during the day! Not a very good start in +life. The boy roamed about, half-starved, cadging or ‘snaking’ what he +could—but developed, perhaps in consequence, a singular resourcefulness. +When about thirteen his father died, and he was left absolutely alone in +the world. The neighbours may have been kind in their way, but he was +alone and without refuge to flee to. Then something pathetic happened. +An orphanage for little _girls_ had lately been opened in the +neighborhood, and the boy knew one or two of these girls. One evening, +at closing time, the matron discovered among her little flock this +large-eyed, thin-legged almost rickety ragamuffin sitting! Asked what he +was doing there he replied that he wanted to be taken in. “But the +orphanage is for girls only,” said the matron, “and you are not a girl.” +It was no use, he would not go; tears ran down his face; he told his +plight; and they were fain to find him a bed in an attic for the night. +Needless to say he remained a second and a third night. The pale mobile +face made friends; and the end of it was that a boys’ _side_ was created +in the orphanage and added to that of the girls! + +After remaining in the orphanage for a year or two a place was found for +George Adams in the villa-residence of a Sheffield manufacturer, where +he went first as knife and boot boy and afterwards as under-gardener. +The good people of the villa discovered his taste for drawing and +painting, and sent him to a School of Art for lessons; and so when at +the age of twenty or so he left ‘service’ and started for himself as an +insurance-collector (most depressing of occupations) he had a fair +knowledge of gardening and a fair artistic ability at his command. He +married, and joining the Socialist movement became one of our most +lively and adventurous spirits. The departure of the Fearnehoughs gave +me the opportunity of offering their place at Millthorpe to him (and his +family)—which he accepted as a joyful exchange from the dismal trade of +eternally dunning the needy denizens of mean streets for their funeral +and coffin monies. + +With his arrival at Millthorpe things took on a more lively air there. +His knowledge of gardening was a decided help, and the financial side of +the venture—if not exactly a success from the purely commercial point of +view—did certainly under the circumstances (absence of any rent, etc.) +yield a small profit to the good. He took up cordially with the +sandal-making, which I had at first carried on alone, and which came in +useful in winter when the outdoor work was slack; and he added +bee-keeping to our activities. My literary work and connections were +increasing, and the place became more social, and more especially +socialistic, than it had been before—so much so indeed that the country +folk (or some of them at any rate) became a little alarmed! + +A year or two after George Adams’ arrival the Parish Councils Act came +into operation, and the first election was the cause of much excitement +in the villages. Adams and I—though knowing perfectly well that we had +no chance of success—decided—chiefly for the fun of the thing—to come +forward as candidates; and almost a panic ensued among the larger +farmers and the parson as to what we might possibly do or propose. +Strange stories were circulated of the Socialist programme, and of the +expenses into which the community would certainly be plunged if it were +adopted. But the finishing touch to our chances was given by an election +address printed and circulated by one candidate of decidedly +Conservative type, in which he did not hesitate to say that “it is +reported publicly in Holmesfield that one of our opponents advocates the +burning of the Bible, and also working on the Sabbath Day.” After that +we had no prospect of success! _Which_ of us two was really pointed at +in this accusation we never quite knew, though we entered into a sort of +friendly rivalry for the honour. But the printed card containing the +address I retain to this day, and it is a treasured possession. + +Adams was certainly not mealy-mouthed, and I am afraid he made very +blasphemous remarks at times, but his intense sense of fun and his +twinkling delight over ‘good stories’ quite redeemed any such +deficiencies. His courageous humour was all the more remarkable because, +poor thing, he was always suffering from ill-health. Dating from the +early life which I have described, his internal arrangements, as can +easily be imagined, never worked really properly; and at times he would +suffer a lot of pain, and become seriously emaciated. How he managed to +keep up his gardening and other activities in spite of frequent illness +was always a wonder; but his vivid imagination carried him on, and if he +were downcast at times, new plans and enterprises were sure to come in +and disperse the pessimistic mood. + +The gardening work, however, at Millthorpe _was_ too much for his slight +frame; and after some five years’ stay there he elected to retire with +his family into a cottage not far off in the same parish and devote +himself to the sandal-trade and to the occasional sale of his +water-colour drawings. This he did; and after remaining for four or five +years moved on to the Letchworth Garden City where his labours and his +personality were much appreciated, and where he occupied a little home +of his own until his death in 1910. + +The Adams’ left Millthorpe early in February ’98; and the next +day—trundling with the help of two boys all his worldly goods in a +handcart over the hills, and through a disheartening blizzard of +snow—George Merrill arrived. This extraordinary being, in many ways so +kindred a spirit to my own, had now been known to me for some years. I +had met him first on the outskirts of Sheffield immediately after my +return from India, and had recognized at once a peculiar intimacy and +mutual understanding. Bred in the slums quite below civilization, but of +healthy parentage of comparatively rustic origin, he had grown so to +speak entirely out of his own roots; and a singularly affectionate, +humorous, and swiftly intuitive nature had expanded along its own +lines—subject of course to some of the surrounding conditions, but +utterly untouched by the prevailing conventions and proprieties of the +upper world. Always—even in utmost poverty—clean and sweet in person and +neat in attire, he was attractive to most people; and children (of whom +he was especially fond) would congregate round him. Yet being by +temperament loving and even passionate—to a degree indeed which +sometimes scandalized the “unco’ guid”—he was, it may safely be said, +never ‘respectable.’ Fortunately he was either too careless or too +unconscious of public opinion to trouble much about that; and despite +the shafts of occasional criticism he remained always fairly assured of +himself—with the same sort of unconscious assurance that a plant or an +animal may have in its own nature. What struck me most, however, on my +first meeting with him, was the pathetic look of wistfulness in his +face. Whatever his experiences up to then may have been, it assured me +that the desire of his _heart_ was still unsatisfied. + +To George Merrill the arrival at Millthorpe was the fulfilment of a +dream; and a blizzard ten times as bad as the actual one would not I +believe have daunted him. The departure of the Adams’ had left the house +largely denuded of furniture, and for some days we bivouacked with a +trestle table for meals and a sanded floor. By degrees we got things +into order, acquired the necessaries of life and comfort; and started +housekeeping on a new footing. For seven years the possibility of this +arrangement had I believe wavered before George’s eyes, and it had +certainly been considered by me. But we had hardly spoken about it. It +was too remote. On my side other arrangements and engagements precluded +the plan; on his, the various situations he had found—once in a +newspaper office, once in an hotel, and lastly in an ironworks—were not +to be lightly thrown aside. It was only now, when the Adams’ were +leaving and George at the same time was out of work, that the Fates +pointed favorably and the thing was done. + +[Illustration: + + GEORGE MERRILL. + + (_Photo: Lena Connell._) +] + +If the Fates pointed favorably I need hardly say that my friends (with a +few exceptions) pointed the other way! I knew of course that George had +an instinctive genius for housework, and that in all probability he +would keep house better than most women would. But most of my friends +thought otherwise. They drew sad pictures of the walls of my cottage +hanging with cobwebs, and of the master unfed and neglected while his +assistant amused himself elsewhere. They neither knew nor understood the +facts of the case. Moreover they had sad misgivings about the moral +situation. A youth who had spent much of his early time in the purlieus +of public-houses and in society not too reputable would do me no credit, +and would only by my adoption be confirmed in his own errant ways. Such +was their verdict. For myself if I entertained any of these misgivings +it was but very faintly. Of the fellow’s essential goodness I felt no +doubt. What rather troubled me was the question whether _he_ would be +able to endure the dulness and quiet of a country life. + +With a remarkably good ear for music, and a sympathetic baritone voice, +he had a ready talent which would have taken him far on the music-hall +stage. In fact I hardly know how it was that he did not find a vocation +on that stage. Anyhow he was known in not a few circles for his musical +quips and his comic or sentimental songs; and was pretty familiar with +the doings and _personnel_ of the theatres. To take such an one away +into the depths of rustic life might have been a great mistake. Probably +if this had been the prevailing side of his character it _would_ have +been a mistake. As it was the move proved a complete success. In a few +months or a year my friend was quite acclimatized, and while enjoying +(like myself) a day or two in town was always genuinely glad to get back +again to our little home in Cordwell Valley. + +As I have said, the families I had with me before were both kindly and +good sorts, and in their different ways helpful and useful. But a time +had come with the growing expansion of my work when it became quite +impossible to continue running things on the old footing, and quite +necessary for me to have the house really at my own command. The arrival +of George Merrill rendered this possible. And immediately a new order of +things began. Merrill from the first developed quite a talent for +housework. He soon picked up the necessary elements of cookery, +vegetarian or otherwise; he carried on the arts of washing, baking and +so forth with address and dispatch; he took pride in making the place +look neat and clean, and insisted on decorating every room that was in +use with flowers. I, for my part, finally gave up the market garden +business and contracted the garden ground into merely sufficient to +supply the needs of the house. This I cultivated partly myself and +partly with the occasional help of an outsider; and in addition I made +it a rule to dust my own study and light the fire in it every morning. +These little garden and household works—if not amounting to much—I have +still always found very helpful and rather pleasant—as giving the bodily +side of life some decent expression, and at the same time rendering the +mental perspective more just. + +Thus we settled down, two bachelors: keeping the mornings intact for +pretty close and rigorous work; and the afternoons and evenings for more +social recreation. As a rule I find the housekeeper who is a little +particular and ‘house-proud’ is inclined, not unnaturally, to be +somewhat set against visitors—especially those who may bring some amount +of dirt and dishevelment with them. But George—though occasionally +disposed that way—was so genuinely sociable and affectionate by nature +that the latter tendency overcame the former. The only people he could +not put up with were those whom he suspected (sometimes unjustly) of +being pious or puritanical. For these he had as keen a _flair_ as the +orthodox witch-finder used to have for heretics; and I am afraid he was +sometimes rude to them. On one occasion he was standing at the door of +our cottage, looking down the garden brilliant in the sun, when a +missionary sort of man arrived with a tract and wanted to put it in his +hand. “Keep your tract,” said George. “I don’t want it.” “But don’t you +wish to know the way to heaven?” said the man. “No, I don’t,” was the +reply, “can’t you see that _we’re in heaven here_—we don’t _want_ any +better than this, so go away!” And the man turned and fled. Like the +archdeacon in Eden Phillpotts’ _Human Boy_ “he flew and was never heard +of again.” + +No doubt his objection to the pious and puritanical was returned with +interest by their objection to him. Whatever faults or indiscretions he +may have been guilty of, they were occasionally (in true provincial +style) fastened on and magnified and circulated about as grave scandals. +It was on such occasions however that the real affection of the country +people for us showed itself, and they breathed slaughter against our +assailants. George in fact was accepted and one may say beloved by both +my manual worker friends and my more aristocratic friends. It was only +the middling people who stumbled over him; and they did not so much +matter! Anyhow our lives had become necessary to each other, so that +what any one said was of little importance. + +It thus became possible to realize in some degree a dream which I had +had in mind for some time—that of making Millthorpe a _rendezvous_ for +all classes and conditions of society. I had by this time made +acquaintances and friends among all the tribes and trades of manual +workers, as well as among learned and warlike professions. Architects, +railway clerks, engine-drivers, signalmen, naval and military officers, +Cambridge and Oxford dons, students, advanced women, suffragettes, +professors and provision-merchants, came into touch in my little house +and garden; parsons and positivists, printers and authors, scythesmiths +and surgeons, bank managers and quarrymen, met with each other. Young +colliers from the neighboring mines put on the boxing-gloves with sprigs +of aristocracy; learned professors sat down to table with farm-lads. +Not, thank heaven! that this happened all in the lump; but little by +little and year by year my friends of various degrees and shades got to +know each other—and this was a real satisfaction to me. Many lady +friends also came to stay with us—some of them unmarried (which may, who +knows? have been a cause for scandal); and not a few married couples who +liked our way of life and enjoyed talking over questions of household +arrangement and simplification. + +Of course, after reading Thoreau’s _Walden_, whatever simplifications I +may have effected in my own household management seemed very negligible +and unimportant. Still I felt that some move in that direction, and some +propaganda on the subject, was really needed. I tried hard to get some +lady friend or other—who would probably understand household affairs +much better than I—to write about the subject; but tried in vain. None +would take it up. And so ultimately I was reduced to writing on the +question myself—in _England’s Ideal_ and elsewhere. + +To-day I feel the importance of the subject as much as—perhaps more +than—I did then. I certainly often wish that our household life, plain +as it is, was even more plain. But I find that Time—mere Time—has a +sinister effect in complicating life. Things arrive, and cannot so +easily be got rid of again. Presents are made by well-meaning people, +and cannot very well be returned to the donors; new habitudes of life +are grafted on the old ones without actually displacing the latter; the +wheel of life turns one way, like a ratchet, but will not turn back +again; and so the complications grow and the embarrassments +multiply—often to such a degree that they become almost unendurable; and +one realizes at last why Death came into the world, and how necessary as +a Deliverer of souls and a loosener of mortal knots he is. For myself I +can truly say that the Waste Paper Basket stands as a signal of one of +my greatest pleasures; and that when I feel depressed (which is not very +often) I go about the house and hunt up things to destroy or give +away—after which ritual act I feel ever so much better and happier. + +Simplicity and plainness of life are necessary, on account of the +frightful waste of time and strength which the opposite policy entails—a +waste which is obviously becoming daily worse and worse. Nor is it +necessary to point out that if you employ _servants_ to keep all these +beggarly elements of life in order for you, instead of looking after +them yourself, you still only waste your time and strength in securing +(or appropriating in some way) the money with which you pay those +servants, as well as in the extra labour and anxiety of looking after +the said servants—a state of affairs probably worse than the first. + +Plainness again is necessary from foundation considerations of humanity +and democracy. To live in opulent and luxurious surroundings is to erect +a fence between yourself and the mass-world which no selfrespecting +manual worker will pass. It is consequently to stultify yourself and to +lose some of the best that the world can give. + +Thirdly, from mere considerations of health the thing is necessary. My +Japanese friend, Sanshiro Ishikawa, calls our houses _prisons_. Plain +food, the open air, the hardiness of sun and wind, are things +practically unobtainable in a complex ménage. + +And lastly, and most important, the complexity of material possessions +and demands all around one almost inevitably has the effect of stifling +the life of the heart and of the spirit. “The thorns sprang up and +choked them.” The endless distraction of material cares, the endless +temptation of material pleasures, inevitably has the effect of +paralysing the great free life of the affections and of the soul. One +loses the most precious thing the world can give—the great freedom and +romance of finding expression and utterance for one’s most intimate self +in the glorious presence of Nature and one’s fellows. + + + + + X + MILLTHORPIANA + + +What I have just said might seem to suggest a sort of perpetual +garden-party going on at Millthorpe. But this of course was by no means +the case, and for weeks at a time we would often be quiet enough. A +distance of four miles from the nearest railway-station is a good +defence; especially in winter with snow on the ground; also the general +rule of not seeing visitors till the afternoon. Still we were liable to +incursions. To Job are ascribed the pregnant words (xxxi. 35) “O that +mine adversary had written a book!” And I am afraid that I had in some +such way laid myself open to attack. The ubiquitous American who (to +adopt the style of Bernard Shaw) only stayed in England to visit +Millthorpe and Stratford-on-Avon, was much in evidence. And faddists of +all sorts and kinds considered me their special prey. I don’t know what +I had done to deserve this—but so it was. Vegetarians, dress reformers, +temperance orators, spiritualists, secularists, anti-vivisectionists, +socialists, anarchists—and others of very serious mien and +character—would call and insist in the most determined way on my joining +their crusades—so that sometimes I had almost to barricade myself +against them. A friend suggested (and the idea was not a bad one) that I +should put up at the gate a board bearing the legend “To the Asylum” on +it. Then the real lunatics would probably avoid the neighborhood. + +Nevertheless on the whole we got a good deal of fun out of these +incursions, and occasionally some real and solid advance. + +On one occasion—it was when the Fearnehoughs were living with me—we were +sitting quietly at our humble dinner of carrots or what-not, in the +middle of the day, when I saw two young ladies pass the window. There +came a knock at the door, and I opened it. There stood a very +good-looking elegantly dressed girl of twenty-three or twenty-four, with +terracotta frock and gainsborough hat, rather Londony in style; with a +less showy companion beside her. Said number one: “Does Mr. Carp——” and +then breaking off, “Oh! I see you are Mr. Carpenter. You know, I heard +you once speak at the Fabian Society. I belong to the Fabian Society. +And my cousin and I were near here, and thought perhaps we might call.” + +“Very glad to see you, I’m sure.” + +“And is this _really_ where you carry on your Simplification of Life? +Oh! Madge! isn’t it interesting” (this last thrown in as an +interjection). + +“I don’t know about that; but won’t you come in and sit down?” + +“Thank you so much, I should be glad of a rest.” + +“Will you have a bit of cake and a glass of milk?” + +“Oh no! but I _should_ like a piece of dry bread.” + +“Well, you need not ‘simplify’ so much as that.” + +“Oh! but I am so _fond_ of dry bread!” + +Then it came out that the Uncle and Aunt were waiting outside, so they +had to be got in, and ultimately the party were all safely landed in my +study—where after the simplification trouble had been got over, we made +a reasonable acquaintance with each other. + +[Illustration: + + MILLTHORPE COTTAGE AND ORCHARD. + + (Holmesfield on the hill above.) +] + +But I never afterwards quite forgot that expression “Is this where you +_carry on_ your?” etc.—as if one hung a flag out of the window. + +On another occasion, it being summer-time, a party of forty +Spiritualists came over from Manchester to spend Sunday at a neighboring +farmhouse, and with the intention of digging me out in the course of the +afternoon. Providence however interposed and sent _pelting_ rain all +day, and the poor things having to walk several miles from the station +arrived at their farmhouse simply drenched; and when they had had their +dinner, and partially dried their clothes, were naturally in no mood or +condition to turn out again—with the exception of ten or twelve of the +more heroic, who came on and called on me. What I had done to merit this +honour I do not know, as I had had very little experience of +Spiritualism; but they sat round and told me all sorts of wonderful +stories. In the middle of it all, a plashing was heard outside in the +rain, a knock at the door, and a young lady _sandal_-enthusiast arrived. +She was a neatlooking well-made girl, in sandals, with bare, +unstockinged feet, and she wore a simple navy blue serge dress; but of +course she was wringing wet. We had not seen her before; her name was +Swanhilda Something (somehow it sounded appropriate); she had set out to +walk all the way from Sheffield (nine miles). On the way the rain had +come on, and the sandals had nearly come off. She had no umbrella or +waterproof; and she was decidedly more than damp. Mrs. Adams, who was +then in charge of our ménage, took her upstairs and gave her a change, +and she presently joined the Spiritualist party, looking it must be +confessed somewhat like a ghost; but full of spirit and pluck. Her pluck +(as I found afterwards) as a dress-reformer was really splendid. On this +occasion, after tea, she refused all offers of a bed for the night, +donned her still damp clothes and her sandals, and joining the forty +Spiritualists, they all splashed back across the hills to the station. + +One of the pathetic things of the Socialist movement is the way in which +it has caused not a few people of upper class birth and training to try +and leave their own ranks and join those of the workers, when—by their +very birth and training being unable to bridge the gulf—the result has +been that they, belonging neither to one class nor the other, outcasts +from one, and more or less pitied or ridiculed by the other, have fallen +into a kind of limbo between. I have known several cases of young men of +this kind. One of them I may describe under the name of ‘Bryan.’ His +father, being a country squire, wanted Bryan to go into the army. The +boy had ideas of his own about the matter, and simply refused. +Differences ensued, and ultimately the father offered him £100 a year +for three years, and told him to find his _own_ way into life. The youth +drifted to London, fell in with the Socialists at a street corner, +became inspired with their ‘cause,’ and sought to identify himself +thenceforth with the working class. He came and spent a year or more in +our neighborhood at Millthorpe. He was a good fellow—his heart, as they +say, in the right place; but whether owing to the wretched character of +his training, or to native want of skill or perseverance, he never could +or would shape himself to do any solid work. He would dabble a little at +the joiner’s bench, or in the garden, or with the woodmen in the +woods—but only a little. When we urged him to learn some one trade +thoroughly—if only cobbling or cabinet-making—he would always say “Ah! +but things will be different when the Revolution comes—we shall all go +barefoot, or these things will be done by machinery”; and so one got no +nearer any practical result. On one occasion being in the neighborhood +of his family home, I went and called on his father, thinking I might be +of some use, but found him in a state of despair. + +“Oh, Bryan,” he said, “I don’t know what has taken the boy. Why the +other day he came to see us in our London house, and the first thing he +said was ‘Father, all these houses ought to be burnt down.’ + +“‘Burnt down,’ I replied; ‘are you mad?’ + +“‘Well, they _ought_ to be,’ he said, ‘and the people made to do some +honest work instead of idling their lives away on other folk’s labour.’ + +“‘And pray what sort of work would you set them to, young man?’ + +“‘Oh, anything,’ he said, ‘any straightforward work like mending the +roads or breaking stones.’ + +“‘Then I suppose you Socialists would take an old man like me, seventy +years of age, and turn me out of house and home, and set me to break +stones on the roads—nice “saviours of society” you are!’ + +“‘Well,’ he replied, ‘of course there would be exceptions—I daresay we +should allow you a pension, say £100 a year, on account of your age and +infirmity!’ + +“Think of that, Mr. Carpenter, think of your own son offering you £100 a +year, and in the name of these rascally Socialists!” + +Needless to say I deeply sympathized—(I don’t think in fact he suspected +me of being a Socialist)—but I saw that nothing useful could be done, +and at an early opportunity I retired. + +Bryan drifted out to Topolobampo, a socialist colony on the Gulf of +California; and when that broke up he floated about the borders of +Mexico and California, living on chance luck and occasional remittances +until family changes brought him finally home. + +Another case of a somewhat similar kind was that of a young R.E. +captain, Captain Peterson, let us call him, who had read Tolstoy and +convinced himself that a military life was wrong, and that he must leave +the Army. Being at the time Adjutant of Volunteers in a neighboring +town, he used to come up to Millthorpe to discuss these questions and as +to how he should ordain his life when once free. I admired his +enthusiasm, but felt obliged to warn him not to be in too great a hurry; +for it was easy to see that in practical matters he was a mere babe. +Certainly the Army was not the place for him. Anything but ‘correct’ in +dress, with generally a large gap between his waistcoat and his +trousers, and again another between his trousers and his boots, with +projecting schoolboy ears and red nose, he was just the man who would be +unmercifully chaffed or even ‘ragged’ by his fellow-officers. But on the +other hand his capacity for battling his way in the world, or for +earning his own living, was evidently of the smallest; and his schemes +for the future were of the most wild-cat kind. He was going to build a +house—but as he would have no money to pay for it, he should get +together a little group of workmen (who desired to improve their minds) +on the condition that he should teach them elementary mathematics, +surveying, etc., during one half of the day, while they should set +bricks and mortar for him during the other half! (A charming scheme! but +I think I see the British workman agreeing to it!) His house, according +to the plan which he drew out of his pocket, was more like a greenhouse +than anything else—with walls and roof largely glass; and when I +suggested that it might prove rather hot in summer (!) he seemed to have +no difficulty in imagining plentiful vines trailing overhead, with +foliage and hanging bunches of grapes, to ward off the sun’s rays. For +the floor of his room he had a device of which he was quite proud. “It +is often convenient,” he said, “to have _two_ carpets—a rough one for +ordinary use, and a better one for special occasions.” + +I assented to this rather dubious premise, for the sake of seeing what +would follow! + +“Well” he continued “my idea is to sew these two carpets together like a +roller towel, and have them passing over rollers at the two opposite +ends of the room, so that one carpet should be _on_ the floor, and the +other _underneath_. Then, you know, when you saw visitors coming, all +you would have to do would be to turn the crank (suiting the action to +the word), and you would have your best carpet on in a jiffey!” + +Too amazed and speechless to make any objection, I could only see with +my mind’s eye, a cottage piano and a table and an armchair or two gaily +sailing across the room, as the crank was being turned. + +“Meanwhile” he went on “as carpets are always wanting brushing I intend +to have brushes _fixed_ underneath the floor, so that every time the +carpet is changed it will be automatically brushed. Nothing could be +simpler.” + +It would have been cruel to make further objections to schemes so indeed +transparently simple. But they will give the reader an idea of the +difficulties and dangers attending the metamorphosis from the condition +of an army officer to that of a private in the peaceful regiments of +humanity. What has become now of our friend Peterson I cannot certainly +say. That he nobly and consistently abandoned his life in the army I +know; but whether he succeeded in getting a house built on the +Principles of Euclid is doubtful. + +Peterson was also connected with an occurrence which at the time was +rather mysterious, and caused us some puzzlement. My friend George +Merrill had come to live with me, and we two were occupying the house +alone. One evening, late in the summer, we had just returned from +Sheffield, and tired had thrown ourselves for a moment into chairs, when +almost at once a knock came at the door—so soon indeed that we wondered +how the visitor could have been so close behind. George went to the door +and then turning to me said “A lady wants to see you.” At once a voice +from outside said very distinctly, “A _woman_, if you please.” Roused to +a sense of serious events impending, I went forward, and saw, as well as +the falling dusk would allow, what appeared to be a fairly +pleasant-looking woman of about thirty-five, but somewhat dishevelled +and untidy in dress; and said— + +“Can I do anything for you?” + +“You can,” she replied, “I’m lost, I’m an outcast from the world, will +you befriend me?” + +“I will if I can,” I said, “but tell me first about yourself—what is +your name? do you come from Sheffield?” + +“You,” she exclaimed, “Mr. Carpenter, the author of _Towards +Democracy_—and you won’t help me, till you know my name and all about +me!” + +I looked at George with a wild surmise. “Certainly,” I said, “I can’t +very well help you till I know what is the matter.” + +“I tell you,” she rejoined with increasing emphasis, “I’m lost, I’m an +outcast, I can never go back to the world again. Ah!” (pointing to the +garden and the rising moon) “if I could only live here in this beautiful +scene, with you, far away from the town and all its belongings. Mr. +Carpenter, will you befriend me?” + +What an appeal to a lone bachelor! Luckily I resisted the temptation to +a too ready sympathy, and leaning forward said again, “But still you +have not told me anything about yourself and your troubles.” + +As I did so I caught a distinct and strong waft of liquor. + +“Is it not enough that I am lost?” she replied. + +The situation was really embarrassing. At last I said:— + +“Well, you know, I and my friend have only just come back from +Sheffield, and are very tired; will you come again to-morrow, or any day +you like to name, when we shall have more time, and tell me your whole +story.” + +At this she threw up her head with a kind of snort, and said: “And you +are Mr. Carpenter! and you say come to-morrow—and to-morrow perhaps I +shall be _dead_!” And thus saying she strode off to the gate with the +air of a tragedy queen. + +Nevertheless for some days we could not help feeling a little +uncomfortable. The people at the neighboring inn told us that she had +come from the Sheffield direction during the afternoon, and had been +hanging about waiting for our return for some hours, doubtless had been +in the garden on our arrival—which accounted for her sudden +appearance—but no one knew who she was; nor did tidings of her, or of +any mischance to her, reach us for some weeks—till at last the memory of +the incident died out. + +Then one afternoon, the said Captain Peterson having turned up and being +engaged in expounding his theories over a cup of tea—my attention (which +had quite wandered from his conversation) was suddenly caught by the +words “and there’s that woman, she gets drunk, and then comes to my +house, and won’t go away—it’s very awkward!—and she has read your +_Towards Democracy_ too.” + +“That’s the woman,” I exclaimed, “tell me about her!” and a few +explanations soon disclosed the fact that my mysterious visitor was the +wife of Peterson’s colour-sergeant—a decent sort of body apparently, and +all right except for occasional drinking-bouts, when she became liable +to these vespertinal excursions! + + +During the first year or so after Merrill’s arrival, and for a year or +two before that, we had a young Russian, or Russian Jew, staying in the +house. Invalided with consumption he had somehow taken refuge with us. +He went by the name of Max Flint. He was of that fine and delicate type +of Jew (somewhat perhaps like Mordecai in George Eliot’s _Daniel +Deronda_) which one associates with Polish origin—a sensitive face with +slender nose (not the Jewish proboscis), arched fine eyebrows and brown +pensive eyes, well-formed features on the whole, and hands the +same—something refined and almost womanly about him. He was handy in a +house, and skilful with a needle; for indeed he was a tailor by trade. +His history is worth relating if only because typical of hundreds and +thousands of similar cases. + +[Illustration: + + G. M. FEEDING THE FOWLS. +] + +His father, who was a Jewish butcher by trade, “very religious” +according to Max “and always lending money and always losing it,” lived +at Slobodka across the river from Kovno, and not far from the German +frontier. Slobodka was the Jewish quarter and consisted of small wooden +houses, two stories at most, but even so not unfrequently each occupied +by more than one family. Noah Flynck however and his wife and the eight +children were proud to have a house all to themselves. The mother died +early but Max remembered her telling stories in which she recalled the +subjugation of Poland. How Polish ‘gentlemen,’ landowners, took refuge +in Slobodka, were hunted down by the Russian soldiers and _hanged_, and +their lands appropriated—especially one well-known old story of a Polish +noble who concealed himself in the interior of a haystack. The troops +surrounded and searched his house and farmyard, but could not find him, +till at last his little dog (who had smelt him out) was seen scratching +and routing on the top of the stack, and he was betrayed! + +When Max was about sixteen or seventeen the terror of the Russian +conscription came upon him. Few people realize what this nightmare is to +the Russian peasantry. Even in the late Japanese war, villages were +surrounded at midnight by Cossacks and police, houses if not opened +immediately were broken into, men roused from sleep, and all between the +ages of twenty-one and forty-three taken away, in most cases never to be +heard of again! In Max’s time it was as bad, if not worse. The same +thing went on. At any moment, at dead of night, the home might be broken +into and plundered—the young men snatched away for ever. Bribes might +defer your fate for a time—but only for a time. As to passports, you +could not move without a passport—even to go from one village to +another. + +Max determined—even against old Noah’s wish—to get away to England; and +he managed to effect the escape. There are of course professional +smugglers who undertake this business for you; and Max often told the +story of how he paid three roubles to one of these for the job. He was +instructed to be at a certain village close to the river Memel on a +certain evening. He gave his family the slip, and arrived there to time; +met the agent all right, and with twenty others bound on the same errand +was packed in a stable for the night. Half of the company went off in +the small hours of the morning, but Max and the remaining half had to +remain there all the next day and night till 2 a.m., when the man came +and gave them the signal to follow. They crept through the deserted +street and along the road till they came to the bridge which alone +divided them from Germany. But how to cross this in face of the Russian +sentinel keeping watch at the near end? Needless to say it was a +question of bribes. Of the three roubles the soldier was to have one. +And Max with a kind of glee used to describe how he saw the man sitting +there in his box as they crept by, and pretending to be asleep, yet +visibly peeping with one eye through his fingers to see that _only the +bargained number got through_. Once on the German side they were all +right, and could breathe again freely. They met at an inn, counted up +their remaining monies, and went on in parties together. + +Max came to Leeds. Of the hundreds of Russian Jews there he knew a +little about some. He changed his name from Flynck to Flint, to suit the +English ear, and soon settled down into sweated work in a Jewish +tailors’ den. + +One must hope and suppose that the move was for the better; but what a +long crucifixion is the life of the people! You escape from the horrors +of the Russian army—from being preyed upon by human and insect vermin, +as well as becoming food for powder—only to sit cross-legged for the +rest of your life in a dirty, evil-smelling workshop, with gas flaring, +stoves superheated (for making the irons hot), and windows all tightly +shut—and that, in the heart of a sad-eyed smoke-ridden manufacturing +town in the North of England. The wages I believe, in Max’s case, were +not so bad as in some such dens, but the ‘drive’ and the pressure were +incessant, the machine-work was exhausting, and the hours amounted to +ten and a half per day. Little wonder that in a few years he developed +the seeds of phthisis, and was practically marked down as its victim. + +Turning into a rebel and a hater of the present order (or disorder) of +things, he joined the Socialist club in Leeds and became a worker in the +cause. That led to his abandoning his own religion, lodging with +Christians, and doing such outrageous things as poking the fire or +preparing his own meals on the Sabbath Day—which in turn led to the +Jewish community slandering and persecuting _him_! They threw mud and +stones at him in the streets; and he became an outcast among his own +people. The Jewish girl he was courting refused to consort with him any +more and went off with another man, driving him so mad that (as Max told +me himself) he on one occasion nearly killed her. + +It was somewhere about this time that, in connection with the said +Socialist club, I happened to meet him. It was at the deathbed of +another Socialist; and perceiving his distress and evident need of a +change I asked him for a short holiday to Millthorpe. After that he came +again, and again. There was something so gentle and helpful about him +that he was always gratefully received by my friends; and the stories of +his life and times were always interesting. Once or twice I wrote—in my +best German—to his father[18]; and the innocent joy of the old man (in +his replies) was touching. But naturally Max did not get stronger—and a +time came when after being here a week or two he obviously could not go +to work again and had to stay on rather indefinitely. The Adams’ and he +became great friends, and he even helped a little in the sandalwork. +Then later, when this was too laborious for him, he took up +basket-making, and turned out quite a number of useful baskets; and as +many of these were “waste-paper baskets,” one must feel that in this +alone—in the providing receptacles for the printed rubbish of the day—he +performed a useful service! Gradually however he got weaker, and had to +give up all work. Then it became necessary for him to go to a +convalescent Home at Bournemouth; and there after some months he died. + +It is often the case that invalids and old people feel themselves a +burden on the household in which they live, think they are no good in +the world, and wish themselves out of the way; and yet all the time the +opposite may be the fact. Often they form a point of real interest in +the house, they call out people’s sympathy and helpfulness, and their +own pluck and sociability under failing health gives courage to others +who are stronger. Something of this was true of Max. Though depressed at +times his quaint and delicate humour was a joy to his friends and +acquaintances. One event, which might have proved prematurely fatal to +him, he would frequently recount with pleasure. It was one Christmas; a +time when the Village Band is in the habit of coming round to each house +in turn and playing its rather fearsome tunes! As it happened Max’s +bedroom, being at one end of the house, was over a more or less open +shed. It was evening and he was composing himself to sleep; when the +band arrived. But, snow being on the ground, their footsteps were not +heard; and the bandmen very naturally disposed themselves, for more +shelter, inside the shed, quite unconscious of course that they were +exactly underneath the bed on which an invalid was sleeping. All of a +sudden they struck up with a tremendous blare “Christians, Awake!” or +some such tune. It was like St. Jerome hearing the last Trump. Poor Max +was nearly lifted out of bed by the shock. For a moment he did not know +whether he was in this world or the next. When he concluded in favour of +this one he found himself lying there in the old bedroom, but his heart +palpitating so violently that, combined with the fit of laughter which +also seized him, he was quite a wreck for some days after. + +There was something ironical in the idea of a Christian hymn proving so +nearly fatal to a Jew; but a similar irony, curiously enough, pursued +him to his end at Bournemouth. At the Home there—in order to avoid +unpleasant questionings, and also because to him the matter was of no +importance—he had said nothing about his Jewish connection but had +declared himself a Christian, and had received in a friendly way the +visits of the chaplain. When he died the Home made the usual +arrangements for his interment in the Protestant Cemetery. But—and the +story shows how the Jewish community hangs together—the Jews at Leeds +and Manchester got to know somehow about it all, and telegraphed to the +synagogue at Southampton to stop the infamy of Christian burial. A +deputation came over from Southampton and arrived at the Bournemouth +home only an hour or two before the funeral—to claim the body for +removal to Southampton and burial with Jewish rites. I of course was on +the spot; and a nice position I was in! The matron of the Home and the +Chaplain on the one hand had “always understood” that he was a +Christian; the Chief Rabbi and his friends insisted absolutely that he +was a Jew; the funeral car was already waiting in the yard; and Max +himself lay there in the mortuary chapel with his features in death +finer and paler than ever, and wearing such an expression of high calm +and indifference as might well represent his own actual feeling in the +matter. I, of course, to all the parties concerned was obviously the +“guilty” person—guilty of having got them into such a coil—and they +looked at me with eyes of blame. But—though really just as indifferent +as Max himself—I thought it best to ‘play the game’; and insisted that +as he had openly declared himself a Christian he _was_ a Christian and +should be buried as such. The Jewish party on its side brought arguments +to show that a mere declaration on such a matter counted for nothing; +and soon we plunged into a long discussion which I kept up for some time +in order (partly) to hear what they would say. When I perceived however +how tremendously seriously the Jews took the whole matter, and reflected +also that Max’s father would be broken-hearted if he heard that his son +had been put in a Christian grave, I thought it best to give way. The +Chaplain and the matron agreed, and were indeed quite sensible about it +all—and finally poor Max’s mortal remains were carried off in triumph by +his own people. + + +In conclusion of this chapter I may relate a curious story which perhaps +helps to show how the elements of real inspiration and of mental +aberration may sometimes get mixed up in the same person. + +I had received a letter from London from a man who described himself as +a gold-miner from the Sierra Nevada, saying that he had just arrived in +England, and was wishful to see me, as he had a message to deliver, and +proposing to come on immediately to Millthorpe. As it happened I was +just starting for Glasgow and Edinburgh on a lecturing tour. So I wrote +at once telling him to wait a week for my return, and to employ his time +meanwhile in sight-seeing. But on my return I found to my surprise that +he had already been in the village some days, that he had taken a +lodging, and was awaiting my arrival. The next day, November 21, 1910, +he walked into my yard—obviously an American of a manual worker type, +thin, sandy-haired and tall, with dark clothes and black slouch hat, +somewhat horny-handed, but with a certain refinement of figure and +physiognomy. Also there was a slightly “fallen in” and tired look about +him which puzzled me at the moment, but was soon explained. He began +almost immediately—as soon as we were sat down—telling me a long +story—of which I can only give the outlines. + +It seemed that he had been working for a good many years in a gold-mine +(probably as part-owner of it)—a mine up 10,000 feet in the Sierra +Nevada. One day—six years before the events which he was about to +narrate—a strange vision came to him. He had lost his way on the Nevada +sandhills, and was searching about in some anxiety, when a sudden +transformation of the landscape occurred, and he was transported into a +new world, which he could only describe as ‘heaven.’ On several +succeeding occasions the same vision came to him. Meanwhile, he said, he +had been fighting hard against the three great temptations of a miner’s +life—drink, tobacco, and an irascible temper. Each of these troubles in +turn disappeared finally with a sudden deliverance and certain assurance +of success. Then, only a couple of months before coming to England, more +frequent visions came to him, accompanied by voices; and the affair +culminated in his getting hold of Dr. Bucke’s book on _Cosmic +Consciousness_ when he read the chapters about Buddha and Jesus. Then +followed what he described as “seven days of ecstasy, agonizing +ecstasy—tears of peace and joy streaming down my face—in which I saw +_everything, everything_.” After that he read one day in the same book +the chapter on E. C. + +Then one morning—as he was going up the mountain to his work from the +camp below (Victor, Colorado), he heard the voices again shouting: “They +came surging up close to my ears, and then faded away into the far +distance, and then came close again—and two of the voices were God’s, +and one was my own [!], and they were shouting _Edward Carpenter, Edward +Carpenter, go and see E. C., go and see_, etc., etc. And I at the same +time was shouting _Brother E. C.—God’s beloved Son, I am coming to +you_.” + +[George and I looked at each other again with a wild surmise! Another +case for the Asylum!] + +“And all this,” he continued, “kept being repeated as I walked up the +hill, over and over again, till at last it faded away in the distance. +And all the morning over my work I was in tears—tears of joy and +pain—and had to conceal my face from my mates. But as I turned the +crusher I felt enormous strength, and was quite unconscious of effort.” + +Then followed all sorts of stories about God telling him to do this and +that, and the Devil telling him to do this and that, and of temptations +and _tests_ to which he had been subjected. But in the end, he said, he +had been impelled to come and see me, and he had come. One day he just +threw down his tools and left them lying there, went and said good-bye +to his mother (and she evidently did not want him to go) and set sail +for England. And now we two (he and I) were to lead a mission round the +world—he had some idea about a new Messiah—and to preach and convert the +nations together. + +Things were evidently getting serious! Yet I hardly knew what to do. He +was such a very decent fellow, quiet and kindly and essentially +reasonable, and by no means a fanatic; and most obviously genuine and +spontaneous. I hardly knew how to attack him. + +Then George Merrill saved the situation. He asked Grogan (C. E. Grogan +was his name) to have some tea; and the answer gave the needed clue. + +“Tea? No, thank you, I haven’t taken tea or any food for three weeks.” +[Afterwards on inquiry at his village-lodgings I found his landlady had +been dreadfully disturbed at his not touching a crumb of anything all +the time he was there.] + +“But if you won’t eat, you’ll have a cup of tea, or something to drink?” + +“No, nothing—except a glass of water—I haven’t eaten anything for three +weeks, and I don’t think I shall ever eat again.” + +The cat was out; and the line of action was clear. + +“Look here!” I said, “I quite understand you, and sympathize with your +experiences—and I think indeed you have had some very real experiences, +and some realizations of another kind of consciousness; but you must be +careful, and have some idea of what you are doing. There is no doubt +that sometimes abstinence from food will help to develop internal +faculties. On the other hand to go too far and to weaken the body, +perhaps permanently, may be most foolish, and dangerous. The body is +there to give expression to the soul, and if you have any important +spiritual revelation to express you want all the faculties of your body +in good order for the purpose. Starvation, it is well known, engenders +visions and voices, often of a very delusive character. You must not +give yourself away to all that. How do you know that what you say is of +God is not of the Devil; and _vice versâ_? And how do _I_ know?” + +So I went on at him; making him plainly understand that I was not going +to join in his crusade—whatever it was. “Besides,” I said, “I still do +not see what made you come here. You say you have not read any of my +writing—except what was contained in Dr. Bucke’s book. _What do you know +about me?_” + +Then he leaped out again. “Oh, I know all about you. _I know that you +will never die!_” + +“That is not a very cheerful prospect,” said I, gently laughing. + +“Oh, well,” he replied, “you will at any rate live four hundred years. +It is like this: The earth and all that are in it, are from this day +passing gradually into a new and higher plane of existence. That process +will complete itself in four hundred years, and at the end of that time +the earth will be absorbed into the Sun and the ethereal life. A +wonderful period of new life will arrive; and all those who are living +then will be transformed without passing through Death.” + +He spoke earnestly and with conviction. I did not oppose him; but warned +him again about going too far with his abstinence, and advised +deliberation in his conclusions. He did not seem inclined to give way +about food—said he thought he should never require it again, and +maintained that the internal breathing (_prana_) came to him with a +wonderful sense of fragrance and refreshment. + +He was extraordinarily good; for though I had refused, almost rudely, to +join in his schemes, he took no offence—simply said that he was +satisfied now, that he had given the message he had been told to give, +and would return to America “to-morrow.” + +Having then made my negative attitude quite clear, so that there should +be no misunderstanding, I now adopted a positive line; and talked to him +for some little time about experiences of the kind he had described. +Then I went and fetched some books—the _Bhagavat Gita_, some of the +Upanishads, and other works. He had never even heard their names. I +opened the _Bhagavat Gita_, almost at random, and pointed him out a +passage. He almost clapped his hands for joy. “Oh yes, that is exactly +what I feel.” He seized the book, and turned over the pages, pouncing on +passage after passage with delight. “Yes, yes, that is just it!” There +was no doubt about his sincere and instant appreciation. Then I showed +him the passage in the _Bhagavat Gita_ about moderation in eating and +moderation in abstinence; but he did not seem inclined to agree. “I just +do what God tells me.” + +Finally I _gave_ him the _Gita_, and some other books of similar +character. And he on his side decided to return to America +“to-morrow”—and insisted on my writing at once for a cab. I did not +attempt to dissuade him—feeling that perhaps he was right—also that his +friends in America would be more satisfied if he returned. + +Meanwhile he _looked_ ever so much better than when he came into the +house—and evidently was so—“glad to have carried out what he had to do,” +he said. I told him that on board ship his mind would settle itself; and +he went off. + +He wrote from Liverpool next day, saying he was very happy; and a month +or so later from Colorado—in which letter he said, “The _unseen force_ +which caused me to quit eating caused me to begin again (as suddenly as +I quit). My fast was merely a part of the _lesson_ which is continually +before me.” Since then I have heard from him from time to time. In one +letter he says: “I am feeling fine, and slowly but surely am I (as a +child) permitted to learn the _a, b, c_ of _real life_. It is my belief +that we are all permitted to pierce the veil that conceals _real Life_ +from our view, only accordingly as our minds are ready to absorb the +knowledge gained thereby. From a point of view of Cosmic Consciousness I +am beginning my life all over again, and am only beginning in a small +way to see and understand some of the simpler truths of the same; but I +have lost much of that feeling of haste, and learning with the idea in +mind that I have all eternity to learn in. My folk and relatives all +glad that I am home and quit my wanderings for the present. I think I +shall engage in mining again in a small way. This mining camp is about +10,000 feet altitude, and the weather is beautiful, plenty sunshine, and +not cold winter weather.” + +In his latest to me he says: “You will remember when I visited you I +said you would never die. I still feel same way and see no chance of my +dying, personally it is a matter of indifference whether I live or die. +If I must die in order to live again, so be it, but may we not be +permitted to enjoy eternal life here and now? I think so. I think the +Harvest of the world is ripe, but such great changes are slow and almost +unnoticeable and I think overlap each other, so that _harvest_ or death +of one thing is the Birth of another, that is consciousness of Eternal +Life becoming more general. Well, I think that I have written enough +that you may see the drift of my mind, and I think that is what you +want. Love to Mr. Merrill and yourself, yours truly, C. E. GROGAN.” + +To which words of Grogan’s I would only add: “No doubt we _are_ +permitted to enjoy eternal life here and now—even in this tiniest +corner, wherever it may be, of space and time.” + + + + + XI + THE STORY OF MY BOOKS + + +The fate of my books has been interesting—at any rate to myself! Leaving +aside _Narcissus and Other Poems_, and _Moses: a Drama_—which were +written in early days at Cambridge, and were only, so to speak, +exercises in literature and efforts to vie with then-accepted +models—_Towards Democracy_, of course, has been the start-point and +kernel of all my later work, the centre from which the other books have +radiated. Whatever obvious weaknesses and defects it may present, I have +still always been aware that it was written from a different _plane_ +from the other works, from some predominant mood or consciousness +superseding the purely intellectual. Indeed, so strong has been this +feeling that, though tempted once or twice to make alterations from the +latter point of view, I have never really ventured to do so; and now, +after more than thirty years since the inception of the book, I am +entirely glad to think that I have not. + +It is a curious question—and one which literary criticism has never yet +tackled—why it is that certain books, or certain passages in books, will +bear reading over and over again without becoming stale; that you can +return to them after months or years and find entirely new meanings in +them which had escaped you on the first occasion; and that this can even +go on happening time after time, while other books and passages are +exhausted at the first reading and need never be looked at again. How is +it possible that the same phrase or concatenation of words should bear +within itself meaning behind meaning, horizon after horizon of +significance and suggestion? Yet such undoubtedly is the case. Portions +of the poetic and religious literature of most countries, and large +portions of books like _Leaves of Grass_, the _Bhagavat Gita_, Plato’s +_Banquet_, Dante’s _Divina Commedia_, have this inexhaustible +germinative quality. One returns to them again and again, and +continually finds fresh interpretations lurking beneath the old and +familiar words. + +I imagine that the explanation is somewhat on this wise: That in the +case of passages that are exhausted at a first reading (like statements +say of Church doctrine or political or scientific theory) we are simply +being presented with an intellectual ‘view’ of some fact; but that in +the other cases in some mysterious way the words succeed in conveying +the fact itself. It is like the difference between the actual solid +shape of a mountain and the different views of the mountain obtainable +from different sides. They are two things of a different order and +dimension. It almost seems as if some mountain-facts of our experience +_can_ be imaged forth by words in such a way that the phrases themselves +retain this quality of solidity, and consequently their outlines of +meaning vary according to the angle at which the reader approaches them +and the variation of the reader’s mind. None of the outlines are final, +and the solid content of the phrase remains behind and eludes them all. +Anyhow the matter is a most mysterious one; but as a fact it remains, +and demands explanation. + +I have felt somehow with regard to _Towards Democracy_ that—while my +other books were merely subsidiary and mainly represented ‘views’ and +‘aspects’—this one (with all its imperfections) had that central quality +and kind of other-dimensional solidity to which I have been alluding. +And my experiences in writing it have corroborated that feeling. + +I have spoken elsewhere about the considerable period of gestation and +suffering which preceded the birth of this book; nor were its troubles +over when it made its first appearance in the world. The first edition, +printed and published by John Heywood of Manchester, at my own expense, +fell quite flat. The infant showed hardly any signs of life. The Press +ignored the book or jeered at it. I can only find one notice by a London +paper of the first year of its publication, and that is by the old +sixpenny _Graphic_ (of August 11, 1883), saying—not without a sort of +pleasant humour—that the phrases are “suggestive of a lunatic Ollendorf, +with stage directions,” and ending up with the admission that “the book +is truly mystic, wonderful—like nothing so much as a nightmare after too +earnest a study of the Koran!” The _Saturday Review_ got hold of the +_second_ edition, and devoted a long article (March 27, 1886) to slating +it and my socialist pamphlets (_Desirable Mansions_, etc.) as instances +of “the kind of teaching which is now commonly set before the more +ignorant classes, and which is probably accepted in good faith by not a +few among them. A haphazard collection of fallacies, to which the +semblance of a basis is given by half a dozen truisms, flavored by a +little Carlylese, or by diluted extracts of Walt Whitman ... such is the +compound which ‘cultivated’ Socialism offers as a new and saving faith +to the working classes, and of which the works before us offer a good +example.” Then follow severe comments on my absurd views about Usury and +the manners and customs of the Rich, and finally a long quotation from +_Towards Democracy_; of which book the writer says: “And this sort of +thing goes on through two hundred and fifty pages, the blank monotony of +which is only relieved here and there by a few passages which it would +be undesirable to quote, and which it is not wholesome to read.” + +The London Press—when it did deign to notice my work—followed the same +sort of lead; and it was left (as usual) to comparative outsiders to +make any real discovery in the matter. Curiously enough, a very young +man (George Moore-Smith) in a long article in the _Cambridge Review_ of +November 14, 1883, led the way in drawing serious attention to the first +edition. The _Indian Review_ (Wm. Digby) of May 1885 had a remarkably +sympathetic and intelligent notice of the second edition, and I owe much +to my friend W. P. Byles’ introduction of the book to Northern readers +through the _Bradford Observer_ (of March 19, 1886); also to an article +by H. Rowlandson in _The Dublin University Review_ for April, 1886. + +With the third edition (1892) a certain amount of timid acknowledgment +set in. Notices in a few more or less well-known papers were friendly +though brief and cautious, as with a scent of danger. The fourth and +complete edition did not appear till ten years later (1902), and by that +time the book had established itself. It had ceased to demand +Press-appreciations, favorable or otherwise; and so the critics—_very +luckily for themselves_—escaped, and have escaped, without ever having +had to give any sort of full pronouncement or verdict on the book! + +To return to the first edition. I had only five hundred copies printed; +but at the end of two years when I had gathered material enough for a +second edition, there was still a hundred or so of these on hand. All +the same I did not feel any serious misgiving. I caused a thousand +copies to be printed of the second edition (260 pp.), sent them round to +the Press again, and waited. This was in 1885. If anything the reception +accorded was worse than before—in a sense worse—because there was more +of it! By 1892—when I needed to print a third edition—only some seven +hundred copies of the second edition had gone. Seven hundred in seven +years! The prospects were not good, yet I did not feel depressed. I had +certainly not expected any great sale; and there were even signs of +improvement. My _other_ books were beginning to attract a little +attention. It was obviously also hard on this book to have it published +in Manchester. So I determined to go to London. There was no possible +chance of getting a publisher there to take it as his own speculation; +so I went to Mr. Fisher Unwin and asked him to print at my expense and +sell it on commission—which he naturally was quite willing to do! The +book had now grown to 368 pp., and its price had to be raised from 2s. +6d. to 3s. 6d.; but its sales actually improved, and for two or three +years ranged at about two hundred copies a year. I began to think it was +just possible that my little bark would navigate itself, that it would +float out on deeper waters and into the world-current; when something +disastrous happened which left it in the shallows for quite a few years +longer. + +That something was the Oscar Wilde trial or trials, which took place in +the spring of 1895; but to understand how they affected _Towards +Democracy_ I must go back a little. Early in 1894 I started writing a +series of pamphlets on sex-questions—those questions which at that time +were generally tabooed and practically not discussed at all, though they +now have become almost an obsession of the public mind. As pamphlets of +that kind would have no chance with the ordinary publishers, I got them +printed and issued by the Manchester Labour Press—a little association +for the spread of Socialist literature, on the committee of which I was. +The pamphlets were _Sex-love_, _Woman_, and _Marriage_; and they sold +pretty well—three or four thousand copies each. Encouraged by their +success I began early in ’95 to put them together, and add fresh matter +to them, till I had a book ready for publication—which I afterwards +entitled _Love’s Coming-of-Age_. This book I offered to Fisher Unwin (as +he was already selling _Towards Democracy_) and he accepted +it—undertaking to produce the book himself and give me a fair Royalty. +His Agreement was signed in June 1895. + +Meanwhile, in January 1895 (though dated 1894) I issued from the Labour +Press, and in the same connection as the other pamphlets, a fourth one, +entitled _Homogenic Love_—which I suppose was among the first attempts +in this country to deal at all publicly with the problems of the +Intermediate Sex. I placed “printed for private circulation only” on the +Title-page, and had only a comparatively small number of copies struck +off—which were not sold but sent round pretty freely to those who I +thought would be interested in the subject or able to contribute views +or information upon it. My object in fact was to get in touch with +others and to obtain material for future study or publication. Even in +this quiet way the pamphlet created some alarm—and in the dove-cotes of +Fleet Street (as I heard) caused no little fluttering and agitation; but +it is quite possible the matter would have ended there, if it had not +been for the Oscar Wilde troubles. Wilde was arrested in April 1895 and +from that moment a sheer panic prevailed over _all_ questions of sex, +and especially of course questions of the Intermediate Sex. + +I did not include _Homogenic Love_ in my proposed new book, nor had I +any intention of including it; but when the mere existence of the thing +came to the knowledge of Fisher Unwin he was so perturbed that he +actually cancelled his Agreement with me, with regard to the book +_Love’s Coming-of-Age_, and broke loose from it. It was in vain that I +tried to restrain him. He had got his leg over the trace, as it were, +and was ‘off.’ Indeed, he was quite willing to sacrifice the expense he +had already incurred (for the book was now partly set up) rather than go +on with it. Under the circumstances I could not, of course, very well +compel him to publish. Moreover I felt sorry for his perturbation, and +quite understood some of its causes. The extent of it was finally shown +by his going so far as to turn _Towards Democracy_ out of his shop, and +refuse to publish _that_ any longer! + +Thus my two books _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ and _Towards Democracy_—like +two poor little orphans—were both out on the wide world again. + +For the moment I will go on with _Love’s Coming-of-Age_. Being routed by +Fisher Unwin, I went to Sonnenschein, Bertram Dobell, and +others—altogether five or six publishers—but they all shook their heads. +The Wilde trial had done its work; and silence must henceforth reign on +sex-subjects.[19] There was nothing left for me but to return to my +little Labour Press at Manchester, and get the book printed and +published from there—which I did, the first edition being issued in +1896. + +It is curious to think that that was not twenty years ago, and what a +landslide has occurred since then! In ’96 no ‘respectable’ publisher +would touch the volume, and yet to-day [1915] the tide of such +literature has flowed so full and fast that my book has already become +quite a little old-fashioned and demure! But the severe resistance and +rigidity of public opinion at the time made the volume very difficult to +write. The readiness, the absolute determination of people to +_misunderstand_ if they possibly could, rendered it very difficult to +guard against misunderstandings, and as a matter of fact nearly every +chapter in the book was written four or five times over before I was +satisfied with it. + +_Love’s Coming-of-Age_ ought of course (like some parts of _England’s +Ideal_) to have been written by a woman; but, though I tried, I could +not get any of my women-friends to take the subject up, and so had to +deal with it myself. Ellen Key, in Sweden, began—I fancy about the same +period—writing that fine series of books on _Love_, _Marriage_, +_Childhood_, and so forth, which have done so much to illuminate the +Western World; but at that time I knew nothing of her and her work. + +My book circulated almost immediately to some extent in the Socialistic +world, where my name was fairly well known; but some time elapsed before +it penetrated into more literary and more ‘respectable’ circles. One of +the first signs of its succeeding in the latter direction took a rather +amusing shape. I had, one day, to call upon a well-known London +publisher (who was already publishing some of my books, though he had +refused this particular one) on business, and having discussed the +matters immediately in hand, he presently turned to me and inquired how +my _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ was selling. I of course gave a fairly +favorable account. “I think,” said he in a somewhat chastened tone “that +perhaps we made rather a mistake in refusing some little time back to +take it up. A Sunday or two ago I was at church [probably a +Congregational or Unitarian Chapel], and the minister quoted a page or +two from your book, and spoke very highly of it, and actually gave the +published address and price, and all; and I saw quite a lot of people +noting the references down.” He paused, and then added, “Quite a good +advertisement—worth thirty or forty copies I daresay.” I could not help +smiling. No wonder he was sorry! But the story gave promise of better +things to come. + +In 1902 the said publishing firm was glad to tale the book up and +publish it on commission for me—which they (and their successors) have +done ever since. And its sale in England (though not phenomenal like +that of the German translation) has, I must say, been very good. + +To return to _Towards Democracy_. Considering its expulsion from Mr. +Fisher Unwin’s shop and the generally panicky condition of the book +market in London, there seemed nothing to do but to return to Manchester +and place it also in the hands of the little Labour Press for +publication. The two thousand or so copies remaining in Unwin’s hands +were my property, and I had only to remove them to Manchester, get a new +title-page printed, and have them issued from there. This I accordingly +did, and in ’96 the Labour Press edition appeared—368 pp., the same as +Fisher Unwin’s. Naturally the Labour Press connection was not very +favorable as regards circulation, and the price (3s. 6d.) was high for +Socialist and Labour circles. The spread of the book remained +slow—slower of course than it had been with Unwin, and hardly amounted +to a hundred copies a year. + +This was bad; but worse remained behind. Somewhere early in 1901 the +Labour Press—whose financial affairs had never been very +satisfactory—went bankrupt! I knew of course what was pending; and as +the stock of _Towards Democracy_ belonged to _me_, and I knew that if +left at the Press it would be in danger of falling into the creditors’ +hands, there was nothing left but to smuggle it away as soon as I could +into some place of safe keeping. Mr. James Johnston, City Councillor, +always a good friend, came to the rescue and offered me storage room in +his office. I hired a dray. And so one foggy day, with a good part of a +ton of _Towards Democracy_ on board—which I helped to load and unload—I +jogged with the drayman through the streets of Manchester amid the huge +turmoil of the cotton goods and other traffic. A strange load—and I +never before realized how heavy the book was! + +It lay there for some months, and then about July of the same year I +made arrangements with Sonnenschein & Co. for them to sell the book on +commission, and the stock was transferred into their hands. From that +time its sales slowly went forward—from a hundred or a hundred and fifty +per annum in 1902, to eight hundred or nine hundred in 1910, when the +Sonnenschein business, and with it my book, passed into the hands of +George Allen & Co. In 1902 the fourth part of _Towards Democracy_, i.e. +“Who shall command the Heart” was published; and in 1905 this was +incorporated with the three former parts in one complete volume. Later +in the same year I succeeded (a long cherished project) in producing a +pocket edition of the whole on India paper, which has ever since sold +alongside and _pari passu_ with the Library edition. Thus after +twenty-one years (in 1902) these writings (begun in 1881) came to an +end; and three years later the book took its definite and permanent form +in print and binding, and some sort of rather indefinite place in the +world of letters. + +Talking about their place in the world of letters, some of my books +have, I fear, puzzled the public by their titles. _Ioläus_ has been much +of an offender in this way. The uncertainty as to who or what Ioläus +might be, the difficulty of knowing how to spell the word, and the +impossibility of pronouncing it, proved at one time such obstacles that +they quite adversely affected the sales. On one occasion I received a +telegram from a firm asking me to send at once two hundred Oil-cans. My +puzzlement was great, as I had indeed never embarked in the oil trade, +nor in my wildest dreams thought of doing so—till suddenly it flashed +upon me that the message, having had to pass through a rustic +post-office, had been transformed on the way, and that the romantic +friend and companion of Hercules had been turned into a paraffin tin! +After that I modified the title so as to avoid any such sacrilege in the +future. + +Coming back to _Towards Democracy_ again, I do not know that I have ever +seen a very serious estimate or criticism of that book in any well-known +literary paper. Like others of my works it has come into the literary +sheep-fold not through the accepted gate but “some other way, like a +thief or a robber.” It has been generally ignored—as already +explained—by the guardians of the gate, yet it has quietly and +decisively established itself, and the ‘sheep’ somehow have taken kindly +to the ‘robber.’ And perhaps the matter is best so. A book of that kind +is not easy to criticize; it cannot be dispatched by a snap phrase; it +does not belong to any distinct class or school; its form is open to +question; its message is at once too simple and too intricate for public +elucidation—even if really understood by the interpreter. That it should +go its own way quietly, neither applauded by the crowd, nor barked at by +the dogs, but knocking softly here and there at a door and finding +friendly hospitality—is surely its most gracious and satisfying destiny. + +But though the ignoring by the critics of _Towards Democracy_ has seemed +natural and proper, I confess I have been somewhat surprised by their +non-recognition or non-discussion of the questions dealt with in the +other books; because, as I have said these books are on a different +plane from _Towards Democracy_. They deal with theories or views which +flow (as I think) perfectly logically from the central idea of _Towards +Democracy_—just as the different views or aspects of a mountain flow +perfectly logically from the mountain-fact itself. We cannot discuss the +central idea, but we can discuss the aspects, because they come within +the range of intellectual apprehension and definition. If the world—it +seems to me—should ever seize the central fact of such books as _Leaves +of Grass_ and _Towards Democracy_, it must inevitably formulate new +views of life on almost every conceivable subject: the aspects of all +life will be changed. And the discussion and definition of these views +ought to be extraordinarily interesting. It is therefore surprising I +say that no serious discussion of the underlying or implicit assumptions +of these two books has yet taken place. It is true, of course, that +to-day the world is witnessing a strange change of attitude on almost +all questions, and a vague feeling after the new aspects to which I am +alluding; but it does not concatenate these views on to any central +fact, and therefore cannot deal with them adequately or effectively. It +is as if people, having taken drawings of a hitherto undiscovered +mountain from many different sides, and comparing them together, should +not realize that it is the _same_ mountain which they have been +observing all the time, and that there _is_ a unity and a reality there +which will explain and concatenate all the outlines. I say it is a +little disappointing that this point has not yet been reached, because +it would make the discussion and definition of the new views so +wonderfully interesting. On the other hand it is obvious that in the +midst of the enormous output and rush of modern literature, critics +generally have thrown up the sponge, and are content to get through +their work perfunctorily or as best they can, without the added labour +of tackling, or attempting to tackle, a great new synthesis. + +The attempt made a quarter of a century ago—in _Civilization: its Cause +and Cure_—to define the characteristics of (modern) civilization, and to +show the civilization-period as a distinct stage in social evolution, +destined to pass away and to be succeeded by a later stage—of which +later stage even now some of the features may be indicated—has never as +far as I know been seriously taken up and worked out. The Socialists of +course have certain views on the subject, but they are limited to the +economic field, and do not by any means cover the whole ground; and +various doctrinaire sets and sects are nibbling at the problem from +different sides; but a real statement and investigation of the whole +question, and a linking of it up to deepest spiritual facts, would +obviously be absorbingly interesting. I first read the paper which bears +the above name at the Fabian Society (? in 1888), and, needless to say, +it was jeered at on all sides; but since then, somehow, a change has +come, and even Sidney Webb and Bernard Shaw, who most attacked me at the +time, have ceased to use the word ‘Civilization’ in its old optimistic +and mid-Victorian sense. What we want now is a real summing-up and +settling of what the word connotes—both from the historical point of +view, and with regard to the future. + +Another paper in the same book, which shocked a good many of my +Cambridge friends, was my “Criticism of Modern Science.” The Victorian +age glorified modern Science—not only in respect of its patient and +assiduous observation of facts, which every one allows, but also on +account of the supposed Laws of Nature which it had discovered, and +which were accounted immutable and everlasting. A light arising from +some quite other source convinced me that this infallibility of the +scientific “Laws” was an entire illusion. I had been brought up on +mathematics and physical science. I had lectured for years on the +latter. But now the reaction set in; and—rather rudely and crudely it +must be confessed—I turned on my old teacher to rend her! I published in +1885, and in Manchester, a shilling pamphlet called _Modern Science: A +Criticism_, and sent it round to my mathematical and scientific friends. +I think most of them thought I had gone daft! But, after all, the +whirligig of Time has brought its revenge, and the inevitable evolution +of human thought has done its work; and now, one may ask, where _are_ +the airy fairy laws and theories of the Science of the last century? The +great stores of observations and facts are certainly there, and so are +the marvellous applications of these things to practical life—but where +are the immutable Laws?—where are the clean-cut systems of the families +and species of plants and animals? where is Boyle’s law of gases? where +the stability of the planetary orbits? where the permanence and +indestructibility of the atom? where is the theory of gravitation, where +the theory of light, the theory of electricity? the law of supply and +demand in Political Economy, of Natural Selection in Biology? of the +fixity of the Elements in Chemistry, or the succession of the strata in +Geology? All gone into the melting-pot—and quickly losing their +outlines! + +It is true that in the great brew which is being thus formed, rags and +chunks of the old “Laws of Nature” are still discernible; but no one +supposes they are there for long, and on all sides it is obvious that +the scientific world is giving up the search for them, and the +expectation (in the face of such things as radium, Hertzian waves, +Karyokinesis and so forth) of ever reconstituting Science again on the +old Victorian basis. These fixed ‘Laws,’ it is pretty evident, and their +remaining débris, will melt away, till out of the seething brew +something entirely different and unexpected emerges. And that will +be?... Yes, what indeed out of such a Cauldron _might_ be expected to +emerge—a strange and wonderful Figure, a living Form! + +Yet the curious thing is that while this process of the dissolution of +scientific theory is going on before our eyes, and on all sides, no one +seems to be aware of it—at any rate no one sums it up, gives it outline +and definition, or tackles its meaning and result. Tolstoy was pleased +with the attacks on Modern Science contained in _Civilization: its Cause +and Cure_, wrote to me about it, and had the chapter printed in Russian, +with a preface by himself. But his point of view was that Science being +a serious enemy to Religion anything which bombarded and crippled +Science would help to free Religion. That was not my point of view. I do +not regard Science—or rather Intellectualism—as the foe of Religion, but +more as a stage which _has to be passed through_ on the way to a higher +order of perception or consciousness—which might possibly be termed +Religion—only the word religion is too vague to be very applicable here. + +Another airy castle which is obviously fading away before our eyes +is that of the “Laws” of Morality. The whole structure of +civilization-morality is being rapidly undermined. The moral +aspects of Property, Commerce, Class-relations, Sex-relations, +Marriage, Patriotism, and so forth, are shifting like dissolving +views. Nietzsche has scorched up the old Christian altruism; +Bernard Shaw has burned the Decalogue. Yet (in this country and +according to our custom) we jog along and pretend not to see what +is happening. No body of people faces out the situation, or +attempts to foretell its future. The Ethical society professes to +substitute Ethics for Religion, as a basis of social life; yet +never once has it informed us what it means by Ethics! The Law +courts go mumbling on over ancient measures of right and wrong +which the man in the street has long ago discarded. Much less has +any group attempted to foreshadow the new Morality, and +concatenate it on to the great root-fact of existence. In my +“Defence of Criminals: a Criticism of Morality,”[20] I gave an +outline and an indication of what was happening, and of the way +out into the future; but that paper, as far as I know, has never +been seriously discussed. + +Nevertheless under the surface new ideas are forming, the lines of the +coming life are spreading. The book _Civilization_—first published by +Sonnenschein, in 1889—has had a good circulation, and been translated +into many languages. Though somewhat hastily and crudely put together, +yet owing to a certain _élan_ about it, and probably largely owing to +the fact that it gives expression to the main issues above-mentioned, it +has been well received. + +One idea, which runs all through the book—namely, that of there being +three great stages of Consciousness: the simple consciousness (of the +animal or of primitive man), the self-consciousness (of the civilized or +intellectual man), and the mass-consciousness or cosmic consciousness of +the coming man, is only roughly sketched there, but is developed more +fully in _The Art of Creation_. It is of course deeply germane to +_Towards Democracy_. And though we may not yet be in a position to +define the conception very exactly, still it is quite evident, I think, +that some such evolution into a further order of consciousness is the +key to the future, and that many æons to come (of human progress) will +be ruled by it. Dr. Richard Bucke, by the publication (in 1901) of his +book _Cosmic Consciousness_ made a great contribution to the cause of +humanity. The book was a bit casual, hurried, doctrinaire, un-literary, +and so forth, but it brought together a mass of material, and did the +inestimable service of being the first to systematically consider and +analyse the subject. Strangely here again we find that his book—though +always spreading and circulating about the world, beneath the +surface—has elicited no serious recognition or response from the +accredited authorities, philosophers, psychologists, and so forth; and +the subject with which it deals is in such circles practically +ignored—though in comparatively unknown coteries it may be warmly +discussed. So the world goes on—the real expanding vital forces being +always beneath the surface and hidden, as in a bud, while the accepted +forms and conclusions are little more than a vari-coloured husk, waiting +to be thrown off. + +Relating itself closely and logically with the idea (1) of the three +stages of Consciousness is that (2) of the Berkeleyan view of matter—the +idea that matter in itself is an illusion, being only a film between +soul and soul: _called_ matter when the film is opaque to the perceiving +soul, but called mind when the latter sees through to the intelligence +behind it. And these stages again relate logically to the idea (3) of +the Universal or Omnipresent Self. The _Art of Creation_ was written to +give expression to these three ideas and the natural deductions from +them. + +The doctrine of the Universal Self is obviously fundamental; and it is +clear that once taken hold of and adopted it must inevitably +revolutionize all our views of Morality—since current morality is +founded on the separation of self from self; and must revolutionize too +all our views of Science. Such matters as the Transmutation of Chemical +Elements, the variation of biological Species, the unity of Health, the +unity of Disease, our views of Political Economy and Psychology; +Production for Use instead of for Profit, Communism, Telepathy; the +relation between Psychology and Physiology, and so forth, must take on +quite a new complexion when the idea which lies at the root of them is +seized. This idea must enable us to understand the continuity of Man +with the Protozoa, the relation of the physiological centres, on the one +hand to the individual Man and on the other to the Race from which he +springs, the meaning of Reincarnation, and the physical conditions of +its occurrence. It must have eminently practical applications; as in the +bringing of the Races of the world together, the gradual evolution of a +Non-governmental form of Society, the Communalization of Land and +Capital, the freeing of Woman to equality with Man, the extension of the +monogamic Marriage into some kind of group-alliance, the restoration and +full recognition of the heroic friendships of Greek and primitive times; +and again in the sturdy Simplification and debarrassment of daily life +by the removal of those things which stand between us and Nature, +between ourselves and our fellows—by plain living, friendship with the +Animals, open-air habits, fruitarian food, and such degree of Nudity as +we can reasonably attain to. + +These mental and social changes and movements and many others which are +all around us waiting for recognition, will clearly, when they ripen, +constitute a revolution in human life deeper and more far-reaching than +any which we know of belonging to historical times. Even any _one_ of +them, worked out practically, would be fatal to most of our existing +institutions. Together they would form a revolution so great that to +call it a mere extension or outgrowth of Civilization would be quite +inadequate. Rather we must look upon them as the preparation for a stage +entirely different from and beyond Civilization. To tackle these things +in advance, to prepare for them, study them, understand them is clearly +absolutely necessary. It is a duty which—however burked or ignored for a +time—will soon be forced upon us by the march of events. And it is a +duty which cannot effectively be fulfilled piecemeal, but only by +regarding all these separate movements of the human mind, and of +society, as part and parcel of one great underlying movement—one great +new disclosure of the human Soul. + +[Illustration: + + Self in Porch + + 1905 +] + +My little covey of books, dating from _Towards Democracy_, has been +hatched mainly for the purpose of giving expression to these and other +various questions which—raised in my mind by the writing of _Towards +Democracy_—demanded clearer statement than they could find there. +_Towards Democracy_ came first, as a Vision, so to speak, and a +revelation—as a great body of feeling and intuition which I _had_ to put +into words as best I could. It carried with it—as a flood carries trees +and rocks from the mountains where it originates—all sorts of +assumptions and conclusions. Afterwards—for my own satisfaction as much +as for the sake of others—I had to examine and define these assumptions +and conclusions. + +That was the origin of my prose writings—most of them—of _England’s +Ideal_, _Civilization_, _The Art of Creation_, _Love’s Coming-of-Age_, +_The Intermediate Sex_, _The Drama of Love and Death_, _Angels’ Wings_, +_Non-governmental Society_,[21] _A Visit to a Gñani_,[22] and so forth. +They, like the questions they deal with, have led a curious underground +life in the literary world, spreading widely as a matter of fact, yet +not on the surface. Like old moles they have worked away unseen and +unobserved, yet in such a manner as to throw up heaps here and there and +in the most unlikely places, and bring back friends to me on all +sides—lovely and beautiful friends for whom I cannot sufficiently thank +them. + + + + + XII + PERSONALITIES—I + + +It is curious that, with my somewhat antinomian tendencies, I should +have gone to Trinity Hall—which was, and is, before all a Law +College—and should thus have been thrown into close touch with the +_legal_ element in life. As an undergraduate, whose days were consumed +in boating and mathematics, this was not noticeable; but it was not +entirely after my heart when I became a Fellow, to find myself in a +society which was almost wholly composed of barristers; and in after +life to discover that my friends of early days had nearly all become +eminent K.C.’s and Judges! + +Just before my entering Trinity Hall, an undergraduate of that College, +Robert Romer, had become Senior Wrangler—and I really believe this had +something to do with my selecting the College for myself. The ‘Hall’ men +were hugely delighted, as this distinction in the Tripos had never come +to the College before—the more so, because Romer was a boating man and +rowed in the First Boat; and a myth grew up (possibly encouraged by the +subject himself, and in order to show how easily a real boating man can +do anything he turns himself to!) that he passed his examinations by the +light of nature, and never needed to ‘swot’ like an ordinary mortal. +Others however said—and this was a more likely explanation—that he used +to sit at his study table with a pot of beer and a sporting journal +before him, while in the open drawer of the table lay his mathematical +books and papers. When a knock came at the door it was the simplest +thing in the world to close the drawer, and be found consuming his ale! +After his degree he remained at Cambridge for a time as mathematical +coach, but was by no means a success in that line. He could not +sympathize with a learner’s difficulties; and when a pupil came to him +with a problem which he could not understand, Romer would say “What? You +can’t understand that? You can’t understand that?—then God help you, I +can’t!” Naturally he soon gave up teaching and took to the Bar. After +_my_ degree—when we were Fellows of the College together—I saw quite a +little of him: a rough, muscular-brained, “damn-your-eyes” type of man, +and as may be imagined quite ignorant of art and literature, but +good-natured and healthy. Later however the sheer physical force of his +mentality took him to the highest reaches of the legal profession (Lord +Justice of Appeal) and he passed out of my sphere. + +Another Senior Wrangler whom I knew fairly well, as he headed the Tripos +in my own year (1868), and who afterwards became Lord Justice (in the +Court of Patents) was J. Fletcher Moulton. He was one of those people +who without any great depth of intellect or even of character possessed +an extraordinary rapidity of mind. His information was encyclopædic, and +in examinations he threw off his papers with the airy ease of a tree +throwing off its dead leaves in autumn; to the wonderment indeed both of +examiners and fellow-students. Yet I am not aware that he ever +contributed anything very original in the study of mathematics or law—or +in any other department of human thought. + +Great success in examinations does naturally not as a rule go with +originality of thought. W. K. Clifford who had undoubtedly one of the +finest mathematical, scientific, and philosophical minds of the period +of which I am speaking was only Second Wrangler; and my friend Robert F. +Muirhead who, as Smith’s Prizeman and later, has contributed important +papers on mathematical subjects, was nowhere to speak of in his Tripos. +One could hardly of course expect that originality and the pigeon-hole +mind should go together. + +To return to our Judges. That men like Romer and Moulton should attain +the highest places in their profession is natural; but I confess I have +been surprised (having known them so well in boating days) at the kind +of men who are commonly made High Court or County Court Judges. I will +not mention names (!)—but here is one, for instance, who was Captain of +the boat-club in my time—a physically powerful, but mentally quite +muddle-headed person; here is another, whose _forte_ was _boxing_ (no +harm in that, but one might have wished that he had other interests +besides)—a rather brutish and decidedly illiterate type; a third, whose +constitution, both physical and mental, was feeble, but who had powerful +relatives in the legal profession. All these were of the kind that have +considerable difficulty in passing their elementary examinations. And +there were many more of the same kind. Nevertheless, having once got +their feet on the ladder, they have slowly and gradually—by family +influence or sheer physical health (an important thing)—climbed nearly +to the top. No blame to them, certainly; but one cannot help asking—and +I put the question especially to Labour M.P.’s: Are these the sort of +men we really require for such posts? Let alone their want of bookish +culture—which perhaps does not so much matter—we cannot but ask: What do +men of this class—who have been brought up at a public school, who have +worked hard at boating or cricket at the University, who afterwards have +buried themselves in law-chambers and the purlieus of the Courts—and +whose acquaintance with manual workers is pretty well confined to +‘scouts’ and ‘gyps’ and an occasional gamekeeper in the country—what do +they know about the great mass-people on whom they have to sit in +judgment, about the habits and temperament and customs of life of the +latter? and how on earth are they qualified to bring order and good +sense and real sympathy and understanding into that most important +branch of public life—the administration of the law? These are indeed +questions to which serious answers will have to be given ere long. + +I have already mentioned Henry Fawcett (afterwards Postmaster-General) +who was a Fellow of Trinity Hall at the time of which I am speaking. The +story of his blindness is well known. It was only just after his degree +that he was out pheasant-shooting with his father. In a rather thick +covert the father fired at a bird, unknowing that his son was standing +in the line of fire. Two small shot struck the latter—one entering into +each eye—a strange and fatal chance. It was the father, I think, who +told me that as soon as Henry knew that he was permanently blinded he +said “Well, it shan’t make any difference in my plans of life!” And +certainly it made very little. As may be guessed from that, Fawcett was +a man of astounding pluck and vitality—a vitality which would have been +almost overbearing if it had not been tempered by extreme good +nature—and his force of character, combined with very democratic +sympathies, enabled him despite his blindness to do valuable work in +Parliament and in connection with the Post Office. The adoring gratitude +of the father at the public success of the son whom he had so badly +crippled was most touching, and he would follow his son about the +country and attend his public meetings for the mere pleasure of +witnessing his success. As Fawcett was member for Brighton—and my father +lent his support to his candidature—he, and Mrs. Fawcett, used +frequently to dine with us at Brunswick Square, and I saw a good deal of +them both at Brighton and at Cambridge. Fawcett’s pluck and vitality +were however sometimes a trial to his friends. I have a rather _too_ +vivid recollection of riding with him, over the Brighton Downs or along +the green lanes of Cambridgeshire. “Carpenter,” he would say, “this is a +nice piece of grass, isn’t it? Let’s have a canter.” Then he would set +off at an amazing rate, and I would have to keep close alongside of him, +with a sharp look-out and warning for unexpected ditches and stoneheaps, +and in momentary fear of a headlong fall—which for a man of his weight +would have been a terrible thing! Or he would insist on my coming to +skate with him, in winter, on the Cam. We would go five or six miles +down the river, and back—he holding one end of a stick and I the other. +That was all very well if the ice was sound, but every one knows what +river ice is; and I have often skated with him when I, being a light +weight, passed over easily, while he, holding on to the stick and a pace +or two behind, was cracking through at every other step. The prospect of +having to fish a public man, weighty in every sense, out of a flowing +river was certainly not pleasant. However I am happy to say that I was +not present with him at any disaster. Except once. That was at a public +meeting when he was speaking, at Brighton. I was on the platform. A +stone was thrown by some one at the back of the hall, which struck him +on the forehead, causing blood to flow. Great sensation ensued. For the +moment he felt a little faint and relapsed into a chair. Ladies rushed +up on all sides with smelling salts. However in a few minutes he was all +right, and resumed his speech. Afterwards he said to me “I didn’t mind +the stone; but those scent-bottles made me sick!” So it will be seen +that he and I had points in common! Since his death Mrs. Fawcett and I +have still met not unfrequently—generally perhaps as joint speakers on +some Women’s Suffrage platform. + +Charles Wentworth Dilke was a ‘Hall’ man. He had just taken his degree +when I arrived as a ‘freshman’; but he stayed up in College for a year +or so more on account of some law-examination or other. He never became +a Fellow, but was an enthusiastic lover of his College; and was always +very good to us undergraduates. I remember breakfasting with him at his +rooms, and his showing me, pencilled on his door-jamb, the record of his +hours of work, day by day, for the last year or so—_seventy hours per +week_, as regular as clockwork! He was, then and afterwards, always an +amazing worker—his room even in those youthful days pigeon-holed all +over with notes and documents. He was also a man with a high sense of +chivalry and honour, and I have no doubt that the _contretemps_ which +threw him for a time out of public life—and which his chivalry forbade +him to explain—weighed pretty heavily on him. His love of facts and +statistics, so conspicuous throughout his political life, was shared by +his brother Assheton; and it used to be said that the two brothers never +enjoyed themselves more thoroughly than when sitting knee to knee they +spent an hour or so in ‘imparting facts to each other’! + +Another politician of my time, though a little younger than myself, was +Augustine Birrell. Even in those days he was chiefly known for his +quaint humours and jokes—though the term ‘birrelling’ had not then been +adopted. But being, as an undergraduate, somewhat interested in politics +and not at all interested in rowing, he did not bulk largely in the eyes +of his contemporaries, and I fear was a little neglected. In a late +letter to me he chaffs me in his own native style on my academic and +clerical past, saying “I have the most vivid recollection of you as +Junior Tutor. The marvellous neatness of your now discarded _white tie_ +lives especially in my untidy mind!” + + +Socialism and Millthorpe, I need hardly say, swept me out of these +academic and semi-political surroundings into a different world—the +world of a new society which was arising and forming within the +structure of the old. William Morris represented this new society more +effectively and vitally than any one else of that period; because away +and beyond the scientific forecast he gave expression to the emotional +presentment and ideal of a sensible free human brotherhood—as in _John +Ball_, or _News from Nowhere_. His sturdy, brusque, sea-captain-like +figure, with his fine-outlined face and tossing hair, his forcible +unpolished speech, yet all so direct, sincere, enthusiastic—brought +inspiration and confidence wherever he went; and for a time, as I have +already said, there was a widespread belief that the Socialist League +was going to knit up all the United Kingdom in one bond of new life.[23] +Having set the “Sheffield Socialists” going in ’86, he came one day not +long after to speak at Chesterfield, and stayed at Millthorpe a night or +two. I remember his arriving from the train with Jefferies’ book _After +London_ in his hands—which had just come out. The book delighted him +with its prophecy of an utterly ruined and deserted London, gone down in +swamps and malaria, with brambles and weeds spreading through slum +streets and fashionable squares, and pet dogs reverting to wolfish and +carrion-hunting lives. And he read page after page of it to us with glee +that evening as we sat round the fire. He hated modern civilization, and +London as its representative, with a fierce hatred—its shams, its +hypocrisies, its stuffy indoor life, its cheapjack style, its mean and +mongrel ideals; with a hatred indeed which, I cannot but think, +thousands and hundreds of thousands following him will one day share. +Once he said to me, talking about his own life: “I have spent, I know, a +vast amount of time designing furniture and wall-papers, carpets and +curtains; but after all I am inclined to think that sort of thing is +mostly rubbish, and I would prefer for my part to live with the plainest +whitewashed walls and wooden chairs and tables.” He certainly was no +drawing-room sort of man. His immense energy did not run to small talk. +As a rule in conversation, seized by his subject, and oblivious of the +arguments of others, he would jump from his chair and stride up and down +the room in ardent monologue—condemning the present or picturing the +future or the past. I once asked his daughter, May, what he did in the +way of recreation. “My father never takes any recreation,” she said, “he +_merely changes his work_.” And so it was. When he had been toiling at +Merton Abbey all day, and preaching Socialism at a street corner all the +evening, then at night—sick of the ugly life around him—he would come +home and dream himself away into the fourteenth century, and for his +recreation produce a masterpiece like _John Ball_. Be it said, +nevertheless, that he did sometimes relax, and that when in the humour, +no one enjoyed a pipe and a glass and the jovial company of friends and +the telling of good stories, more than William Morris. + +He certainly did not like anything resembling sentimentality. A friend +tells me that he used to recite the following stanza, apparently +delighting in its quaintness—but whether Morris composed it himself or +had found it elsewhere he does not know:— + + I sits with my feet in a brook, + And if any one asks me for why, + I hits him a crack with my crock, + For it’s sentiment kills me, says I. + +Among those who came from time to time to speak for our Socialist group +in Sheffield or to stay at our “Commonwealth” Café were, besides William +Morris, two notable personalities—Peter Kropotkin and Annie Besant. +Their work and influence, both world-wide—the one in the Anarchist, and +the other in the Theosophist, field—have been really important. Though +never myself strictly identified with either of these movements I have +been in touch with them, and consequently in more or less friendly +relation with their two leading spirits during a long period—now nearly +thirty years. Both characters are certainly remarkable for their vigour, +their sincerity, their ability and devotion. Kropotkin at the age of +seventy and after fifty years of passionate conflict with ‘government’ +and ‘authority’ still retains his sunny and almost childlike temperament +and still believes in the speedy oncoming of an age of perfectly +voluntary and harmonious co-operation in the human race. Indeed it is +mainly due to him that this magnificent dream has spread so far and wide +over the world, and has done so much as it has towards its own +realization. The dramatic circumstances too of Kropotkin’s own life have +greatly helped—his early escapes from prison and from death, his +abandonment of a princely inheritance to become the companion and +fellow-prisoner of criminals and outcasts, his later life spent in +poverty and among obscure circles of enthusiasts—these things combined +with encyclopædic knowledge and a high scientific reputation have +compelled attention and respect. As in the case of many ardent social +reformers, and certainly in the case of most notorious Anarchists, there +is a charming naïveté about Kropotkin. It is so easy—if you believe that +all human evil is summed up in the one fatal word ‘government’ (or it +may be that the word is ‘white-slave-traffic,’ or ‘war,’ or ‘drink,’ or +anything else)—to order your life and your theories accordingly. +Everything is explained by its relation to one thing. It is easy, but it +is misleading. And Kropotkin’s writings, despite their erudition, suffer +from this naïveté. Whether it be History (his _French Revolution_), or +Natural History (his _Mutual Aid_) or economic theory (his _Paroles d’un +Revolté_) the reader finds one solution for everything, and the +countervailing facts and principles consistently—though certainly not +intentionally—ignored. This detracts from the value of the writings; +though in justice it should be said that the principles on which +Kropotkin so vigorously insists—i.e. individual liberty and free +association—_are_ of foundational importance. In a country like +Russia—obsessed by authority and officialism—it is not unnatural that +its reformers, such as Tolstoy and Kropotkin, should be almost +over-conscious of the governmental evil; and this fact rather encourages +the hope that Russia may one day after all be the leader in the great +European reaction towards a freer and more voluntary state of society. + +The naïveté of the social reformer explains too the common fact that the +Anarchist who is in theory “thirsting for the blood of kings” and +occasionally perhaps capable of perpetrating a deed of violence himself, +is generally (like Kropotkin) the gentlest and mildest of men, who +“would not hurt a fly.” It is only such men—having the love of humanity +in their hearts—who are able to believe in the speedy realization of an +era of universal goodwill; and again it is only such men—being innocent +enough to believe that the only impediment to the realization of this +era is a certain wicked person in ‘authority’—who can spur themselves on +to the bloody dispatch of such person. + +If the career of Kropotkin has been romantically varied in one way, that +of Mrs. Besant has been equally so in another. To begin as a curate’s +wife, with a vivid strain of religious devotion; to break away into +Broad Churchism and then into boundless disbelief; to become an ardent +Secularist, companion of Bradlaugh and propagandist of antipopulation +doctrines; to suffer imprisonment, persecution, and embitterment of +spirit; to espouse the cause of Socialism and do battle in the ranks of +Labour; to float into the haven of Theosophy and be made the mouthpiece +of invisible Mahatmas and of the by no means invisible Mme. Blavatsky; +and finally to complete this quaint circle by becoming the +high-priestess of a religious movement and the guardian of the herald of +the coming Christ—such a career ought to satisfy the most picturesque +ambition. Yet it would be unfair to doubt Annie Besant’s sincerity. +Having known her so long as I have I feel sure that she has been urged +onward from point to point by a perfectly genuine mental evolution, +largely directed no doubt at each turn of the road by some dominant mind +whom she has met, and largely coloured by that naïveté of which we have +already spoken—a naïveté indeed which has made it possible for her to +take herself very seriously and to fulfil her adopted rôle always with a +strong sense of duty and a comparatively weak perception of the humour +of the situation. + +From the hour when, alone in the pulpit of her husband’s church, Annie +Besant discovered her own great oratorical gift, her future career, one +may say, was decided. With an excellent capacity for logical and clear +statement she became the exponent in succession of large and important +blocks of modern thought. She helped to batter down the ruins and +remains of the stupefied old Anglican Church; she gave the general mind +a wholesome shock on the Malthusian question; she dotted out clearly the +main lines of the Socialist movement; she formed a new channel for +religious thought by making the words ‘Karma’ and ‘re-incarnation’ +familiar; and she sought to bring the Western public into touch with the +great age-long ideas and inspirations of the old Indian sages. In all +these ways she has done splendid work, and helped vastly in the +construction of that great twentieth century bridge which will in its +due time lead us into another world. Only in the last item—her touch +upon the ideas and inspirations of the ancient East—does she seem to me, +curiously enough, to have failed. With all her enthusiasm for the +subject, Mrs. Besant does not appear to have the intuitive perception, +the mystic quality of mind, which should enable her to reach the very +heart of the old Vedantic teaching. Her intellect, clear and systematic +in its structure, has little of the poetic or original or inspirational +in its composition, and it may be doubted whether it has ever quite +fathomed the religious writings with which it has been so much occupied. +Anyhow Mrs. Besant’s own writings on these subjects are—unlike her +general lectures—dull to a degree. She analyses the composition of the +human personality, or the order of general creation, or the various +life-rounds of our mortal race; but in all she seems to be repeating or +corroborating some pre-established formula, never to be describing +something which she has herself perceived; system and formula prevail, +unseen ‘authorities’ are hinted at, the pages bristle with sanskrit +jargon, but no living or creative _idea_ moves among them, and the +reader rises from their perusal void of inspiration or of any really +vital impulse towards new fields of thought and life. Nevertheless, +taking it all in all, and especially in her expositions of Socialism and +Theosophy, Mrs. Besant has done, as I have said, a great work; and one +cannot sufficiently admire the courage with which she has carried it +through, as well as her kindliness and helpfulness towards others, +and—in later years—her own inner mental calm, contrasting with the +somewhat restless bitterness of an earlier time. + + +In 1884 or so the founding of the _New Fellowship_ in London (from which +afterwards the Fabian Society sprang) brought me into touch with +Havelock Ellis and Olive Schreiner. As I think I have already said, +Ellis discovered in the proverbial penny box of a second-hand publisher, +and soon after its publication, the little first edition of my _Towards +Democracy_; and rescuing it wrote to me. Thus began my friendship with +him, and afterwards with the authoress of _The Story of An African +Farm_. A prophet is seldom acclaimed in his own country; and the work +which Ellis has done in that most important field of Sexual Psychology +is even yet by no means recognized in England as it ought to be—even +though the subject is becoming extremely ‘actual’ here in the present +day, and though elsewhere over the world his pioneer work is most +honorably received and respected. The six massive volumes of his +_Studies in the Psychology of Sex_ form a masterpiece of large-minded +and yet extremely detailed observation and generalization, and provide a +survey of the most impartial character over this vast realm, and such as +can be obtained nowhere else. For though the Germans have written +extensively in this field their books—_more Teutonico_—are generally +overladen with detail, huge jungles through which it is difficult to +find one’s way. Ellis combines with the Englishman’s perspicacity and +love of order a remarkable erudition and command of particulars. And at +the present juncture when the world is waking up to the absolute +necessity of a reasonable understanding and frank recognition of +sex-things, the appearance of his book may almost be characterized as +‘providential.’ This quality may indeed be suspected in the fact that +the author began making notes for his _magnum opus_ at a very early age, +driven thereto by some sort of instinct, nor finished his work till he +was about fifty. I know of few things in literature more touching than +the postscript to his last volume—the _Nunc Dimittis_ after some thirty +years of toil: “It was perhaps fortunate for my peace that I failed at +the outset to foresee all the perils that beset my path. I knew indeed +that those who investigate sincerely and intimately any subject which +men are accustomed to pass by on the other side lay themselves open to +misunderstanding and even obloquy. But I supposed that a secluded +student who approached vital social problems with precaution, making no +direct appeal to the general public, but only to the public’s teachers, +and who wrapped up the results of his inquiries in technically written +volumes open to few—I supposed that such a student was at all events +secure from any gross form of attack on the part of the police or the +government under whose protection he imagined that he lived. That proved +to be a mistake. When only one volume of these _Studies_ had been +written and published in England, a prosecution instigated by the +Government put an end to the sale of that volume in England, and led me +to resolve that the subsequent volumes should not be published in my own +country.[24] I do not complain. I am grateful for the early and generous +sympathy with which my work was received in Germany and the United +States, and I recognize that it has had a wider circulation, both in +English and the other chief languages of the world, than would have been +possible by the modest method of issue which the government of my own +country induced me to abandon. Nor has the effort to crush my work +resulted in any change in that work by so much as a single word. With +help, or without it, I have followed my own path to the end.... He who +follows in the steps of Nature after a law that was not made by man, and +is above and beyond man, has time as well as eternity on his side, and +can afford to be both patient and fearless. Men die, but the ideas they +seek to kill _live_. Our books may be thrown to the flames, but in the +next generation those flames become human souls.” + +The personality of Havelock Ellis is that of a student, thoughtful, +preoccupied, bookish, deliberate; yet unlike most students he has a sort +of grand air of Nature about him—a fine free head and figure as of some +great god Pan, with distant relations among the Satyrs. + +Those early meetings of the New Fellowship were full of hopeful +enthusiasms—life simplified, a humane diet and a rational dress, manual +labour, democratic ideals, communal institutions. Indeed one or two +little practical efforts towards colony groups were at that time +made.[25] Herbert Rix, W. J. Jupp, Percival Chubb, Edith Lees +(afterwards Mrs. Ellis), Mrs. Hinton, widow of James Hinton, Caroline +Haddon, Ernest Rhys were among the early members. + +Edith Lees was one of the most active and vigorous of this group. She +helped to organize and to carry on for some time a joint dwelling or +co-operative boarding-house near Mecklenburgh Square, where eight or ten +members of the Fellowship dwelt in a kind of communistic Utopia. +Naturally the arrangement gave rise to some rather amusing and some +almost tragic episodes, which she has recorded for us in a little story +entitled _Attainment_. After her marriage she took a farm near St. Ives +in Cornwall, which became a helpful retreat for her husband as well as +herself from the strenuousness of London life. With her extraordinary +energy and directness she plunged into and soon mastered all the details +of cattle and pig breeding and farming; and I shall never forget the +impression she produced on one occasion when staying with me at +Millthorpe, when we took her round to the public-house in the evening. +The delight and amazement of the farm men at finding some one more or +less resembling a lady who really understood and would talk freely about +such things, and her at-home-ness among that company were most +refreshing. They were fascinated by the directness of her intense blue +eyes, her sturdy figure, her vigorous gestures, and the evident equality +of her comradeship with them. And to this day they not unfrequently ask +us, “When is that little lady coming again, with that curly hair, like a +lad’s, and them blue eyes, what talked about pigs and cows? I shall +never forget her.” + +Edith Ellis not only became a help to her husband in his literary work, +but herself spoke and wrote on subjects of Eugenics and Sex-psychology. +Of late years she has made a considerable study of James Hinton, and has +done me the honour to associate my name with his and with Nietzsche’s in +a little book entitled _Three Modern Seers_. + +One evening as we sat round a table (in Rix’s rooms at Burlington House) +I saw a charming girl-face, of _riant_ Italian type, smiling across to +me. It was Olive Schreiner. She had arrived from South Africa only a few +months before, had published her _African Farm_, and though only +twenty-one or twenty-two years of age was already famous as its +authoress. Juvenile in some ways as that book was, somewhat incoherent +and disjointed in structure, written by a mere girl of eighteen or +nineteen, and with a title which gave no idea of its real content, yet +its intensity was such that it seized almost at once on the public mind. +The African sun was in its veins—fire and sweetness, intense love of +beauty, fierce rebellion against the things that be, passion and pity +and the pride of Lucifer combined. These things too Olive Schreiner’s +face and figure revealed—a wonderful beauty and vivacity, a +lightning-quick mind, fine eyes, a resolute yet mobile mouth, a +determined little square-set body. It was right—since alliances are so +often knit by contrast—that she and Havelock Ellis should have become +friends and maintained a close correspondence with each other for over +thirty years; and it was a privilege to me to share in the friendship of +them both. + +Naturally, with such gifts of body and mind the arrival of the authoress +of the _African Farm_ excited almost a _furore_ of interest. Quite a +procession of the young literary men of the day arrived in hansom-cabs +at the door of her Bloomsbury lodgings to pay their homage to the new +genius, and Olive herself often told me with considerable amusement of +the dismay and severe disapproval of more than one of her landladies, +who certainly were not inclined to believe that mere literary talent +could cause so much attraction! Anyhow, at that time of day, before the +suffragette had arrived, and when ‘ladies’ took the greatest care to +bridle in their chins and speak in mincing accents, a young and pretty +woman of apparently lady-like origin who did not wear a veil and seldom +wore gloves, and who talked and laughed even in the streets quite +naturally and unaffectedly, was an unclassifiable phenomenon, and laid +herself open to the gravest suspicions! We may congratulate ourselves +that the pioneer women of to-day have made a return to some of these +inhumanities of the Victorian era impossible. + +During that Bloomsbury period and afterwards I saw Olive Schreiner +fairly frequently—that is, when she was in England (or Europe). I saw +her in Paris early in ’87, and at Todmorden and Whitby later in the same +year; also at Alassio where she stayed for two or three months in ’88. +Those two years ’87 and ’88 were a period of considerable suffering for +her. In 1893 she was in England again, and spent three months during the +summer in a little cottage in my valley. After ’93, what with her +marriage to S. C. Cronwright, and what with the outbreak of the Boer War +and all the tragedies attendant upon that, she did not come to England +for a long period, and it was on the last day of 1913 that I saw her +again, after a twenty years’ absence. + +Her father was a German Free Church Missionary—of the most tender +self-forgetful type—the original doubtless of the German overseer in +_The African Farm_. Olive herself has often told me how he would give +away his last coin to any one he deemed to be in need. His wife would +say to him:— + +“John, where is that best Sunday coat of yours?” And he would say:— + +“Is it not upstairs in the chest, as usual?” + +“No, John, I have been looking for it everywhere.” + +“How very strange” was the reply. + +“Now, John, I believe you have given it away!” + +“No, surely, my dear, I could not have given _that_ away—at least I +think not.” + +“John! now tell me true, did you not give it to that _tramp_ that came +yesterday?” + +“Well, my dear, now you mention it I think I _may_ have done so; it is +just possible you are right, but I am sure I hardly remember.” + +“Oh John! John! you are indeed incorrigible.” + +That was the picture of the father—soft, pitiful and dreamy. The mother, +Rebecca Lyndall by her maiden name, was of English descent, keen, +intellectual, fine featured and somewhat self-willed. The two types were +combined in their daughter; and she again in writing her novel divided +them up. ‘Waldo’ represented one side of her own character, ‘Lyndall’ +the other. + +Perhaps there was a tragic element in the combination of two such +different hereditary strains in the one person; perhaps there were other +causes. Certain it is that beneath the mobile and almost merry-seeming +exterior of Olive Schreiner there ran a vein of intense determination, +and that this again was crossed and countered by an ineradicable +pessimism. _The Story of an African Farm_, despite its magical and +beautiful pictures, is painful to read; and the same may be said of her +other books. They realize and force the reader to realize almost _too_ +keenly the pain and evil of the world—too keenly I mean for truth and +fact. Yet what is fact but what we feel; and if Olive Schreiner _feels_ +things so, so far her presentment is true. I have seen her shake her +little fist at the Lord in heaven, and curse him down from his throne, +with a vibrating force and intensity which surely must have been felt +(and surely also with healthy result) in the Highest Circles. + +A lady who had spent forty years of her life working in the Mission +Schools of South Africa once said to me—and this was quite in her old +age, when she was nearing eighty—“Ah!” she said, “the Kaffirs are the +finest people on earth. You English think a lot about yourselves, but I +tell you, you are not to be compared with the Kaffirs.” Olive Schreiner +was born in Basuto Land. She grew up and spent her early life among the +natives, and in many ways her verdict was the same as that just quoted. +She loved the dark folk and their land, and she has never ceased to love +them. It has been one of the tragedies of her life that she has been +compelled to stand by and witness the crushing of this free and +fine-souled people beneath the sordid heel of Western Commercialism—or +let us say “the attempted crushing,” for indeed (thank heaven!) the +process is not yet complete. It has been her agony to see them at every +moment cajoled and betrayed of their lands, broken with labour in the +mines, deceived with drink, and mowed down with machine-guns—and all +this by the very Christian race that ought to have lent them a helping +hand; and to have been able to do so little (as it would seem to her) +for their salvation. But even though it would seem little, the fact that +one woman in South Africa has thus prophet-like stood up and (much of +the time) singly opposed Rhodes and the shoddy Imperialism of which he +was the mouthpiece, _has_ had an influence deep and wide reaching and +such as will be felt far down the years. + +Another thing that has formed almost a tragedy in Olive Schreiner’s life +has been her dedication to the Cause of Women. No one can read her +_Three Dreams in a Desert_ or her _Woman and Labour_ without feeling how +in the consciousness of the sufferings of Woman the iron has entered +into her soul. If she had only been content—like some of the wilder +spirits of the movement—to unload on _men_ the vials of her wrath, and +to saddle on _man_kind alone the responsibility for these sufferings, +her strain in the cause would have had more of the delight of battle in +it. But she was too large-minded not to see that if there is to be any +blame in such a matter, the blame must be accepted by Woman herself just +as much as by Man. The two sexes are joined together, and if Man has +been unworthy has it not been because Woman his mother has made him so? +If Woman has played the parasite has that not resulted in her injuring +Man? Olive Schreiner’s perception of the slow inevitable strain and +suffering inseparable from Evolution itself in this matter of the +emancipation of women, has had a complexion of tragedy in it. She has +seen her dearest friends, like Constance Lytton and others, crippled and +broken for life by their heroic struggles and undaunted resolution in +face of prison-horrors; and yet she has felt that the evil lay deeper +than any accusation against men (taken by itself) could explain, or any +mere reform of the suffrage could mend. + + +It is curious how South Africa, to those who know the country well, +carries with it a fascination and an attraction which time and again +draws them back to its soil. A friend of mine who lived for some years +around Lake Nyassa told me that after his return to England he +frequently dreamt at night of all that wild region and its primitive +animal life. On more than one occasion he dreamed that he was wrecked at +sea, and swam desperately to the African coast, if only he might die as +it were in the arms of his beloved; or he would make an imaginary +pilgrimage from London to the very shores of the Lake, and there in a +kind of ecstasy would take the water up in his palms and wash it over +his face and head—only to wake up and find his features wet with his own +tears. + +This was Henry B. Cotterill—a schoolfellow of mine at the Brighton +College—where indeed his father was headmaster. About the time (1875 or +so) when I was lecturing Astronomy at Leeds, Livingstone’s book came out +exposing the horrors of the black slave traffic around Lakes Tanganyika +and Nyassa—a region at that time entirely, except by Livingstone +himself, unexplored by white men. The book bit deeply into Cotterill’s +heart and soul. It said that the only cure for the Mahomedan or Arabian +trade in slaves would be the introduction of a trade by white men in the +legitimate articles of commerce; and from that moment Cotterill could +not rest, goaded on by the thought that _he_ must undertake this work. +At the time he was acting as an assistant master at Harrow School. He +started lecturing there and at other places round the country on the +subject. He collected a fund; the Harrow boys and masters gave him a +steel launch or cutter which could be taken up country in sections and +screwed together; he came to Leeds and spoke there, as well as at places +like Edinburgh, Manchester, Liverpool; the fund grew; and I remember +going with him to some African warehouse in London City, where he bought +bales of cotton cloth, and hundredweights of beads, and quantities of +scarlet shell-jackets (especially coveted by African chieftains as their +sole garment) for purposes of barter up country. Thus off his own bat, +as it were, he got up this strange mission, and leaving Harrow and +pedagogy behind, embarked on a career of considerable adventure and +danger. The mission succeeded, ordinary traders followed in his +footsteps, and within a few years the slave-trade engineered by Moors +and Arabs died out in the land. It was followed, it is true, by the +almost equal horrors of that commercial civilization which has since +been introduced by Europeans; but I suppose one must be thankful in the +slow and age-long evolution of human affairs for even one small step +towards better things. + +At a later time Cotterill returned to England, but unable, like many +another traveler and lover of the wild, to endure the smug Philistinism +of British life, he ultimately settled on the Continent—or rather led a +somewhat roving life there, chiefly in France, Germany and +Italy—supporting himself and a small family by the not too lucrative +pursuits of literature and the teaching of languages. He has written and +edited many books, to which his encyclopædic knowledge and command of +six or seven languages have contributed; but undoubtedly his great and +monumental work has been the translation of the Odyssey of Homer +complete into English hexameters.[26] Daring is the man who ventures on +that exceedingly boggy ground of the English hexameter, and many are +those who have gone under and been gulfed in the attempt. By lightness +and speed of movement only can one keep going; but in those qualities—so +characteristic of the Greek—this translation is supremely successful; +its verbal fidelity is amazing; its presentation of the old warrior and +tribal life (made possible as he himself says by his intimate knowledge +of African customs) is such as no armchair scholar could attain to; and +the result is a gift to the whole English-speaking world—a rendering of +the immortal classic that one may read with unflagging joy and zest from +cover to cover. + + + + + XIII + PERSONALITIES—II + + +The part that Olive Schreiner played in trying to avert the Boer War, +and to expose the scoundrelly commercial machinations which led to it, +is well known. Curiously enough, while England was being worked up by a +lying Press into a fury of indignation against President Krüger I knew +already early in 1899 about the real state of affairs and the plot of +the financiers to force on a reckless and selfish war—not only from +Olive Schreiner herself but from a man who came at that time to +Millthorpe from Johannesburg. + +This was Lisle March-Phillipps—who afterwards wrote _With Rimington_ and +other books about the war. He was a young man of about thirty, who after +an upper-class education on the usual lines had had the good sense to go +abroad and see a little of the world for himself; had drifted out to +South Africa, and had actually worked in the mines and shared the life +of the miners. Disgusted with what he saw of the Beit and Joel and +Rhodes and Barney Barnato gang—their meanness to their employees, their +slanders against Krüger, their nonsense lies about British “women and +children,” and foreseeing the inevitable conflict, he hurried +home—thinking doubtless also that he might do something to make the +actual truth known in England. For some reason, not very clear to me as +we had had no previous communication, he came straight to Millthorpe, +and walking in one afternoon sat a long time telling me all about the +affair. I saw at once that his errand was authentic and that he knew +what he was talking about, and from that time did my best in my small +way, at public meetings and lectures, to get the matter seen in its true +light, and to check the rising war-tide. All of no use of course. The +gulled sentimental sloppy British public poured itself out in a torrent +of rubbish—as a broken reservoir might pour through the slums and alleys +of a manufacturing town; and it was hopeless even to protest. It is one +of the saddest things to find how easily the great majority of a nation +may be caught and swept away by some trumped-up catchword, often of the +most flimsy character. I wrote a warning leaflet entitled _Boer and +Briton_ and circulated some twenty thousand copies of it. I spoke with +L. H. Courtney (now Lord Courtney) and others at a public meeting at +Bradford, and at various other meetings. Mr. W. T. Stead did his best to +warn the nation as to what was happening; Cronwright-Schreiner came over +from the Cape, and later H. W. Nevinson also, in a crusade through +England and Scotland. To no purpose: they only got mobbed and insulted +for their pains. Finally March-Phillipps, anxious to see at close +quarters all that was going on and unable to get a billet as +war-correspondent, went out again and joined Rimington’s Scouts; and +after the war was over—returning to Millthorpe and taking a cottage +there—remained near us a good part of the summer and wrote his very +graphic and interesting account of the campaign as witnessed and taken +part in by him.[27] + +It was at an early period of the Socialist movement—in 1884 I think—that +I first came across Henry Salt and his gifted life-companion and wife, +and it is to their initiative that I owe the gain of a close and +long-enduring friendship. Salt and his brother-in-law, J. L. Joynes, +were two young Eton masters who had in their time been collegers and +scholars of Eton and afterwards graduates of King’s College, Cambridge. +Carried along on the rising tide of Socialism they both (much to their +credit) broke away from the highly respectable traditions of these +foundations. Henry George of Land Tax fame was in the country, and +Joynes actually associated himself with George, and went with him in +1881 or ’82 on a propagandist campaign to Ireland. This might well have +passed unobserved at Eton, had it not happened that at some obscure +place he and George were both temporarily arrested and had to spend the +night under lock and key. The notoriety this gave to Joynes was fatal to +his career, and he had to resign his mastership. Henry Salt and his wife +about the same time gave almost worse offence. They adopted +vegetarianism—a thing almost unheard of at Eton except in the dubious +connection of Shelley; they revolted in their personal habits from the +luxury and indulgence of the life there; and they protested against the +coursing of hares, and other inhumanities favored by both boys and +masters. It soon became clear to them that they could not remain in +surroundings so uncongenial, and that they too would have to sacrifice a +professional career and comparative affluence for the greater blessings +of liberty and a simple living; and it was at the time when they were +revolving their schemes of liberation and of migration into other +spheres of life that I came—through Jim Joynes—to know them. + +Joynes and his sister were singularly unlike externally, yet singularly +alike in the depths of their hearts and in their devotion to each other. +Both were tall and long-limbed: she dark, raven-haired, with large eyes +and sensitive, somewhat sad, Dante-like profile; he red-haired, with +high complexion, small bluish eyes, heavy features. She was intensely +emotional, too emotional, but—as such people often are—highly musical; +and her literary gift was certainly one of the most remarkable I have +known—though unfortunately, except in her letters, rarely utilized. He +was intensely logical, concentrated, determined—though underneath ran a +strong current of poetic feeling—as witness his little book of excellent +verses _On Lonely Shores_ (1892). Both of them did good work in +connection with the Socialist and Labour movement, he more especially by +lecturing and writing for the Social Democratic Federation and other +such organizations; and she rather more by personal sympathy and helpful +friendship towards the rank and file of the workers; both of them were +devoted lovers of Nature, and of a natural plain way of life; and their +devotion to each other only ended with his too early death in 1893. + +These two and Henry Salt were among the pioneers in the early eighties +of the great Socialist and Humanitarian and Nature movements which are +destined to play such an important part in the new Democracy. Henry +Salt’s work in founding the Humanitarian League (in 1891) and presiding +over its very various activities has been so really extensive and +far-reaching that it is difficult to estimate—the more so because unlike +so many leaders of movements he has always kept his own name +consistently in the background. As a matter of fact he has not only been +the main originator of the important work done, but has been the guiding +hand and inspirer of the many committees which have had to be formed in +order to deal with the various subjects—with Vivisection, Blood Sports, +‘Murderous Millinery,’ Reform of the Prisons, the Game Laws, +Slaughter-house Reform, Corporal Punishment, Diet Reform, Rights of +Native Races, and so forth. Besides this the long list of his +publications—on Shelley, on James Thomson (B.V.), on H. D. Thoreau, +Richard Jefferies, Lucretius, etc., shows the trend of his mind and his +liberating influence in the matters of religion and social freedom and a +large-minded Nature-study. + +At one time he and I composed jointly “A Church Service for the use of +the Respectable Classes”—which I am afraid however has never yet been +properly published. It consisted of a Preface, in the manner of our +Prayer-book Preface of 1661, of a sort of Athanasian Creed (on the +Trinity of Land, Capital and Interest) called the creed of St. +Avaritius, of a Litany (on the lines of salvation through dividends and +social advancement), and a final Processional Hymn. Of this last, as it +has already been printed among some of Salt’s verses, the two first +stanzas may here be given:— + + Respectables are we + And you presently will see + Why we confidently claim to be respected: + In well-ordered homes we dwell + And discharge our duties well— + Well dressed, well fed, well mannered, well connected. + + We have heard the common cant + About poverty and want + And all that is distressing and unhealthy; + Some cases may be sad, + But the system can’t be bad + Which affords such satisfaction to the Wealthy. + +And so on. + +On one occasion a boy brought to Mrs. Salt a young rook which had been +hurt (so he said) by falling out of its nest, and as she and her husband +had been staying with us, the bird became for some time an inmate of our +establishment. But though it became familiar, as was natural, with us, +and would fly in and out of the door or window, and perch on hand or +head quite freely, its devotion to Mrs. Salt was something almost +uncanny. Indoors or outdoors it _would_ be with her; and if she went +into town for a few hours, or anywhere that she could not take the bird, +she had to escape by ruse, or by simply caging the creature first. When +she sat on the lawn it would delight to play and dance around, and to +pick daisies with its beak and place them in her lap, or bright and +shining pebbles from the gravel walk. Anything more like an engaging +human child it would be hard to imagine. And it certainly seemed to know +by some intuition of her return after absence along the road, and if +caged would become very restless, or if free would fly to meet her. Once +after a long absence, when she appeared once more—in the midst, as it +happened, of a small crowd of people—the bird with a loud cry suddenly +flew down from a tall tree and alighted forthwith upon her shoulder—much +to the astonishment of the onlookers. Later, and after some months of +this kind of life, the bird one day disappeared; nor could we ever find +out what had happened to it—whether an accident or the mere “call of the +wild” back to rook-land. It was seen no more, alive or dead; and one +human heart at any rate felt the loss very deeply. + + +I have mentioned 1881 as the year in which _Towards Democracy_ ‘came to +me,’ and insisted on being given form and expression. It is curious that +the same year (or 1882) saw the inception of a number of new movements +or enterprises tending towards the establishment of mystical ideas and a +new social order. Mother Shipton’s prophecy with its strange +prognostication of mechanically propelled cars and flying machines ended +up with the words:— + + And the world to an end shall come + In eighteen hundred and eighty-one. + +The world did not come to an end, but in a certain sense a new one +began; and just in those two years quite a number of societies were +started with objects of the kind indicated. Hyndman’s Democratic +Federation, Edmund Gurney’s Society for Psychical Research, Mme. +Blavatsky’s Theosophical Society, the Vegetarian Society, the +Anti-vivisection movement, and many other associations of the same kind +marked the coming of a great reaction from the smug commercialism and +materialism of the mid-Victorian epoch, and a preparation for the new +universe of the twentieth century. Amongst these was one which +especially claimed to fulfil the prophecies of Mother Shipton and to be +the herald of a New Age. This was the Hermetic Society. It consisted +practically of two people—Edward Maitland and Anna Kingsford; for though +there was a nominal membership I think it may be said that the other +members had little or no voice in it. And its idea was to read into the +stories of Jesus, and of Moses and Abraham and so forth, their inner +significations, to interpret in fact much of the New and Old Testaments +not as historical matter but rather as eternal truths, allegories and +emblems of the drama of each human soul. Thus the miraculous birth of +Jesus, his exile in Egypt, his temptation in the wilderness, his toils +and sufferings, his Betrayal, Crucifixion, Resurrection and Ascension +were not external histories of a certain man, but inner histories of you +and me and all mankind. + +This method of interpreting the myths of past days, which we now in the +twentieth century so well understand, and which explains for us the +origin of a vast number of legends and at the same time accounts for +their popularity, was in 1881—except for some few previous hints by +Swedenborg and others—quite unrecognized. And we owe much to Edward +Maitland and Anna Kingsford that they gave it, as well as some valuable +collateral matter, to the world. Of course they did not fully +recognize—though they did in part—how much of the story of Jesus, for +instance, _is_ purely legendary and mythical. But even if they had known +it to be entirely legendary, that would not probably have greatly +altered their views—though it would certainly have deprived their gospel +of the supernatural halo with which they delighted to invest it. + +It was this affectation, if I may use the term, of a supernatural +mission which rather spoilt the work of these two well-meaning people—as +it has spoiled alas! the work of so many ‘prophets’ and teachers in the +past. To the egotism of the human being there is no end; and if such an +one can only persuade others that he has some supernatural source of +knowledge and power, or persuade himself (or herself) of the same, there +is no limit to the devilry or folly into which he will plunge—as witness +the history of the priesthood all down the centuries. In the case of +Anna Kingsford and Edward Maitland it was not devilry which was the +trouble, but the other thing! Having reached a certain insight or +intuition, or whatever you may call it, into the inner meanings of life, +they both became so inflated with heavenly conceit over their discovery +that they really grew quite foolish and intolerable. As it happened I +had known Maitland since I was a boy. When I was eighteen or twenty +years of age he a grown man, and known in the literary world as the +author of _The Pilgrim and the Shrine_, used sometimes to come to my +father’s house at Brighton. He was an interesting talker, well up in +literature and science, and always keen on some new idea or discovery; +but even then somewhat egotistically absorbed in his own thoughts and +conversation. When he met the lady, however, who became his great +life-inspiration, it must be said that he submerged all his own claims +to prophetic gifts in a whole-hearted recognition of hers. He laid his +soul at her feet. + +Anna Kingsford was certainly a remarkable woman. As a young girl she had +had strange visions. When Maitland met her (she being twenty-seven) she +must from all descriptions have been singularly beautiful. He describes +her as “tall, slender and graceful in form; fair and exquisite in +complexion; bright and sunny in expression. The hair long and golden, +but the brows and lashes dark, and the eyes deep-set and hazel, and by +turns dreamy and penetrating. The mouth rich, full, and exquisitely +formed.” While Mrs. Fenwick Miller says: “I thought her the most +faultlessly beautiful woman I ever beheld; her hair is like the +sunlight, her features are exquisite, and her complexion—I can use no +other term than faultless—not a spot, not a flaw, not a shade.” + +Add to these natural gifts a good medical training in the Schools of +Paris, a fair knowledge of Greek and Latin, considerable literary +ability and a generous and undisguised use of cosmetics, and you have a +strange but powerful combination. Edward Maitland met her in 1874 (he +was then fifty and she twenty-eight), and practically thenceforward +dedicated his life to her. (It must however be remembered that the +intimacy caused no estrangement from Mr. Kingsford, the husband, who +remained a close friend to them both.) The reinforcement of Anna +Kingsford’s intuitive and prophetic gift by Maitland’s incisive and +logical mentality certainly had a valuable result, and their combined +work left a notable mark on the time. Jointly from 1881 (to 1888 when +Anna Kingsford died) they carried on a strong Crusade against +Vivisection—one of the earliest protests made; and they published +besides a series of works—_The Perfect Way_, _Clothed with the Sun_, +_The Virgin of the World_, etc.—bearing the esoteric and theosophic +message to which I have already alluded. Of these _The Perfect Way_, +which shows both the systematic clearness of the one mind and the +inspiration of the other, is perhaps the most important. It embodies in +fairly clear outline those ideas of Indian and Gnostic origin which were +at that time curiously descending upon the Western world, and which no +doubt quite independently began about the same time to be spread abroad +by Mme. Blavatsky and the Theosophic Society. Portions of this book, and +large portions of _Clothed with the Sun_ were apparently spoken by Mrs. +Kingsford under trance conditions, and have a certain fine quality and +atmosphere about them. They seem to indicate things actually seen in the +inner world of being; but they suffer, as such communications must do, +from the medium through which they come. Large portions of _The Perfect +Way_ degenerate into mere drivel, and large portions of _Clothed with +the Sun_ are offensive (as their authoress herself often personally was) +with a kind of spiritual arrogance. It is curious that those two +prophetesses Anna Kingsford and Sophie Blavatsky—though so very +different in personal exterior—should have been so like each other in +many respects. Both undoubtedly had access to trance-conditions and to +some region of astral intelligence or earth memory; both (as happens in +such cases) dug out for us some shining jewels of truth, but mixed at +the same time with a huge mass of rubbish. (No words can describe the +general rot and confusion of Blavatsky’s _Secret Doctrine_.) Both were +emotional in their different ways to an abnormal degree; and both were, +fortunately for themselves, associated with coadjutors of cool and +intellectual temperament—Mrs. Kingsford with Maitland, and Blavatsky +with Mrs. Besant. Both had really great and remarkable gifts; and both, +notwithstanding their high calling, descended to strange and unworthy +subterfuges—Blavatsky to common juggleries and Anna Kingsford to a most +deliberate and disagreeable ‘pose.’ At the Hermetic Society’s meetings +the latter would take the chair in state—after the style of the Great +Panjandrum—and if any humble member of the audience asked a simple +question like “Do you think, Mrs. Kingsford, that the soul survives +after death?”—she would draw herself up, close her eyes, and say “_I +know_,” and sit down again! On one celebrated occasion I remember that +at the close of the meeting, Edward Maitland rose and referring to the +epoch-making speech of the Lady-president on “The finding of the +Christ,” pointed out that that very meeting was indeed a world-event. +For just as the _Kings_ of the East came across the _ford_ of the Jordan +to lay their treasures at the feet of the infant Saviour, so now the +treasures of Eastern thought were being brought across the world for the +birth of a new Redeemer in the West, and by one whose name was most +appropriately and prophetically none other than _Kingsford_!! After that +we could naturally do nothing but dissolve along our different lines—in +tears, or laughter, or through the doorways and passages, as the case +might be. We poor little mortals must be grateful for what illuminations +we can get, however quaint or queer the mediating personalities may be. + +The years from 1881 onward were certainly a new era for me. They not +only brought me _Towards Democracy_, but they marked the oncoming of a +great new tide of human life over the Western World, and so—partly +through the book itself—brought me into touch with a number of people +and movements. It was a fascinating and enthusiastic period—preparatory, +as we now see, to even greater developments in the twentieth century. +The Socialist and Anarchist propaganda, the Feminist and Suffragist +upheaval, the huge Trade-union growth, the Theosophic movement, the new +currents in the Theatrical, Musical and Artistic worlds, the torrent +even of change in the Religious world—all constituted so many streams +and headwaters converging, as it were, to a great river. To be in fairly +close touch, as time went on, with these movements and their (English) +representatives—with men and women like John Burns, Cunninghame Graham, +Mrs. Despard, H. M. Hyndman, Bernard Shaw, Keir Hardie, the Bruce +Glasiers, Pete Curran, Ramsay Macdonald, Walter Crane, Sydney Olivier, +H. W. Nevinson, H. G. Wells, Annie Besant, F. R. Benson, Granville +Barker, Iden Payne, Mona Limerick, Isadora Duncan, Margaret Macmillan, +Lowes Dickinson, G. P. Gooch, G. M. Trevelyan, Roger Fry, Rutland +Boughton, Granville Bantock, Laurence Housman, William Rothenstein, R. +J. Campbell, E. W. Lewis, the Sidney Webbs, Olive Schreiner, Isabel +Margesson, Edith Ellis, Alfred Russel Wallace, Oliver Lodge, George +Barnes of the A.S.E., C. T. Cramp of the A.S.R.S., Stephen Reynolds of +the Fisheries, Raymond Unwin of Garden Suburbs, Cecil Reddie of +Abbotsholme, James Devon of the Prisons Commission, Edward Westermarck, +Havelock Ellis, and so forth—was indeed an extraordinary inspiration and +encouragement. Practically all these (and I have not mentioned the +foreign friends and coadjutors) were giving their lives to the +furtherance of some tributary of the great movement, and each of them +represented hundreds or perhaps thousands of others who were doing the +same. One felt that something massive must surely emerge from it all. + + +It was no wonder that Hyndman—whose name I have put near the beginning +of this list—becoming conscious as early as 1881 of the new forces all +around in the social world was filled with a kind of fervour of +revolutionary anticipation. We used to chaff him because at every crisis +in the industrial situation he was confident that the Millennium was at +hand—that the S.D.F. would resolve itself into a Committee of Public +Safety, and that it would be for him as Chairman of that body to guide +the ship of the State into the calm haven of Socialism! The S.F.D. was +constituted in the early eighties; when 1889 was impending it was +obvious that that year, as centenary of the first outbreak of the French +Revolution would be the fateful date. I remember his telling me, not +without gleeful rubbing of hands, that the whole Society of London +Stevedores (whom he had been addressing at the Docks) was behind him to +a man, and would come without fail to his support. 1889 however passed, +with nothing more effectual than the Socialist Congress at Paris—at +which a great deal of dissension and difference of opinion was +manifested. Then came ’99, the last year of the century and clearly big +with destiny; and he piled his hopes upon that. But it alas! only gave +birth to the Boer War—which put things back for many a year. And after +that 1909 and other dates did but provide further material for +disappointment. And yet all the time the Socialist clock was really +going forward, and though there was no sudden revolution or conversion, +the nation steadily and almost unconsciously became saturated with the +new ideas. Hyndman—though no doubt disappointed from time to time—stuck +gamely to his ‘cause’—and it was largely through his personal exertions +that the educational work begun by him in ’81 was carried to such +fruition that in 1914 with the German War the Government and the country +suddenly adopted large sections of the Socialist programme (without +calling them Socialist of course) as the most natural thing in the +world! + +That neither Hyndman in his time, nor Morris in his, nor the Fabian +Society in theirs, nor Keir Hardie, nor Kropotkin, nor Blatchford, nor +any other individual or body, succeeded in capturing the social movement +during these years and moulding it to his or their hearts’ desire, must +always be matter for congratulation. For once pocketed by any clique it +would have pined and dwindled into an insignificant thing; but, as I +have just tried to show, the real movement of this period has been far +too great for such a destiny. It is like a great river, fed by currents +and streams flowing into it from the most various directions and +gathering a force which no man can now control and a volume too great to +be confined. + +One regrets that Hyndman’s efforts to get into Parliament have never +been crowned with success. Not that he would have been any use in the +House as a party-leader (Labour or Socialist). Much the reverse; for +though personally the most good-natured man in the world he had an +extraordinary gift for falling foul of all his friends in the political +arena. But because it would have been a satisfaction—and there would +have been a certain poetical justice in it—to see Hyndman face to face +with the bogeys of his own propaganda, the representatives of the +established order, and trouncing them to his heart’s content. With an +excellent command of statistics and finance, a good knowledge of +political conditions and the diplomatic _personnel_ over Europe, two +great causes close to his heart in the championship of our colored +subjects in India and our white wage-slaves at home, and with a vigorous +and ready tongue, he would surely, off his own bat, have made the House +sit up, and compelled its attention to some neglected things. +Nevertheless he would never I think under any circumstances have been a +great force in politics; for curiously enough notwithstanding his mental +vigour and energy there was a certain want of _weight_ about his +personality which prevented his influence carrying very far. On the +platform, with his waving beard and flowing frock-coat, his high and +spacious forehead and head somewhat low and weak behind, he gave one +rather the impression of a shop whose goods are all in the front window; +and though a good and incisive speaker his frequent gusts of invective +seemed out of keeping with the obvious natural kindliness of the man and +rather suggested the idea that he was lashing himself up with his own +tail. + +The frock-coat and tall hat were always of course _de rigueur_ with +him—not I imagine that they were particularly congenial to his Socialist +ideals, but because they were a necessary part of his outfit and +‘make-up’ on the stage of the Stock Exchange; for no doubt the Stock +Exchange as the centre of our Commercial system will cling to these old +symbols of the industrial capitalist era to the very last. + +A young friend of mine, who was at one time clerk to Albert Grant of +City fame, told me the following story. One day while he was sitting in +Grant’s office H. M. Hyndman was announced, and walked in, frock-coat +and all. My friend left the room while the two conferred—the well-known +Socialist with the even more well-known German Jew and Company-promoter. +Grant’s reputation was not of the highest—or if it could be called +“high” at all it was only in the sense in which game is sometimes so +called. When the visitor was gone and my young friend returned to the +room, Grant said, rubbing his hands “Do you know who that is? Do you +know who that is? That is Mr. Hyndman, the great Socialist. You see, you +see, with all their talk, even _they_ cannot get on without _me_.” + +I do not for a moment suppose that Hyndman’s dealings on this occasion +were anything to be ashamed of; but Albert Grant’s transactions were +commonly thought to be of a shady character. Perhaps to make up for +that, he bought with some of his gains the site of Leicester Square, +converted it into a public garden, and presented it to the public. In +consideration of this, and possibly other things, he was made a +Baron—Baron Grant. Whereupon some wag wrote the following distich:— + + Princes can Rank confer, but Honour can’t; + Rank without honour is a barren (Baron) grant. + +I have mentioned Walt Whitman more than once in the foregoing pages, and +I think I ought not to let this chapter pass without referring to the +ardent little coterie at Bolton in Lancashire who for many years +celebrated his birthday with songs and speeches and recitations, with +decorations of lilac-boughs and blossoms and the passing of loving cups +to his memory. J. W. Wallace was the president, and Dr. Johnston, Fred. +Wild, J. W. Dixon, Charles F. Sixsmith, were some of the earlier members +of this little club, which met quite frequently from 1885 onward for +twenty years or more. If there was a somewhat Pickwickian note about its +revels still no one could doubt the sincerity of its enthusiasm. It +helped largely to spread the study and appreciation of Whitman’s work in +the North of England; it welcomed Dr. Bucke on his arrival from Canada +with congratulatory addresses and hymns of its own composing; some of +its members (the two first-mentioned) crossed the Atlantic on a +pilgrimage to the good grey poet; and Dr. Johnston wrote a quite +excellent little book _A Visit to Walt Whitman_ descriptive of Whitman’s +personality and surroundings, which I believe is now being reissued from +the Press in conjunction with some Notes on the same subject by Wallace. +In later years I have been able to count Dr. Johnston and Charlie +Sixsmith among my own constant friends. + + +I will conclude this chapter with a few brief notes on my almost +lifelong friend Arunáchalam. I feel that I owe a great debt to him +because long ago, in ’80 perhaps or ’81 he gave me a translation of a +book, then little known in England, the _Bhagavat Gita_—the reading of +which as I think I have said before, curiously liberated and set in +movement the mass of material which had already formed within me, and +which was then waiting to take shape as _Towards Democracy_. As when a +ship is ready to launch, a very little thing, the mere knocking away of +a prop, will set her going; so—though it was something more than +that—did the push of the _Bhagavat Gita_ act on _Towards Democracy_. It +gave me the needed cue, and concatenated my work to the Eastern +tradition. + +I first came across Arunáchalam at a meeting of the _Chitchat_ or some +such society at Cambridge, when he was an undergraduate of Christ’s and +I a newly made Fellow of Trinity Hall. As in the case of other Hindus +his extraordinary quickness and receptiveness of mind had very quickly +rendered him _au fait_ in all our British ways and institutions. With +engagingly good and natural manners, humorous and with some of the Tamil +archness and bedevilment about him, he was already a favorite in his own +college—and at that time these early comers to the Universities from +India were certainly received by our students with more friendliness and +sense of equality than they are to-day. His father having been a wealthy +man and occupying a good position in Ceylon, Arunáchalam had received a +good education and was fairly well up in Greek and Latin, French and +German, and their literatures, besides his own Eastern languages, like +Tamil and Sanskrit. Altogether he was a very taking, all-round sort of +fellow, capable of talking on most subjects, and full of interested +inquiry about all. Many were the afternoons or evenings we spent +together—walking or boating or sitting by the fireside in College +rooms—and I learned much from him about the literature of India and the +manners and customs of the mainland and Ceylon. When he left Cambridge +he went to London and studied Law for some years, and then going out to +Ceylon joined the Civil Service there, and in due time became Judge, +Registrar-General, and finally Member of the Legislative Council. In +1890 he wrote to me about the Gñani Ramaswamy whose acquaintance he had +made, and asked me to come out and meet him; and I gladly went—for it +just chimed in with my wishes at the time; and, as I have told in my +_Visit to a Gñani_ and elsewhere, for six weeks or so we called on the +Guru every day and absorbed all he had to say on the traditional +esoteric philosophy of India in general and of the Tamils in particular. +After settling in Ceylon, Arunáchalam paid from time to time various +visits to England, at one time to bring his wife over, at another to put +his sons to College, and so on. The last occasion was in 1913 when he +received a tardy recognition of his really important services to the +Crown in the form of a knighthood. + +On these occasions, whether he was conversing with the humblest of my +friends at Millthorpe or at Sheffield, or with high officials and “great +ladies” in London his manners had always just the same charming +frankness and grace about them, which established at once the _human_ +relation as the paramount thing. And yet this man, whose artistic +culture and practical knowledge of the world was miles above most people +he met, had often to suffer from the boorish rudeness of Anglo-Indians +in his own land, or of belated Britishers on board ship. Alas, for the +vulgarity of my countrymen! + +I cannot leave him without one little anecdote. Being a guest on some +occasion at a Mansion House dinner he was duly of course introduced to +the various bigwigs present, and took his seat with the rest; but +immediately caused consternation (being a vegetarian) by refusing +turtle-soup and other carnivorous dishes in favour of spinach, potatoes +and the like, and finally nearly wrecked the whole show by asking for a +glass of water! Such a thing had never been heard of before. Waiters +hurried to and fro, but water could not be found; and at last, with many +apologies, he was asked to put up with a bottle of Apollinaris +(“Whiskey, sir, with it?” “No, thank you”)! + + + + + XIV + LONDON AND LECTURES + + +Having many friends in London, and a good many relations, I naturally, +during all the years of my sojourn at Millthorpe, have been in the habit +of paying fairly frequent visits to the big city. It is good to have +one’s roots in the country, but it is also necessary to have one’s +branches in the great towns where one can come into contact with the +winds and storms of human life. + +A considerable social storm at which I was present was that of the +so-called “Bloody Sunday” in November ’87. A socialist meeting had been +announced for 3 p.m. in Trafalgar Square, to protest against the Irish +policy of the Government, and the authorities (for conscience doth make +cowards of us all) probably thinking Socialism a much greater ‘terror’ +than it really was, had vetoed the meeting and drawn a ring of police, +two deep, all round the interior part of the Square. Of course the +Socialists had to make an active protest, if only in order to bring the +case into court; and three leading members of the S.D.F.—Hyndman, John +Burns and Cunninghame Graham—agreed to march up arm-in-arm and force +their way if possible into the charmed circle. Somehow Hyndman was lost +in the crowd on the way to the battle, but Graham and Burns pushed their +way through, challenged the forces of ‘Law and Order,’ came to blows, +and were duly mauled by the police, arrested, and locked up. + +I was in the Square at the time, and like most of the crowd there more +as a sightseer than anything else. Indeed, though a large crowd it was +of a most good-humored and peaceable kind; but the way in which it was +‘worked up,’ provoked and irritated by the authorities, was a caution; +and gave me the strongest impression that this was done purposely, with +the intention of leading to a collision. If this was not so the only +explanation must be that abject _fear_, on the part of the authorities, +was the moving cause. As I say, the crowd was a most good-humored, +easy-going, smiling crowd; but presently it was transformed. A regiment +of mounted police came cantering up. The order had gone forth that we +were to be ‘kept moving.’ To keep a crowd moving is I believe a +technical term for the process of riding roughshod in all directions, +scattering, frightening and batoning the people—the idea no doubt being +to prevent the formation of knots or the consolidation of organized +bodies among the crowd. In this case there was really no sign of any +organized movement on the part of the people against the police, nor had +I heard of any plan to that effect, further than the march-up of the +three leaders already mentioned. I was standing—with my friend Robert +Muirhead, Cambridge mathematician and Smith’s Prizeman, two peaceable +enough members of society as may be supposed—on an island-refuge just +where the Strand debouches into Trafalgar Square, when we found +ourselves violently pushed about by mounted and foot police and told to +‘move on.’ Whether Muirhead did not move on fast enough, or what the +trouble was, was never explained; but the next moment I saw him seized +by the collar by a mounted man and dragged along, apparently towards a +police-station, while a bobby on foot aided in the arrest. I jumped to +the rescue and slanged the two constables, for which I got a whack on +the cheekbone from a baton (which distressed the more respectable +members of my family for some weeks after), but Muirhead was released, +and we soon regained our footing on the refuge, from which for some time +we watched the police continuing, at considerable risk to life and limb, +to circle round and insult the ‘mob.’ I mention these little details +just to show the kind of thing that happens. Purely as the result of +this ill-timed action there were one or two ugly rushes I believe and a +few broken heads; but the damage of ‘Bloody Sunday’ did not after all +amount to much. + +The case came into Court afterwards, and Burns and Graham were sentenced +to six weeks’ imprisonment each for “unlawful assembly.” I was asked to +give evidence in favour of the defendants, and gladly consented—though I +had not much to say, except to testify to the peaceable character of the +crowd and the high-handed action of the police. In cross-examination I +was asked whether I had not seen any rioting; and when I replied in a +very pointed way “Not on the part of the _people_!” a large smile went +round the Court, and I was not plied with any more questions. + + +[Illustration: + + _MORNING LEADER_ CARTOON, 13 MARCH, 1906. + + “If Society people had to make their own clothes there would be some + curious scenes in + the streets, and many would go about attired in simply an Indian + blanket.”—Mr. EDWD. + CARPENTER at the meeting of the Humanitarian League at Essex Hall. + + (By courtesy of the _Daily News_.) +] + +At an early period of my Millthorpe days (about 1885 I think) two young +Cambridge men who had only just taken their degrees, Lowes Dickinson and +Roger Fry, came down to see me—two gentle, humorous and charming +creatures, who have since made their mark in Literature and Art, and +whose friendship has remained with me, I am happy to say, all these +years. Dickinson as a writer of pure English is I should say far ahead +of any of his contemporaries. In contrast with the Meredithian, Henry +Jamesian, Chestertonian, and other literary gymnastics of the day, his +style flows along, pellucid with pure grace and purpose, saying exactly +what is needed, no more and no less. It has the quality of ‘the absolute +in style’—which is very different from, though sometimes mistaken for, +absence of style. Nothing could be more charming and to the point than +his _Letters of John Chinaman_ (or _From a Chinese Official_) and his +_Greek View of Life_. With regard to the former he told me an amusing +story about W. J. Bryan, candidate more than once for the Presidency of +the United States. Being an American Mr. Bryan, perhaps naturally, did +not perceive (the English being so perfect) that no Chinaman could +possibly have written the book, and being also somewhat shocked at some +of the remarks in it about the common infidelities of matrimonial life +in England and America, he quite innocently published an article +rebutting these charges and explaining that if the author (the supposed +Chinese official) had had the advantage of being brought up in an +Anglo-Saxon household he would never have made such mistakes! Dickinson +had consequently to write to Mr. Bryan, and, breaking his incognito, to +inform him that the author _had_ had the said advantage, and really knew +what he was talking about! + +From 1885 onwards I lectured pretty frequently in London, Edinburgh, +Glasgow, Bristol, Leeds, Birmingham, Bradford, and so forth—chiefly at +first in connection with the various Socialist societies and groups in +those places. The subjects treated of were those which are now so well +recognized and understood everywhere that there is no need to insist on +them, though at that time they were only beginning to appear on the +social horizon—the evils of Competition, Adulteration, Falsification of +goods, Waste, the scramble for Dividends, the iron Law of Wages, and so +forth. Afterwards the lectures branched out a little more widely into +literary and philosophical subjects, and with more general audiences. + +In 1891, as I have already said, the Humanitarian League was founded. +And later on I gave addresses on various occasions in connection with +the League’s meetings; one at an early date (about ’92 or ’93) on +Vivisection—in conjunction with Edward Maitland; another on the same +subject some years later; one in ’97 on the Prisons; one in ’98 on what +might be called “Humane Science”; and one in 1906 on “Simplification of +Life,” and others. In the last-mentioned lecture I referred to the +complexity of life among our well-to-do classes which arises from the +fact of their being able to _pay_ servants for doing things for them, +and pointed out (supposing the bottom ever fell out of the bucket of +modern society, and these people really had to produce their own food, +clothing, etc.) how _simple_ their lives would probably become—and how +interesting it would be to see them going about barefoot and clothed in +flour-sacks, rather than do the hard work of cobbling and tailoring for +themselves. + +The _Morning Leader_ took the idea up, and brought out a Cartoon +illustration of the lecture, showing the London Club men promenading in +Hyde Park with only Indian blankets and flour-bags for covering, though +still clinging religiously to their old umbrellas and tall hats! + +For the Theosophist societies I spoke occasionally, in Birmingham, +Liverpool, Manchester, Sheffield, and elsewhere—weaving in some amount +of Indian philosophy (the Upanishads, etc.) with talk on social +subjects; also for the Ethical societies in much the same way; and for +Charles Rowley’s Sunday afternoons at Ancoats, Manchester. In 1905 I +took up the question of Small Holdings and the Co-operative Colonization +of the Land—a question which had by that time become actual through the +Small Holdings Acts of 1892 and 1907, and which will have to be still +more seriously considered in the future; and spoke on the subject in +Holmesfield and other villages in my neighborhood, as well as in Oxford, +Glasgow and other large centres. Joseph Fels was very keen at that time +on the subject; and I went with him to view his group of a dozen or so +five-acre holdings at Maylands in Essex. Unfortunately the experiment +did not turn out a success. He had bought some very heavy clay land at +an absurdly low price, £7 an acre, and had spent £20 per acre on it in +breaking up and burning the clay and heavily manuring, thus making the +real initial cost of the land £27 per acre; and had then planted the +ground with fruit-trees and had suitable cottages built on it. Reckoning +up the total cost of each holding he offered them at a low rental, some +3 per cent. or 4 per cent. on the capital invested, and took some care +besides in the choice of tenants, feeling confident that with proper +handling the places would prove remunerative. Unfortunately they did not +do so. Probably it had been a mistake to speculate on such extremely +poor land as this was to begin with. Anyhow it never yielded the crops +expected; and one by one the tenants disheartened abandoned their +holdings, and the whole scheme fell to the ground. + +Having always a good many friends among the Railway-men I was not +unfrequently asked to speak at their clubs and branch meetings. On one +occasion in November 1907, in conjunction with George Barnes, C. T. +Cramp, Pete Curran and Victor Grayson, I addressed an A.S.R.S. meeting +of over three thousand in the Sheffield Corn-Exchange. George Barnes +always strikes me as a fine, solid and sensible man; Charlie Cramp the +same; and indeed the railway-men generally—perhaps from their close and +constant contact with the flow of humanity—have a discernment and +reasonableness of outlook which is quite peculiar. Victor Grayson, the +course of whose political career was so brief and so meteoric, was a +most humorous creature. His fund of anecdotes was inexhaustible, and +rarely could a supper party of which he was a member get to bed before +three in the morning. On the platform for detailed or constructive +argument he was no good, but for criticism of the enemy he was +inimitable—the shafts of his wit played like lightning round him, and +with his big mouth and flexible upper lip he seemed to be simply +browsing off his opponents and eating them up. His disappearance from +public life has been quite a loss. + +In some ways these large audiences are easier to speak to than small +ones. Consciousness of personalities—either one’s own or of members of +the audience—disappears; the great broad human interests come forward; +finesse and detailed argument are of little account; the reverberation +of emotion is great, and that carries the speaker on; but of course much +depends on conditions. To hold a large audience in the open air is +difficult work, but it is good practice. Concatenation and logical +continuity are of no great importance, but every word must be distinct, +every phrase must tell, every point be made clear and attractive, else +the congregation will evaporate even while you talk to it, and condense +again round the nearest coster’s barrow. + +In a closed room or hall you have your hearers more at command. They +cannot easily escape, and you may become dull without knowing it! But +here again much depends on circumstances. I find a room (of the common +type) with level floor and high raised platform at one end rather +trying. It is difficult to get _at_ an audience so much below you, and +as the voice tends to rise the more _distant_ listeners seem +unreachable. Worse still is a flat room where you stand on the floor +without _any_ platform; for then you cannot see your flock, and you lose +all command over it. Personally I like an amphitheatre lecture-hall with +rising tiers of seats one behind the other; or best of all an ordinary +theatre with pit and galleries, so that from the stage one is nearly on +a level with the great bulk of those present. I have spoken (on _The +Larger Socialism_ or cognate subjects) to audiences of two thousand or +more at various theatres—the ‘Grand,’ Manchester (November 1908 and +November 1909), the ‘Prince’s,’ Blackburn (October 1910), the +‘Metropole,’ Glasgow (November 1910), and others, and with a +satisfactory sense in general of being able to reach my hearers. + +On November 11, 1910, I gave an address to the Literary and +Philosophical Society at Greenock on _State-Interference with Industry_, +which was repeated afterwards at Cambridge, Oxford, and elsewhere. The +subject was much to the fore at that time, and from opposite points of +view, owing to prevalent strikes and lock-outs. The Clyde shipping +strike was on, and there was a good deal of indignation expressed up and +down the country at the conduct of the men in the shipyards, who had +refused to take up their tools and go to work again, even after their +leaders had counselled and urged them to do so. I was as much in the +dark as most others about the cause of this strange refusal—until I +reached Greenock; and then I soon heard from various quarters, both of +men and masters, the real reason. It was not a question of wages or of +hours. Those matters had so far been settled satisfactorily. The real +grievance was a personal one. The men had been affronted by the +overbearing conduct of the Chairman of the Employers’ Association, the +insulting manner in which he had behaved to their representatives, and +so forth; and they were not going to put up with this without a protest. +They wanted to be treated in a gentlemanly way. It was encouraging and +refreshing to find that this was so; and the fact that it was so lets a +good deal of light into a frequent cause of labour troubles and +dissensions. But of course in this case at Greenock, as in so many +others, the Press all over the country had got on the wrong tack, and +the public never knew the real rights of the matter. + +On October 24, 1908, the Women’s Suffrage party held a great +demonstration in Manchester, which like others of their functions was a +miracle of organization. There were to be ten platforms, and the mere +getting together of ten distinct bodies of processionists at their +respective starting-stations in the neighborhood of the Town Hall, and +marching them off to the appointed time, was no light matter. However it +was done; and with Mrs. Despard walking gallantly at the head, supported +by Margaret Ashton, Miss Abadam, Dr. Helen Wilson, Isabella Ford, Mrs. +Swanwick, Mrs. K. D. Courtney, Mrs. Billington Greig, Councillor James +Johnston, Professor Chapman, Canon Hicks and myself, a solid phalanx +nearly a mile long, with bands and banners complete, walked all the way +to Alexandra Park, three miles out! The immense crowd which came forth +to witness the demonstration, and which lined both sides of the road, +did not say much; it did not cheer to any great extent, nor did it +scoff; it was simply deeply impressed. A large part of it followed on +the route and collected round the ten platforms—about a thousand +listeners to each. Each platform dealt with a separate subject—mine, in +conjunction with Mrs. Greig and Miss Margaret Robertson, took _Prison +Reform_. A cornet finally gave the signal for a joint resolution to be +proposed in favour of the Suffrage, which was of course carried by +acclamation, and the crowd dispersed. + +Mrs. Despard’s work in the two related causes of Women and Labour has +been splendid. Her ardour and indomitable resolution, despite the +drawback of advancing years, have been almost miraculous, and I always +see her in my mind’s eye marching gloriously to some encounter, and +resembling the horse (in the words of the book of Job) “who saith among +the trumpets Ha! ha! and sniffeth the battle from afar!” It has been an +honour and a pleasure to me to speak on many a platform with Mrs. +Despard—in Trafalgar Square and elsewhere. In October 1912 I took the +chair at a meeting of the Sheffield Women’s Freedom League, when she +lectured on the subject of Shelley’s _Prometheus Unbound_. It is +characteristic of her that this poem was a favorite of hers from +earliest girlhood; and in a sustained address that evening she quoted +very large portions of it by heart, holding her audience for nearly two +hours in rapt accord and attention. Mrs. Despard was, I need hardly say, +like Shelley himself, an ardent vegetarian—though Shelley, owing to +circumstances and conditions, often probably found it difficult to live +quite up to the mark of his wishes in this respect. + +In October 1909 I was honoured by being made President of the Vegetarian +Congress at Manchester for that year—notwithstanding my own occasional +derelictions from the ideal standard—and I found myself in the chair at +an interesting meeting supported by well-known pillars of the movement +like Professor J. E. Mayor of Cambridge, Dr. E. A. Axon of Manchester, +Dr. Lybeck of Helsingfors, and others. The thing that struck me most +about the meeting was the extraordinary number of extremely ancient +looking patriarchs present with long white hair and beards; and I very +nearly disgraced myself in my opening speech by expressing a doubt +whether in view of this result Vegetarianism was a thing really to be +desired or recommended! Some kind presiding spirit however saved me from +this ineptitude, and I reached the end of my discourse safely and +without succumbing to the temptation. + + +A subject on which I have often spoken—though always with the sense of +only touching the fringe of it—is that of the connection between Sun +worship and Christianity. The existing books on the subject are quite +unsatisfactory, being very limited in their outlook. Some day it will +have to be worked out more thoroughly. It is a most interesting subject, +but as it involves a good deal of historical and antiquarian information +and some technical knowledge of Astronomy besides reference to early +sexual rites, it is not a very easy one to put before a general +audience. I gave a lecture on it for the Sheffield Ethical Society in +December 1908 and for J. R. Campbell’s “Progressive League” at the City +Temple in November 1909, as well as in other places; but it really would +require a series of lectures for anything like adequate presentment. The +_continuity_ of Christianity with the religions of the old world and its +ordered evolution from them is the idea which we now require to realize. +We have had enough of its portrayal as a miraculous and exceptional +stage in human development; and now that the world is coming round again +to a concrete appreciation of the value and beauty of actual life, and +to a sort of neo-Pagan point of view, it is above all important that we +should understand the sources from which Christianity sprang in the +past, and what germs of a world-religion it may bear within itself for +the future, when it shall have cast off the crude and gothic elements of +its mediæval development. + +My friend Edward Lewis, himself a writer on The New Paganism, was in +1912 and 1913 minister of the King’s Weigh House Church, Duke Street, +W., and he and R. J. Campbell not unfrequently interchanged pulpits at +that time. Lewis persuaded me to speak at his church; and on two +occasions (November 1912 and October 1913) I did so. His congregation, +largely trained no doubt and educated by his discourses, was an +intelligent and sympathetic one, and though I had some misgivings on my +first visit in speaking on so abstruse a subject as “The Nature of the +Self”—illustrated as it was by numerous quotations from the Upanishads +and from _Towards Democracy_—I felt no misgiving on the second occasion, +when my subject (similarly illustrated) was “Rest.” These lectures were +repeated at the Lyceum (women’s) Club, Piccadilly, at Croydon, +Eastbourne and elsewhere; and the fact that audiences like these, of a +rather popular character, could listen with deep understanding and +sympathy to the unfolding of innermost psychological teachings has +convinced me that the germs of a new and democratic religion are only +waiting among our mass-peoples for the day and the stimulus which will +bring them to birth and development. + +Edward Lewis, being vigorous in heart and brain, and a real man, +naturally could not continue very long in a profession like “the +ministry” which entailed his ascending the pulpit three or four times a +week and not only giving ‘edifying’ counsel to his congregation but +confining his own life within a corresponding circle of inanity. Such a +career would inevitably have sapped and ruined his manhood; and with +true instinct he threw up his five or six hundred a year and retired +into the wilderness. The members of his congregation were duly shocked +and grieved in their different ways, according to the views they took of +his lapse or lapses from holiness; but if, as is likely, the quondam +Christian minister should become the missionary and apostle of a new and +vital Paganism, the world will be very much the gainer. + + +The War, now going on [1915] is not only acting already very directly on +the industrial life of the nations concerned but is pointing pretty +clearly towards a remodelling of our general conception of Industry for +the future. It is fairly certain that somehow or other the gloomy and +depressing wage-slavery of the present day—so intimately bound up with +the Commercial régime—will have to give way; and productive work will +have to regain the characters of spontaneity and gladness which surely +are of the essence of its nature, and which are the necessary roots of +all Art and of all Beauty and Joy in life. With that transformation of +industry all life will be transformed, and the neo-Pagan ideal will +become a thing possible of realization. + +For some years, from 1910 onwards I have spoken on this idea—entitling +my lectures “Freedom in Industry,” “Beauty in Civic Life” and so forth, +and delivering them before various bodies and in various places—as at +Caxton Hall, London, for the Humanitarian League; at Crosby Hall, +Chelsea, for the University Settlement there; for the Fabian Society at +Oxford; for the Arts Club at Leeds; for the Progressive and +Town-planning League at Bolton; for the N.U.T. Association at +Chesterfield; and for many Adult Schools, I.L.P. Clubs and Ethical and +Theosophist societies in different parts of the country. + +To produce for Use; that production should really take place for the +benefit of the Consumer; to concentrate not on Profit to individuals, +but on advantage and gain to the Community; to drop in one inspired +moment the whole mad sequence of cut-throat Rivalry, insane Waste, +disgusting Fraud, and inane Uselessness, which constitute modern +Industry; all this would mean such an enormous liberation of Power, such +an incalculable increase in general Wealth, that the spectre of poverty +would be exorcised for ever, and the numbing anxiety which weighs so +heavily now on the lives of millions would be lifted away like an evil +cloud. Joy would descend upon life, and the ordinary occupations would +become free, spontaneous and beautiful. + +Our powers of production to-day are so immense that even in the midst of +the present frightful War we (on this little island) can spare millions +of our best men for fighting, and millions more for the work of +providing those fighters with engines of death and destruction, and +_yet_ with the residue can calmly and easily keep the nation going. What +our powers and our achievement might be if once those eight millions or +so—whose work is now only destructive—were turned on to the great +positive task of social reconstruction and sensible human emancipation, +it really passes imagination to conceive. The age-long world-dream of +Paradise Regained would at last be within our reach. We can see that the +War is even now forcing the modern peoples to take stock of their +boasted Civilization, to reckon up the gains to Humanity which it +represents—and the losses; to find out and decide in what direction they +are really moving, and in what direction they want to move. If an event +so great, so colossal, as this does not shatter the old order of +profit-grinding and wage-slavery and wake a new ideal of life in the +heart of the nations, one would say there is little hope for the world. +But surely it will do so. + + + + + XV + TRANSLATIONS AND TRANSLATORS + + +Among the many good things in my life which I owe to my books by no +means the least has been my introduction through them to dear and valued +foreign friends. + +One day in March 1901 there called upon me a young Hungarian—Ervin +Batthyány by name—a modest, sturdy and almost rustic-looking youth of +about twenty-three. He proved to be a member of the well-known Batthyány +family, whose influence in Hungarian politics, on the Liberal as well as +on the Conservative side, has always been considerable; but he was by no +means conservative in his outlook or ultra-aristocratic in his leanings. + +It happened at the moment of his appearance that I was doing some +gardening and trundling about a wheelbarrow. “Oh,” he said at once, “do +let me wheel that barrow for you; I do like so much to do that sort of +work, but I have no chance at home—I am so _civilized_ you know.” For a +moment I thought he was chaffing; then the next moment I saw he was +quite sincere. I believe I let him trundle the barrow for a bit; then we +sat down and talked. + +It turned out that he was expecting in the following year to come into +large landed estates in Hungary; that he had studied and thought about +Socialism to some extent; and that among other things he wanted to +consult me about the administration of his property when he should have +the management of it. It appeared that with the almost feudal system +still prevailing in that part, the cottagers and labourers working on +such estates were practically attached to the soil and frequently +transferred with it from owner to owner; that they were employed by the +farm-bailiffs in gangs for the benefit of the estate; that they received +next to no monetary wages, but were paid in pork or flour or the poor +tenements they inhabited—that is, they were paid by a small share of the +wealth they had themselves created; that they had no means of earning +anything independently; and that they had little or no education—the +schools being all under the thumb of the Catholic priests. + +We talked over possible reforms—of a mild kind of course, as anything +drastic would be out of the question; and when he went away he said with +the same charming simplicity as before “The next time I see you I hope I +shall not be so _civilized_.” The next time proved to be some three +years later. + +He returned to Buda-Pesth shortly after his visit to Millthorpe; and +took as it happened a copy of _Towards Democracy_ with him, which he +gave to a lady friend there—a certain Madame Nadler—knowing that she was +interested and indeed accomplished in English literature. Madame Nadler +took warmly to the book, and before long it came about that she and the +young Count, who was a frequent visitor at her house, spent a large part +of their time together in reading and discussing it—with the not +unnatural result that they became warmly interested in each other. + +Meanwhile he, the young man, plunged into the administration of his +newly acquired estate, and in the course of two or three years made +useful changes. He founded an undenominational school, with a workshop +for instructing the peasants in various crafts, and a reading-room +provided with more or less socialistic literature—an innocent enough +proceeding as we should think, but it turned the whole Clerical party +against him, and terrified the aristocratic landowners of the +neighborhood out of their wits, as with the shadow of a coming +revolution! All this, together with his journalistic work in connection +with various anti-militarist and Anarchist papers brought him into +conflict with his family and the authorities, with the result that a +sequestration of his property took place, and for a couple of years he +was subject to a good deal of annoyance. During that period, curiously +enough, little Millthorpe became the chief means of communication +between the two friends—for I was in touch with them both, while their +local and more direct letters were liable to be intercepted. They were +thus able to concert plans to frustrate the enemy, which they did with +such success that at the end of the period mentioned Ervin resumed work +on his estates—though not without some risk, as may be imagined, of +renewed attacks. + +After these events _Towards Democracy_ became more than ever a link +between the two friends. They determined to translate the book—not into +Hungarian but into German (as being a more widely received language), +and they set to work upon it in real earnest. Mme. Nadler’s competence +for this labour was quite exceptional. With a great enthusiasm for the +book and a quick appreciation of its meanings, she combined a very fine +literary sense and aptness of phrase; while Ervin with his rather +encyclopædic brain was able to interpret all sorts of references to +trades and Nature-processes. In 1906 the translation of Part I was +published in Berlin; and Parts II, III and IV followed in separate +editions in the three following years, 1907, 1908, and 1909. + +But meanwhile (early I think in 1904) Mme. Nadler having decided to give +her children the advantage of an English education, and at the same time +to save them from the hatefulness of enforced military service, migrated +to this country; and so it came to pass that I made the personal +acquaintance of this remarkable and beautiful woman—an acquaintance +which, I need not say, soon ripened into friendship. Ervin, too, finding +his native land not very congenial came over to England; and thus it +happened that after the lapse of three years he and I resumed the +conversations which we had first begun over the wheelbarrow. I did not +notice that he was notably less ‘civilized’ than before, but his +experiences had very obviously altered his political and social outlook, +and his general views were decidedly more anti-governmental than they +had been at the earlier date. + + +These translations by Madame Nadler were, however, by no means the first +to be made into German. In 1901 or so Herr Karl Federn had come over +from Vienna and spent a day or two at Millthorpe. In 1902 he placed his +translation of _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ with a Leipzig publisher, and the +book almost immediately had a good reception. It passed through several +editions, and when a few years later, in 1912, the first German Women’s +Congress was held in Berlin the book curiously enough became a sort of +bone of contention, dividing the advanced party who took it as their +text-book, from the more conservative party who anathematized it. In +proportion as controversy raged around it the work became more +notorious, a cheap edition was printed, and before the Great War broke +out some fifty thousand copies had been sold. + +[Illustration: + + LILLY NADLER-NUELLENS WITH HER DAUGHTER. +] + +Herr Federn was not very fortunate in his choice of a title. _Wenn die +Menschen reif zur Liebe werden_ is only a rather heavy paraphrase of +_Love’s Coming-of-Age_, and the text of the book itself suffers from a +certain heaviness and diffuseness. Still to Herr Federn himself I feel I +owe a considerable debt, not only for introducing my work to the German +public, but for the general fidelity of his translations and the loyalty +of his dealings on my account with the German publishers. In 1903 he +published also in Leipzig his translation of _Civilization: its Cause +and Cure_; and in 1905, in Jena, the translation of _The Art of +Creation_ (_Die Schöpfung als Kunstwerk_). This last was issued in +rather elaborate _format_ by the well-known firm, Eugen Diederichs, but +has never reached the circulation of the other two. + + +In the Spring of 1909 I was at Florence for some weeks; and +there—largely through my friend Professor Herron—I came into touch with +an interesting circle of young Italian _literati_ and artists; +especially interesting to me because they represented a strong reaction +away from the very bourgeois and commercialized Italian art-ideals of +the later nineteenth century, and towards the ideals of John Ruskin and +William Morris—ideals founded on the socialization of human activities +and the intimate relationship of all true literary and artistic work to +the actual life of the mass-peoples. + +The group included such men as Riccardo Nobili, probably the best living +exponent of Fourteenth Century Italian art, whose charming little story +_A Modern Antique_ delightfully exposes the fakes of Florentine +art-dealers and the gorgeous gullibility of American globe-trotters; +Roberto Assagioli, the young philosopher, editor of _Psiche_—a +psychological Review—and author of an illuminating tract on the Talking +Horses of Elberfeldt[28]; Guido Ferrando, author of a couple of tracts +on _La Coscienza Universale_ and _La Nuova Psicologia_ (Florence +1908)—who has done me the honour to translate my _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ +and my _Art of Creation_ into Italian; Count Auteri, the Sicilian +architect and sculptor; Giuseppe Rambelli, the artist, and others. + +More or less associated with this group—and on a second visit—I made the +acquaintance of Teresina Bagnoli, a gifted young woman who had already +been in correspondence with me with regard to a translation of _T. D._ +(of which she sent me batches from time to time for criticism and +revision). I found her swift and penetrating and original, and verging +on Anarchism in her political and philosophic outlook; and I have to +thank her for her excellent little volume _Verso la Democrazia_[29] +which has brought me into touch with Italian readers in that intimate +field. + + +It is curious, but perhaps not unexpected, that my best translators have +been women. To a third lady friend, Mademoiselle Senard, I owe a very +excellent version of _Towards Democracy_ into French (Parts III and IV +only). After some little preliminary correspondence Mlle. Senard came +over from Paris in the summer of 1913 and spent a couple of months in +the country in my neighborhood. Sprung from an old-fashioned and rather +aristocratic family in Burgundy she had managed at a comparatively early +age to emancipate herself from a convent school and education, and by +her resolution had almost compelled her parents to find for her a way +out into the great world. She had become a perfect linguist in English, +German and Italian; and I found her a fine-looking and attractive person +of thirty-five or so, always, like a true Frenchwoman, perfectly dressed +and _chic_, yet simply dressed and absolutely natural in her +conversation and movements. It was a pleasure to spend many a morning or +afternoon with her, looking over her translation work or rambling +through the garden and the fields. + +However well one may know a foreign language it is rarely possible to +follow every _nuance_ of meaning or to succeed entirely in avoiding +errors; and a foreigner dealing with English has perhaps all the more +difficulty in that way on account of the idiomatic and irregular +character of our language. I have not always cared so much about the +other books, but with _Towards Democracy_ I have been very anxious that +the renderings should be faithful; and it has been fortunate for me that +in these three cases I have had such very competent translators, and +been sufficiently versed myself in the languages concerned to be able to +assist them in doubtful places. + +Marcelle Senard wrote also a little brochure of her own on _Edward +Carpenter et sa Philosophie_,[30] which shows the clearness and +penetration of a well-balanced French mind. Then, on the outbreak of the +War in 1914 she took up Nursing work, and with extraordinary energy and +devotion organized and helped to equip a new Hospital for the Wounded at +Nevers, south of Paris, where she remained for a year as Manageress and +Secretary, till exhausted with the incessant labour she was at last +compelled to relinquish the post. + +In connection with French translations I must not forget to mention my +friend Paul Le Rouge who is now assistant judge in French Morocco, and +who translated and published my _Prisons, Police and Punishment_ in +Paris some ten years ago. I am sorry to say I have not found an English +judge or police-magistrate who has taken an equal interest in the +original book! + + +Early in 1910 I received one or two letters from a young Japanese +illustrating the sad state of commercial slavery and militarism into +which Japan had fallen since the Russo-Japanese War. Women and children +as well as men were being worked twelve hours or more a day in the +factories which were springing up on all sides, and for a miserable +pittance; there were no regulations to curb the greed of employers; and +any public protest was treated as anti-governmental Socialism, with the +result that papers were suppressed in the most arbitrary way, and +speakers committed to prison. A Japanese lady, Mme. Fukuda, had been +imprisoned for five years for thus voicing the wrongs of the workers; +and my correspondent, Sanshiro Ishikawa, was awaiting trial on a similar +charge. He had, being a fair English scholar, been interested in my work +for some time; and told me (what I had heard before) that a translation +of my Civilization book had circulated pretty widely in his country at a +quite early date. That translation, however, had gone out of print, and +he, Ishikawa, was preparing a new one for the press, when—the Japanese +Censor interfered and forbade its publication! + +This shows up pretty clearly the state of darkness which had descended +on the land of the Rising Sun! It was not of course on account of his +interest in my book that he had been arrested, but on account of his +general work in the cause of Labour. + +The result of his trial was that he was sent to prison for three months, +and that on his emergence he had to keep rather quiet on account of the +attentions of the Police. He retained however his interest in my +writings, made translations of portions of them, and embodied these +together with some biographical matter in a book of some three hundred +pages beautifully printed in Japanese characters and published in Tokyo +in 1912; but of course for the most part a sealed book to me. Some small +portions, however, are printed in our language and characters, including +a letter from myself written to him while he was in prison—which I may +as well reproduce here as it serves to throw light on the situation:— + + DEAR FRIEND ISHIKAWA SANSHIRO, + + Just a line to cheer you in prison—though you will be nearly coming + out when this reaches you. I received your letter of March 27 with + much pleasure. You were to go to prison next day. They seem to be very + severe and despotic in Japan, when one cannot even publish + _Civilization: its Cause and Cure_ there. But your countrymen are too + sensible to bear this sort of treatment for very long. I suppose it is + _patriotism_ which is so very strong in the nation just now, and which + forms an excuse for anti-socialism. King Edward VII’s death is causing + a great wave of patriotism here; yet the future of mankind is leading + us beyond patriotism to _humanity_. + + I cannot write much now, but thought I would send you a few lines. I + believe I did send you my photograph. If it did not reach you let me + know, and I will send another. + + With hearty greetings and thanks to you for what you have done in the + great Cause. + + Yours very truly, + EDWD. CARPENTER. + + _21 May, 1910._ + +After a time—I hardly know whether on account of troubles in Japan or of +attractions towards Europe—Sanshiro determined to come to these Western +lands; and one day in the autumn of 1913, as I happened to be in London, +he came to call on me there. Anything less dangerous-looking as a +revolutionary it would be hard to imagine. Small in stature, timid in +manner, and with a very gentle voice, he seemed the embodiment of +quietude and sympathy. It was not difficult however in his case, as in +that of many Japanese, to discern, beneath that composed exterior, a +strong undercurrent of resolution and courage. + +He read English with ease, but spoke it rather slowly and with +difficulty, was intelligent, and like many Orientals skilful with his +fingers and apt at housework. We tried to find him employment and a +means of living in our neighborhood or in Sheffield or Manchester, but +without success, and after similar efforts in London he migrated to +Brussels where he knew of a friend in Paul Reclus, son of Elie and +nephew of Elisée Reclus, and where he obtained occupation in decorative +painting. This was early in 1914. In August, of course, the War broke +out, and a few weeks later the Germans entered Brussels. The Reclus +family—before their entry I imagine—retired to Paris; but Sanshiro +remained in Brussels—I believe as caretaker of their apartments. It was +a somewhat risky position. The Germans drew a cordon round the city, and +ruled severely within it. Once or twice only he got messages through to +me. + +But as the weeks went by he began to feel that he must escape at all +costs; and in the end he succeeded in doing so—by representations I +believe to the Japanese Government, which led to his liberty being +granted in exchange for a German prisoner taken at Kiao-chow; but of +this I am not certain. I have not seen him since, but anyhow he got to +Liancourt (near Paris) where he now is [1915]. + +Another Japanese friend, Mr. Saikwa Tomita, the youthful author of _The +Matanjitenshô_ or _Psalm of the Last Day_, has translated and published +large portions of _Towards Democracy_ in current Japanese magazines, and +intends apparently to bring the whole out in book form—as well as +versions of _The Art of Creation_ and some of my other works. Speaking +(in a letter) of the present War, he says: “Japan is at her crisis as +well as Europe is. Here in this country, as you well know, he who is for +the lower classes and vagabonds, or who is for [the] cosmopolitanism, is +treated by the authorities under the name of ill-fame and has to suffer +from a bitter experience.” And Sanshiro Ishikawa above-mentioned speaks +likewise: “Is not this a terrible epoch, that the violent force only +holds the supreme power in this world, and humanity has no influence, at +least in [the] international affairs. The present situation of Japan is +in most dangerous step [stage]; many peoples are becoming admirers of +militarism. Commercialism is already too powerful; and I feel a duty +that I must fight with full-hearted spirit against them.” + +Let us pray that these true-hearted fighters for Internationalism may +prevail—all over the world, and among all nations! + +I am proud to find that among the Bulgarians—who are supposed just now +to be our enemies—I have many friends. Messrs. Vaptzaroff and Dosseff, +editors of the magazine called _Renaissans_ at Burgas and Tchirpan, +published in it shortly before the War various chapters of +_Civilization_, including “The Defence of Criminals,” “Custom,” “Modern +Science,” etc., and later the whole of that book, and of _England’s +Ideal_. With the outbreak of the war however they retired to Maikop in +the Kuban Territory (east of the Black Sea), being in touch there with +another friend of mine, the Russian novelist and mystic, Ivan Najívin. +M. Najívin, who makes his home apparently in the country near +Novorossisk on the shores of the Euxine—working there among his bees, +and in his vineyard and vegetable garden—has written to me for some +years, chiefly about Cosmic Consciousness and Sandals! He is, as may be +imagined, particularly interested in the Indian Sannyasis and mystics, +and was lately much surprised to find that some of the Russian peasant +sects (notably the _Stranniks_) among whom he had lived so long were all +the time unbeknown to him holding views and favouring practices very +similar to those of the Hindu mystics. “Bientôt je vous écrirai des +choses extraordinaires à propos du _gñanam_ et _samadhi_, etc. Tout cela +existe parmi le bas peuple et les moines Russes!” (letter of May 1913). +He has translated my _Visit to a Gñani_ into Russian under the title _I +Am_, also large portions of _Towards Democracy_ and the whole of +_Civilization_. Besides M. Najívin I am indebted to M. Sergius Orlovski +and M. G. Rapoport and others for introductions to the Russian public. + +[Illustration: + + MARCELLE SENARD. + + (_Photo: L. Fréon, Neuilly, Paris._) +] + +To my young friend Illit Gröndahl of Kloften, Norway, I owe the +circulation of my works in Norway, especially in Bergen. In Amsterdam a +translation of _Civilization_ (_De Beschaving: hare oorzaak en hare +Genesing_) was issued as long ago as 1899—with Preface by Leo Tolstoy +(the same preface which Tolstoy wrote to the chapter on Modern +Science[31]); and in the same city a translation of _Love’s +Coming-of-Age_ (_Liefde’s Meerderjarigheid_) was issued in 1904. + + + + + XVI + RURAL CONDITIONS + + +In contrast with the Artisans and Town-workers whom I had got to know so +well, the farm-populations and rustics among whom I found myself +embedded when I settled at Millthorpe were decidedly interesting. In the +working masses of the towns—at any rate of the Northern towns—what +attracted one was the ferment of the New Life coming on: the social +dreams of a better future; the efforts to realize such dreams, even in a +small way; the push towards independence; the greater alertness and +education; the busy hum and activity of Trades Unions and all manner of +Labour Associations. What interested me in the country was something +quite different. It was in fact the Old Life—the old immemorial rustic +existence still going on, still there though giving signs of passing of +course. As it happened, I could hardly have found a more old-world, +purely agricultural parish, if I had searched for it—certainly not in +the North of England—than Holmesfield when I first came there. (Now—oh, +irony!—it is already beginning to be civilized!) It was all in the old +rural style—the leisurely long day with its varied occupations and +interests, the life of the open air and the fields, the cattle and the +crops, the barn and the public-house; the absolute acceptance of things +as they are, complete non-interest in reform, positive indifference to +anything not patently visible to the eye, or to abstractions of any +kind. The good folk would talk about a particular field—and really with +amazing detail about its history, its climate, its soil, its suitability +for such and such crops, and so forth; but if you broached any phase of +the Land Question (however really important to them)—their eyes would +soon glaze and their conversation revert to their pigs or potatoes. + +A few years after my arrival at Millthorpe, having found out some facts +about the Commons Enclosures in the neighborhood, I wrote a four-page +tract entitled _Our Parish and our Duke_—giving some account of the +circumstances under which our common lands were eaten up by our local +landlords early last century—and circulated it around. It was printed in +the London _Star_ (July 8, 1889) and quoted and commented on in other +papers; and it sold and circulated in leaflet form some twenty thousand +or more copies; but in the Parish itself it elicited no response! One +old farmer whom I knew pretty well said “It’s very well put together, +Mister, and it’s just exactly true”—and that was all the backing I got. +Probably if there were others that approved they did not dare to say so. +The fact that it challenged a Duke gave them pause! The tract, somewhat +enlarged and altered and under the title _The Village and the Landlord_, +is now published by the Fabian Society (Tract No. 136, 1d.).[32] + +Thus, as I think I have said before, on first coming to Millthorpe I +experienced a certain sense of isolation among the people there. Whereas +in Sheffield and even at little Bradway I was received as a friend and +commonly called by my christian name, at Millthorpe I was a stranger—and +like all strangers an object of suspicion—and was addressed as “Mister.” +It was a curious situation, and I found myself leading a double and +divided life. How I came in the end to bridge the gulf and (so far) to +overpass it I hardly know; but Time does wonders, and by slow degrees +the rustics have accepted me almost as one of themselves and given me, +some of them, their warm friendship. I am indeed bound to say that +despite the great differences between them and the town-workers, and the +greater general intelligence and alertness of the latter, I admire the +character of the country-folk most—their extraordinary serenity and good +humour, their tenacity, sincerity, and real affectionateness. Even their +silent ways—though irritating at times—are a relief from the eternal +gabble of the cities. Said a farmer youth to me one day—after we had +been listening for some time to the rather cheap talk of an elderly and +radical “citizen”—“They do talk, those townsfolk,” he said; and then +after a pause—“them as talks so much _they must tell a lot o’ lies_.” +And I entirely agreed with him. + + +Talking about the gulf fixed between the Old and the New, and especially +between the mentality of the downright manual worker and that of the +artist—at one time we had an artist friend staying with us who was +rather down on his luck and making only a poor living. He was working on +a landscape picture, and every morning used to sit in one of my fields +and close to the wall which divided it from the high-road. An old +road-mender (the same who had told me years before how he remembered the +Commons “going in” i.e. being enclosed)—a good old man but bowed with +age and labour—used to come that way every morning to his work; and +every morning, as sure as Fate, made some patronizing remark to the +painter, which at last enraged the latter beyond endurance. “That’s a +nice pastime for you, young man.” And then the next morning, “I see +you’re amusin’ yoursen again, young man”; and so on. (“Pastime, indeed! +amusing myself! I wish the old fool had to do it instead of me. But I’ll +be even with him yet!”) So the next morning the artist inveigled the old +man into conversation, and after submitting meekly to more patronage, +said: “Well you see I have to do this for my living.” + +“Do it for your livin’, do ye?” + +“Yes.” + +“Do you sell them paintin’s, then?” + +“Of course I do.” + +_Old Man_ (a little taken aback): “And how much might you get for a +thing like that?” + +_Artist_ (stretching a point): “Well I might get ten pounds.” + +_Old Man_ (astonished): “Ten pun! well I never!” + +_Artist_ (following up): “Or I might get more of course.” + +_Old Man_ (thoughtfully and with deep respect): “Ten pun! Well, I +never—_and sittin’ down to it too_!” + + +But Hodge is passing away. The old agricultural population (farmer and +labourer) is changing under the pressure of modern life; and soon—for +good or evil—will be a thing of the past. The motor-car and the cycle, +the telephone and the daily paper, are ploughing up the country +districts, torrents of townsfolk pour over the land on holidays, and the +seeds of new ideas are being sown. Already I can see, even in this +little corner of the land, a new type of native arising. + +The great drawback of the country folk in England (worse here no doubt +than in Ireland) is their want of initiative. Centuries of smothered +life under the incubus of the Landlord and the Parson have had their +inevitable effect. They never _will_ speak their minds, or commit +themselves to any action which is not entirely customary and approved by +the powers that be. It may be different in other parts of the country, +but here the one answer to any question of importance (especially if put +by a stranger) is “I don’t know—I don’t know.” So fearful have they been +for generations lest their words should be by chance reported in ruling +quarters that the habit of concealment has at last got into their blood. +One sees from this how paralysing our land system is towards all manhood +and resourceful initiative in the country. + +Nor is the matter much different in many other lands. When in Sicily (in +1909) we found that among the peasants the children were systematically +taught to _lie_, and punished by their parents for truth-speaking. And +for a very simple reason. For if a stranger came along and asked +questions of a child—“How much land has your father?”—“How many goats +does he keep?”—ten to one that stranger was an emissary of the Church +(the chief landlord of the old days), or a taxgatherer, and so an +emissary of the State; and the truth would mean more rent or more taxes. +Thus deceit was the only salvation, and lying the chief foundation of +“Morality.” Here in England the parson and the landlord have a similar +paralysing influence; and whether they actively and consciously are +conspiring against the people, or whether their questionings (as +sometimes may happen) are inspired by pure kindness, the result is the +same—namely the corruption of the people; and perhaps a worse corruption +in the second case than in the first. + +Still the new life must come, and has to come, and is coming. Small +Holdings—either freehold or with a secure tenancy under a public +body—give perhaps the best chance of breeding a spirit of independence +in the people. Co-operation trains them in adaptability and resource. + +At one time—seeing the waste of energy resulting from the twenty or so +small farmers in our valley each making their separate few pats of +butter weekly (and bad butter at that!) I got a dozen or more of them +together and put the case for co-operative milk-selling before them. +They all agreed that it was the right thing to do, that milk-selling +paid much better than butter-making and that the cost of transit to town +(by motor-car or country cart) could be recouped with profit. We went +into the figures and were satisfied. But when it came to actual +operations the paralysis of lack of initiative was on them, and no one +would stir a finger! If _I_ had arranged a whole scheme and set it in +operation I have no doubt they would have fallen in with it. But, as I +said, I had my own work to do, and had no intention of giving up a large +part of the day to their affairs. The only one who volunteered to do +anything practically—and this illustrates the difference between the +agricultural and the other workers—was curiously enough a _navvy_. He +had only a very small farm which he carried on side by side with his +navvy work, but he immediately took practical steps and would I believe +have carried a scheme through but for an illness which just then +overtook him. + +A supply of Small Holdings (holdings say up to thirty acres in size[33]) +on a really secure basis would do an immense work in liberating the +social life of the rural workers. For the first time in his history one +of the most important types of man in the country would be able to hold +up his head, face his ‘superiors,’ and give some kind of utterance and +expression to his own ideals. At present agricultural life is hugely +dull from its mere uniformity and want of variety under the +all-pervading foot-rule of the landowner and his faithful servant the +parson. A greater supply of small holdings would also, I need hardly +say, be valuable from the economic point of view, and the greater +variety it would encourage in the culture of the soil. + +Of course what we now especially want, and what happily people are +beginning to _feel_ the want of, is the establishment of large +co-operative farms over the face of the land—somewhat on the model of +the Danish farms. When it is remembered what the Danes have done, with +an originally quite poor soil, by their organized co-operative +methods—how they have renewed the prosperity of their own country and +created a new invasion of Britain by their agricultural products—it +seems astonishing that we over here still remain in the muddy ruts of +our old ways. Supposing for example that by co-operative or governmental +purchase, or even (if it can be imagined) by gift from a large +landowner, an extensive farm of some two thousand acres were acquired; +supposing that suitable portions of the farm were broken up into twenty +small holdings of ten or twenty acres each; and that the remaining body +of the land were farmed in thorough style under a skilled manager—the +workers on the central farm being the small holders themselves, who +would thus work partly for themselves on an individualistic basis and +partly collectively for wages; supposing that the manager was given by +the co-operators a certain amount of authority for the purposes of work +and organization, and that on the other hand he was there to _advise_ +the small holders to a certain extent as to their work and crops; +supposing that he organized co-operative arrangements for the members of +the society, both for the purchase of necessary materials and the sale +of their products; suppose that a joint council arranged the matters of +wages and dividends, and the establishment of creameries, cheese and +butter-making apparatus, egg-collecting systems, and so forth; surely it +is not very difficult to see that in some such roughly indicated way a +great new departure might be made in the agricultural development of the +United Kingdom. If a thousandth, if a twenty thousandth part of what is +spent in the mad destruction of a great war were spent on some such +constructive work, ten times the number of people now employed in +agriculture might be placed productively on the land, and the output of +wealth and home-grown food (so important to our island) might be +enormously increased. + + +About nine years ago—in 1906—I began to pull the farm lads and men +together to form a little Club at Millthorpe. For some years we had a +difficulty in finding a place for it, and had to be content with a very +small room in a cottage. But here came in the advantage of the small +holder. A silversmith who lives in the locality—the only man beside +myself who has two or three acres of freehold and who is not tied to a +landlord—having joined the Club, and seeing our difficulty, offered a +fine and large barn belonging to him for our use. If it had not been for +him we should have had to go, cap in hand, to some local owner or cleric +and could never have developed freely. As it is, the place has been a +great success. Managed in an easy-going sort of way by the men +themselves (and I am happy to say that my share now of the management is +very small) the Club has taken its own lines quite naturally. In order +to avoid ill-feeling and competition with the public-house—which is +close at hand—we have no drink, except tea and coffee. Whist, lectures, +readings, whist drives, dances, socials, billiards, are the chief +amusements, and the place serves occasionally for discussion of local +affairs. Theatricals, in a small way, now and then. And the balance of +our weekly subscriptions goes in winter to a Christmas supper, and in +summer to an excursion by rail or brake. + +With small people secure in their tenure, such Clubs would grow up +pretty abundantly and would become the start-points of co-operative +movements, creameries, agricultural Banks, and so forth. The great thing +is that they should _not_ be managed by benevolent superiors, for the +management of their own concerns is after all the chief and most +important item of a people’s education. There is however a place in our +countrysides—and a need—for people of a rather wider knowledge and +outlook than the general rustics to come and live among them simply as +friends (and not as benefactors). People of this kind can certainly +contribute _something_—even though their ‘wider knowledge’ be as a rule +rather vague and bookish. They have information about what is going on +elsewhere, and they often are good at organizing. A new _kind_ of +parson, democratic-minded and really in touch with the people, and not +attached to any ‘church,’ and a man with a _little_ leisure at his +command, might be greatly helpful. Why do not the thousands of young men +(or women) who are thus qualified rush in to fill this void? + + +At one time, as I think I have already mentioned, I was a member of the +Parish Council, but the hopelessness of getting any result therefrom, +combined with the waste of time connected with it, caused me after a few +years to abandon the position. The four or five farmers, all in terror +of their landlords, and the parson (bound by golden chains to the Lord +of the Manor) formed a solid phalanx against any progressive proposal. +Perhaps I ought to have fought things out a little more, but wrangling +is an occupation which I detest, and to fight questions to a practical +finish always means the expenditure of much time—time which I with my +agricultural, literary and other labours could ill afford. The one +prevailing idea with the Council was not to spend _any_ money if +possible; and even the few shillings necessary for the repair of a small +length of public footpath would be debated over with a tenacity and +miserliness of outlook which made one despair; while the Vicar (not +without laudable presence of mind) would resign himself to slumber in +the Chair! + +About the only thing of use I was able to do was to save from loss or +destruction the Award Book—that is the book which records the enclosure, +early last century, of the Common Lands of Holmesfield Parish, and +specifies the details of their assignment to the various proprietors +then holding land in the parish. And this I only did with difficulty and +after the labours of many months. When the Award was completed (in 1820) +the said Award Book naturally and rightly was handed over, not to the +Church or the Squire, but to one of the Trustees who represented the +Parish generally—a farmer, who of course kept the book at his farm under +lock and key, but with permission to the parishioners to inspect it at +convenient seasons. In course of time the farmer died, and his son +following in the same farm, became custodian of the book. Later on and +after many years, the son died, and the son’s widow became custodian. By +that time most people in the parish had forgotten, or were utterly +ignorant of the existence of such a book. It might easily have happened +that the widow or _her_ son, migrating to another part of the country, +should have taken the book with them among their household goods—in +which case it might have been lost for ever to our Parish. Such or +something similar _has_ happened frequently of course. It happened to +the Minute Book of the Courts Baron of Holmesfield—a manuscript record +of the meetings of the said Court all the way from 1588 to 1800, and a +most valuable and interesting document. In some unknown way the book +disappeared; but by a piece of good luck, it has now come into the +possession of the Free Library at Sheffield, where it can easily be +inspected, and where it is safer perhaps than it would have been in the +village to which it refers. + +To return to our Award Book, the Parish Councils Acts very wisely gave +all such documents into the custody of the Parish Council to be kept in +a Parish room or Chest. But the difficulty was to make our Council take +any active interest in the fate of the book. Moreover it possessed no +Parish Room or Parish chest, and when the question came before it of +having a chest made, even that appeared to some of the members a serious +and unnecessary expense. Questions of the dimensions of the chest, the +material of which it should be constructed, the number of locks it +should carry, the selection of the joiner who should be entrusted with +the precious work and so forth, were endlessly debated; the Council +meetings took place only at long intervals and it seemed at last as if +the chest never _would_ get made. I mention these details merely to show +the kind of thing that happens in country villages. Meanwhile the Vicar +went to the said widow and (not without remonstrance from her) succeeded +in obtaining the Award Book; and placed it in the _Vestry_. A faction +then arose in the Council who maintained that the book was quite secure +in the Vestry safe; and that no Parish Chest was needed! It had then to +be pointed out that the Act did not _allow_ such books to be kept in the +Vestry, and that the Council would be responsible if it did not keep the +thing in its own custody. And so the game went on. Ultimately after a +full year of similar imbecility, the chest really got itself made; the +Award Book and some other documents were placed within, and now repose +there in waiting for the Day of Judgment. Exhausted by the labours +connected with the affair, and hopeless of ever getting any useful +activity out of the P.C., I shortly afterwards retired from it. + +Of course these conditions are not the same in all parishes. Where there +are mining or artisan populations there is often a good deal of +briskness and movement; but in the agricultural regions and the South of +England affairs are somewhat as I have described. The District Councils +are a shade better than the Parish Councils; but the membership of them +falls largely into the hands of small shopkeepers and a middling class +of folk who are very philistine and wanting in æsthetic perception, and +as a rule rather ignorant except in matters of business. They make hard +and fast rules and regulations—often suggested by the conditions +existing in the jerry-built slum-areas of the smaller towns—and by +enforcing these regulations in country districts where they are not +needed do seriously hamper the expansion of rural life. Such are some of +the regulations about the height and cubic space of rooms, which +desirable though they be in slum-tenements are quite out of place and +the cause of needlessly high rents in country cottages; such also the +barring of wooden dwellings, on account of fire, in many rural and even +isolated regions where there is no public danger from this cause; and +again the vexatious restrictions set upon the use of vans and tents. In +these respects the work of the District Councils is really helping +towards the increase of an existing evil, the depopulation of the +countrysides. + +On the other hand the composition of these Councils makes them absurdly +deferent to big commercial and aristocratic interests, and the money of +the ratepayers gets poured out like water on schemes in which under +cover of public works private interests are largely concerned. As I have +had occasion to explain in the Fabian Tract above-mentioned—_The Village +and the Landlord_—our local District Council, having decided that a +reservoir was needed, applied to the then Duke of Rutland for the +purchase of a suitable area on the moors above us. The land in question +had before 1820 been part of the Common Lands of the parish, and was +now, as the ducal private property, paying rates on an _estimated +rental_ of less than 2s. 6d. per acre. It could not therefore be +supposed to be worth much more than £3 per acre, capital value; and it +might _almost_ have been expected that in consideration of the history +of the Enclosure transactions, and of the additional fact that the land +was wanted for an important public purpose (water supply), the area +necessary for the reservoir would have been granted free. Far from that +happening, as a matter of fact the amount actually charged was at a rate +of about £150 per acre! The sad thing about such a levy on the public +purse is not only that the ducal people should have charged it, but that +the District Council should have paid it! If the latter had had the +gumption to offer a bold resistance, to decide for themselves what was a +reasonable payment, and to bring the whole matter before the public, the +case for the former would probably have collapsed. But there’s the +rub—the want of spirit and pluck in these public bodies; and considering +these and similar things one seems to see very plainly that what really +matters in the life of a nation is not so much the exact form of its +institutions as the general level of education, alertness, and public +spirit among its people. With these latter advantages defective +institutions may still be made to serve; without them the best will soon +become corrupt. It may however be said that some institutions are +naturally more favorable than others to the growth of public spirit, and +that is a consideration worth remembering. + +One of the few native institutions of long standing in this locality is +the Well-dressing—which takes place in some of the neighboring villages +once a year, during the feast-week of the village, and is accompanied +with dancing and other festivities. The village fountain or spring is +decorated with flowers—sometimes in quite elaborate and ornamental +designs—and the festival evidently dates from very early or +pre-Christian times when the divinities of the streams and water-sources +were recognized and worshipped. When I first came, in 1883, into these +parts, there were along all the lane sides numbers of the most charming +stone cisterns and water-troughs bubbling with clean water and overhung +with maiden-hair ferns; and it was part of the habits of the +country-folk to keep these places in order—a joy to human beings and to +animals. Now we have a reservoir as above-mentioned. The Well-dressings +truly remain as a yearly function; but the divinities whom they used to +celebrate have fled. The cisterns and troughs all over the country are +neglected. They are cracked and dried up and full of potsherds and +salmon-tins; wayfaring men and animals go thirsty; and the public spirit +and service of the water-gods has vanished. We are told that water +conducted through miles of iron tubes and lengths of lead piping is much +more ‘sanitary’ than the water from field springs and wells. It may be. +But I prefer the latter. At one time there were so many cases of +lead-poisoning in the Sheffield district, traceable to lead connections, +that the matter excited serious attention. It was decided that the +trouble was due to a certain acid in the moor water, which dissolved the +lead, and consequently large filter-beds charged with chalk and lime +were made in connection with the reservoirs, which neutralized the acid. +The water was freed from this danger, but it became saturated with lime; +and the people died from stone in the bladder instead of lead-poisoning! +Personally I would prefer to take my risk of a microbe in a flowing +cistern. And with an alert country-population, assisted by an occasional +inspector, such a risk would certainly be small. + +But we are told that public spirit ought to make us join these reservoir +schemes; and pressure is put on us by the ‘authorities’ to do so. I do +not by any means agree. Though no doubt there are cases in which local +storage is advisable or necessary, the unbridled transfer of water over +immense distances is attended by serious evils. The beautiful Thirlmere +is turned into a mere water-tank in order to supply Manchester; the +lovely dales of Derbyshire are disfigured beyond recognition so that +they may quench the thirst of Birmingham. In other words, in order to +encourage the growth of a hideous and dirty city with an unclean and +poverty-stricken population a tract of clean and gracious land a hundred +miles off is cleared of _its_ population and also rendered hideous! And +all this at a huge and incalculable expense. We do not want these great +congested and unhealthy centres, and we do want our streams and springs +and the gods who dwell among them. Let the people come out for the water +if they want it; but let them come with forethought and reverence. + +Another native institution managed, like the well-dressing, by the +people themselves is the Ploughing Match. There _is_ a Farmers’ +Association which of course ought to be a kind of Trade-union for the +promotion and protection of farming interests. Perhaps once it was +alive; but now and ever since I have known anything about the matter it +has become hopelessly futile and decadent. It has a dinner at some +public-house once a year and gets thoroughly drunk—and that is about all +it does! But the Ploughing-Match Association, which was originally I +suppose an offshoot of the Farmers’ Association, _is_ alive—possibly +because it has nothing whatever to do with politics. The farmers and +their sons and the small holders (such as there are) join in and +organize the affair; and it is a pretty sight to see in two adjacent +fields perhaps twenty teams of men or boys with their shining ploughs +and their beribboned horses going to and fro each on their appointed +strip of land; the turning of the animals at the extremities; the clicks +and calls; the marvellous accuracy of the furrows; the groups of critics +and the judges. Going among them all one perceives what splendid +material there is here among the English countrysides; and also one +grieves to think how it is paralysed from development and expansion by +our absurd land-system and generally apathetic way of conducting +ourselves towards the most important of all industries. We have at +Holmesfield the champion ploughman of the neighborhood, who takes the +prizes at the village matches for many miles round. He is a great friend +of mine. And I am also proud to say that at our Association Committee +meetings my professional opinion is sometimes consulted, and I may +occasionally be seen amid the fumes of smoke and beer occupying the +Chair and keeping a dozen or twenty farmers in order, or bringing them +back to the practical point of discussion when (as they generally do) +they wander afar from it—a sufficiently humorous situation for a +so-called “poet and prophet”! + + +But the most important village institution after all—and more important +perhaps than the Church—is the Public-house. Here is the natural centre +of the Village life, and here the village Opinion—if there is any—is +collected and consolidated. It is a great pleasure to me to sit +occasionally in our “Royal Oak” among the rustics whom I know so well. +Their quaint humour, their shrewd judgments, their shy silences, their +naughty stories, are a continual recreation. Unfortunately, like so much +else in rural life, the Pub. has in general been allowed to go to decay; +and instead of being the village meeting-place and centre of sociability +it has too often become a mere resort of drink and imbecility. “Tied” to +a Brewery, and at an exorbitant rent, the Publican has no alternative +but to sell as much as he can of the vile decoction supplied to him. He +encourages booze but does not encourage sociable converse. The Brewer +rises to wealth and obtains a seat in the House of Lords; the villager +sinks slowly but surely poisoned in body and atrophied in mind, and dies +in a ditch. + +One of the very first things to be done for the restoration of the rural +life is the reorganization of the Public-house—or rather its liberation. +The clutch of the Brewers upon the drink trade should be cut off +decisively and finally. The manufacture of beer ought either to be a +State monopoly or it ought to be absolutely free, without licence, and +subject only to a severe inspection. There has been a great deal of talk +lately about the intemperance of the workers, and the abolition or +serious restriction of the drink traffic; but the real root of the evil +(certainly as regards beer) is the badness and poisonous character of +the liquor supplied. See to it that that is clean and wholesome—that the +lager-beers, small beers, teas and temperance drinks are not +sophisticated with harmful chemicals—and for the rest leave the houses +free. Leave the publican to use his good sense and authority, and make +him responsible for not keeping order. If that policy is carried out +there will not be much to complain of. The sale of actual _spirits_ in +drinking shops is another question, and that might well be restricted or +abolished. + +The village pub. ought to be a place where pleasant and decent +refreshment of various kinds is provided—especially of drink which is a +first necessity for tired workers. It ought to be clean and fairly +comfortable and provided with games, papers, and similar means of +recreation. On the other hand it should have no suspicion of genteel or +missionary purpose about it. If the manual worker cannot talk freely and +feel himself at home in the place he decidedly will not come to it; and +it is certainly better that he should be a bit rough and rowdy than that +he should feel that he is being ‘improved.’ What the rural worker wants +above all—and what it is very necessary that he should have—is a place +where he can be at ease, converse freely, exchange ideas, and _develop +out of his own roots_. The town worker has now, in his trade unions, his +various clubs and societies, got something of the kind. The rural worker +is a poor lost thing; he has no centre of growth. The Church is +absolutely of no use to him in that respect; for the Parson practically +paralyses his flock. The Chapel is better, for there the Chapel-folk +organize themselves and carry out in an authentic way many a little +scheme for their own satisfaction or entertainment. The Village Club and +the Village Co-operative society are just beginning in many places to +show an independent and progressive life; but after all the Village Pub. +strikes its roots deepest and widest, and if on a healthy basis is the +natural meeting-place where all these other movements germinate and from +whence they spring. + + + + + XVII + HOW THE WORLD LOOKS AT SEVENTY + + +I remember having often wondered, in earlier days, what would be the +answer to this question. And now I have the privilege of myself standing +on the pinnacle of age—and of being in the position where some kind of +verdict may be given. + +There are two verses about David and Solomon—whose origin I have not +been able to trace, but which run as follows:— + + King David and King Solomon + Led very merry lives + With many many concubines + And many many wives. + + But when old age came on them + With many many qualms, + King Solomon wrote the Proverbs + And David wrote the Psalms. + +Perhaps this gives the most general and accepted view on the subject—a +view of old age as something a little dull, a little ineffectual, +consoling itself with verses and good advice and other second-hand joys. +On the whole perhaps a fairly correct view; and yet I cannot but think +that it misses something very important, something which in earlier days +one does not associate with old age—the sense of adventure. Youth is +full of acknowledged adventure; the campaigns of Love and of War are +thrilling and absorbing; but youth does not know—or at any rate only +faintly surmises—how absorbing may be the great adventure of Death. + +On the whole I am struck by the singularly _little_ difference I feel in +myself, as I realize it now, from what I was when a boy—say of eighteen +or twenty. In the deeps of course. Superficially there are plenty of +differences, but they relate mostly to superficial things like success +in games, examinations and so forth. I used to go and sit on the beach +at Brighton and dream, and now I sit on the shore of human life and +dream practically the same dreams. I remember about the time that I +mention—or it may have been a trifle later—coming to the distinct +conclusion that there were only two things really worth living for—the +glory and beauty of Nature, and the glory and beauty of human love and +friendship. And to-day I still feel the same. What else indeed _is_ +there? All the nonsense about riches, fame, distinction, ease, luxury +and so forth—how little does it amount to! It really is not worth +wasting time over. These things are so obviously second-hand affairs, +useful only and in so far as they may lead to the first two, and short +of their doing that liable to become odious and harmful. To become +united and in line with the beauty and vitality of Nature (but, Lord +help us! we are far enough off from that at present), and to become +united with those we love—what other ultimate object in life _is_ there? +Surely all these other things—these games and examinations, these +churches and chapels, these district councils and money markets, these +top-hats and telephones and even the general necessity of earning one’s +living—if they are not ultimately for that, _what are they for_? + +At any rate that is how I feel about it now. I feel that the object of +life at seventy is practically the same as it was at twenty. Only one +thing has been added. One thing. Beneath the surface waves and storms of +youth, beneath the backward and forward fluctuations, deep down, there +has been added the calm of inner realization and union. I know now that +these two primordial and foundational things (or perhaps they are one) +_are_ there. Our union with Nature and humanity is a _fact_, +which—whether we recognize it or not—is at the base of our lives; +slumbering, yet ready to wake in our consciousness when the due time +arrives. + +With this assurance one certainly discovers that life—even in old +age—may be delightful. What one loses in the keenness and passion of +sensual and external things one gains in the inward world—in calm and +strength and the deep certainties of life. One can hardly expect to have +it both ways. We may concentrate mainly (though not exclusively) on the +outer life, or we may concentrate mainly on the inner life, but hardly +on both at the same time. And the latter alternative has its advantages. +Socrates, in reply to a friend who condoled with him on the waning of +his sexual passion, asked whether he would not consider a man happy who +had escaped from the clutches of a fierce tiger. “Certainly I should,” +answered the friend. “Then why,” retorted Socrates, “do you not +congratulate instead of commiserating _me_?” + + +I find there are compensations and consolations in old age. People feel +kindly towards you—partly because they consider you harmless and not +likely to injure them, partly because they are not envious of your +condition. They pity you a little in fact—which pleases them and does no +harm to you. I find I am a little hard of hearing, and people are good +enough—in fact they are compelled—to speak up and speak distinctly. They +have the pleasure of helping me over my deafness, and I have the +satisfaction of getting them out of their mumbling habits of +conversation—a satisfaction so great that were I really not a bit deaf I +feel that I should have to pretend to be! As I think I have said +before[34] old people and infirm folk and chronic invalids and the like +often get needlessly depressed over the impression that they are a +burden and an affliction to their friends, whereas in very truth by +calling out the sympathies, the energy, the resource and the +consideration of those around them they are really conferring the +greatest of benefits; and many a household is really supported and held +together by the one who to all outward appearance seems to be the most +frail and useless member of it. As Lâo-tsze says “The thirty spokes of a +carriage-wheel uniting at the nave are made useful by the hole in the +centre,[35] where nothing exists,” and “To teach without words and to be +useful without action, few among men are capable of this.” + + +After the fuss and flurry of all the good folk who go about “doing +good,” to find that you can perhaps be most useful by being a “hole in +the centre” is very refreshing. + +Unfortunately the world is very unwilling to allow this privilege, and +as a rule in a quite automatic way accords to the aged a good deal of +respect and influence, pushing them up into positions of power and +notoriety. This is all right if you are quite worthy of it, but +dangerous if you are not. And naturally if you _desire_ power (and +notoriety) you are not likely to be worthy of it. + +[Illustration: + + E. C. (1910), AGE 66. + + (_Photo: Elliott & Fry._) +] + +On August 29, 1914, being my seventieth birthday, some of my friends +were good enough to present me with a congratulatory Address couched in +very friendly and affectionate terms. Though I cannot say that I desired +the thing beforehand—seeing that there is always something painful in +the very idea of being singled out in any such way—yet I must confess +that, being done, it was a consolation and a pleasure to me.[36] + + +There is one thing however that I think I have not sufficiently dwelt on +as a valid and permanent object of Life—though perhaps in some subtle +way it may be implied in what I have said before. I mean +Self-Expression. Constructive expression of oneself is one of the +greatest joys, and one of the greatest _needs_ of life; and as long as +one’s Life exists—in this or any other sphere—so long I imagine will +that need be present, and the joy in its fulfilment. It is a +foundation-urge of all Creation. At first sight this seems contrary, and +indeed hostile, to the hole-in-the-centre theory; but probably it will +be found not to be so. Probably it is only a question of the _depth_ at +which the Self is functioning. Near the surface the self is very +definite and constructive in _this_ or _that_ direction; it is limited +in its aims and operations, and so far its activity seems to be at +variance with other aims and operations. At the centre it is neither +this nor that, because it is All. It vanishes from sight because it has +become the Whole. + +Most healthy work is generated from a desire for, or an effort towards, +self-expression. If one’s feet suffer from cold and exposure to injury +one makes boots to protect and cover them. If boots prove painful and +confining one designs sandals in order to free them. Having made these +for oneself first, other people desire them and adopt the same devices. +One’s work, begun for a private purpose and to satisfy one’s own wants, +is continued for public ends and becomes a kind of extended selfishness. +It is the same with the institutions of society. Finding that they maim +and confine you personally, the best thing you can do is to liberate +yourself by reshaping them. In reshaping them you liberate others, and +are accounted a reformer and general benefactor. But I imagine that no +one is really a useful reformer who does not begin the work from his own +private need, since that is the only way in which he can understand the +true inwardness of the work to be done. And the accusation of +selfishness, which may be preferred against him, saves him from the +awful danger of becoming, or posing as, a public benefactor. + +It is truly wonderful to see what activity, what enthusiasm, vast +numbers of people throw into public work of one kind or another. Let us +hope they all do so from the underlying ground of some personal need +which makes them unhappy in the existing conditions and impels them for +their own personal satisfaction to alter those conditions. If so their +work will probably be healthful and successful. It will not wait on +results but will bring its own results with it. Still there is a paradox +in all such action. I cannot personally be comfortable in a society +which makes a fetish, say, of what H. G. Wells calls The Misery of +Boots. Therefore I work for a future society where people shall go +barefoot or freely wear such footgear as suits them. But by the time +such state of society arrives, where shall “I” be? That is the question. +What is the good of my working for a state of things which will +certainly not come in my lifetime? What is the impelling force which +_causes_ me so to work when it would be so much easier not to work, and +merely to let things slide? If, as one must suppose, it is something +organic in Nature, it must be that I “myself” _will_ be there. I, the +superficial one, am working now for the other “I,” the deeper one—who is +also really present even at this moment (although he lies low and says +nothing about it) and who in due time will consume the fruits which he +is now preparing. + +I find at the age of seventy that I am getting nearer to that place in +the centre where nothing exists and yet all is done—and _that_ I suppose +is satisfactory. A very simple round of life contents me. As long as I +can have my friend (or friends) and my little corner of Nature, and my +little pastime of constructive work, I really do not know what to wish +for more. (And surely every one ought to be able to command these.) + + +We are up—my friend and I—at about 7 a.m. in summer, about 8.0 in +winter. In summer a wash and a sunbath on the lawn, for half an hour, +are very much in the order of the day. Then, for me, there is my study +to tidy up and dust and (in winter) my fire to light; there is the front +of the house to sweep, wood to chop, and so forth. George has his +kitchen to attend to, coals to get in, the chickens to feed, and +preparations to make for the work of the day—baking or washing or +whatever it may be. I remember the time when I used to think that to get +up early, perhaps by candlelight, go down into a dishevelled +sitting-room, clean out the grate and light up the fire would surely be +the most dismal of occupations; as a matter of fact I find these little +preliminary duties quite interesting. They stir one’s limbs and one’s +interest in the world, and help to peel off the thin but clinging veil +of sleep. + +By 8.30 I find I can settle down to work, either in my study or, if the +weather allows, outside in my little veranda or porch. I thus get a +couple of hours fairly undisturbed. At 10.30 we have breakfast—or what +is called ‘brunch,’ a combination of breakfast and lunch—a good meal of +coffee and milk, oatmeal porridge, an omelet, stewed fruit, or similar +provender, and which one enjoys all the more for its being the first in +the day. Brunch and reading the daily paper occupy an hour; and at 11.30 +I am able to start work again and go on to 1.30 or 2.0. I thus get a +good four hours or more in the morning for solid literary work, to some +extent broken into at times by mere business matters and correspondence, +but generally the most satisfactory period of work in the day. + +At two or so one goes easy. By the ruse of ‘brunch’ one has avoided that +deadly snare, the midday meal. Is it not Thoreau who says that one +should pass by the one o’clock dinner “tied to the mast, like Ulysses, +and deaf to the voice of the Siren”? Certainly George and I never cease +to congratulate ourselves on this arrangement by which the painful +density and lethargy of that period is escaped. It seems to place the +day in its proper order and perspective; and we only regret that most +people owing to professional hours and public duties are not able to +conform to it. From 2.0 or 2.30 to 5.0 one can make a change. There are +oddments of work to do in the garden, there are little outdoor renewals +and repairs round the house, there are visitors and casual guests; at +4.0 or so there is the sociability of afternoon tea. At 5.0 there are +letters to get ready for the post, which goes at 6.30. At 7.0 there is +supper, which is generally a rather more substantial meal than brunch. +Sometimes tea and supper are combined in one intermediate meal, which of +course goes by the name of ‘tupper.’ In the evening there are friends to +see, books to read, notes to make; there is the public-house, which is +an unfailing joy, and the farm-lads’ Club, which is always homely and +cheering. What can one wish for more? It is hard to say. + + +Yet I ought to say—and it would be less than candid not to say—that +there have been times all through my life when the necessity of escaping +into an altogether bigger world than that provided by my native land has +come upon me with a kind of Berserker rage. As I think I have said, I +come of Cornish ancestry—and my private opinion is that I was left on +the coast of Cornwall some three thousand years ago by a Phœnician +trader. At any rate the leaden skies of England, and something (if I may +say so) rather grey and leaden about the _people_, have since early days +had the effect of making me feel not quite at home in my own country. I +longed for more sunshine, and for something corresponding to sunshine in +human nature—more gaiety, vivacity of heart and openness to ideas. But +everything has its compensation, and the result of being pinned down so +much to a limited and local life on the land has been that every three +or four years I have been able to ‘stick it’ no longer, and have been +compelled in the intervals of my work to make a dash for some warmer and +brighter climate. In this way it has come about that I have seen quite a +little of other lands—not only of the usual resorts in Switzerland and +Italy, but of places like Morocco, Sicily, Corsica, Spain, besides (as +already mentioned) the United States and Ceylon and India. Having a +talent for economical travel I have been able to do this at singularly +small expense. And my knowledge of agriculture and of the working life +of the people at home has in such cases opened up a world of interest in +the comparison of these with the corresponding things abroad—a world +which as a rule is a sealed book to the ordinary tourist. In many cases +my companions have themselves been manual workers, and I have found the +vivacity of their interest in foreign fields and crops or in town-trades +and workshops both encouraging and amazing. + +At the age of seventy one does not bother so much about the exceptional +feats, about great exploits, the climbing of the highest mountains. The +ordinary levels of life seem sufficient. I confess that excessive +cleverness and all that sort of thing bores me rather than otherwise. I +seem to see in the general average of human life, in the ordinary daily +needs, a steady force pushing mankind onwards, or rather, gradually +unfolding through mankind—the liberation of a core of goodness and worth +which is undeniable, impossible to ignore, and daily coming more and +more into evidence. I say this deliberately and with full recognition +all the time of the vast masses of cheap and nasty people as well as of +cheap and nasty things which are washed up in the ordinary current of +this our modern life, and with recognition also of the huge whirlpools +of popular madness which occasionally arise, and which accompany crises +like that from which we are now suffering [1915]. Perhaps the madness +and the blind passion—the loosening of the torrents of hate and revenge, +and of the pent-up waters of prejudice and ignorance—are, after all, +better than the dreary stagnation of the cheap and nasty. The whole +commercial period through which we, here in the West, have been passing +for the last hundred years has undoubtedly bred, both in men and goods, +a lamentable commonplaceness and cheapness—a low level and a paltry +standard of human value. Perhaps even the madness of warfare is better +than that. + +It is curious that for the last twenty years or more there has been a +general feeling—especially among the Socialists and Internationalists of +the various countries—that society was approaching a critical period of +transformation. It had become obvious that the existing order of +things—in Government, Law, Finance, Industry, Commerce, Morality, +Religion, the Capitalist Wage system, the Rivalry of nation with nation, +the administration and cultivation of the Land, and so forth—could not +continue much longer. In each one and all of these matters we have been +heading towards an _impasse_, a block, a point at which further progress +in the old direction must cease, and a new departure begin. We have seen +this; and yet we have been unable to say, for the most part, or even +surmise, _how_ the change would come, what catastrophe would upset the +balance of our highly artificial Commercial Civilization, or in what way +a new order of life, and a more human and rational order, might begin to +establish itself. The Catastrophe has come. We are already in the welter +of a World-war which in magnitude exceeds anything that has ever +occurred in the past, or even been imagined. The nations are in the +melting-pot; the institutions of society are threatened in every +direction. But at present we are still unable to see the outcome, or +even to guess what it will be. The lineaments of the new world are +hidden from us. That the outcome will be far, far greater and grander +than we now suppose, I do not doubt—also that it will take far longer +than we generally think to define itself. + +Beneath all the madness of the present conflict—the raging passions, the +insane folly, the frantic delusions, the devilish concentration of all +the wit and ingenuity of man towards purposes of death and torture, +there is, I firmly believe, a method and a meaning. A new life is +preparing to show itself—coming to the surface of society, as it were, +out of the deeps, showing indeed the strangest and most violent +agitation of that surface just before its appearance. Having lived so +long as I have done among the downright manual workers of our towns and +the agricultural rustics—primitives as they are in many ways and +belonging to a period “before civilization”—I do not feel at all +alarmed. I know that the lives of these good solid folk, founded as they +are upon the primal facts of Nature, will not in any case suffer a very +great change. If the whole of our Banking and Financial system collapsed +and fell in, if world-wide Commerce came to a standstill, if the Capital +necessary for huge armaments and general ironworks was not forthcoming, +if Law and Government were paralysed, old-age insurances ceased to be +paid, and Landlords were unable to collect their rents—if all this and +much more happened, my friend who ploughs the fields near my cottage +would go out next morning with his team to his usual work, and scarcely +know the difference. _If anything he would decidedly feel more cheerful +and hopeful._ Some other friend who forges and tempers table-knives by +the score would continue to forge and temper them. The knives would +still be wanted, the power to make them would still be there. And if at +any point combined labour were needed, as to build a workshop or carry +through a steel-making process, the men who do these things now in +forced and servile toil under the Capitalist system would do them ten +times better and more heartily in free co-operation. + +No, if all this jerry-built cheapjack Commercial Civilization collapsed +it would not much matter. The longer I live the more I am convinced of +its essential pettiness and unimportance. The great foundational types, +the real workers of the world—whether in England or Germany or France, +or Turkey or Bulgaria or Egypt—will remain, and indeed must remain +because the primal facts of Nature, the sun and the earth and the needs +of human life, continually generate them. They will remain and, once +freed (as one may hope) from the burden of the futile and idiotic +superstructure which they have to support, will rise to a far finer +standard of being than they can now realize. The cheap and aimless types +belonging to the mercantile and middle classes will disappear with the +world to which they belong. + +Let me say however, for the consolation of some, that it is not +necessary to suppose that the transformation of Civilization of which I +speak—and which is even now preparing—must necessarily mean that all Law +and Government, and world-wide Commerce and Finance and huge +organization of Industry, and even present-day Art and Morality and +Religion, will collapse and become non-existent. In a sense they will do +so, and in a sense they will not. “In the twinkling of an eye they will +be changed.” In some sense the outer forms of these things will remain; +but the Spirit will be changed; and so greatly changed that their shapes +also will be profoundly modified. When Industry exists really for the +supply of good and useful things and not for the manufacture of profit; +when High Finance is not for gambling, but for the insurance and +security of everybody; when Courts of Law are for the uplifting and not +for the downcasting of criminals, and so on; then the forms of these +institutions will be as different from what they are now as the organs +of a Dragonfly are different from those of the Waterbeetle from which it +sprang. + +But before this great and wonderful Transformation takes place, there +must—it is abundantly evident—be great sacrifices. No such huge change +could happen without. Some of the functions and activities of the +present Society must perish; and with them must perish those who are +engaged in these functions. Thousands and millions of individuals must +die in the mere effort to create and establish a new collective order. +Heroisms, exceeding those of the past, will be needed and will be +supplied. We need not fear. We know the great heart of humanity. + +It is amazing to see, in the present war, the high spirits, the courage, +the devotion, the loyalty to each other of the combatants in each +nation; and these things would be utterly unintelligible were it not for +the fact that each people (and we need make no exception) thinks and +believes in some obscure way that the cause for which it is fighting is +a noble and an honorable one. Terrible as war is, and terrible the +apparent folly of mankind which allows it to continue, still it is to my +mind obvious that those engaged in it could not give their lives, as +they so constantly do, not only with conscious devotion to some high +purpose, but even with an instinctive exultation and savage joy in the +very act of death, if they were not impelled to do so by the insurgence +of a greater life within—a life within each one more vivid and even more +tremendous than that which he throws away. The willing sacrifice of +life, and the ecstasy of it, would be unintelligible if Death did not +indeed mean Transformation. + +In my little individual way I experience something of the same kind. I +feel a curious sense of joy in observing—as at my age one is sometimes +compelled to do—the natural and inevitable decadence of some portion of +the bodily organism, the failures of sight and hearing, the weakening of +muscles, the aberrations even of memory—a curious sense of liberation +and of obstacles removed. I acknowledge that the experience—the +satisfaction and the queer sense of elation—seems utterly unreasonable, +and not to be explained by any of the ordinary theories of life; but it +is there, and it may, after all, have some meaning. + + + + + APPENDICES + + + CONGRATULATORY LETTER + + (_August 29, 1914_). + +In offering you our congratulations on the completion of your seventieth +year, we would express to you (and we speak, we are sure, the thoughts +of a very large number of other readers and friends) the feelings of +admiration and gratitude with which we regard your life-work. + +Your books, with no aid but that of their own originality and power, +have found their way among all classes of people in our own and many +other lands, and they have everywhere brought with them a message of +fellowship and gladness. At a time when society is confused and +overburdened by its own restlessness and artificiality, your writings +have called us back to the vital facts of Nature, to the need of +simplicity and calmness; of just dealing between man and man; of free +and equal citizenship; of love, beauty, and humanity in our daily life. + +We thank you for the genius with which you have interpreted great +spiritual truths; for the deep conviction underlying all your teaching +that wisdom must be sought not only in the study of external nature, but +also in a fuller knowledge of the human heart; for your insistence upon +the truth that there can be no real wealth or happiness for the +individual apart from the welfare of his fellows; for your fidelity and +countless services to the cause of the poor and friendless; for the +light you have thrown on so many social problems; and for the equal +courage, delicacy, and directness with which you have discussed various +questions of sex, the study of which is essential to a right +understanding of human nature. + +We have spoken of your many readers and friends, but in your case, to a +degree seldom attained by writers, your readers are your friends, for +your works have that rare quality which reveals “the man behind the +book,” and that personal attraction which results only from the widest +sympathy and fellow-feeling. For this, most of all, we thank you—the +spirit of comradeship which has endeared your name to all who know you, +and to many who to yourself are unknown. + + + REPLY + + MILLTHORPE, HOLMESFIELD, + DERBYSHIRE, + _1st September, 1914_. + +In thanking my friends on the occasion of my seventieth birthday (29th +August) for the many hearty letters of congratulation I have received, +and in particular for the widely signed and very friendly Address which +on the same occasion has been presented to me, I should like to say a +few words. + +At a moment like this when Europe is plunged in a monstrous war one +naturally does not wish to dwell on one’s own affairs. Yet some of us +who have worked for thirty years or more in connection with the great +Labour Movement at home and abroad may perhaps be excused if we cannot +help looking on the strange events of the last few weeks in a somewhat +personal light. For those events surely connect themselves by a kind of +logical fatality with that very Labour Movement. They seem to point to +the break-up all over Europe of the old framework of society, and (like +the Napoleonic wars of a century ago) to bear within themselves the +seeds of a new order of things. + +Insane commercial and capitalistic rivalry, the piling up of power in +the hands of mere speculators and financiers, and the actual trading for +dividends in the engines of death—all these inevitable results of our +present industrial system—have now for years been leading up to this +war; and in that sense indeed all the nations concerned are responsible +for it—England no less than the others. But the mad vanity of the +Prussian military clique, and its brutal eagerness for imperial +expansion at all costs, have precipitated the fatal move. The German +Government is now involved in a conflict which the more socialistic +section of its population absolutely detests, and for which its masses +have little desire or enthusiasm; it is alienating from itself the +loyalty of the warm-hearted and very human and brotherly folk whom it +professes to represent; and is sowing the seed of its own destruction. +Curiously enough too, by supplying the Russian Autocracy with an excuse +for gratifying _its_ lust of conquest (an excuse which is welcome no +doubt as a means of discounting the revolutionary movement at home) this +action of Germany is destined to lead to a disorganization of Russia +similar to that which awaits herself. + +On the other hand, the same action has already caused an extraordinary +and astounding development of solidarity and enthusiasm among the more +pacific peoples of Western Europe—this partly no doubt in sheer +self-defence, but even more, I think, as an expression of their hatred +of militarism and bullying Imperialism. The enormous growth during the +past few years of democratic and communal thought and organization on +the Continent generally is well known; and the events of which we are +speaking have suddenly crystallized that into definite consciousness and +into a fresh resolve for the future—the resolve that never again shall +the peoples be plunged in the senseless bloodshed of war to suit the +ambition or the private interests of ruling classes. Furthermore, in +Britain, where, for so long, the forward movement has seemed to hang +fire and fail to define itself, we have developed—most swiftly and in +almost miraculous fashion—a whole programme of socialist institutions, +and (what is more important) a powerful and democratic sentiment of +public honour and duty. + +In view of all this it is impossible, as I have said, not to hope for a +great move forward—when this present nightmare madness is over—among the +Western States of Europe towards the consolidation of their respective +democracies and the establishment of a great Federation on a Labour +basis among them; as well as to expect a sturdy reaction, perhaps +amounting to revolution, among the Central and Eastern peoples against +the military despotism and bureaucracy from which they have so long +suffered. In both these directions, in aiding the Federation of the +democracies of the West and in hastening the disruption of the military +bureaucracies of the East, England—if she rises to her true genius, and +to a far grander conception of foreign policy than she has of late years +favoured—will have a great work to do. Nor is it possible to doubt that +the new order thus arriving will largely be the outcome of those years +of work all over Europe in which the ideal of a generous Common Life has +been preached and propagated as against the sordid and self-seeking +Commercialism of the era that is passing away. + +If in my small way I have done anything towards the social evolution of +which I speak, it is I think chiefly due to the fact that I was born in +the midst of that Commercial Era, and that consequently my early days +were days of considerable suffering. The iron of it, I suppose, entered +into my soul. Coming to my first consciousness, as it were, of the world +at the age of sixteen (at Brighton in 1860) I found myself—and without +knowing where I was—in the middle of that strange period of human +evolution the Victorian Age, which in some respects, one now thinks, +marked the lowest ebb of modern civilized society: a period in which not +only commercialism in public life, but cant in religion, pure +materialism in science, futility in social conventions, the worship of +stocks and shares, the starving of the human heart, the denial of the +human body and its needs, the huddling concealment of the body in +clothes, the “impure hush” on matters of sex, class-division, contempt +of manual labour, and the cruel barring of women from every natural and +useful expression of their lives, were carried to an extremity of folly +difficult for us now to realize. + +As I say, I did not know where I was. I had no certain tidings of any +other feasible state of society than that which loafed along the +Brighton parade or tittle-tattled in drawing-rooms. I only knew I hated +my surroundings. I even sometimes, out of the midst of that absurd life, +looked with envy I remember on the men with pick and shovel in the +roadway and wished to join in their labour; but between of course was a +great and impassable gulf fixed, and before I could cross that I had to +pass through many stages. I only remember how the tension and pressure +of those years grew and increased—as it might do in an old boiler when +the steamports are closed and the safety-valve shut down; till at last, +and when the time came that I could bear it no longer, I was propelled +with a kind of explosive force, and with considerable velocity, right +out of the middle of the nineteenth century and far on into the +twentieth! + +My friends speak of gratitude, and I am touched by these expressions, +because I do indeed think the genuine feeling of gratitude is a very +human and lovable thing—blessing in a sense both him that gives and him +that takes. Yet I confess that somehow, when directed towards myself, I +find the feeling difficult to realize. After all, what a man does he +does out of the necessity of his nature: one can claim no credit for it, +for one could hardly do otherwise. I have sometimes, for instance, been +accused of taking to a rather plain and Bohemian kind of life, of +associating with manual workers, of speaking at street corners, of +growing fruit, making sandals, writing verses, or what not, as at great +cost to my own comfort, and with some ulterior or artificial purpose—as +of reforming the world. But I can safely say that in any such case I +have done the thing primarily and simply because of the joy I had in +doing it, and to please myself. If the world or any part of it should in +consequence insist on being reformed, that is not my fault. And this +perhaps after all is a good general rule: namely that people should +endeavour (more than they do) to express or liberate their _own_ real +and deep-rooted needs and feelings. Then in doing so they will probably +liberate and aid the expression of the lives of thousands of others; and +so will have the pleasure of helping, without the unpleasant sense of +laying any one under an obligation. + +And here I think I ought to say (lest by concealing the fact I should +seem to be laying my friends under an obligation and obtaining their +seventieth-birthday congratulations under false pretences) that only two +or three years ago a horny-handed son of toil—a gold-miner from the +wilds of South Nevada—came all the way direct to Millthorpe on purpose +to tell me that I should yet live for four hundred years! He stayed, +curiously enough, but a very few days in this country, and having +delivered his message set sail again the next morning but one for his +gold-mines and his quartz-crushing. The prophecy I confess was one of +rather doubtful comfort either to myself or my friends, but in order to +avoid disappointment in case of its fulfilment I think perhaps I ought +to mention it. + +Anyhow, referring back to those early Victorian days, I now seem plainly +to see that if what was working then in my little soul could have been +realized in society at large there would have been no need for you to +address me the special letter or letters which I have just +received—pleasant though they are to me—because you would have +understood that in all reason letters equally grateful and full of +recognition ought to be addressed to the joiner, the farm-labourer, the +dairy-maid, and the washerwoman of your village, or to the soldier +fighting now in the ranks. You would have realized that the lives of all +of us are so built and founded one on the work of another that it is +impossible to assign any credit to one whose name happens to be known, +which is not equally due to the thousands or millions of nameless and +unknown ones who really have contributed to his work. We literary folk, +I need hardly say, think a great deal too much about ourselves and our +importance. + +This is of course so very obvious that I am persuaded that most of the +signatories on this occasion will understand the matter so. And on that +understanding I may say to my friends: I accept your expressions with +the greatest pleasure. I appreciate the extraordinarily tender and +gracious wording of the Address, and I thank you from my heart. + + EDWARD CARPENTER. + + + + + APPENDIX II + + + BIBLIOGRAPHY + + =The Religious Influence of Art=: being the Burney Prize Essay for + 1869. Cambridge, Deighton, Bell & Co., 1870. [_Out of + print._ + + =Narcissus and other Poems.= London, Henry S. King & Co., 1873. + [_o. p._ + + =Moses: A Drama in Five Acts.= London, E. Moxon, 1875. [_o. p._ + + THE SAME. Reprinted with alterations and republished as _The + Promised Land_. Sonnenschein, 1910. George Allen & Unwin, + 1916. + + =Syllabuses of University Extension Lectures.= (Astronomy, Sound, + Light, Pioneers of Science, Science and History of Music, &c.) + 1874–1881. + + =Towards Democracy= (Part I). First edition. John Heywood, Manchester, + 1883. + + THE SAME (including Parts I and II). John Heywood, Manchester, 1885. + + THE SAME (including Parts I, II, and III). Fisher Unwin, London, + 1892. + + THE SAME (with new Title-page). The Labour Press, Manchester, 1896. + + THE SAME (Part IV only, “Who Shall Command the Heart”). London, Swan + Sonnenschein; Manchester, S. Clarke, 1902. + + THE SAME (Four Parts complete in one vol.). London and Manchester, + Sonnenschein and S. Clarke, 1905. + + THE SAME. Complete Library Edition, with two portraits. Same + publishers, 1908. + + THE SAME, on India paper (pocket edition), without portraits, but + with Note at end, 1909. + + Later issues the same as the last two. Sixteenth Thousand, 1916. + + American Edition: T.D. complete. New York, Mitchell Kennerley, + 1912. + + =England’s Ideal= and other Papers on Social Subjects. London, Swan + Sonnenschein (Social Science Series). First edition, 1887. + + THE SAME. Thirteenth Thousand. Published by George Allen and Unwin, + London, 1916; New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons. + + =Civilization: its Cause and Cure.= And other Essays. London, Swan + Sonnenschein (Social Science Series). First edition, 1889. + + THE SAME. Fourteenth Thousand. London, George Allen & Unwin, 1916; + New York, Charles Scribner’s Sons. + + =Chants of Labour.= Edited by Edward Carpenter. With music; and + Frontispiece by Walter Crane. First edition. London, Swan + Sonnenschein, 1888. + + THE SAME. Seventh Thousand. London, George Allen & Unwin, 1916. + + =From Adam’s Peak to Elephanta=: being Sketches in Ceylon and India. + With illustrations. First edition, London, Sonnenschein, 1892; + New York, Macmillan Co. + + THE SAME. Second edition, enlarged, 1903. + + THE SAME. Third edition, revised, 1910. + + =A Visit to a Gn̄ani=: being four chapters from the above, in separate + volume, with two photogravure portraits. George Allen & Co., + 1911. + + THE SAME. Authorized American edition. Published by A. B. Stockham & + Co., Chicago, 1900. + + THE SAME. Pirated and mutilated. Published by the Yogi Publication + Society, Masonic Temple, Chicago, 1905. + + =Love’s Coming-of-Age=: a Series of Papers on the Relations of the + Sexes. First edition, The Labour Press, Manchester, 1896. + + THE SAME. Second edition, 1897. + + THE SAME. Third edition. Swan Sonnenschein, London; S. Clarke, + Manchester, 1902. + + THE SAME. Fifth edition, enlarged, 1906. + + THE SAME. Fourteenth Thousand. London, George Allen & Unwin, 1916. + + THE SAME. Note on Preventive Checks omitted. London, Methuen. + Shilling edition, 1914. + + THE SAME. American edition. Stockham Publishing Company, Chicago, + 1902. [_Out of print._ + + THE SAME. Published by Mitchell Kennerley, New York, 1911. + + =Forecasts of the Coming Century=: by Alfred Russel Wallace, Tom Mann, + H. Russell Smart, William Morris, H. S. Salt, Enid Stacy, + Margaret McMillan, Grant Allen, Bernard Shaw and Edward + Carpenter. Edited by E. C., and published by the Labour Press, + Manchester, 1897. + + =The Story of Eros and Psyche from Apuleius=, and the first book of + the Iliad of Homer, done into English by Edward Carpenter. + London, Sonnenschein, 1900. [_Out of print._ + + =Angels’ Wings=: Essays on Art and its Relation to Life. With nine + full-page Plates and Appendix. First edition. London, + Sonnenschein, 1898; New York, Macmillan Co. + + THE SAME. Second edition, 1899. + + THE SAME. Third edition, 1908. + + =Ioläus=: an Anthology of Friendship, in old Caslon type, with red + initials and side-notes. First edition. London, Sonnenschein, + 1902; Boston, U.S.A., Ch. A. Goodspeed. + + THE SAME. Author’s edition, 1902, bound in white and blue calf; 150 + copies only. [_Out of print._ + + THE SAME. Second edition, enlarged. Forty pages added; black + initials and notes. Sonnenschein, 1906. + + THE SAME. Third edition. Title changed to =Anthology of Friendship + (Ioläus)=. Published by George Allen & Unwin, 1915. + + =The Art of Creation=: Essays on the Self and its Powers. First + edition. London, George Allen, 1904. + + THE SAME. Second edition, enlarged, 1907. + + THE SAME. Third edition. George Allen & Unwin, 1916. + + =Prisons, Police, and Punishment=: an Inquiry into the Causes and + Treatment of Crime and Criminals. London, Fifield, 1905. + [_Out of print._ + + =The Simplification of Life=: being selections from the writings of E. + C. by Harry Roberts. Published by Anthony Treherne, London, + 1905. + + Second edition. George Allen & Unwin, January 1915. + + =Days with Walt Whitman=: with some Notes on his Life and Work, and + three Portraits. London, George Allen, 1906. + + THE SAME. Second edition, 1906. + + =Sketches from Life in Town and Country=: Some Verses, and a Portrait + of the Author. London, George Allen, 1908. [_Out of print._ + + =The Intermediate Sex=: a Study of some Transitional Types of Men and + Women. First edition. London, Sonnenschein; Manchester, Clarke, + 1908. + + THE SAME. Second edition, 1909. + + THE SAME. Third edition. George Allen & Co., 1912. + + THE SAME. Fourth edition. London, George Allen & Unwin, 1916. + + THE SAME. American edition. Published by Mitchell Kennerley, New + York, 1912. + + =The Drama of Love and Death=: a Study of Human Evolution and + Transfiguration. London, George Allen & Co., April 1912. + + THE SAME. Second edition, August 1912. + + THE SAME. American edition. New York, Mitchell Kennerley, 1912. + + =Intermediate Types among Primitive Folk=: a Study in Social + Evolution. London, George Allen, 1914. + + THE SAME. American edition. New York, Mitchell Kennerley, 1914. + + =The Healing of Nations=: and the Hidden Sources of their Strife. + First edition. London, George Allen & Unwin, March 1915. + Reprinted April and October 1915. + + =The Story of My Books.= London, George Allen & Unwin, March 1916. + + =My Days and Dreams=: being Autobiographical Notes by Edward + Carpenter. With Seventeen Portraits and Illustrations. George + Allen & Unwin, May 1916. + + + PAMPHLETS. + + =Modern Science=: a Criticism. Pp. 75. John Heywood, Manchester and + London, 1885. [_o. p._ + + =Co-operative Production=: with reference to the experiment of + Leclaire. A lecture given at the Hall of Science, Sheffield, + 1883. Published by John Heywood, Manchester, 1883. Pp. 16. + [_o. p._ + + THE SAME. Second edition. The Modern Press, 13, Paternoster Row, + London, 1886. [_o. p._ + + =England’s Ideal.= A Tract reprinted from _To-day_, May 1884. Pp. 22. + John Heywood, Manchester and London, 1885. [_o. p._ + + =Modern Moneylending=, and the Meaning of Dividends. John Heywood, + 1883. + + THE SAME. Second edition, 1885. Pp. 28. [_o. p._ + + =Desirable Mansions.= A Tract reprinted from _Progress_, June 1883. + Pp. 16, John Heywood, 1883. + + THE SAME. Second edition. The Modern Press, London, 1886. + + Third edition, 1887. [_o. p._ + + =Social Progress and Individual Effort.= Reprinted from _To-day_, + February 1885. Pp. 13. The Modern Press, London, 1886. [_o. + p._ + + =The Enchanted Thicket=: an Appeal to the “Well-to-do,” by Edward + Carpenter, late Fellow of Trinity Hall, Cambridge: being a + reprint by permission from the book _England’s Ideal_. For + private circulation, 1889. Pp. 12. + + =Civilization, Exfoliation, and Custom.= Published by Humboldt Library + of Science, New York, 1891. Pirated from _Civilization: its + Cause and Cure_. Pp. 65. + + =Modern Science and Defence of Criminals.= Humboldt Library, 1891. + Also pirated from _Civilization: its Cause and Cure_. Pp. 53. + + =Our Parish and our Duke=: a Letter to the Parishioners of + Holmesfield, in Derbyshire. Four-page leaflet, published by the + author, 1889. (Two editions about 10,000 each.) Also printed in + full in the London _Star_, July 8, 1889. [_o. p._ + + =The Village and the Landlord.= An adaptation of the foregoing. + Published by the Fabian Society (Tract No. 136). London, 1907. + + =A Letter Relating to the Case of the Walsall Anarchists.= Four-page + leaflet. Reprinted from _Freedom_, December 1892. [_o. p._ + + =Intorno alla Protezione degli animali= (four-page leaflet). Reprinted + from _Il Lavoro_ (Genoa) of May 18, 1906. + + =Empire: in India and Elsewhere.= Pp. 20. London, A. C. Fifield, 1900. + + THE SAME. New edition, 1906. Published by Fifield, for the + Humanitarian League. + + =A Letter to the Employees of the Midland and other Railway + Companies.= Four-page leaflet. Fillingham, Sheffield. Signed “E. + C., on behalf of the Sheffield Socialist Society, Commonwealth + Café,” November 1886. [_o. p._ + + =Boer and Briton.= Four-page leaflet. Labour Press, Manchester, + January 7, 1900. (? Two editions 5,000 each.) [_o. p._ + + =Proof of Taylor’s Theorem in the Differential Calculus.= By Edward + Carpenter and R. F. Muirhead. Four-page pamphlet, with orange + cover. Extracted from the Proceedings of the Edinburgh + Mathematical Society, vol. xii. Session 1893–4. + + =Sex-love: and its Place in a Free Society.= Pp. 24. Labour Press, + Manchester, 1894. Second edition, 1894. [_o. p._ + + =Woman: and her Place in a Free Society.= Pp. 40. Labour Press, + Manchester, 1894. [_o. p._ + + =Marriage in Free Society.= Pp. 48 (5,000 copies). Labour Press, + Manchester, 1894. [_o. p._ + + =Homogenic Love: and its Place in a Free Society.= (Printed for + private circulation only.) Pp. 52. Manchester, 1894. [_o. + p._ + + =An Unknown People.= Reprinted from the _Reformer_. Pp. 37. London, A. + and H. B. Bonner, 1897. (Brown and gold cover.) + + THE SAME. Second edition, 1905. (Plain brown cover.) [_o. p._ + + =Fly, Messenger! Fly=: being a reprint (8 pages) from _Towards + Democracy_, by permission. For private circulation only. Tring, + 1894. + + =The Wreck of Modern Industry: and its Reorganization.= Pamphlet, pp. + 16. National Labour Press, Manchester, 1909. + + =Non-Governmental Society.= Originally a chapter in _Forecasts of the + Coming Century_, 1897; afterwards in _Prisons, Police, and + Punishment_. Pp. 32. Reprinted separately, and published by A. + C. Fifield, London, 1911. + + =Vivisection.= By Edward Carpenter and Edward Maitland. Two Addresses + given before the Humanitarian League. Fifty-four page pamphlet. + London, W. Reeves, 1893. + + =Vivisection.= By Edward Carpenter. Pp. 12. Another Address given + before the Humanitarian League. Published at 53, Chancery Lane, + London, 1904. + + =Vivisection.= Two Addresses by Edward Carpenter (being the above two + Addresses). Revised edition. London, Fifield, 1905. + + =The Art of Creation.= Being the second Anniversary Lecture of the + Larmer Sugden Memorial, delivered at the William Morris Labour + Church, at Leek, by Edward Carpenter, and printed at Hanley, in + Staffordshire, 1903. + + =The Inner Self.= Report of a lecture given at King’s Weigh House + Church, London, November 7, 1912, and published (pp. 8) by the + Christian Commonwealth Company, 1912. + + =St. George and the Dragon=: a Play in Three Acts for children and + young folk. Dedicated to the I.L.P. clubs. Labour Press, + Manchester, 1895. Second edition, 1908. =The Need of a Rational + and Humane Science=: a lecture given before the Humanitarian + League. Published at 53, Chancery Lane, London, 1896. Pp. 33. + + THE SAME. Reprinted as a chapter in _Humane Science Lectures_ by + various authors. London, George Bell, 1897, and incorporated + in _Civilisation: its Cause and Cure_, edition 1906. + + =British Aristocracy and the House of Lords.= Pp. 36. Reprinted from + the _Albany Review_ of April, 1908. London, Fifield, 1908. + + =The Smoke-Nuisance and Smoke-Preventing Appliances.= Pp. 8. Being + report of a lecture given at the Firth College, Sheffield, + October 27, 1889. Publishers, Leader & Sons, Sheffield. + + + SOME MAGAZINE ARTICLES. + + (_Not_ including those already [1916] republished in book + form.) + + =The Value of the Value-Theory.= _To-day_, June 1889. + + =On High Street, Kensington=, in the _Commonweal_, April 26, 1890. + + =Lawrence Oliphant=, critique in the _Scottish Art Review_, February + 1889. + + =November Boughs=, critique in same Review, April 1889. + + =The Smoke-Plague and its Remedy.= _Macmillan’s Magazine_, July 1890. + + =Love’s Coming-of-Age=: a Reply to Mr. Rockell. The _Free Review_ + (Sonnenschein), October 1896. + + =Two Gifts=: a Poem. The _Adult_, February 1898. + + =On English Hexameter Verse.= Two articles in the _Cambridge Review_, + February 22 and March 1, 1900. + + =An Open-Air Gymnasium=, _Sandow’s Magazine_, January 1900. + + =The Awakening of China.= In the _Co-operative Wholesale Society’s + Annual_, Manchester, 1907. + + =Morality under Socialism.= The _Albany Review_, September 1907. + + Four Articles, =Sketches in Morocco=. The _New Age_, November 1906, + and May, June, and July 1907. + + =The Taboos of the British Museum.= By E. S. P. Haynes (and E. C.) in + _English Review_, December 1913. + + =The Meaning of Pain.= _English Review_, July 1914. + + =Does Pain on one Plane mean Pleasure on another?= The _Epoch_, July + 1914. + + =The Great Kinship.= Translated from the French of Elisée Reclus (“La + Grande Famille”) by E. C. The _Humane Review_, January 1906. + + =Sport and Agriculture.= In the _Humanitarian_, November 1913. + + =Conscription and National Service.= Letter to the _Daily Chronicle_, + London, August 12, 1915. + + Two articles on =The Music Drama of the Future=. The _New Age_, August + 15 and 22, 1908. + + Two articles on =The New South African Union=. The _New Age_, August + 27 and September 3, 1909. + + Two articles on =The Minimum Wage=. The _New Age_, December 21 and 23, + 1907. + + =Drawing-room Table Literature.= Article in the _New Age_, March 17, + 1910. + + =Le Philosophe Meh-ti.= Book-review in the _New Age_, February 1, + 1908. + + =Beauty in Civic Life=: report of a lecture. The _Humanitarian_, + January 1912. + + + TRANSLATIONS. + + + GERMAN. + + =Wenn die Menschen reif zur Liebe Werden= (_Love’s Coming-of-Age_). + Translated by Karl Federn; published by Hermann Seemann, + Leipzig, 1902. + + =Die Civilisation: ihre Ursachen und ihre Heilung.= Translated by K. + Federn; published by H. Seemann, Leipzig, 1903. + + =Towards Democracy.= Translated by Lilly Nadler-Nuellens and Ervin + Batthyány. + + (Part I), “Demokratie,” published by H. Seemann, Leipzig, 1903; + Berlin, 1906. + + (Part II), “Freiheit,” same publishers, 1907. + + (Part III), “Der Freiheit Entgegen,” published by Freier + Literarischer Verlag, Berlin, Tempelhof, 1908. + + (Part IV), same title and publishers, 1909. + + =Die Schöpfung als Kunstwerk= (_The Art of Creation_). Translated by + K. Federn, published by Eugen Diederichs, Jena, 1905. + + =Das Mittelgeschlecht= (_The Intermediate Sex_). Translated by L. + Bergfeld, published by Seitz und Schauer, München, 1907; + afterwards, Reinhard, München. + + =England’s Ideal.= Translated by Sophie von Harbon; published by + Wilhelm Borngräber, Berlin, 1912. + + + _Articles and Pamphlets._ + + =Die Homogene Liebe.= Pamphlet. Translated by H. B. Fischer, published + by Max Spohr, Leipzig, 1894. + + Three separate pamphlets, “Die Geschlechstliebe,” “Das Weib,” and “Die + Ehe,” all published in 1895. Same translator and publisher as + above. + + Article “Ueber die Beziehungen zwischen Homosexualität und + Prophetentum” in the _Vierteljahrs-berichts des + Wissenschaftlich-humanitären Komitees_, July 1911, published by + Hirschfeld, Berlin. + + Pamphlet =Die Gesellschaft ohne Regierung= (_Non-governmental + Society_). Translated by Pierre Ramus, published by W. + Schouteten, Brüssel, 1910. + + + ITALIAN. + + =L’amore diventa maggiorenne= (_Love’s Coming-of-Age_). Translated by + Guido Ferrando; published by frat. Bocca, Torino, Roma, etc., + 1909. + + =L’Arte della Creazione.= Translated by G. Ferrando; published by + Enrico Voghera, Roma, 1909. + + =Verso la Democrazia= (Part I). With biographical notice and note from + _Labour Prophet_. Translated by Teresina Campani-Bagnoli; + published by R. Carabba, Lanciano, 1912. + + + FRENCH. + + =Prisons, Police, et Châtiments.= Traduit et annoté par Paul Le Rouge + et Alain Garnier, avocats à la Cour d’Appel de Paris. Published + by Schleicher Frères, Paris, 1907. + + =Vivisection.= Par E. C. Traduit de l’anglais par E. F. Satchell; + published by St. Catherine’s Press, Bruges, 1910. + + =L’Amour Homogénique et sa Place dans une Société libre.= Published in + _La Société Nouvelle_, Brussels and Paris, September 1896. + + =Vers l’Affranchissement= (being Parts III and IV of _Towards + Democracy_). Translated by Marcelle Senard. Published by the + Librairie de l’Art Indépendant, 81 rue Dareau, Paris, 1914. + + _Also_ =E. C. et sa Philosophie=. Par M. Senard. Published same year + and place. + + =La Régénération des Peuples= (_The Healing of Nations_). Translated + by M. Senard; published by.... + + + DUTCH. + + =Liefde’s Meerderjarigheid= (_Love’s Coming-of-Age_). Translated by + Meezenbrock; published by Holkema, Amsterdam, 1904. + + =Die Beschaving: hare Oorzaak en hare Genezing= (_Civilization: its + Cause and Cure_). Translated by P. H.; published by Elsevier, + Amsterdam, 1899. + + + RUSSIAN. + + =Civilization: its Cause and Cure.= Translated by Ivan Najívin, with + biographical Note, and Portrait, Moscow, 1906. + + =Modern Science: a Criticism.= With Introductory Note by Leo Tolstoy, + 1904. + + =Prisons, Police, and Punishment.= Translated by A. M. (without + Appendix). Large 8vo, light green cover. Moscow, 1907. + + =A Visit to a Gn̄ani= (four chapters) entitled _I Am_. Translated by + Ivan Najívin, Moscow, 1907. + + =Towards Democracy= (_I arise out of the Night_). Being selections + from T. D., with Note on E. C. by Sergius Orlovski. Moscow. + + =Love and Death.= Translated by P. D. Ouspenski. With Introduction. + Petrograd, 1915. + + =The Intermediate Sex.= Translated by P. D. Ouspenski. Petrograd, + 1915. + + _See also_ article on E. C. by S. E. Rapoport in _Russian Thought_ for + January or February 1914. Petrograd. + + + BULGARIAN. + + =Modern Science: a Criticism.= With Introduction by Leo Tolstoy. + Translated from the Russian by D. Jethkoff and Chr. Dossieff. + Burgas, 1908. + + _Also_ =Civilization= and =England’s Ideal=. Translated by D. + Vaptzaroff, Burgas, 1908. + + Articles in _Renaissans_ (Burgas):— + + =On Rational and Humane Science.= 1909. + + =England’s Ideal.= 1910. + + =Defence of Criminals.= (2 numbers.) 1914. + + + SPANISH. + + =Defensa de los Criminales.= Critica de la Moralidad. Translated by + Julio Molina y Vedia; published by P. Tonini, Buenos Aires, + 1901. + + =El Matorral Encantado= (_The Enchanted Thicket_). Translated by Peter + Godoi Perez, por el Grupo “Los Precursores.” Santiago, 1911. + + + JAPANESE. + + Sections I to XIX of =Towards Democracy= by Saikwa Tomita in _Tokyo + Magazine_ of July 1915. + + _Also_ =After Long Ages= and many shorter poems. + + _See also_ =E. C.: Poet and Prophet=. By Ishikawa Sanshiro: being a + series of chapters on E. C. with long quotations from his works, + also portrait and letter from E. C. Yokohama, 1912. + + + MUSIC. + + _See_ =Chants of Labour=. Edited by E. C. First edition 1888. + + _Also_ =Three Songs= (“Men of England,” by Shelley, “The People to + their Land,” and “England, Arise”). Set to music by E. C. + Published by the Labour Press, Manchester, 1896. + + =England, Arise.= Arranged by John Curwen as four-part song for male + voices. Staff and sol-fa notation. Published by J. Curwen and + Sons, Berners St. London, W., 1906. + + =The City of the Sun.= Words and music by E. C. Published by the + Labour Press, Manchester, (?) 1908. + + =Die Stadt der Sonne.= Worte und Musik von E. C., “dem Kämpfenden + Proletariat gewidmet.” Verlag “Wohlstand für Alle.” Vienna XII. + Herthorgasse, 12, (?) 1909. + + + SOME BOOKS, PAMPHLETS, ARTICLES, ETC. + + =E. C.: The Man and his Message.= Pp. 40. With two portraits. By Tom + Swan. Manchester, 1901. Second edition, 1902. + + THE SAME. Third Edition. London, Fifield, 1905. Fourth edition, + 1910. + + =E. C.: Poet and Prophet.= By Ernest Crosby. 50 pp. Second edition, + Fifield, 1905. + + =The Gospel according to E. C.= By G. H. Perris. In two chapters. + Article in the _New Age_, April 23 and 30, 1896. + + =Three Modern Seers= (Hinton, Nietzsche, and E. C.). With Portraits. + Pp. 228. By Mrs. Havelock Ellis. London, Stanley Paul, 1910. + + =E. C.: Poet and Prophet.= Expositions of and quotations from his + works. Pp. 300. In Japanese script. By Ishikawa Sanshiro. + Yokohama, 1912. + + =E. C.: an Exposition and an Appreciation.= By Edward Lewis. Pp. 310. + With Portrait. London, Methuen, 1915. + + =Modern Science.= A reprint in English of Leo Tolstoy’s Introduction + to that Essay. Published by Wm. Reeves, Charing Cross Road, + London. + + =E. C. and his Message.= By Leonard D. Abbott in the _International + Socialist Review_, Chicago, November 1, 1900. + + =E. C. ein Sänger der Freiheit und des Volkes.= Von Pierre Ramus, + verlag Schouteten. Brussels, 1910. + + =E. C. et sa Philosophie.= Par M. Senard. Libr. de l’Art Indépendant, + Paris, 1914. + + Chapter on E. C. in _All Manner of Folk_. By Holbrook Jackson. London, + Grant Richards, 1912. + + And various articles:— + + See the _Dublin University Review_, April, 1886; _Seed-time_, + London, April, 1893; the _Friend_, January 4, 1895; the _Twentieth + Century_, New York, June 25, 1898; the _Inquirer_, London, May 13, + 1899; the _Westminster Review_, December, 1901; the _Pioneer_, + London, January, 1901; the _Humane Review_, July, 1903; the + _Literary Digest_, New York, February 25, 1905; the _Craftsman_, New + York, October, 1906; the _Millgate Monthly_, Manchester, April 1907; + the _Forum_, New York, August 1910; the _Christian Commonwealth_, + London, December 11, 1912; _Bibby’s Annual_, 1913; the _Bystander_, + March 18, 1914; the _Epoch_, November 1915; the _Herald of the + Star_, August 11, 1915; etc. + + + + + INDEX + + + Adams, George, 124, 131, 150; + story of his life, 156 ff.; + at Millthorpe, 157–159 + + _Adam’s Peak to Elephanta_, 143 + + Africa, South, fascination of, 231 + + _African Farm, Story of_, 112, 226 + + After Civilization, 208 + + Age, its compensations, 304 + + Alfred, my brother, at school and in the Navy, 33, 34; + his son, 34 (note) + + Anarchism, 115, 127, 130, 132, 219 + + Ancestry, my, Cornish, Scotch (? and Phœnician), 42, 309 + + Anecdotes of Millthorpe, ch. x. + + _Angels’ Wings_, 209 + + _Anthology of Friendship_, 200 + + Anti-vivisection, 240 + + _Art of Creation, The_, 206, 207, 209; + translations of, 273, 274 + + Arunáchalam, P., of Colombo, Ceylon, 143; + his career, 250–253 + + Ashton, Margaret, 263 + + Assagioli, Roberto, 274 + + _Astronomy_, lectures, 78, 80, 92 + + Audiences, indoors and open-air, etc., 260, 261 + + Auteri, Count, 274 + + + Bagnoli, Teresina, 274 + + Bantock, Granville, 246 + + Barker, Granville, 245 + + Barnes, George N., of the A.S.E., 246, 260 + + Batthyány, Ervin, at Millthorpe, 269; + life at Buda-Pesth, 270 ff. + + Beck, E, A., of Trinity Hall, 61, 74 + + Benson, F. R., 245 + + Berkeleyan view of Matter, 207 + + Besant, Annie, 134, 218, 220–222, 245 + + _Bhagavat Gita_, 106, 142, 187 + + Bingham, brothers, of Sheffield, 131 + + Birrell, Augustine, 75, 216 + + Blavatsky, Mme., 240, 243, 244 + + “Bloody Sunday” in Trafalgar Square, 254 + + Boating life at Cambridge, 46, 210 + + _Boer and Briton_, a leaflet, 235 + + Boer War, the, 234, 235 + + Bolton, Whitman Club at, 250 + + Boughton, Rutland, 246 + + Boyhood and Age, little difference, 302 + + Bradway, life at, 102 ff., 110, 112 + + Brighton, futile life of, 31, 32, 94, 95; + work at, 101, 109; + the family leaves, 110 + + Brighton College, 17 ff. + + Brown, J. M., 131 + + “Bruno,” the story of, 153–155 + + “Bryan,” story of, 170–172 + + Bryant, W., the poet, 88 + + Bucke, Dr. Richard, of Canada, 117, 118, 186, 206 + + Bulgarian translations, 280 + + Burney Prize, the, 49 + + Burns, John, 115, 254, 256 + + Burroughs, John, the friend of Whitman, 89 + + Burrows, Herbert, 115 + + Byron, 120 + + + Cambridge, 46 ff. + + Campbell, R. J., 246, 265 + + Ceylon, visit to, 143 + + Champion, H. H., early member of the S.D.F., 115 + + Channing, Rev. W. H., 87 + + _Chants of Labour_, 136 + + Charles, my brother, 16, 17, 83 + + Charles, Fredk., anarchist, 132 + + “Cheap and nasty” things and people, 310 + + Chemistry, 25 + + Chesterfield, life at, 91, 113 + + Christian legend, the, allegorical, 241 + + Civilization, modern, its meaning and future, 142, 311–315; + escape from, 148; + its paltriness, 311; + and unimportance, 312, 313; + after-stage to follow, 208, 314 + + _Civilization: its Cause and Cure_, 141, 205, 209; + translations of, 273, 280, etc.; + subject never seriously tackled by critics, 202 + + Clifford, W. K., 60, 74, 212 + + College Feasts at Cambridge, 73, 74 + + Commercial crises, 140 + + _Commonweal, The_, organ of the Socialist League, 125 + + “Commonwealth” Café opened in Sheffield, 133, 135 + + Commons Award Book of Holmesfield, 291–293 + + Compensations in Age and Infirmity, 180, 304 + + Consciousness, three stages of, 206 + + Co-operation, lectures on, 115; + agricultural, 287–289 + + Cosmic Consciousness, 143–145, 188, 201 + + Cotterill, Henry B., his work in S. Africa, 232; + his translation of Homer’s _Odyssey_, 233 + + Court Baron of Holmesfield, 292 + + Cox, Harold, 124 + + Cramp, C. T., of the A.S.R.S., 246, 260 + + Crane, Walter, 245 + + _Crib_, use of, at school, 20 + + Cronwright-Schreiner, 235 + + Curate, life as, 52 ff. + + Curran, Pete, 245, 260 + + + Danish agriculture, 289 + + Darwin, George, 74 + + David and Solomon, 301 + + Death, the adventure of, 302 + + _Defence of Criminals_, 205 + + _Desirable Mansions_, 139, 192 + + Despard, Mrs., 245, 263 + + Devon, James, Prisons Commissioner, 246 + + Dickens, H. F., 74 + + Dickinson, Lowes, 245, 256; + his books, 257 + + Dilke, Charles Wentworth, 74, 215 + + District Councils, their character, 294, 295 + + Downs, the Sussex, 26 + + _Drama of Love and Death, The_, 209 + + Duncan, Isadora, 245 + + + Early days, 13–16 + + Early verses, 28, 45, 50, 63, 71 + + Ellis, Edith (_née_ Lees), 225, 226 + + Ellis, Havelock, 97, 112; + his great work on _Psychology of Sex_, 223, 224; + his personality, 225 + + Emerson, R. W., 87, 88 + + Enclosure of Commons, 283 + + _England’s Ideal_, 113, 139, 209 + + Ethical Societies, the, 205; + lectures for, 259, 264, 267 + + Executor, work as, 109 + + Expression, one of the great objects of Life, 305–307; + ever-unfolding, 310 + + + Fabian Societies, lectures for, 267 + + Faddists invade Millthorpe, 167 ff. + + Father, my, 36 ff.; + his death, 109 + + Fawcett, Henry, 38, 57, 74; + story of his blindness, 213–215 + + Fearnehough, Albert, 102–104, 111, 137, 150 ff. + + Federn, Karl, translates _Love’s Coming-of-Age_, etc., 272, 273 + + Fellowship, elected to, 51, 52; + relinquished, 72, 73 + + Feminist Movement, The, 245, 262, 263 + + Ferrando, Guido, 274 + + Finance, 110 + + Florence, 46, 67, 68; + Italian literary circle at, 273 + + Ford, the sisters, of Leeds, 83, 263 + + Foreign travel, 310 + + Fox, Charles, of Bradway, 103 + + Foxwell, H. S., of St. John’s, Cambridge, 81 + + Friendships, early, 28 + + Fry, Roger, 246, 256 + + Furniss, John, quarryman and Socialist, 133 + + + Geldart, Dr., Master of Trin. Hall, 56 + + George, Henry, Land Tax campaign, 236 + + Glasier, Bruce and Katharine, 245 + + Gn̄aniani, or Wise Man of the East, 143, 144; + visit to, 209 + + Gold-miner from Nevada, 183, 322; + his visions, 184–187; + and intuitions, 187–189 + + Gooch, G. P., 245 + + Goring, Sir Charles, 120 + + Graham, Cunninghame, 245, 254, 256 + + Grant, Albert, financier, 249; + made Baron, 250 + + Gray, Ernest A., 47 + + Grayson, Victor, 260 + + Greek sculpture, 67, 68 + + Greenock, shipping strike at, in 1910, 262 + + Greig, Mrs. Billington, 263 + + Griffith, Dr., Headmaster of Brighton College, 19 + + Gröndahl, Illit, translations into Norwegian, 280 + + + Hardie, Keir, 245 + + Hardy, Mrs., visit to, near Pittsburg, 118 + + Hawkins, E. C., Form Master at Brighton College, 20 + + Health, my, 93, 100, 114 + + Heidelberg, life at, 45 + + “Hole in the Centre,” the, 304, 305 + + Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 87, 88 + + Hopkins, F. L., Dean of Trin. Hall, 57 + + Housman, Laurence, 246 + + Hukin, G. E., 131 + + Humanitarian League, the, 237; + lectures for, 267 + + Hut, or garden-shelter, 107, 146 + + Hyacinth, vision of, 105 + + Hyett, F. A., 46 + + Hyndman, his _England for All_, 114; + chairman of S.D.F., 115, 134, 245; + his career, 246–249, 254 + + + _Impasse_ of the old order of Society, 311 + + Imperialism, shopkeeping, 140, 230 + + “Indulgences” at French school, 22 + + _Intermediate Sex, The_, 209 + + Invalid woman, the, of the Victorian drawing-rooms, 95 + + _Ioläus_, Anthology of Friendship, 200 + + Ishikawa, Sanshiro, Japanese friend, calls our houses “prisons,” 166; + himself imprisoned in Japan, 277; + comes to England, Belgium, France, 278, 279 + + + Japan, Labour troubles in, 276; + translations of _Civilization_, _Toward Democracy_, etc., 276–278 + + Japanese verdicts on the War, 279 + + Johnston, Councillor James, of Manchester, 263 + + Johnston, Dr. J., of Bolton, his _Visit to Walt Whitman_, 250 + + Joynes, James L., 236, 237 + + Judges, High Court and others, their fitness for the post, 212, 213 + + _Justice_, organ of the S.D.F., 115 + + + Kaffirs, the, 229 + + Key, Ellen, her works, 197 + + Kingsford, Anna, and the Hermetic Society, 240–245 + + Kropotkin, Peter, 134, 218–220 + + + _Labour, Chants of_, 136 + + Labour Press, Manchester, publishes my books, 195, 198; + goes bankrupt, 199 + + _Labour Prophet, The_, 108 + + Landladies, joys of, 90, 91 + + Latham, Henry, Tutor of Trin. Hall, 51, 57, 74 + + “Laws of Morality,” 205 + + “Laws of Nature,” 204 + + _Leaves of Grass_, 64, 201 + + Lectures, University Extension, Leeds, Halifax, Skipton, 78 ff.; + Nottingham, York, Hull, Barnsley, 83 ff.; + Sheffield and Chesterfield, 90 ff.; + on Astronomy, 78, 80, 92; + on Light and Sound, 84; + on Pioneers of Science, 92; + on Music, 105; + on Socialism, etc., 115, 257, 258 ff.; + at Greenock, 262; + in London and elsewhere, ch. xiv. + + Le Rouge, Paul, translation of _Prisons_ book, 276 + + Lewis, Edward, 97, 246, 265, 266 + + Life, uses of, 302–307; + daily life at seventy, 307–309 + + _Light and Sound_, lectures on, 84 + + Limerick, Mona, 245 + + Literary beginnings, 28, 49 + + Lock, Fossett, 61 + + Lodge, Oliver, 246 + + _Love’s Coming-of-Age_, 195 ff., 209; + translations of, 272 + + Lowell, Russell, 87 + + Lytton, Constance, 231 + + + Macdonald, Ramsay, 245 + + Macmillan, Margaret, 245 + + Maguire, Tom, 134 + + Maitland, Edward, and the Hermetic Society, 240–245 + + Manual work, need of, 101, 110, 112, 114; + manual workers, solidity of their lives, 312; + friends among, 102, 112 + + March-Phillipps, Lisle, and the Boer War, 234; + _With Rimington_, 235 + + Margesson, Lady Isabel, 246 + + Market-gardening, 110, 137, 138 + + Marriage, decline of, 96 + + Marx, his theory of _Surplus-value_, 114, 140 + + Mathematics, reading for Tripos, 48; + proof of _Taylor’s Theorem_, 49; + place in Tripos, 52 + + Maurice, Fredk. D., 38; + incumbent of St. Edward’s, 55–58 + + Max Flint, 176; + story of his life, 176–182; + at Millthorpe, 180, 181; + Christian or Jew? 182 + + Merrill, George, arrival at Millthorpe, 159 ff.; + early life, 160; + talent for housework, etc., 162 + + Millthorpe, 91, 111; + migration to, 112, 113; + life at, 137, 147, 149, 157, 167, 282; + _rendezvous_ of all classes, 164 + + Morris, William, 115, 125; + his temperament, 216; + visit to Millthorpe, 217 + + _Moses: a drama_, 75, 190 + + Mother, my, 41 ff.; + death of, 106 + + Moulton, Fletcher, Senior Wrangler, 211 + + Muirhead, Robert F., 49, 212, 255 + + Music, piano and composition, 24; + Beethoven, 33; + lectures on, 105 + + + Nadler-Nuellens, Lilly, 270–272; + translates _Towards Democracy_, 272; + comes to England, 272 + + Najívin, Ivan, novelist and mystic; translations into Russian, 280 + + _Narcissus and other Poems_, 71, 190 + + Neo-Paganism, 265; + lectures on, 267, 268 + + Nevinson, H. W., 235, 245 + + “New Fellowship, The,” 222; + its early members, 225 + + New Movements in 1881, 240, 245 + + Newton, “Sir Isaac,” 18 + + Niagara, 89 + + Nietzsche, 205 + + Nobili, Riccardo, art-critic, 273 + + _Non-governmental Society_, 209 + + Northern Towns, 80, ch. iv. + + Norton, Charles, of Harvard, 87 + + + Oates, C. G., of Leeds, 83 + + “Olivia,” 69 + + Olivier, Sydney, 245 + + Open-air life, 101, 145 + + Ordination, 52; + difficulties with the Bishop, 53–55; + abandonment of Orders, 58 ff., 72 ff. + + + Pamphlets on Sex and Marriage, 195 + + Parish Council, contest, 158; + work on, 291–293 + + Parson, a new kind of, wanted, 291 + + Payne, Iden, 245 + + _Perfect Way, The_, 241 + + Personal reform first, 321 + + Peterson, Captain R. E., Tolstoyan, 172; + Utopian, 173 ff.; + his colour-sergeant’s wife, 174–176 + + Pierce, Prof. Benjamin, of Harvard, 88 + + _Pioneers of Science_, lectures, 92 + + Ploughing matches, 297, 298 + + Prize-poems, 61 + + _Promised Land, The_, 76 + + Psychical Research Society, 240 + + Public-house, the, natural centre of village life, 298; + necessity of reorganization, 299, 300 + + Publishers, timidity of, 196, 198 + + + Rambelli, Giuseppe, artist, 274 + + Reclus, Elie, Elisée, and Paul, 278 + + Reddie, Cecil, of Abbotsholme School, 246 + + Reservoir schemes, 297 + + Reynolds, Stephen, of the Fisheries, 246 + + Rileys, the, in Massachusetts, 117 + + Robertson, F. W., of Brighton, 38 + + Rome, liberating influence of stay in, 67, 68 + + Romer, Robert, Senior Wrangler, 46, 74, 210, 211 + + Rossetti, William, his edition of _Leaves of Grass_, 64 + + Rothenstein, William, 246 + + Rustics, their character, and anecdotes, 284–287 + + + St. Lawrence, the river, 118 + + Salt, Catherine L., 237, 239 + + Salt, Henry, 218, 236–238; + work in Humanitarian and Nature movements, 237; + writings, 238 + + Sandals, making of, 124, 157, 159, 321; + wearing of, 169 + + “Sanitary” pipes _versus_ natural water-courses and springs, 296 + + School-life, 16 ff. + + Schreiner, Olive, 112, 222, 226–231 + + _Science, Modern_, 141, 142; + _Criticism_ of, 203; + never seriously tackled, 204; + Tolstoy on, 205 + + _Seed-time_, 225 (note) + + Senard, Marcelle, 274–276; + translation of _Towards Democracy_, 274; + brochure on E. C., 275; + hospital work, 276 + + Senior Wranglers, 210, 211 + + Sex-troubles at schools, 29 + + Shaw, Bernard, 167, 205, 245 + + Sheffield, beauties of, 91, 92; + the people, 92 + + Sheffield Socialist Society, 125, 130 ff. + + Shelley, Mary, 122 + + Shelley, Percy, 28, 66, 119, 121, 122 + + Shortland, J. W., 131 + + Sicily, lying encouraged among the peasant children, 286 + + Simplification of Life, story of, 168; + lecture on, 258 + + Sisters, my, 32, 71, 110 + + Sixsmith, Charles F., 250 + + Sloane Kennedy, 117, 118 + + Small Holdings, lectures on, 259; + visit to Maylands, Essex, 259; + need of, 287–289 + + Smith, George Moore-, 193 + + Social Democratic Federation, the, 115, 240 + + Socialism, its value, 115, 126, 127; + its inner meaning, 128–130; + propaganda of, 135; + humours of, 134 + + “Society” not worth while, 149 + + Socrates and the tiger, 303 + + Solidarity of human life, 322 + + Spedding, Harry, 47 + + Spiritualists, forty! 169 + + Steerage passenger, experiences as, 117 + + Stuart, James, of Trinity College, 78 + + _Sun-worship and Christianity_, lectures on, 264, 265 + + _Surplus-value_, theory of, 114, 140 + + + Taylor, Jonathan, of Sheffield, 132 + + Theosophical Societies, 240; + lectures for, 259, 267 + + Thompson, E. S., of Christ’s College, 81 + + Thoreau, H. D., 114, 308; + his _Walden_, 115, 116; + his ideal, 147, 165, 166 + + Tolstoy on my _Civilization_ and _Modern Science_, 205, 281 + + Tomita, Saikwa, translates portions of _Towards Democracy_ and _The Art + of Creation_ into Japanese, 279 + + _Towards Democracy_, 71, 99; + its inception, 106, and birth, 108; + continuation, 109, 146; + publication, 112, 125, 142, 190 ff.; + early criticisms of, 192, 193; + early editions, 194 ff.; + wanders from publisher to publisher, 198–200; + pocket edition, 200; + ignored by the Press, 201; + its meanings, 201; + relation to the other books, 209; + translations of, into German, 272; + Italian, 274; + French, 274; + Japanese, 279; + Russian, 280 + + Transformation, of “Civilization,” impending, 311–314; + of the Individual, 315 + + Trelawny, Edward J., his life, 119–121; + visit to, 121–123; + his four wives, 123 + + Trevelyan, G. M., 246 + + Trinity Hall, 46, 210 + + + United States, first visit to, 85 ff.; + second visit, 116 + + Universal Self, the, key to all morality and science, 207, 208 + + Unwin, Raymond, 131, 246 + + _Upanishads, The_, lectures on, 266 + + Uranian temperament, the, 97, 98 + + Usher, Mrs., of the “Sheffield Socialists,” 131 + + + Vacation, the Long, at Cambridge, 76 + + Vegetarian habits, 100; + Society, 240; + Congress at Manchester, 204; + at Mansion House dinner, 253 + + Versailles, life at, 21 + + Verses, early, 28, 45, 50, 63, 71 + + Victorian Age, the, 95, 321 + + _Village and Landlord, The_, a Fabian Tract, 283, 294 + + Village clubs, 289, 290, 300; + Chapel and Co-operative Society, 300 + + _Visit to a Gñani_, 209, 280 + + + Wallace, Alfred Russel, 246 + + Wallace, J. W., of Bolton, 250 + + War, the Great, 266, 267, 311, 314, 319, 320 + + Warr, H. D., Fellow of Trinity Hall, 64 + + Webb, Sidney and Beatrice, 246 + + “Well-dressing,” a village institution, 295, 296 + + Wells, H. G., 245, 306 + + Westermarck, Prof. Edward, 246 + + Whitman, Walt, 28, 30; + first introduction to, 64; + visit to, 86, 87; + Emerson’s opinion of, 88; + second visit to, 117; + contrast to Eastern Sage, 144; + Whitman Club at Bolton, 250 + + _Who shall command the Heart_, Part IV of _Towards Democracy_, 199 + + Wilde, Oscar, troubles, 196 + + Wilson, Charlotte, 134 + + Wilson, Dr. Helen, of Sheffield, 263 + + Wilson, Miss Lucy, of Leeds, 81, 82 + + Women’s Movement, its beginning, 32; + Suffrage Demonstration, Manchester, 262 + + Wordsworth, 28, 66 + + + Yate, C. F., of Trinity Hall, 47 + + “Young Ladies,” the, of 1860, 30 + + + _Printed in Great Britain by_ + UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED THE GRESHAM PRESS WOKING AND LONDON + +----- + +Footnote 1: + + In India he rose rapidly through the early grades of the Service. The + Mutiny of 1857 was just over, and administration was being reorganized + in various directions. He was stationed at Futtehpore, Saharanpore and + various places in the N.W. Provinces; and then at Allahabad, where he + became Settlement Officer and something of an authority on Land and + Irrigation questions. Afterwards he was transferred to the Central + Provinces and made full Commissioner first at Jubbulpore and then at + Nagpore. It was at the last-named place that a fatal accident overtook + him while riding in a steeple-chase; and a career of great promise was + cut short. This was in March 1876. The _Pioneer_ of the 7th of March + said: “His public career, though now but commencing, was full of the + highest promise. Sound, cool, and cautious in deliberation, he carried + into action the promptness and decision which are born of + self-reliance and of a healthy vigorous _physique_. His was + emphatically _mens sana in corpore sano_; and he himself an officer of + rare judgment and of most sterling merit.” + + See _A Memoir of C. W. C._: a little brochure (privately printed) + written by my eldest sister after his death. + +Footnote 2: + + His son, Francis, followed my brother into the Navy, thus representing + a fourth generation of Carpenters in a direct line in the same + profession, He is now [1915], though still young, occupying a high + position in the North Sea Fleet, and has distinguished himself not + only like his father by saving life, but also by bringing out + important inventions which have been taken up by the Admiralty. + +Footnote 3: + + It is curious how æsthetic in style this Preface is, though written in + 1855, rather before the English æsthetic movement, and how, perhaps on + account of its slight affectation of manner, it was abandoned by + Whitman afterwards. + +Footnote 4: + + “Francesca,” in _Sketches from Life_. + +Footnote 5: + + The drama is now [1911] republished under the title _The Promised + Land_, and the soliloquy in question is given in the first part of Act + II. Sc. 1. As a reflection of the thoughts which were, I suppose, + occupying my mind at that time, it may have some slight interest. + +Footnote 6: + + This of course would all be very different now [1915]. + +Footnote 7: + + _Days with Walt Whitman_ (George Allen and Unwin, 1906). + +Footnote 8: + + See _Days with Walt Whitman_, by E. Carpenter, p. 30. + +Footnote 9: + + This is a subject which through the Freudian psycho-analysis has come + now [1915] to be much better understood. + +Footnote 10: + + Many examples of this kind of temperament are given in Vol. II of Dr. + Havelock Ellis’ classical work _Studies in the Psychology of + Sex_—Philadelphia, 1901 and 1915. (See history VII, beginning “My + parentage is very sound”, history XVII, etc.) And I will say that in + my case the temperament has always been quite natural and associated + with perfect healthiness of habit and general freedom from morbidity; + and that it has been absolutely inborn, and not induced by any outside + example or teaching. It is therefore a part of my nature, and a most + intimate and organic part. And I have to thank Mr. Edward Lewis that + in his _Exposition and Appreciation of E. C._ (Methuen, 1915, pp. 200, + 299, etc.) he has so clearly and firmly indicated this. + +Footnote 11: + + See _Sketches from Life in Town and Country_ (George Allen and Unwin), + by E. Carpenter. + +Footnote 12: + + However, I happily managed in the next few years to get rid of a good + portion of this! + +Footnote 13: + + See _Days with Walt Whitman_ (George Allen and Unwin, 1906), by E. + Carpenter. + +Footnote 14: + + Perhaps the portrait by Edward Williams, but I cannot say. + +Footnote 15: + + See “The Value of the Value-theory,” an article by myself in the + little magazine _To-day_ for June 1889 (published by W. Reeves). + +Footnote 16: + + See the last poem but one in _Towards Democracy_, p. 502. + +Footnote 17: + + Shown in the illustration facing page 103. + +Footnote 18: + + At Kovno or Slobodka, now alas! ravaged by the German invasion [1915]. + +Footnote 19: + + I may say here that I never happened to meet Oscar Wilde personally. + +Footnote 20: + + One of the chapters in _Civilization: its Cause and Cure_. + +Footnote 21: + + A chapter in _Prisons, Police, and Punishment_. + +Footnote 22: + + In _Adam’s Peak to Elephanta_. + +Footnote 23: + + See p. 125, _supra_ (Ch. VII). + +Footnote 24: + + They are published now in Philadelphia by the F. A. Davis Company + there. + +Footnote 25: + + See _Seed-time_, a quarterly journal issued by the Fellowship; which + however was not started till 1890 and ceased publication in 1898. + Editor, Maurice Adams, one of the earliest members. + +Footnote 26: + + Published by George Harrap, 1912. + +Footnote 27: + + _With Rimington_, by L. March-Phillipps (Arnold, 1901). + +Footnote 28: + + Entitled _I Cavalli pensanti di Elberfeldt_ (Florence, 1912). + +Footnote 29: + + Part I only, published by Lanciani, 1912. + +Footnote 30: + + Published by the _Libr. de l’Art indépendant_, 81 rue Dareau, Paris. + +Footnote 31: + + But not of course to _Civilization_ itself. M. Najívin, writing to me, + says: “A propos de la ‘Civilization’ Tolstoy n’a pas écrit un + préface—seulement il a beaucoup loué ce livre dans deux lettres à moi, + et j’ai fait des extraits de ces lettres et je les ai publiés maintes + fois.... L’exemplaire de la ‘Civilization’ _avec des notes de Tolstoy_ + est envoyé au Musée de Tolstoy à St. Petersbourg.” + +Footnote 32: + + There is also a little book called _Some Forgotten Facts in the + History of Sheffield_ (Independent Press, Sheffield, 2s. 6d.) which + gives valuable information about the enclosures in that district. + +Footnote 33: + + The Small Holdings Act of 1907 defines anything up to fifty acres as a + small holding. + +Footnote 34: + + Chap. X, p. 180. + +Footnote 35: + + By means of which, of course, the wheel turns on its axle. + +Footnote 36: + + The Address together with my Reply is printed in an Appendix at the + end of this book. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + Edward Carpenter’s Works + + + TOWARDS DEMOCRACY. Library Edition. _4s. 6d. net._ Pocket Edition, + _3s. 6d. net_. + + ENGLAND’S IDEAL. 12th Thousand. _2s. 6d. and 1s. net._ + + CIVILIZATION: ITS CAUSE AND CURE. Essays on Modern Science. 13th + Thousand. _2s. 6d. and 1s. net._ + + LOVE’S COMING OF AGE: On the Relations of the Sexes. 12th Thousand. + _3s. 6d. net._ + + ANGELS’ WINGS. Essays on Art and Life. Illustrated. _4s. 6d. net._ + Third Edition. + + ADAM’S PEAK TO ELEPHANTA: Sketches in Ceylon and India. New Edition. + _4s. 6d._ + + A VISIT TO A GÑANI. Four Chapters reprinted from _Adam’s Peak to + Elephanta_. With New Preface, and 2 Photogravures, La. Cr. 8vo, + ½clo., _1s. 6d. net_. + + IOLÄUS: An Anthology of Friendship. _2s. 6d. net._ New and Enlarged + Edition. + + CHANTS OF LABOUR: A Songbook for the People, with frontispiece and + cover by WALTER CRANE, _1s._ 7th Thousand. + + THE ART OF CREATION: Essays on the Self and its Powers. _3s. 6d. net._ + Second Edition. + + DAYS WITH WALT WHITMAN. _3s. 6d. net._ + + THE INTERMEDIATE SEX: A Study of some Transitional Types of Men and + Women. _3s. 6d. net._ Third Edition. + + THE DRAMA OF LOVE AND DEATH: A Story of Human Evolution and + Transfiguration. _5s. net._ Second Edition. + + INTERMEDIATE TYPES AMONG PRIMITIVE FOLK: A Study in Social Evolution. + _4s. 6d. net._ + + THE HEALING OF NATIONS. Crown 8vo. Cloth, _2s. 6d. net_. Paper, _2s. + net_. Third Edition. + + THE SIMPLIFICATION OF LIFE. From the Writings of EDWARD CARPENTER. + Crown 8vo. New Edition. _2s. net._ + + + + + Social Science Series + + + Cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._ Double Volumes 3_s._ + 6_d._ + * Also in Limp Cloth 1_s._ _net_. + ** Paper Covers 1_s._ + *2. =CIVILISATION: ITS CAUSE AND CURE.= EDWARD CARPENTER. + *3. =QUINTESSENCE OF SOCIALISM.= Dr. SCHÄFFLE. + 4. =DARWINISM AND POLITICS.= D. G. RITCHIE, M.A. + (Oxon.). + New Edition, with two additional Essays on HUMAN EVOLUTION. + *5. =RELIGION OF SOCIALISM.= E. BELFORT BAX. + *6. =ETHICS OF SOCIALISM.= E. BELFORT BAX. + 7. =THE DRINK QUESTION.= Dr. KATE MITCHELL. + 8. =PROMOTION OF GENERAL HAPPINESS.= Prof. M. MACMILLAN. + *9. =ENGLAND’S IDEAL, &c.= EDWARD CARPENTER. + 10. =SOCIALISM IN ENGLAND.= SIDNEY WEBB, LL.B. + 11. _Out of print._ + 12. _Out of print._ + **13. =THE STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.= E. BELFORT BAX. + 14. =THE CO-OPERATIVE COMMONWEALTH.= LAURENCE GRONLUND. + 15. =ESSAYS AND ADDRESSES.= BERNARD BOSANQUET, M.A. + (Oxon.). + 16. =CHARITY ORGANISATION.= C. S. LOCH, Secretary to + Charity Organisation + Society. + 17. =THOREAU’S ANTI-SLAVERY AND REFORM Edited by H. S. SALT. + PAPERS.= + 18. =SELF-HELP A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.= G. J. HOLYOAKE. + 19, 20. _Out of print._ + 21. =THE UNEARNED INCREMENT.= W. H. DAWSON. + 22, 23. _Out of print._ + *24. =LUXURY.= EMILE DE LAVELEYE. + **25. =THE LAND AND THE LABOURERS.= Dean STUBBS. + 26. =THE EVOLUTION OF PROPERTY.= PAUL LAFARGUE. + 27. =CRIME AND ITS CAUSES.= W. DOUGLAS MORRISON. + *28. =PRINCIPLES OF STATE INTERFERENCE.= D. G. RITCHIE, M.A. + 29, 30. _Out of print._ + 31. =ORIGIN OF PROPERTY IN LAND.= FUSTEL DE COULANGES. + Edited, with an Introductory Chapter on the English Manor, by Prof. W. + J. ASHLEY, M.A. + 32. _Out of print._ + 33. =THE CO-OPERATIVE MOVEMENT.= BEATRICE POTTER. + 34. _Out of print._ + 35. =MODERN HUMANISTS.= J. M. ROBERTSON. + **36. =OUTLOOKS FROM THE NEW STANDPOINT.= E. BELFORT BAX. + 37. =DISTRIBUTING CO-OPERATIVE Dr. LUIGI PIZZAMIGLIO. + SOCIETIES.= Edited by F. J. SNELL. + 38. _Out of print._ + 39. =THE LONDON PROGRAMME.= SIDNEY WEBB, LL.B. + 40. _Out of print._ + 42. _Out of print._ + *43. =THE STUDENT’S MARX.= EDWARD AVELING, D.Sc. + 44. _Out of print._ + 45. =POVERTY: ITS GENESIS AND EXODUS.= J. G. GODARD. + 46. _Out of print._ + 47. =THE DAWN OF RADICALISM.= J. B. DALY, LL.D. + 48. =THE DESTITUTE ALIEN IN GREAT ARNOLD WHITE; MONTAGUE + BRITAIN.= CRACKANTHORPE, Q.C.; W. + A. M‘ARTHUR, M.P., &c. + 49. =ILLEGITIMACY AND THE INFLUENCE OF ALBERT LEFFINGWELL, M.D. + SEASONS ON CONDUCT.= + 50. =COMMERCIAL CRISES OF THE NINETEENTH H. M. HYNDMAN. + CENTURY.= + 51. =THE STATE AND PENSIONS IN OLD AGE.= J. A. SPENDER and ARTHUR + ACLAND, M.P. + 52. =THE FALLACY OF SAVING.= JOHN M. ROBERTSON. + 53. =THE IRISH PEASANT.= ANON. + *54. =THE EFFECTS OF MACHINERY ON WAGES.= Prof. J. S. NICHOLSON, + D.Sc. + **55. =THE SOCIAL HORIZON.= ANON. + 56. =SOCIALISM, UTOPIAN AND SCIENTIFIC.= FREDERICK ENGELS. + **57. =LAND NATIONALISATION.= A. R. WALLACE. + 58. =THE ETHIC OF USURY AND INTEREST.= Rev. W. BLISSARD. + *59. =THE EMANCIPATION OF WOMEN.= ADELE CREPAZ. + 60. =THE EIGHT HOURS’ QUESTION.= JOHN M. ROBERTSON. + 61. =DRUNKENNESS.= GEORGE R. WILSON, M.B. + 62. =THE NEW REFORMATION.= RAMSDEN BALMFORTH. + *63. =THE AGRICULTURAL LABOURER.= T. E. KEBBEL. + 64. _Out of print._ + 65. =ENGLAND’S FOREIGN TRADE IN XIXTH A. L. BOWLEY. + CENTURY.= + 66. =THEORY AND POLICY OF LABOUR DR. SCHÄFFLE. + PROTECTION.= + 67. =HISTORY OF ROCHDALE PIONEERS.= G. J. HOLYOAKE. + 68. =RIGHTS OF WOMEN.= M. OSTRAGORSKI. + 69. =DWELLINGS OF THE PEOPLE.= LOCKE WORTHINGTON. + 70–75. _Out of print._ + 76. =BRITISH FREEWOMEN.= C. M. STOPES. + 77, 78. _Out of print._ + 79. =THREE MONTHS IN A WORKSHOP.= P. GÖHRE, with Preface by + Prof. ELY. + 80. =DARWINISM AND RACE PROGRESS.= Prof. J. B. HAYCRAFT. + 81. =LOCAL TAXATION AND FINANCE.= G. H. BLUNDEN. + 82. =PERILS TO BRITISH TRADE.= E. BURGIS. + 83. =THE SOCIAL CONTRACT.= J. J. ROUSSEAU. Edited by + H. J. TOZER. + 84. =LABOUR UPON THE LAND.= Edited by J. A. HOBSON, + M.A. + 85. =MORAL PATHOLOGY.= ARTHUR E. GILES, M.D., + B.Sc. + 86. =PARASITISM, ORGANIC AND SOCIAL.= MASSART and VANDERVELDE. + *87. =ALLOTMENTS AND SMALL HOLDINGS.= J. L. GREEN. + *88. =MONEY AND ITS RELATIONS TO PRICES.= L. L. PRICE. + 89. =SOBER BY ACT OF PARLIAMENT.= F. A. MACKENZIE. + 90. =WORKERS ON THEIR INDUSTRIES.= F. W. GALTON. + 91. =REVOLUTION AND COUNTER-REVOLUTION.= KARL MARX. + 92. =OVER-PRODUCTION AND CRISES.= K. RODBERTUS. + 93. =LOCAL GOVERNMENT AND STATE AID.= S. J. CHAPMAN. + 94. =VILLAGE COMMUNITIES IN INDIA.= B. H. BADEN-POWELL, M.A., + C.I.E. + 95. =ANGLO-AMERICAN TRADE.= S. J. CHAPMAN. + 96. _Out of print._ + 97. =COMMERCIAL FEDERATION & COLONIAL J. DAVIDSON, M.A., + TRADE POLICY.= Phil.D. + 98. =SELECTIONS FROM FOURIER.= C. GIDE and J. FRANKLIN. + 99. =PUBLIC-HOUSE REFORM.= A. N. CUMMING. + 100. =THE VILLAGE PROBLEM.= G. F. MILLIN. + 101. =TOWARD THE LIGHT.= L. H. BERENS. + 102. =CHRISTIAN SOCIALISM IN ENGLAND.= A. V. WOODWORTH. + 103. _Out of print._ + 104. =THE HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH CORN Prof. J. S. NICHOLSON, + LAWS.= M.A. + 105. =THE BIOLOGY OF BRITISH POLITICS.= CHARLES H. HARVEY. + *106. =RATES AND TAXES AS AFFECTING Prof. J. S. NICHOLSON, + AGRICULTURE.= M.A. + 107. =A PRACTICAL PROGRAMME FOR WORKING ANON. + MEN.= + 108. =JOHN THELWALL.= CHAS. CESTRE, Litt.D. + *109. =RENT, WAGES AND PROFITS IN Prof. J. S. NICHOLSON. + AGRICULTURE.= + 110. =ECONOMIC PREJUDICES.= YVES GUYOT. + 111. =CONTEMPORARY SOCIAL PROBLEMS.= ACHILLE LORIA. + *112. =WHO PAYS? THE REAL INCIDENCE OF ROBERT HENRY. + TAXATION.= + + + DOUBLE VOLUMES, 3s. 6d. + + 1. =LIFE OF ROBERT OWEN.= LLOYD JONES. + 2. =THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF SOCIAL Dr. A. SCHÄFFLE. + DEMOCRACY=: a Second Part of + “The Quintessence of Socialism.” + 3. =CONDITION OF THE WORKING CLASS IN FREDERICK ENGELS. + ENGLAND IN 1844.= + 4. =THE PRINCIPLES OF SOCIAL ECONOMY.= YVES GUYOT. + 5. =SOCIAL PEACE.= G. VON + SCHULTZE-GARVERNITZ. + 6. =A HANDBOOK OF SOCIALISM.= W. D. P. BLISS. + 7. =SOCIALISM: ITS GROWTH AND OUTCOME.= W. MORRIS and E. B. BAX. + 8. =ECONOMIC FOUNDATIONS OF SOCIETY.= A. LORIA. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Renumbered footnotes and moved them all to the end of the final + chapter. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● Enclosed bold or blackletter font in =equals=. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78612 *** |